27.

Baikonur Cosmodrome, 24 November 2014

The wind turns suddenly, and the white vapour dancing around the scaffolding on the launchpad wraps us in its icy embrace, hiding us from the view of the group of men who accompanied us to this point. It’s a final, kindly gesture from the Earth, which seems to want to ease our separation by means of an impersonal, emphatic intervention. We’re not the ones who want to put an end to this farewell ritual, on the stairway with the yellow handrail at the foot of the rocket shining in the night, and our hands, in thin white glove-liners, waving goodbye as our lips smile genuinely, but are also genuinely tired. We’re not the ones who want to evade the last photos, the last sound of our names called into the air over the muffled hum of the launchpad. Please forgive us. We’re not the ones burning with desire to turn around and keep climbing, to become one with the rocket. It’s the rocket that calls out to us, breathes over us this white, cold fog, that swallows us in a spectral light. End of the scene, end of the film. The end of exams, rituals, goodbyes, interviews, preparations, photos, celebrations, toasts. It’s all been splendid, but now, forgive us if we’re in a hurry. There’s a rocket here, ready to take us into space.

I catch sight of it for a moment, so close I can almost touch it, clad in ice because of the extremely cold temperature in the liquid oxygen tanks. Frost, I think. Our rocket is covered in frost, like the windows I used to admire, fascinated, on winter mornings in my childhood. A few final bumbling steps in our Sokol suits, so hostile to the standing position, and we find ourselves in a small wobbly lift that starts to move slowly, clanking as it goes. Our escort, a young technician, agrees to take a photo of us on his mobile. If there should be a fatal accident during the launch, this will be the last remaining photo of us. I like it: we look radiant and bonded.

When the lift stops, the technician opens the door and leads us into a bare, poky room. Our Soyuz is waiting on this level, crouched over 300 tonnes of kerosene and liquid oxygen and enclosed in its protective fairing. As the flight engineer, I prepare to enter first. I detach the suit from my portable fan, a grey metal box that I will not need any more, because I’ll soon be connected to the Soyuz ventilation system. My boots are also useless now. I take them off, and crawl in through the opening in the fairing and through the access hatch of the orbital module.

Everything is exactly as I expected. The cargo packs are wrapped and attached just as we left them four days ago after our final fit check. Fit check, we say. Like trying on clothes at the tailor. In effect, our spaceship is so small that it doesn’t take much to imagine putting it on like an item of clothing. It also has a characteristic and unmistakable odour that immediately elicits for me – with the immediacy that only olfactory stimuli can evoke – a sense of calm familiarity. However exceptional this voyage I’m about to undertake, however undeniable the risk of a sudden and violent death tonight, the truth is: I feel at home. There’s no other place in the world I’d rather be, nothing I know as well as this spacecraft, no situation in which I’d feel so completely and unconditionally that it was the right place for me. It’s time to begin this adventure.

I slowly let myself into the descent module, taking care not to damage the open hatch since I have to slide beside it, first down, towards the middle seat, and then sideways towards my seat on the left. Before doing anything else, I attach myself to the Soyuz using the appendages on my suit: the oxygen and ventilation tubes, and the audio and medical telemetry cables. I’m already wearing the shlemofon the cloth headgear with headphones and microphone.

After connecting the cables, I slide into my place, shifting my back so that it fits against the seat liner. Huddled in the usual foetal position, I gladly allow the technician to help me strap in, saving myself the contortions I’d otherwise have to make in order to reach the countless hooks and straps on my own. For now, I’m leaving them fairly loose; there’s no reason to restrict my freedom of movement too much. About forty minutes before launch, we’ll receive precise instructions to tighten the straps as much as we can, taking care first to let all the air out of our lungs. Only after we confirm this will they activate the launch escape system, the complex of thrusters and pyrotechnic devices that will, if necessary, take us to safety with extreme acceleration. If our straps weren’t tightly fastened, we would never survive the violence of an emergency escape unharmed.

Back in the orbital module, the technician passes me my procedure checklists. The one I need now is called Quick Rendezvous, and it contains all the normal procedures right up to docking on the Space Station six hours after launch or, as we commonly say, after four orbits. Quick Rendezvous contains roughly a hundred pages which are slightly smaller than A4 and is ring-bound, with colourful hard covers. Over the past few days Dima has applied adhesive rings to reinforce every hole so that the pages won’t come loose when we turn them with our gloves on.

After handing me the checklists, the technician passes me the extendable baton I need to reach the control buttons higher up on the panel. It’s usually only the commander who uses the baton from the central seat, which is set back from the others, but I’m small and didn’t want to take any risks. At my request, the Soyuz TMA-15M spacecraft must have two batons on board: it’s undoubtedly written down on some form, signed and stamped.

