Chapter 1: Leavin’ On A Jet Plane

Monday, July 8, 1985

The plan for today was pretty simple. We were leaving tomorrow afternoon for London, so packing was the overwhelming priority.

We had conflicting goals for packing. This would be a long trip, most likely. We expected to be gone at least two or three weeks, but a month or longer was possible. Living out of a suitcase gets old, and so does dragging that suitcase around, but we wanted more than a few clothing choices and we wanted the option to dress up.

That said: Europe was certainly ‘civilization.’ There were plenty of stores that would sell us whatever we needed. They might well not sell us everything we wanted, though. Fashions vary, and so do food and beverage preferences. The world of 1985 was hardly as homogeneous as the world of 2020. Even in 2020, though, many shops in Europe would carry an enormously different selection than shops in America.

We also couldn’t rely on ‘Google Translate’ to make our way. We had phrase books to help us. Jasmine allegedly knew French, though (by her own admission) her grasp on it was often tenuous. None of us knew any other European languages with any fluency. The knowledge we had of Spanish might help somewhat, but only somewhat, both because we weren’t planning on visiting Spain and because we’d learned Mexican Spanish.

Still, many Europeans learned English to communicate with their fellow Europeans. It was, by far, the most shared language across the various European nations.

So, we packed, compared notes, and then repacked several times each. We could always come back early, but we didn’t want to.

One thing we didn’t worry about much was international power adapters. The London hotel came with hair dryers. If we needed one elsewhere, we might simply buy a European model. Beyond that, we simply didn’t need any adapters. This wasn’t the 2000s, where laptops and all manner of things with plugs and rechargeable batteries would go along.

Even then, though, I’d just needed adapters to change plug formats. Nearly everything was available in models that took both 110V and 220V and 50Hz and 60Hz. Hair dryers, ironically, were one of the few things that hadn’t changed: they were a pain now and in the future.

The second part of today’s plan was primarily on my shoulders. I needed to make a critical phone call to NASA. The wheels needed to start turning now. I would likely give up much of my advantage if I waited until we came back, and it seemed far more likely to succeed if the initial call, at least, came from within the United States.

I’d already made notes and had racked my brain (and talked with Laura and Angie) to be certain I had things correct. We had two options, and we might need both, but the first option — getting the right people at NASA to delay the flight — was the better one.

It wouldn’t even present much of a problem. A short delay would leave the Shuttle program in great shape for warmer weather. NASA would have nearly a year to figure out how to make the O-rings safe in cold weather. Allowing the Challenger disaster, though, would prevent Shuttle flights for a prolonged period.

Besides all of that, we made time for a shared lunch. This time, we headed to Pho King. It was far too long since we’d visited. Fortunately, Huong was there. While she was slightly grumpy about how long it had been, she was very happy to see both couples still together and doing great.

Each couple shared a large soup. No sense in taking home leftovers when we were leaving the country tomorrow!

Over lunch, we had a quick discussion about the call. We’d considered, but ultimately rejected, making the call from the Clear Lake area. On the unlikely event the call was traced, being near NASA might have given us some credibility, but it was at least possible some NASA insider would know a few of the things I considered to be ‘unknowns.’ If those were, in fact, known to some people, it would undermine my credibility instead of bolstering it.

It would be far better if the decision was mostly made ‘early.’ If I was relying on last-minute conditions, who knew what might happen? And, if they didn’t announce the decision until the last minute, we might have to call in bomb threats anyway simply because we wouldn’t know we didn’t have to. Warning a NASA administrator could be a problem, certainly, but calling in a bomb threat was a federal crime. It was unlikely we would get caught, but we would have quite a lot of investigative effort arrayed against us.

If someone convinced the FBI there was someone with knowledge of the future out there, even more investigative means might be deployed. One was concrete, though: a bomb threat was a bomb threat. The other could be anything, from a psychic to a lucky guesser.

With all of that in mind, we opted for a pay phone in Town and Country Mall. Town and Country held a unique appeal: it was an old mall, but relatively busy, and had minimal crime. Much of it was also slated to be redeveloped in the very near future.

Given that, they only had a few security cameras, most of which we could avoid without appearing suspicious. We would likely turn up on one or another, but only while entering and leaving. Hundreds of teenagers would visit the mall for hours at a time during the summer, and we would be shopping for things for the trip, so we would make obvious purchases.

So, we headed to the mall and shopped for a bit. After about half an hour, Paige, Jas and I left the book store and headed for a bank of payphones along the hallway to the restrooms. The mall was busy, but the hallway was deserted. The odds of someone overhearing me were low, and we didn’t see any security cameras covering the phones. The only camera in the hall was above my head and covered the area with the restrooms. There was no other camera covering the entryway to the hall.

