The Construction of Space Shuttle Launch Complex 39-B
A very personal and technical written and photographic history, by James MacLaren.
Page 65: MacLaren, Tommy Northcutt, and Carlton D. Taylor on the Left SRB Access Platform and Catwalk.
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If only I had a proper recollection of this photograph!
Alas!
That Jack Petty took it, there can be no doubt of.
That it's me, along with Tommy Northcutt and Carlton D. Taylor, up there on the SRB Access Platform and Catwalk, there can also be no doubt of.
But after that...
The mist has closed in, thick and opaque, and I can no longer see through it.
Damn!
This image was taken during the OMBUU Lift, and could easily be included on the previous page as the final image, but the OMBUU is nowhere to be seen, and instead it's a People Picture, a group of three, seen at a place that ceased to exist literal decades ago.
Lives once lived.
All of us are over 200 feet above the Merritt Island Wildlife Refuge, visible in the distance on the left side of the image, goofing around for a few brief moments on a goddamned Moon Rocket / Space Shuttle Launch Pad, enjoying ourselves.
Tommy Northcutt, between myself on the left and Carlton D. Taylor on the right, was one of the better Union Ironworkers on the job, and was a sterling human being. Unprepossessing, very low-key, quiet for the most part, but possessed of an internal fire nonetheless, with a softly self-depreciating sense of humor, and without the faintest trace of pretense or self-promotion. Honest as they come.
Tommy's giving me a look, and me being me, I'd probably just made some kind of damnfool smart-ass remark to Jack or Carlton (who couldn't possibly have cared less, except for making a little note in his mental book to return the favor at some point), and Tommy may have been taken aback somehow, but then again, who knows?
But there's a bit of an intensity you can see there in his face, whatever it was that caused him to swing his attention around in my direction momentarily.
We'll never know.
Carlton, unlike Tommy, played it a lot faster and looser when it came to his own exploits, but he was somehow lovable in spite of it, or maybe even because of it. And no matter what kind of overblown story he might be telling you of his time spent as a participant of the Vietnam War, or whatever else, you always knew that if the shit somehow ever hit the fan, that he would be one of the ones who would be there for you, shoulder to shoulder, and I'm speaking from personal experience with that one. Carlton could be counted on when it mattered.
Carlton (nobody ever called him "Carl" and if his first and last name ever got mentioned together, then you'd always get that middle initial 'D' in there too, for some reason) was an extraordinarily-complex person, brimming over with no end of self-contradictions, but at one and the same time was also down to earth, and no, I can't explain that, and no, I'm not even gonna try.
And oh yeah, he was whip smart, too. And on top of that, he could think on his feet and adjust to changing situations with lightning speed.
Incisive sense of humor. Sharp sense of humor. Anything and everything, anybody and everybody, were considered fair game by Carlton.
Somehow, Jack Petty came to be in possession of my camera, and I have no clue as to whose idea it was, but somehow it became a matter of "Stand over there on the SRB Access Platform and I'll get your picture from over here on the FSS," and a click of the shutter was all it took to snatch this broken-off fragment of time and freeze it, perfectly preserved, that it might be returned to, for consideration in the future.
Jack, and Carlton, and I could oftentimes be found together, and by the time this photograph had been taken, the three of us had bonded well, and made for a really good team, one from the Structural Contractor (me), one from BRPH Structural Engineering Oversight (Jack), and one from Contracts Oversight (Carlton). A level of trust had been attained wherein none of us any longer harbored any doubt as to the motives or competency of the others in their areas of expertise, and when you find yourself working in a group where that stuff has been stripped away from the daily personal interactions of the group, the efficiency of the work they can perform skyrockets.
There was an esprit de corps that formed which made things a lot better, and we employed it to cut through bullshit and unnecessary formality (between ourselves, anyway, because externally, there were others that required close watching) in a way that caused our productivity to... rise above.
We would curse and shout and laugh and yell in temporary anger at things and people all around us, and each other, too, at times, in a way that took the overall energy level to places that nobody else could follow.
And as I write these words, it suddenly occurs to me that this might be where I learned to use anger as a tool, and a damn strong and effective tool at that, and then, once I was done with the anger, and it had gained me the result I was not going to be denied, I could turn it off like throwing a light switch.
Bang! No more anger.
