Back to Earth with heroic journalist
I was still glowing after having stumped the great Jacques Cousteau on a marine-life question (“In what habitat, sir, is one most likely to encounter the rare species troutus interruptus?”) when the mammoth Boeing 747 started moving on the Edwards Air Force Base runway, the space shuttle “Enterprise” perched on its back like a shark riding a whale.
It was 7:40 last Friday morning and I, in my position as Chronicle prairie-dog editor, was poised — along with Cousteau, Governor Jerry Brown, space sonneteer Michael McClure, astronomer Carl Sagan, singer John Denver, Senator Barry Goldwater, taxidermist Roy Rogers and two or three thousand other VIPS — on the dusty banks of a dry lake in the Mojave Desert, anxiously awaiting the first free-flight of the giant — as we space experts call it — “bird.”
The 747 taxied to, then fro. Suspense mounted as we peered through binoculars at the leviathan, perhaps a mile distant, or watched one of a dozen or so closed-circuit television screens while overhead speakers crackled with a last minute conversation between the “Enterprise” and mission control at the Johnson Space Center in Houston.
“Ok, Enterprise,” came the voice from Houston, “this is Cap-Com and …”
“Whoa there, good buddy,” broke in shuttle commander Fred Haise, “just take that pedal off the metal for a sec and tell me what’s that there ‘cap-com’ handle you’re tossin’ into my convoy …?”
“Jesus, Fred, gimme a break,” answered Houston, “how many times do I have to tell you — Cap-Com is short for ‘capsule communicator.’ I’m the communicator and you’re the capsule and you’re not taking off till you get that straight …”
“Roger, Houston,” said Haise. “I think I got it. Now, what were you calling about? You couldn’t have left it on my service …?”
“Jesus, Fred,” replied Houston, “this is not time for joking. We’re just checking to make sure we copied the last computer read-out right: Now, that was a ham-on-rye, hold the mayo; a peanut butterand-jelly, two chocolate shakes and a side of cow-pies … roger?”
“Fries, Houston.” Haise snapped, “a side of fries …!”
At 8:01 a.m., or thereabouts, the 747 started down the runway and, seemingly oblivious to its 250,000-pound passenger, soared into a blue sky peppered with deferential patches of stark white clouds and five sleek, tiny T-38 chase planes — goldfish to the shark on the whale. The Boeing climbed and circled for 45 minutes, then “pushed over” into a shallow dive, Houston calling out altitude and air speed as commander Haise and copilot Gordon Fullerton prepared for separation and the relatively tender one-G jolt that should accompany it.
Two minutes later, we turned from the television monitors to the sky as the shuttle came gliding silently across the desert, descending at the precipitous rate of 5,000 feet per minute, a speck evolving into a “DC-9 with no wings,” as it has been described, heading directly for us, surrounded by the T-38 gnats nipping at its flanks.
Then, as Houston barked out the waning altitude in increments of 12 inches — “five feet from touchdown … four feet … three … two … one” — the “Enterprise whooshed by within a hundred yards, its 200 mile-perhour landing speed sending a hydroplane plume of sand and dirt showering in its wake.
Then it was over, and we left as we had come, each filled with new resolve. Jacques Cousteau vowed to pursue troutus interruptus to the ends of the earth. Carl Sagan determined to find out if Pacific Stereo would go for a 40,000-year warranty on parts and labor. Governor Brown retired to practice his piercing, granite-hard gaze in anticipation of our next encounter. Michael McClure was busily sketching out a new “gargoyle cartoon” about stuffing Roy Rogers. And John Denver, his brother Ron and I boarded a bus for a sightseeing tour of Edwards and its awesome arsenal of fighting planes. “Faaaaantastic,” said John Denver with a big grin, shaking his head. “Faaaaar-out.”
Indeed.
This column originally appeared in The San Francisco Chronicle Aug. 19, 1977.