Go for Launch
Iterating your way to orbit
* Warning: spoilers ahead.
It’s easy to forget that every great enterprise emerged from humble beginnings.
Picture yourself in the launch center control room, 12 minutes on the clock, each second ticking slowly be. You have very few levers to influence what’s about to go down. Once those engines ignite the only thing that could possibly slow them down is a fail safe self destruct button that would only ever be pressed were the trajectory to veer suddenly off course. Knowing that even though such probability is beyond remote, the fact that it is not zero means a contingency must be planned, the risk formally mitigated.
The clock now at 11. Running through in your mind all of the primary risks identified by the team. Weather. Hardware. Fuel. Every single one needing to pass some high bar for the mission to succeed. For many the margin of error only a hair’s width.
Looking around at your colleagues, each in their own workstation, dual monitors peaking into their own silos of responsibility. The engineers. The launch team. Mission management. Safety. An oversized monitor centered at the front of the room, to the rear a wall length window overlooking from a distance the launchpad with a panoramic view. Everything pristine and organized as if the setup had been arranged months in advance.
10 minutes and counting. You pause for a distracted minute to consider the humble beginnings from which this all originated. Memories rush over you. The late nights and weekends working to scrap together a flight worthy machine. The designs and fabrications iterating through a breakneck pace. Draw up a schematic. Weld it together or hire a contractor. Test it, break it, repeat. The aggregate design slowly coalescing into cohesion.
Remembering all of the obstacles just to get to the first launch. The closed doors and the good old boys club pulling the rug out from under your southern California launch pad. Realizing the best viable alternative for your only paying customer a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific with no running water or electricity. A single asphalt pad surrounded by a few acres of vegetation. The only neighbors within hundreds of miles either a remote outpost army base or a few thousand locals, each either a long boat ride or helicopter flight away. Smiling at the thought of big tech enterprises getting their start assembling computers in residential garages or dorm rooms, in a comparison a two car garage could be considered a luxury.
Now down to 9 minutes. Thinking about that very first launch attempt, the single engine Falcon 1, the countdown reaching zero to everyone’s surprise uninterrupted on the first try. How those few moments of exhilaration at ignition were suddenly dashed with the appearance of an engine fire. Holding your breath that it might reach sufficient altitude to extinguish, inhaling again as everything broke apart.
The feelings of gratitude as all of the neighbors chipped in on a search for the remnants and scraps scattered throughout the surrounding reefs, the collected pieces organized by their system of assumed origin in separate piles. The irony that even before this collection the cause was almost certain. A fuel leak, a cracked or corroded fitting, likely a result of the harsh salty ocean spray surrounding this tiny island. The realization of those few dollars saved between aluminum and stainless steel fittings halting the entire mission — in the end a costly trade of hindsight for the next mission’s foresight.
8 minutes on the clock. Everything in order. Every sensor checking out. The scheduled activations of valve openings and closures running like clockwork. Condensation’s frost collecting outside the circumference of the tanks of liquid oxygen already loaded. Small jets of what appears as steam venting gaseous oxygen evaporated within the tank as a result. A sense of calm pervading the room, everyone all business, most speech limited to curt declarations of status between colleagues, any further conversation reserved for after completion of the next few minutes of intense focus.
A stray thought of what a contrast it was letting off steam with everyone nights and weekends around that island. Swimming and snorkeling. Fishing and excavations on board the Peregrine Falcon, a different kind of ship that could seat a crowded fifteen, on special occasions even as many as twenty. The one or two tiny bars on neighboring islands. Sunsets on shore. So much hard work those short whiles in between easy to savor.
Down to 7 minutes now. Running through every mental checklist you’ve accumulated over the years. Knowing how everything always looks right until the moment that it doesn’t. Like that second launch attempt so many years ago. A few stutter steps to get through countdown and to all appearances a successful launch. First stage burn. Nominal temperatures and pressures. Second stage separation and burn. Payload fairing release. And then, suddenly, a vibration. Growing into a spin, and them a spiral. Kestrel engine flameout. Fall back to earth, just a few short minutes from reaching orbit.