It’s Terry’s turn to get into the orbital module. While the technician helps him to get strapped in, I establish contact with the bunker, the location for the launch control centre. I switch on the communication equipment and get ready to make the first radio call of this long night. We, the Astrey crew, are about to make ourselves heard from that undefined location between space and Earth that is a rocket, full of fuel and ready to launch.

‘16-3rd, this is Astrey 2, how do you hear me?’

16-3rd, or ‘Sixteen-third’, is the mysterious call sign of the post assigned to speak to the crew from the bunker. The reasoning behind this name has always eluded me. Or maybe I never raised this question with adequate persistence, as with thousands of other ones I might have asked on the long road to this launch had there been the time. I’m an astronaut. My job is not to satisfy my curiosity, but to sift through the mountains of information for what I need to bring my mission about. It’s an operational perspective, not an academic one.

Anton, too, has finally dropped into the descent module and closed the hatch behind him. Terry and I get to work, helping him as well as we can to strap in, and then 16-3rd informs us that our vital signs are now being recorded. We need to stay still for about ten minutes. In this short time-out, the powerful presence of the rocket makes itself felt, this beast, still motionless, but slowly coming alive. I close my eyes, focusing on the noises coming from the depths of the launchpad, which break into the monotonous hum of the suit’s ventilation system. Rustling, vibrations, metallic sounds, whistles, puffing … This mighty metal animal, which has swallowed us, is preparing its limbs, made of pumps, pipes, valves, nozzles and actuators, so that it will be ready, in less than two hours, to release 500 tonnes of thrust in a burning inferno that will light up the sky over the Baikonur steppe.

The bunker informs us that they’re checking the images of the two internal video cameras: they can see Anton and me on the first one and Terry on the second. Anton takes the opportunity to ask if ‘Olaf’, a little white doll we’ve suspended from a cord as a ‘weightlessness indicator’, might not interfere with the shots. I think what Anton really wants to know is whether Olaf can easily be seen on camera. As the last rocket stage is shut down, Olaf will begin to float, indicating that we’re in orbit. Anton must surely be thinking about Kira, his youngest child, who’s watching the launch here in Baikonur along with the rest of our families. It was she who chose Olaf.

Once our vitals have been taken and recorded, we begin the pre-launch checks, working systematically. Anton reads the procedures out loud, line by line, and together we verify the position of the switches, physical or virtual, the parameter values, the status of the warning lights and alarms. As commander, Anton is responsible for managing the operations and he makes most of the communications with the bunker. My responsibility as flight engineer is first of all to support him, but also to pay particular attention to the status of the systems. Going beyond what is explicitly written in the procedures, I regularly check the parameters so I’ll recognize any variations from the norm well before an alarm goes off. There’s actually no alarm for some fairly serious problems, such as a leak in one of the helium tanks that pressurize the Soyuz engines, and the only way of discovering a malfunction promptly is through constant checking. For other issues, there are red warning lights on the control panel. One of these is particularly worrying: launcher failure. One doesn’t pilot a rocket. As far as the crew is concerned, it either functions or it doesn’t. It takes you into orbit, or it tries to kill you. There’s no third option.

We’re getting through the operations in good time. Among the many verifications, one of the most important is the leak check of the hatch between us and the orbital module. If there were to be an emergency and we were forced to make a re-entry during the ascent or right after orbital injection, the three parts of our Soyuz would separate, and this hatch would be the only thing remaining between us and the vacuum of space, and the violence and heat during the re-entry. It’s therefore essential to ensure that it’s hermetically sealed. We also pay great attention to inputting the data of the first two manoeuvres, which will be performed automatically once we arrive in orbit. We’re telling the computer when to ignite the engine, how long to leave it on and what attitude to do the burn in: a sizeable mistake in these data could compromise our mission, as it would mean wasting fuel on a wrong orbital correction.

When we finally complete a successful leak check on our Sokol suits, there’s nothing more to do but wait. I feel calm, almost euphoric. For our friends and families outside, it’s past two in the morning, but in Moscow it’s only 23.15, and in the few cubic metres of space we still claim on Earth, those marked out by the metal shell of our Soyuz, it’s Moscow time. The launch will take place one minute past midnight.

