Postcard — May 1, 2018, 11:36 am

The Real Thing

A visit to the space coast

Photograph by the author

We sailed over a bridge and onto the island, entering a sliver of Florida populated by protected wildlife and rocket scientists in equal measure. Dead snakes curled against the asphalt, and alligators napped in the canals beside the road. Bald-eagle nests dotted the spindly trees. I had been there before, but only to the visitor’s complex, which we whizzed past, its rocket garden visible from the car. The noses of unused rockets and historical replicas rose above the buildings, blossoming against the sky like metal flowers. This time around, I wasn’t there for the historical exhibits: the moon rock behind glass, the Astronaut Hall of Fame. This time, I was there for the real thing.

It was a mild Sunday morning in February. The traffic thinned as cars turned off into the parking lot, but we pressed on—past roseate spoonbills and white egrets standing knee-deep in swampy water, past an imposing security checkpoint where my host, Naomi, flashed her credentials. We kept going, deep into the heart of the Kennedy Space Center.

The facility completed its first launch in November 1967 (the uncrewed Saturn V rocket) and immediately became the American gateway to outer space. Every crewed NASA mission to date has blasted off from this sleepy Floridian island, and many of NASA’s uncrewed missions continue to launch from either the Kennedy Space Center or the neighboring Cape Canaveral Air Force Station, just a few miles east. These days, American astronauts heading for the International Space Station hitch rides to space on Russian rockets, but before the shuttle program ended in 2011, this was the island where those missions began. Neil Armstrong, Sally Ride, Jim Lovell, Mae Jemison—their journeys all started here.

I’d come to see a SpaceX Falcon 9 rocket propel a Dragon cargo capsule into space. It wasn’t the first Falcon launch, and wouldn’t be the last, but it would be the first liftoff from launchpad 39A since Atlantis’s final mission, in July 2011. After six years of vacancy, the launchpad was once again bustling with activity. The Dragon would be headed for the ISS, bearing 5,500 pounds of supplies and experiments, including forty mice, used for studying bone density in zero G. The Falcon would jettison the Dragon capsule, then return to Cape Canaveral via remote-control landing. SpaceX, the private space-travel company founded by Elon Musk, has leased 39A from NASA for a twenty-year term. Their tenure had only just begun. One year after this re-christening, SpaceX would go on to successfully launch its first Falcon Heavy, a bigger and more powerful version of the Falcon 9.

While NASA focuses on its mission to Mars, the task of sending astronauts to the ISS and launching new satellites has fallen to private contractors. SpaceX isn’t the only company in the mix—Orbital ATK, Boeing, and Sierra Nevada Corporation also have contracts with NASA for both crewed and uncrewed missions in the years ahead. The day when private citizens will be able to purchase a flight around the moon is not far off—in fact, two people have already given SpaceX a hefty down payment for a flight that is tentatively scheduled to launch as soon as this year.

We parked on the grass and joined the other launch spectators. The crowd was patient; many of us had been there the day before, when engineers scrubbed the launch seconds before liftoff due to a slight irregularity. There was a low throb of excitement, but no one would have been surprised if the launch was scrubbed again. The crowd was full of NASA employees, contractors, and their guests—folks who intimately understood what a slight irregularity could do to a rocket. In September 2016, one of SpaceX’s Falcons exploded during fueling, decimating the Cape Canaveral launchpad it was sitting on. No one was injured, but the explosion rendered the launchpad unusable, which brought SpaceX here, to 39A.

Lawn chairs, picnic blankets, and thermoses were strewn across the grass, and a low mist had begun to burn away in the mounting heat. There were NASA crests everywhere, on hats and T-shirts and water bottles, with a smattering of SpaceX logos. A thicket of tripods was set up at the edge of the cordon, bearing high-tech cameras, binoculars, and telescopes. The massive Vehicle Assembly Building, 518 feet wide and 525 feet tall, towered behind us. Off to the side sat an unassuming gray structure where Naomi programs software for NASA’s mission to Mars: a project that is years away from fruition but closer than folks might think, with tests of the Space Launch System (NASA’s most powerful rocket ever) scheduled in the next few years and a human expedition expected by the early 2030s.

