Atmosphere

by Taylor Jenkins Reid

You see, once you start observing the night sky, you begin to orient yourself in time and space.

You learn, for instance, that in the Northern Hemisphere, if you can spot Orion’s belt, it’s winter. You can learn to get a general idea of what time it is by where the constellation Cassiopeia is in relation to the star Polaris. My favorite thing I learned? If you can spot the stars Altair, Deneb, and Vega during the summer, you will see that they form a triangle. And that triangle always points south. If you are ever lost, you can find those three and know which way to go.

But I think it is also the relief I feel that those stars are immovable. Nothing you or I could do will ever alter them. They are so much bigger than us. And they will not change within our lifetime. We can succeed or fail, get it right or get it wrong, love and lose the ones we love, and still the Summer Triangle will point south. And in that way, I know everything will be some type of okay—as impossible as that can seem sometimes.

I hope, even more, that Joan Goodwin can convince you to go outside tonight, after the stars have come out, and look up. I hope, with all my heart, Joan can convince you to be open to wonder.

December 29, 1984

Joan Goodwin gets to the Johnson Space Center well before nine, and Houston is already airless and muggy. Joan can feel the sweat collecting along her hairline as she walks across the campus to the Mission Control building. She knows it’s the heat. But she also knows that’s not all it is. Her job today is one of her favorite parts of being an astronaut. She is CAPCOM on the Orion Flight Team for STS-LR9, the third flight of the shuttle Navigator. The role of CAPCOM—the only person in Mission Control who speaks directly to the crew on the shuttle—is one of many that astronauts fill when they aren’t on a mission.

So when Joan walks into the Mission Control building that morning with a black coffee in her hand, she is at ease. She is not anxious or terrified or heartbroken. All of that will come later.

Joan enters the Mission Control room through the theater. She watches for a moment as the crew from the last shift prepares two of the mission specialists for their spacewalk. Her boss—the flight director of Orion Flight, Jack Katowski—is down on the floor already, getting debriefed by the previous flight director. Jack has a crew cut, graying temples, and a reputation for being particularly stoic, even in an organization known for its stoicism.

That is something Joan prides herself on. That she is an excellent team player.

Commander Steve Hagen had been one of their instructors, but the rest of the crew—pilot Hank Redmond and mission specialists John Griffin, Lydia Danes, and Vanessa Ford—are the people Joan’s come up with, trained with, learned how to do this job alongside.

And her complicated histories with each of them are part of what is going to make her the exact CAPCOM they need today, but also the very last person who should have to do the job.

if Ford and Griff were to enter it without their space suits, all of the oxygen would be sucked out of their lungs and bloodstream instantly, causing them to pass out within fifteen seconds and be dead within two minutes. The human body—intelligent as it is—was formed in response to the atmosphere of Earth.

Human intelligence and curiosity, our persistence and resilience, our capacity for long-term planning, and our ability to collaborate have led the human race here.

Mission Control knows everything that happens on the shuttle—every temperature, every coordinate, the status of every switch. Everywhere Vanessa turns, there is Houston, hearing and sensing everything around her.

There’s no data on the airlock hatch. It is one of the few things on the shuttle that doesn’t send its own signal. Which means one of them has to notify Houston that they are about to open it.

Vanessa looks at Griff. She’s glad she’s doing this alongside him. She’s always liked him. Not just because they are both from New England, although it helps. “Houston, we are opening the airlock,” Griff says. Vanessa begins to open the hatch. She tries to keep her heart rate steady.

There are bright lights from the ship, but beyond that everything is black. There is no horizon, only the edge of Navigator and then nothingness with the brilliant colors of Earth in the distance.

She lets go of the ship and moves through the hatch, to take her first step into space. Her legs feel steady as she wades into the darkness. Her eyes widen at the intensity of it, a void unlike anything she’s ever seen.

Clouds streak across the deserts of North Africa. For a moment, Vanessa stops and looks at the Indian Ocean. For so long, she has loved to be above the clouds. But to be this far above them knocks her breath from her chest.

They get to the payload, and each takes their position. There are four latches, two on each side of the satellite.

When he’s done, he sighs. “Houston, the clamps have been released, in no small part thanks to the brilliantly efficient Vanessa Ford.”

“Navigator, we’ve got hours left on these suits, so better to keep you in the airlock as we deploy, in case we need you again.”

They float back. Griff lets Vanessa in first and then joins her. He goes to shut the hatch. But then he stops and looks at Vanessa. He lifts his eyebrows. Protocol is to close that hatch. But if they leave it open, they will be able to watch the satellite deploy. Vanessa does not want to lie to Houston. Still, a smile escapes from her. Griff smiles back and takes his hand off the hatch. He does not close it. “Houston, we are in the airlock,” he says.

They watch as the tilt table is raised into position to release the satellite.

“Are we cleared to deploy?” “Affirmative, Navigator,” Joan says. “You are cleared to deploy.” Lydia is on the remote manipulator system, the RMS. She will release the satellite. “Roger that, Houston,” Lydia says. “Preparing to deploy.”