It made sense. If there was trouble, it would almost certainly be either connected to the restrooms (an assault, perhaps) or someone going past them to or from the emergency exit. What trouble could the payphones present?

Paige and Jas stayed outside of the hall and pretended to window-shop at nearby stores. Their job was to watch for mall security. If either saw anyone at all meeting the description, they would move to signal me. I’d put down the phone and move away from it as quickly as possible. Not ideal, but what else could I do?

I didn’t wear gloves. Wiping down the phone and handset would be quick and easy, while gloves would look out of place in Houston in the summer.

I picked up the phone, used a prepaid calling card we’d bought a long time ago and never used before (pure luck, not planning, though we now had a reason to buy several more in case we needed them), and dialed the Kennedy Space Center. By luck, I’d remembered the name of the man I needed to talk to. His name had come up just enough in coverage of the disaster to stick with me, and Laura confirmed it was familiar to her, too.

When I got the operator, I asked for Gene Thomas. The operator asked who I was, but her tone seemed bored. I identified myself as Henry Armitage (a pointless, if perhaps amusing, H. P. Lovecraft reference) from Morton Thiokol. He probably wouldn’t recognize the name, but he would recognize Morton Thiokol and wonder why someone was going to him.

When he answered (thank goodness he wasn’t on vacation!), it was to say, “Gene Thomas. Who is this, please?”

“Hello, Mister Thomas,” I said. “This is going to be a strange call, and one you may want to hang up on. Please give me ten minutes or so of your time. I think you’ll find it worthwhile.”

“You’re at Thiokol?” he said. “You should be talking with the interface team.”

“I’m not at Thiokol,” I said. “That was just an excuse for your operator.”

I could practically hear the scowl over the phone.

“Then what are you calling about?”

“Before I tell you that, let me tell you something else.”

A pause, and he said, “All right.”

“The name of the person chosen for the ‘Teacher in Space’ program will be Christa McAuliffe.”

“Why are you telling me that? I’m not involved in...”

“Because the name hasn’t been announced, and no one should know it. I do.”

Another pause.

“Go on.”

“One of your Challenger crew members, Ron McNair, will be working with the French musician Jean-Michel Jarre on a piece to be played live from space during a Jarre concert. This is not public knowledge, and — in fact — I suspect McNair and Jarre aren’t even working on it yet.”

“What are you...?”

“Mister Thomas,” I said. “On the date of Challenger’s launch, it will be extremely cold in Florida. So cold, in fact, that the team will be worried about water pipes at the launch site freezing and will decide to run the water at a slow pace overnight so as to not risk failures at launch time. Ice is going to build up on the stack, too — so much ice that some people will call for a delay. Against counsel, the risk of the ice will be deemed ‘acceptable’. The ice itself is bad, as is falling foam, but neither is involved in what happens to Challenger.”

“What...?”

“Shortly after launch, the O-rings on the SRBs are going to fail. Within a few seconds, they will cut into the fuel tank, resulting in a massive explosion about a minute later. Later analysis will reveal the crew was likely awake and aware as Challenger fell into the ocean, though the impact almost certainly ended that.”

“This is about the O-rings again...?”

“Mister Thomas,” I said. “The point is, no one could reasonably know about either Christa McAuliffe or Ron McNair, nor could anyone in July know the weather at Challenger’s eventual launch time. Nor could they know the team would decide to run water, or about the icing, or anything else. As of today, you’re still planning on a November launch. The actual launch date will be in late January. No one could reasonably know that. I do.”

He paused.

“You want me to ... cancel the launch?”

“I want you to pay attention to what I’m saying. If I’m wrong — if Christa McAuliffe isn’t chosen, if Ron McNair decides not to bring along his saxophone to play along with Jarre, or if you’re launching on a relatively warm November day, ignore me. I’m wrong.”

“But if it’s January...”

“If it’s a frozen January night, announce something. Anything. Announce there’s a concern with the O-rings, or the ice, or anything else. I have not talked with a single person at Thiokol, but I’m certain they’re already telling NASA there’s a problem. They will back that. Push it back until the weather’s warmer. A few days will do.”

“Whoever you are, I can’t...”

“Mister Thomas,” I said, quietly but firmly, “If Challenger launches on a freezing morning in late January, the crew will die due to a catastrophic explosion caused by O-ring failure. It’s that simple. The rest is to prove that I know what I’m talking about. A delay will be annoying, I’m sure. You know what an explosion would be like in comparison. Not just the grief and the loss of life, but a long delay in launches and an extensive investigation, much of which will be pointless because everyone knows, right now, where the problem lies.”