A known cause, sloshing fuel oscillating into a feedback loop. So heartbreaking because it wasn’t only identified, it was studied in depth. Thousands of computer simulation trials, suggesting the added weight of baffles to mitigate weren’t worth the degradation to payload capacity. Another lesson learned. Another design iteration logged for the next one.
The clock hits the 6 minute mark. Fuel loading now almost complete. The intensity in the room seeming to slightly crescendo as the final opportunities to scrub approach. Everyone searching for a sign, any sign, that some system might be out of tolerance, some neglected triggered alarm. Months and months of work on the line to get here. So many sacrifices.
Your family surely watching from home on the livestream. Wishing you could have spent more time with them these last few years, instead frequent long trips between factories, launch facilities, and vendors. Evening zoom sessions only a small consolidation in comparison to the missed family dinners and outings. Knowing the commitment is part of the job, part of the cost of contributing to such monumental achievements.
T-minus 5 minutes. Listening as each of your colleagues provide verbal confirmation of their status, when it’s your turn succinctly stating your position with a single “systems go”. Knowing that each spoken word is followed closely by an ever growing circle of satellite operators, passengers chartering a ride to orbit aboard a backlog of scheduled flights.
Remembering how hard it was to convince even a single customer to risk their satellite on an unproven rocket. That first Malaysian customer the only one you could sign, with each failed attempt other potential customers further away from commitment. Knowing that what you were building was going to dramatically lower the cost of transporting to orbit for the entire industry, but only if the funding could last through these rocky starts. Each failed attempt moving the bankroll further towards the end of the runway.
4 minutes now. Remembering that everyone always agreed it would take three attempts to get to orbit. How the new Merlin engines for the third flight were designed and then redesigned to handle the extreme temperatures, finally trading the abrasive coating prone to cracks with internally circulated fuel, cheaper and more easily reusable.
And then the heartbreak when it was those same Merlin engine designs that took down flight three. Everything going as planned until the engine fuel cutoff for second stage separation failed to account for those trace amounts of fuel circulating for cooling, their tiny burst of thrust, imperceptible in atmosphere when tested on the ground, were still enough in upper atmosphere to briefly surge the separated booster, tapping the second stage off course and then tumbling out of control.
3 minutes until liftoff. Remembering the scramble to salvage the company. The one remaining rocket at storage in California, with only a few weeks left of financing ruling out any ocean barge to reach the island, the last option an oversized Air Force C-17 transport plane. Management miraculously finding the right strings to pull to secure a reservation normally requiring months of waiting in line. Some small spark of hope that maybe we could still reach orbit, saving the firm.
Seating in the hanger of the aircraft next to a strapped down rocket, your feet resting on the harness. An uneventful flight, the aircraft descending for landing. CRACK. Sudden alarm at the loud popping sounds coming from within the rocket. The dreaded realization of air pressure imbalance and insufficient venting causing the tanks to partly crumble, twisting apart baffles and connections. Desperately calling for the pilots to resume altitude. Scrambling to unplug more vents within the few minutes of remaining fuel time.
2 minutes to go. Unloading the rocket on the island, the feelings of despair palpable throughout the team. Trying to assess the damage, the entire rocket fully disassembled down to nuts and bolts. The decision made to go for broke. Knowing this will be it, either the rocket reaches orbit or it was all for naught.
Scrambling to repair what could be salvaged. The baffles re-welded. A hurried pressure test serving the dual purpose of inflating the crumpled vessels. Somehow miraculously re-assembling the entire ship in under a week. The makeshift launch pad now readied for what may very well be the final attempt. Everyone holding their breath, the suspense unbearable.
T minus 1 minute until liftoff.
Go for launch.
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