And that has turned out to be a spectacularly-effective technique which allows me to get results other people seem unable to get, and yeah, often enough it completely disorients the people around me, as I go from calm, to raging monster, and right back to calm again, in the blink of an eye, without the least trace or stain of anger remaining, once I've turned it back off, but I long-ago quit worrying about other people's disorientation when they cross paths with it.
We had our own culture!
It fit snugly into the wider culture of the project, ongoing all around us, but it was separate, too.
Just the three of us.
And you're hearing that culture, undiluted, verbatim, as you read these words.
So ok. So if you're wondering why I must throw so many "goddamn's" and "motherfucker's" and all the rest of it into this narrative...
...well... now you know.
So fuck you.
Which is a term of endearment, and no, I do not expect you to understand, and no, I do not care if you don't understand, so... ok.
But... returning back to the photograph at the top of this page... what the hell were we doing up there this day?
And more importantly, what the hell is Tommy Northcutt doing up here this day?
Click on that photograph and enlarge it full size, and give Tommy a close look.
He's holding the handle of a come along with his left hand.
Look closer still, and you can see, to the right of Tommy in the frame, that the hook on the come along is attached to another hook and that one is on the end of a short bit of what appears to be wire rope, and it's attached to the handrail post that Carlton's leaning against, and continued close scrutiny reveals Carlton's right hand to be very casually and lightly gripping that short bit of rigging that goes from the come along to the handrail post.
And on the other end of the come along?...
Well... it's very definitely wire rope... and it's pretty light wire rope... and if you're using a handrail as an anchor, then it's for sure as hell that you're never intending to be exerting that much force with things...
And it heads on over toward the load lines of the crane that's still holding up the OMBUU, out of sight there below us...
And then what?
Fuck all if I know what, that's what.
So ok. So the three of us, Jack, Carlton, and me, were fucking off, playing around together for a few moments while we could, and we at some point decided to take the FSS elevator up to the 220'-0" level, and we must have seen Tommy there, working (Tommy's the only one here who's actually doing any kind of productive work at all), and then we...
I dunno.
"Jack, here, take my camera. Get a picture of me and Carlton up here. We'll walk on over to the RSS there by Tommy, and you can take our picture, ok?"
"Ok."
Was that it?
I have no fucking idea.
And it's driving me crazy not knowing what the hell is going on with that goddamned come along that Tommy's working up here.
It's almost like there was something somewhere that was preventing the crane operator from booming any farther right, and Rink, or Wade, or somebody decided to send Tommy up there with a come along, and told him to throw a wire rope around the load lines, and give it a little pull, but...
How the hell does a thing like that work?
Load lines are not the sort of thing that one comes casually along and starts yanking around with a goddamned come along.
No. Don't do that. Not advisable.
But the stupid come along does not appear to be connected to anything over toward the SRB Access Platform I'm standing on...
So...
What?
And at this point my brain shrugs its shoulders and says, "Fuck me, I got no idea," and washes its hands of the matter then and there, and moves on to other, more understandable, pursuits, leaving me standing here wishing I knew what the hell it was that I'm looking directly at, and yet still not understanding in the slightest.
Dammit!
And if I don't tell this little story now, I may never get another opportunity in the narrative, so here we go with "Carlton's Piece of Lettuce."
Carlton, Jack, Mason Bailey (who was another stand-up guy, and ferociously smart), and myself for whatever reason that day, all piled into the BRPH company sedan, and with Mason behind the wheel, we drove out just past the VAB to the cafeteria over there (I recall it being named at the time, in inscrutable NASAese, the "Multifunction Facility") and sat down at a table for yapping and lunch.
You need to know, that at the time (much later than when our photograph at the top of this page was taken), Pad B was becoming more and more an Operational location, and at some point, the higher ups had decided that access to Pad B needed to be tightened up, and executed their wise plan by virtue of having a special, separate, badge made up, that had to be presented at the guard shack out at the Perimeter Fence by the Crawlerway, or otherwise, no access for you, bub.
Ok. All well and good.
But the badge itself was a crack-brain scheme, wherein somebody, I'm quite sure, decided to save Big Bucks by having the badge be this generic thing, with no actual information about its holder on it, and instead, it was an exceedingly plain green thing, with nothing whatsoever on it except "Pad B" written in large black lettering, with the "B" beneath the word "Pad." No photo. No authorizing agency. No areas of access allowed and disallowed. No words at all. No nothing. Just... green.
