Five—two cosmonauts, Valery Korzun and Sergei Treschev, and the American Peggy Whitson—waited eagerly to greet their visitors. Because of
Endeavour
’s earlier troubles, they had spent nearly 170 days in space, and they were ready for new faces and hugs.
“You guys look pretty good out there,” Whitson radioed.
“We were just saying the same about you,” Mike Lopez-Alegria said in return.
Although both the shuttle and the station each rocketed across space at five miles a second, their relative distance closed slowly, and for good reason. There was disaster lurking behind their dance. A collision would almost certainly see these ten astronauts made to look more permanently like drowned sailors, with their newfangled ships done in by old-fashioned holes.
Nine miles out from station, at 2:15 on a Monday afternoon, a short burn of the shuttle’s left-hand orbital maneuvering system put it on a nearly perfect course. At that point, the ground began ceding some of its control, giving permission for Commander Jim Wetherbee to look through his window and fire as many as four short correction burns over the next couple of hours. Once
Endeavour
was within six hundred feet of station, the previously shared load was placed entirely on him. With a gentle touch of the stick, he could nudge the shuttle up or down, left or right, as though lining up the biggest pool shot of his life, until he was satisfied that he had found his dead aim at the docking port in Destiny, the last in the station’schain of modules. When it came right down to it—having come so far, so fast—Wetherbee had a margin of error of just three inches to work with. Not surprisingly, he took his sweet time in closing the last of the gap.
Docking was scheduled for 4:26 p.m., but it wasn’t until just before five o’clock when the shuttle and the station finally connected, 250 miles above the great blue expanse of the South Pacific, making contact just behind the top of the shuttle’s cockpit. For the last several feet, Wetherbee had slowed his approach down to a little more than one inch per second, a veritable crawl considering the urgency with which the shuttle had left earth. The union was as soft as a first kiss.
The astronauts waited for the gentle waves of their impact to subside before they triggered the hooks and latches that would keep the shuttle in place. It took another hour for the small tunnel that had formed between the shuttle and station to pressurize. It was checked for leaks, and after they had been given the all-clear by the ground and each other, Expedition Five and
Endeavour
’s crew opened their respective hatches and finally, literally, flew into one another’s arms.
With Whitson snapping pictures, Wetherbee was the first to cross the threshold into station. Bowersox followed closely behind, already in the blue shorts and sock feet that he would sport for most of his mission, and next came Budarin, still giddy and smiling. Hanging like subway riders on the restraint bars bolted to the station’s ceiling, everybody hugged and clasped hands with everybody else and started shouting greetings in Russian and English at once.
“Nice to see you!”
“Nice to see you, too!”
But with only Wetherbee, Bowersox, and Budarin having made it on board, the flow of traffic stopped. “Where is everybody?” Bowersox asked after planting Whitson with a peck on the cheek. At last, Pettit burst through the hatch, bearing two warm silver bags with straws jammed into their sides.
“Coffee!” Pettit shouted, handing the bags to a laughing Korzun and Treschev. The Russian crewmates had each run out of caffeineduring their extended mission and made a desperate pitch for some more. Pettit had obliged by sharing two servings out of his private, under-the-seat supply. “Coffee!” he shouted again, nearly doing a backflip on his way through Destiny.
It would be a while yet before he could explore the rest of his new surroundings, although
Endeavour
’s earlier troubles, they had spent nearly 170 days in space, and they were ready for new faces and hugs.
“You guys look pretty good out there,” Whitson radioed.
“We were just saying the same about you,” Mike Lopez-Alegria said in return.
Although both the shuttle and the station each rocketed across space at five miles a second, their relative distance closed slowly, and for good reason. There was disaster lurking behind their dance. A collision would almost certainly see these ten astronauts made to look more permanently like drowned sailors, with their newfangled ships done in by old-fashioned holes.
Nine miles out from station, at 2:15 on a Monday afternoon, a short burn of the shuttle’s left-hand orbital maneuvering system put it on a nearly perfect course. At that point, the ground began ceding some of its control, giving permission for Commander Jim Wetherbee to look through his window and fire as many as four short correction burns over the next couple of hours. Once
Endeavour
was within six hundred feet of station, the previously shared load was placed entirely on him. With a gentle touch of the stick, he could nudge the shuttle up or down, left or right, as though lining up the biggest pool shot of his life, until he was satisfied that he had found his dead aim at the docking port in Destiny, the last in the station’schain of modules. When it came right down to it—having come so far, so fast—Wetherbee had a margin of error of just three inches to work with. Not surprisingly, he took his sweet time in closing the last of the gap.
Docking was scheduled for 4:26 p.m., but it wasn’t until just before five o’clock when the shuttle and the station finally connected, 250 miles above the great blue expanse of the South Pacific, making contact just behind the top of the shuttle’s cockpit. For the last several feet, Wetherbee had slowed his approach down to a little more than one inch per second, a veritable crawl considering the urgency with which the shuttle had left earth. The union was as soft as a first kiss.
The astronauts waited for the gentle waves of their impact to subside before they triggered the hooks and latches that would keep the shuttle in place. It took another hour for the small tunnel that had formed between the shuttle and station to pressurize. It was checked for leaks, and after they had been given the all-clear by the ground and each other, Expedition Five and
Endeavour
’s crew opened their respective hatches and finally, literally, flew into one another’s arms.
With Whitson snapping pictures, Wetherbee was the first to cross the threshold into station. Bowersox followed closely behind, already in the blue shorts and sock feet that he would sport for most of his mission, and next came Budarin, still giddy and smiling. Hanging like subway riders on the restraint bars bolted to the station’s ceiling, everybody hugged and clasped hands with everybody else and started shouting greetings in Russian and English at once.
“Nice to see you!”
“Nice to see you, too!”
But with only Wetherbee, Bowersox, and Budarin having made it on board, the flow of traffic stopped. “Where is everybody?” Bowersox asked after planting Whitson with a peck on the cheek. At last, Pettit burst through the hatch, bearing two warm silver bags with straws jammed into their sides.
“Coffee!” Pettit shouted, handing the bags to a laughing Korzun and Treschev. The Russian crewmates had each run out of caffeineduring their extended mission and made a desperate pitch for some more. Pettit had obliged by sharing two servings out of his private, under-the-seat supply. “Coffee!” he shouted again, nearly doing a backflip on his way through Destiny.
It would be a while yet before he could explore the rest of his new surroundings, although
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