I checked the time. T-minus twenty-eight minutes. The viewing area was spacious, the bleachers sparsely occupied. There was a steady buzz of anticipation coming from the waiting bystanders. I set up my own tripod away from the gridlock closest to the launchpad and focused my zoom lens on the Falcon 9 rocket, some three miles off, then snapped some test shots. The rocket was partially hidden from view by its launch tower, but the Dragon capsule was visible above the service structure, its nose pointed skyward. A water tower, emblazoned with the SpaceX logo, stood off to the left. Seagulls congregated in the foreground, swooping and gliding past that great metal bird that had yet to take wing. Between us and the launchpad stretched three miles of marshy wetlands. I checked again. T-minus 17 minutes.

At T-minus 5, voices began to intone stages of readiness over the loudspeakers. Intermittently at first, and then with more frequency. Eyes turned toward launchpad 39A. There was a collective hush, and the final countdown began. The crowd chanted along, four, three, two, one. . . . Clouds of vapor billowed from beneath the Falcon rocket, the glow of ignition bloomed, and then: liftoff. The hold-down arms released, and the rocket rose into the sky, buoyed by a thick, fiery cord of burning fuel. The roar took a second to reach us, but when it did, it was deafening. Slicing into the low-hanging clouds, the rocket disappeared from view, leaving behind a dull rumble that rolled across the field like a tidal wave.

Cries of delight and awe rippled through the spectators. I lingered, unable to look away. The rocket was gone, the clouds of steam on the launchpad had dissipated, but the glow of the launch was still etched into my corneas. As my fixation faded, I noticed the crowd migrating toward the other side of the viewing area.

“The landing,” people murmured to one another.

I followed, and there, seven or eight minutes later, we could just make out the Falcon’s first-stage booster cutting down through the thick gray clouds, the pale yellow glow of burning propellant dropping toward the earth to find its mark on Landing Zone 1. The sonic boom of reentry reverberated for miles. A perfect, bull’s-eye landing.

Officials immediately began to shoo us toward our cars. Just as quickly as the Falcon climbed into space, the crowd dispersed. The sky betrayed nothing of what we had just witnessed. As we made our way back to the main road, pure Florida blue shone through the parting cloud cover, and a pair of egrets stalked the grassy shoulder. Soon, the Dragon spacecraft would make its way into orbit, then to the International Space Station. I paused to consider where it was headed, and what would be next.

Share
Single Page

Get access to 167 years of
Harper’s for only $45.99

United States Canada

CATEGORIES

THE CURRENT ISSUE

June 2018

The Last Best Place

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The Sound of Madness

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

Looking for Calley

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

Comforting Myths

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The Wizard of Q

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

Punching the Clock

view Table Content

FEATURED ON HARPERS.ORG

Article
Combat High·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

Afew months before the United States invaded Iraq, in 2003, Donald Rumsfeld, the defense secretary at the time, was asked on a radio show how long the war would take. “Five days or five weeks or five months,” he replied. “It certainly isn’t going to last any longer than that.” When George W. Bush departed the White House more than five years later, there were nearly 136,000 US soldiers stationed in the country. 

The number of troops has fallen since then, but Bush’s successors have failed to withdraw the United States from the region. Barack Obama campaigned on ending the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, only to send hundreds of troops into Syria. For years Donald Trump described America’s efforts in Afghanistan as “a waste” and said that soldiers were being led “to slaughter,” but in 2017 he announced that he would deploy as many as 4,000 more troops to the country. “Decisions are much different when you sit behind the desk of the Oval Office,” he explained. Every president, it seems, eventually learns to embrace our perpetual war.

With the Trump Administration’s attacks on affordable health care, immigration, environmental regulation, and civil rights now in full swing, criticism of America’s military engagements has all but disappeared from the national conversation. Why hasn’t the United States been able—or willing—to end these conflicts? Who has benefited from them? Is victory still possible—and, if so, is it anywhere in sight?

In March, Harper’s Magazine convened a panel of former soldiers at the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York. The participants, almost all of whom saw combat in Iraq or Afghanistan, were asked to reflect on the country’s involvement in the Middle East. This Forum is based on that panel, which was held before an audience of cadets and officers, and on a private discussion that followed.