Ok, fine. Why are you wasting our time with this, MacLaren?
Ok. We're eating lunch. And we're about to get up and drive back to work, and as we did so, Carlton makes the surprise discovery that he had failed to bring his special 'Pad B' badge with him.
Uh oh.
Not only did that mean no access back into the pad, but it also meant that Carlton was going to be explaining that to somebody, in some office, and things like that had a nasty habit of adhering to you, and Carlton did not need any of this shit today, and...
...ok, whatta we do?
And Carlton was a quick thinker, and very creative too...
And he looks down at his plate...
And sees an uneaten piece of lettuce!
Idea!
And to the gales of laughter coming from Mason, and Jack, and me, Carlton proceeds to very carefully tear the large flat piece of lettuce into the exact size and shape of one of the Pad B badges, using one of our originals as a template, and did a damn fine job of it, and...
Are we really going to try this?...
Fuck yeah!
And to the sound of snickers, outright laughter, and rapid-fire exchanged insults and depreciating remarks, we all got up and headed back to the car.
Along the way, the scheme was hatched, and a detailed plan of action involving all four of us was arrived at. And the laughter only grew and intensified as we worked it all out in detail.
Mason driving, Jack in the front passenger seat, me in the back seat on the left side, Carlton in the back seat on the right side.
Guard shack on the right, passenger side of the car, entering the Pad.
And the guards all knew exactly who we were, and had seen us, and the car we were inside of, a million times before, and the whole charade had by then become pro forma, but it was a charade that must still be done, lest someone get in trouble somehow.
Ok.
We are now almost to the guard shack and the guard is already out there, close by on the passenger side of the car, getting ready to peer inside through the windshield and give our "credentials" the look that regulations required them to be given.
And as with the million times before, we didn't even quite come to a full stop, and just gave it the "slow roll" treatment, and as we did so, we were all very careful to hold our nice green Pad B badges up near the windshield between Jack and Mason where the guard could see them, with our hands all in a bunch, with all four of the "badges" slightly overlapping each other, as we did so.
INCLUDING CARLTON'S PIECE OF LETTUCE...
And we sailed on through as the guard acknowledged us, and pulled our "badges" back down, and no more than a car length farther, the guard suddenly realized something was amiss, and shouted for us to stop and back up, as he pointed to Carlton, instructing him to show his "badge" again.
Which Carlton cheerfully did, since in the second or two between getting stopped and actually showing the guard his "badge" a second time, he switched badges with Jack, and was now holding a real Pad B badge, complete with Big Black Letters on it, and the guard gave it a close-enough look, became happy with what he saw, made no indication that he was interested in anybody else's badge, and let us through.
And somehow, while all that was going on, everybody managed to keep a straight face and suppressed their laughter.
Son. Of. A. Bitch! It worked!
And once we were far enough away around the corner, on to the Perimeter Road heading for the field trailers, we all just completely lost our shit, and almost suffocated ourselves from laughter.
Carlton had managed to gain access to a High Security National Asset, a goddamned Space Shuttle Launch Pad, with a fucking piece of Lettuce!
True story.
I should know.
I was there.
Hell, I was one of the participants!
And maybe now, you'll have a somewhat better feel for how all of us worked as a team, and in so doing, got it done, with or without the consent or approval of certain other parties along the way.
Ok. Back to the photograph up at the top of the page.
What are we seeing here?
We've got MacLaren standing on the SRB Access Platform, and we first encountered it on 79K14110 sheet S-68, back on Page 6, but this is probably the best view of it that we'll ever have, so we can give it a bit of consideration.
The whole assembly is well-displayed, including the tricky cantilevered support bracket which attaches to the framing of the RCS Room, and which holds the whole thing up, 220 feet above the wetlands that surround the Pad, and "only" seventeen stories of wide-open free drop to the concrete of the Pad Deck directly beneath it. We saw that too on Page 6, but here it is again on 79K14110 sheet S-66, to let you compare the drawing with the visual that you see in the photograph.
