he idea has captured the imagination of millions: a simulated Mars base, hosting a series of simulated Mars missions, paid for not by government tax monies but through private and corporate donations. People believe in humanity's future in space, and like the SETI@home project (linking 2 million private computers around the world to analyze radio signals from space), the Flashline Mars Arctic Research Station (FMARS) provides many with a tangible opportunity to prove it.
Devon Island, in extreme northern Canada, is a whale-shaped expanse of rock and tundra some 500 kilometers long, its northern shores a mere 300 kilometers from the north magnetic pole. On the eastern side of the island, at the base of the tail, is the 20-kilometer-wide Haughton Crater, site of a 23-million-year-old meteor impact. Like the Dry Valleys of Antarctica, the crater is shielded from wind-borne snow and ice particles, while its dry climate causes standing ice to sublimate away. The resulting cold, rocky desert supports almost no vegetation, and is considered one of the most Mars-like environments available on Earth. Only the atmospheric pressure--roughly 200 times greater than Mars'--spoils the illusion.
Enter the Mars Society. Under founder and president Dr. Robert M. Zubrin, this august, multinational body of 3,500 scientists, engineers, artists and general enthusiasts had been hunting for a purpose beyond simple political lobbying and settled on Devon Island as a project both worthy of their attention and potentially achievable with their limited means. Enter corporate sponsors like software company Flashline.com and TV network The Discovery Channel. Enter world-class architect Kurt Micheels as program director, plus subcontractors with names like Redyns and Infocomp, plus technical and logistical support from NASA and the United States Marine Corps. If there's a recipe for success, it surely looks a lot like this.
Spiffy, space-age looks
By early 2000, the prefab fiberglass habitat module--complete with cosmetic "landing legs" to enhance its otherworldly feel--was designed, fabricated and freighted to California for military airdrop. A spiffy, space-age interior was laid out, while various organizations and individuals donated vehicles, space suits, guns (to protect against the very real threat of polar bear attack) and time. Lots of time.
The idea was to host "analog missions" out of the habitat: dress rehearsals for a real Mars base sometime in the not-too-distant future. Want to go look at some rocks? Fine: put on a space suit, grab a buddy or two, "decompress" in a simulated airlock, climb aboard a vehicle, head out to the site, perform your geology with thick gloves on your hands and a foggy helmet visor in front of your face, then get back on the vehicle, head for home, cycle through the "airlock" again and get out of your spacesuit before your simulated air supply runs out. Awkward? You bet. A little dangerous? Probably. It's a mere shadow of the perils and pitfalls of a real Mars mission, but perhaps it's enough to learn from. As Zubrin optimistically put it, "We know we'll learn a thousand things from doing this, and we'll learn a thousand more we don't know about yet."
Alas, sooner or later every project runs face-first into Murphy's law. Airlift to Devon Island isn't quite as expensive as an actual rocket launch, but at hundreds of dollars per pound it's still worth several times its weight in silver.
An environment of zero failures
Corporate sponsors or no, the Mars Society simply didn't have the resources to ship unlimited materiel, nor to employ large numbers of people indefinitely. Payloads and schedules were shaved, and shaved again, until FMARS had become a "green-light" program, its goals achievable only in an environment of zero failures.
And, human nature and the laws of physics being what they are, the opportunities to fail quickly multiplied. Bureaucracy reared its unwelcome head when several FMARS teams--including Micheels' own--were detained at the Canadian border by immigration officials concerned about work permits and NAFTA violations. Many fines and official phone calls later, the personnel were released, only to find complex Canadian gun laws preventing certain critical equipment from going along with them. Then the building site was moved at the last minute, invalidating weeks of survey work and other "due-diligence" activities.
The most serious setback, though, came on July 10, when a Marine Corps C-130 transport aircraft fumbled a critical cargo pallet during the fifth and final airdrop. Its nose jerked into the air by wind resistance and mass imbalance, the plane was seconds away from a fatal stall when the pallet finally fell clear--minus its parachute. A construction crane, several boxes of food, and all of the habitat module's floor sections were destroyed on impact. No spares existed, nor budget to procure and ship them.
A hand-made Mars
Incredibly, the project was not derailed there and then. Ever the optimist, Zubrin told the press, "This is exactly why a human presence is needed--to work around problems like this one." While many dismissed the comment as "spin control," it quickly became apparent that the Mars Society's president meant exactly what he said. Soon an arctic construction company was hired to bring in lumber for a makeshift wooden floor, and the 800-pound wall sections, despite wind and snow and bitter cold, were being erected by hand.
Micheels, citing safety concerns and what might politely be termed "artistic differences," resigned from the project and flew home to Denver last week. But a 55-person crew of Marines, Inuit trackers, NASA field personnel, Mars Society volunteers and even the Discovery Channel reporters themselves all did what they could to get at least the shell of a habitat up. On July 26th the roof and windows of the habitat were put in place, and the Mars Society reported that the first six-person crew was expected to move in on Friday the 28th. The FMARS' mandate to "inform and inspire" seems destined to go forward in some form. But even if no further misfortune befalls the program, one thing is clear: with no power or plumbing, no finished interior, no spacesuits or airlock or food reserve, the Flashline Mars Arctic Research Station will not be used for meaningful analog missions anytime soon.
Still, at the Mars Society's Denver mission control center, the mood remains upbeat. "It isn't realistic when things go right," says support director Tony Muscatello, with a wry shake of his head. "Real life is messy. It makes a better story this way." And given the long future planned for FMARS, as a stepping stone to Mars itself, he may even be right.
Wil McCarthy is a rocket guidance engineer, robot designer, science fiction author and occasional aquanaut. He has contributed to three interplanetary spacecraft, five communication and weather satellites, a line of landmine-clearing robots, and some other "really cool stuff" he can't tell us about. His short fiction has graced the pages of Analog,
Asimov's, SF Age and other major publications, and his
novel-length works include Aggressor Six, the New York Times Notable
Bloom, and The Collapsium.