Illustration (detail) by John Ritter
Article
Comforting Myths·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

Before he died, my father reminded me that when I was four and he asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said I wanted to be a writer. Of course, what I meant by “writer” then was a writer of Superman comics. In part I was infatuated with the practically invulnerable Man of Steel, his blue eyes and his spit curl. I wanted both to be him and to marry him—to be his Robin, so to speak. But more importantly, I wanted to write his story, the adventures of the man who fought for truth, justice, and the American Way—if only I could figure out what the fuck the American Way was.

Artwork by Mahmood Sabzi
Article
The Sound of Madness·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

Sarah was four years old when her spirit guide first appeared. One day, she woke up from a nap and saw him there beside her bed. He was short, with longish curly hair, like a cherub made of light. She couldn’t see his feet. They played a board game—she remembers pushing the pieces around—and then he melted away.

After that, he came and went like any child’s imaginary friend. Sarah often sensed his presence when strange things happened—when forces of light and darkness took shape in the air around her or when photographs rippled as though shimmering in the heat. Sometimes Sarah had thoughts in her head that she knew were not her own. She would say things that upset her parents. “Cut it out,” her mother would warn. “This is what they put people in psychiatric hospitals for.”

Painting (detail) by Carlo Zinelli
Article
Looking for Calley·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

In the fall of 1969, I was a freelance journalist working out of a small, cheap office I had rented on the eighth floor of the National Press Building in downtown Washington. A few doors down was a young Ralph Nader, also a loner, whose exposé of the safety failures in American automobiles had changed the industry. There was nothing in those days quite like a quick lunch at the downstairs coffee shop with Ralph. Once, he grabbed a spoonful of my tuna-fish salad, flattened it out on a plate, and pointed out small pieces of paper and even tinier pieces of mouse shit in it. He was marvelous, if a bit hard to digest.

The tip came on Wednesday, October 22. The caller was Geoffrey Cowan, a young lawyer new to town who had worked on the ­McCarthy campaign and had been writing critically about the Vietnam War for the Village Voice. There was a story he wanted me to know about. The Army, he told me, was in the process of court-martialing a GI at Fort Benning, in Georgia, for the killing of seventy-five civilians in South Vietnam. Cowan did not have to spell out why such a story, if true, was important, but he refused to discuss the source for his information.

Photograph © Bettmann/Getty Images
Article
The Last Best Place·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The family was informed they would be moving to a place called Montana. Jaber Abdullah had never heard of it, but a Google search revealed that it was mountainous. Up to that point, he and his wife, Heba, had thought they’d be moving from Turkey to Newark, New Jersey. The prospect of crime there concerned Heba, as she and Jaber had two young sons: Jan, a petulant two-year-old, and Ivan, a newborn. 

Montana sounded like the countryside. That, Heba thought, could be good. She’d grown up in Damascus, Syria, where jasmine hung from the walls and people sold dates in the great markets. These days, you checked the sky for mortar rounds like you checked for rain, but she still had little desire to move to the United States. Basel, Jaber’s brother, a twenty-two-year-old with a cool, quiet demeanor, merely shrugged.

Illustration (detail) by Danijel Žeželj

Average amount Microsoft spends each month assisting people who need to change their passwords:

$2,000,000

Chimpanzees who join new groups with inferior nut-cracking techniques will abandon their superior techniques in order to fit in.

Trump leaves the Iran nuclear deal, Ebola breaks out in the Democratic Republic of Congo, and scientists claim that Pluto is still a planet.

Subscribe to the Weekly Review newsletter. Don’t worry, we won’t sell your email address!

HARPER’S FINEST

Report — From the June 2013 issue

How to Make Your Own AR-15

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

By

"Gun owners have long been the hypochondriacs of American politics. Over the past twenty years, the gun-rights movement has won just about every battle it has fought; states have passed at least a hundred laws loosening gun restrictions since President Obama took office. Yet the National Rifle Association has continued to insist that government confiscation of privately owned firearms is nigh. The NRA’s alarmism helped maintain an active membership, but the strategy was risky: sooner or later, gun guys might have realized that they’d been had. Then came the shootings at a movie theater in Aurora, Colorado, and at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, followed swiftly by the nightmare the NRA had been promising for decades: a dedicated push at every level of government for new gun laws. The gun-rights movement was now that most insufferable of species: a hypochondriac taken suddenly, seriously ill."

Subscribe Today