This was yet another one of those places I would go to for a few moments of solace whenever I could for spectacular views and vistas, in a location where nobody else would ever arrive, to disturb the peace and break the mood. Each SRB Access Platform, Left and Right, had its own distinct views. On the Left one, where you see me standing in the picture, you got the FSS at close range, from a location above the intervening Hinge Column and Struts, looming above you, and extending down below you in a bewildering confusement of criss-crossing latticeworks of steel framing, and on the Right one, you got a wide expanse of open space to the south, which included all of the facilities on both the Kennedy Space Center, and Cape Canaveral Air Force Station, extending off into the far behazed distance to the south. And from both of them... the Atlantic Ocean was always there.
For another perspective on where we're all located, using a photograph that was taken before the platform I'm standing on was even built, using material we've already seen before, here's Image 008 highlighted to let you see where everybody is in Image 098, as viewed from farther up on the FSS, looking across and down at it.
I mentioned on Page 6 about a small "step-up" platform shown in Section B on S-68 which never seemed to arrive in the location where it's shown on that drawing, (or anywhere else, for that matter, and I have zero recall of it ever being anywhere at all) further mentioning that it got replaced by a second incarnation, and you can see the Second One in its stowed position, fastened down to the grating, over there in front of the bottom of that caged ladder which runs up the side of the RCS Room.
79K14110 sheet S-68A tells us how to build the original, and a look at the approval date down there in the title block explains why I never saw the damn thing, and that's because I was long gone, attempting to Slay the Dragon at Complex 41, by the time this thing ever got drawn up in the first place, and insinuated back into 79K14110, and yet again, this is a cautionary tale warning us about how they just love to come along, after the fact, and add, subtract, multiply, and divide, the original engineering drawings for stuff in ways that leave you doubting your own awareness and understanding of things as they actually got done in the beginning. Pay heed, ok? They're trying to get you, and they will if you don't watch out.
That second-incarnation SRB Hatch Access Platform can be seen on 79K24048 sheet S-190, and the detail that tells us how to build it (including the change from a "step" to a ladder rung) is taken from 79K24048 sheet S-185, and in addition to the callout for our little platform, we can see a whole bunch of other stuff that got done up on top of the RSS, and yeah, we're gonna be wading deeper and deeper into that water too, until all that's left of us will be a few bubbles rising to the surface followed by a deeply-frightening calm and silence, but... no. Not yet.
And about that caged ladder...
It is a Mystery.
Clearly, it takes you to the RCS Room Roof, out of frame, above the top margin of our photograph.
All well and good.
Except that it seems to neither occur nor appear, anywhere else. It's not in any of the drawing packages I have. Not 79K04400, not 79K14110, and not 79K24048 which we find ourselves working now. And it's not in any of my other photographs of the Pad. Except for this single image, that goddamned ladder never existed.
Not there during my Sheffield Steel Days, and not there during my Ivey Steel Days, either.
I will shew you a mystery.
You will see it disappear, with your own eyes, in the forthcoming photographs of this narrative, which there will be a plentiful supply of for you to puzzle over.
I just linked to S-185, and mentioned "a whole bunch of other stuff that got done up on top of the RSS," (but not our Mystery Ladder) and among that stuff, which we'll be looking at closer, later on, you can find the stairs that took you to the top of the Hoist Equipment Room, and to the top of the RCS Room, too.
The two-headed Guide Columns and OWP Nightmare is what brought all that on, and as a part of all that crap (just you wait... it's coming) access to the RCS Room Roof very much became mandatory, and that's why you got those stairs that took you up there, and yet...
At some point, somebody determined they needed access to the RCS Room Roof before those stairs (which, do not forget, are included in 79K24048), which is what we find ourselves already working when the pic of me, and Tommy, and Carlton was taken...
So...
What the fuck? Over.
And my own personal memory banks do not include it either.
And a thing like this ladder...
You can rest assured that James Fucking MacLaren would have, at some point, made a special effort to get on it and climb up to the RCS Room Roof, just to look around from up there.
But nope.
Not there.
Mystery Ladder.
It came and it went under cover of darkness, and it would have gotten away with it clean, except for the fact that one day...
Three people decided to head on up to the 220'-0" level of the FSS while the OMBUU was being lifted...
And one of them inadvertently snagged an image of it by complete accident...
Following which...
Gone.
Nothing.
Nowhere.
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