Our vitals are logged once more, and then 16-3rd offers to broadcast the songs we’ve chosen for this waiting period. None of us knows what the others have chosen, but Anton’s choice of ‘The Final Countdown’ is no surprise. The next song, ‘Oh, What a Night’, is my choice and elicits Terry’s enthusiastic approval. Really, what a night, what a perfect night! I couldn’t have imagined anything better, and I couldn’t be feeling more at peace with myself than I do now.

A country song is up next. I don’t know it, but I smile at the words: ‘Come up here, take the wheel, I’m gonna let you drive for the first time.’ Terry chose it for me. I’m the only rookie in the crew, the only one on her first mission. Around four minutes past midnight, about 200 seconds into our ascent, I’ll surpass an altitude of 100 kilometres for the first time; that’s where space begins, by convention. For the past five years, I’ve belonged to the European astronaut corps, but only in that moment will I truly become an astronaut.

First, however, I have something very important to do: pee. I don’t feel the need to go yet, but we’re talking about preventative measures. Too many veteran astronauts have told me how difficult it is, at first, to empty your bladder in weightlessness, especially if you have to do it in your nappy. As flight engineer, I cannot leave my seat until we get to the ISS, so it’s better to take advantage of these last few minutes on the launchpad, and leave Earth as one should – with an empty bladder.

Only twenty minutes to go, and I’m checking our parameters for the umpteenth time when I suddenly burst out laughing: a good, loud laugh at the next song chosen by Anton. Like most Russians his age, he grew watching the Sanremo Music Festival on Soviet TV and he loves the music of Adriano Celentano. Nothing weird about that, but the coincidence of his unlikely choice is irresistibly funny. Here we are, hermetically sealed at the top of a rocket, the launchpad evacuated. After years of training, months of preparation, weeks of exams and formal events and the frenzied days before the launch, we are finally enjoying a moment to ourselves, out of everyone else’s reach – and my commander, who understands not a word of Italian, has chosen a song that begins: ‘No use ringing / No one in here will open up / We’ve shut out the world and its chaos.’

It’s not just Celentano: there’s amusement in the air. We joke as we’ve always done, from the moment we became a crew two years ago. We laugh at our uncomfortable, scrunched position, which must be most painful for Terry – like me, he is lying in a poky side seat, but he is much taller. We make fun of his attempts to distract himself with sudoku – he can’t solve any of them. We joke about our joking, and the fact that we’re only fifteen minutes away from our launch, and there’s no sign in here of the solemn atmosphere that everyone out there must be imagining. Maybe we’re a particularly cheeky crew. I don’t know. Maybe other crews have exhibited more gravitas at this moment. Maybe … but I’m not convinced. Taking yourself too seriously is considered a major sin for astronauts, and it’s something of a faux pas to forgo an opportunity to downplay a situation.

At ten minutes to launch, we receive instructions to close our helmets, and this simple action refocuses our attention. I lower the visor and use the mirror on the forearm of my suit to make sure nothing is caught in the seal. Once again, I check all systems and fill out a table I’ve prepared to record the status of the main parameters before lift-off. Then, in the procedure checklist, I turn to the launch and ascent page.

It’s quiet on board now, but before long the neutral voice of 16-3rd breaks in to announce: ‘We are GO for launch. Everything is proceeding to plan. Transfer to on-board control. I’ll transmit the progress of the launch via radio.’ Anton confirms that we’re ready. Unless there’s a technical failure, this rocket will launch in a few minutes, whether we’re ready or not, but I’m pleased to hear him say it more decisively than usual: I can sense his mind and spirit are present and alert. Or maybe I’m the one who feels like that – present and alert – every fibre of my being straining to feel the rocket’s lift-off, all thought focused on the distilled essence of life consumed in this glimpse of space-time, my spirit quiet and calmly open to what will take place in the next nine minutes and the next six months.

There were just a few seconds left before the launch, and each radio announcement comes fast on the heels of the last one: ‘Zemlya-bort,’ says 16-3rd, telling us that the last arm of the launchpad has been retracted – the last umbilical cord cut. ‘Pusk,’ start. Kerosene and liquid oxygen begin flowing into the combustion chambers. ‘Zazhiganiye,’ ignition. The propellants begin to burn. From now on there’s a rapid increase in noise and vibration as the engines get up to full thrust. From the bowels of the rocket comes a sudden jolt, and at midnight, one minute and fourteen seconds – exactly as planned – 16-3rd confirms lift-off over the radio. ‘Poekhali!’ Let’s go! Anton cries out, just as Yuri Gagarin did in his time, and we join him in an exultant cry. I don’t know what to do with my happiness. It’s so big it’s getting in the way. I feel it spilling out in a smile I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.

On this perfect night, the Astrey crew is leaving the planet.