There are two explosive cords holding the Arch-6 in the payload bay. Vanessa and Griff watch as one is detonated according to plan. But then, swiftly, the second cord explodes in a flash unlike anything Vanessa has ever seen before. It looks nothing like their simulations. The explosions tear the metal bands around the satellite into pieces. Debris goes flying in every direction. Vanessa cannot tell what has happened. All she can see is the flash of metal, and then a grunt comes out of Griff, like the air has been knocked out of his lungs. She turns to see a gash below the waist ring in his suit.

He puts his hand on his suit to cover the hole. “I’m okay,” he says to her. They both know that his hand on his suit is enough to save him for now.

Then an alarm begins to sound, one that Vanessa recognizes but cannot place. And it is only once Steve, Hank, and Lydia all begin to shout that she understands there has been a second hit.

“Flight, this is EECOM. We are seeing a negative dP/dT. Pressure is dropping rapidly.” Jack: “What are we at?” Before Greg can answer, Hank’s voice comes through the loop, level but sharp: “Houston, this is Navigator. We have a cabin leak. We can feel the rapid depress.”

Jack turns to her, eyes focused. “Tell them they have a hole. Judging from the depressure rate, it could be as big as half an inch. It’s punctured the skin somewhere on that aft wall, most likely—mid-deck or flight deck. Do they have a visual?”

“Negative, Houston,” Hank says. “We see no hole.” Jack: “Tell them to pull everything off the walls, lockers, close-out panels, anything they can get off to expose the skin—pull it all off!”

Jack continues: “Keep Ford and Griff in the airlock but start pressurizing as quick as possible. Tell Navigator they need to flow in oxygen and open up nitrogen systems 1 and 2 to th...

“It’s not in the aft of the flight deck!” Steve says. “I’m pulling the lockers off the mid-deck!” Lydia calls.

Everyone is up out of their seats. Joan can barely hear herself think. She has been through simulations like this, with the pressure dropping rapidly and no way to stabilize it. They have ended only when the leak is found. Or the crew dies.

Vanessa has closed the hatch, and the airlock is pressurizing. But as Vanessa watches Griff, she can see that he is losing consciousness. She slips her hand under his, presses it against the hole in his suit, and applies pressure to his lower stomach. “Griff, Griff,” she says. No response. “John Griffin, do you hear me?” When he blinks, she cannot tell if it is purposeful. “I’ve got it,” she says to him. “I’ve got you.” She cannot pinpoint the exact moment he passes out. Only that soon, his hand falls away and now her hand is the only thing keeping him alive until the cabin pressure in the airlock returns.

She realizes she has not heard Hank speak in at least thirty seconds. That moment grows longer and longer. And Vanessa gets a sinking feeling.

Ray stands up. “Flight, this is Surgeon. John Griffin’s heart rate is dropping.”

“Hank has lost consciousness,” Lydia says through the loop. And then: “I think Steve has, too.”

“I think I—” Lydia’s voice cuts out. “Navigator? Navigator, this is Houston, do you read?” Joan says. Nothing. “Lydia Danes, do you read me?” There is no answer. This feels inevitable to Joan now, even though just one second ago she would have said it was nearly impossible.

Ray: “Flight, this is Surgeon. Given the rate the pressure has been dropping, Hagen, Redmond, and Danes are certainly unconscious, suffering from the bends. But, given the length of exposure, I believe they may be dead.”

Greg: “Flight, EECOM—the cabin pressure is rising.” Jack: “Rising? Confirm you said rising.” “Rising, sir. PSIA returning to normal levels.”

Joan gets back on the loop. “Navigator, this is Houston. Can you confirm you have found the hole and patched it?” Ray: “She’s not going to be able to answer.” “Lydia, come in,” Joan says again. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. And then Vanessa’s voice. “Houston,” she says. “I think I am the only one left.”

Sometimes, when Joan saw herself in photographs, she was struck by how beautiful her smile was, her dimples making her face seem friendly and bright. In high school, Adam Hawkins had said so. But she didn’t expect other people to notice. She also didn’t expect other people to ask what she did in her spare time (she was a classically trained pianist, had run two marathons, was an avid reader and an amateur portraitist, among other things).

When someone admired them, she never bothered to tell them she’d drawn them. The praise was never the point.

it came as a huge shock to the men in the department, many of whom fancied themselves secretly destined for victory, to see that the woman they’d overlooked was lapping them in a race they did not know had started. Joan looked around the room, put her drink down, and left her own goodbye party early.

‘You have to have something on the line, for it to be called character.’ ”

Astronomy was history. Because space was time. And that was the thing she loved most about the universe itself. When you look at the red star Antares in the southern sky, you are looking over thirty-three hundred trillion miles away. But you are also looking more than five hundred and fifty years into the past. Antares is so far away that its light takes five hundred and fifty years to reach your eye on Earth. Five hundred and fifty light-years away. So when you look out at the sky, the farther you can see, the further back you are looking in time. The space between you and the star is time.

To look up at the nighttime sky is to become a part of a long line of people throughout human history who looked above at that same set of stars. It is to witness time unfolding.

Bravery is being unafraid of something other people are afraid of. Courage is being afraid, but strong enough to do it anyway.”

She manages to remove Griff’s suit, too, with somewhat less agony. Then she pulls down his cooling suit, exposing his chest and stomach, so she can assess his injuries. The shrapnel did not break through his skin, but there is already visible bruising across his lower stomach, extending up into his chest. He must be bleeding internally.