Riding Rockets Part 14

We were the last crew ever to receive news of our mission a.s.signment from George Abbey. On October 30, 1987, George was rea.s.signed to NASA HQ in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., to a.s.sume the job of deputy a.s.sociate administrator for s.p.a.ceflight. Hoot would later tell me Abbey had hinted he didn't want the "promotion." That was easy to believe. For ten years George had wielded enormous power at JSC and now it was being taken from him. His loftier-sounding HQ t.i.tle came with about as much power as one of those twenty or so vice president positions on the staff of a local bank. Every astronaut was of the opinion that this had been an a.s.sa.s.sination. But by whom? Many astronauts suspected Admiral d.i.c.k Truly. d.i.c.k was now the number-two man at NASA HQ and being groomed for the NASA administrator position (which he would a.s.sume in 1989). As a former astronaut, he certainly knew of George's leaders.h.i.+p style, so he had motive. I wasn't about to ask Dr. McGuire if he had a hand in it. I doubted he would have told me and, besides, I didn't want any further a.s.sociation with the matter. It was the kind of office intrigue that could only hurt a career.

I didn't struggle with my emotions when Young was removed, but, with Abbey, it was different. Abbey had raised me from the huddled ma.s.ses to be an astronaut. He had picked me to fly on two s.p.a.ce shuttle missions. Besides my own father, no other man had influenced my life as much as George Abbey. And any unbiased outsider would say he had treated me fairly. He had selected me to fly my first mission before seven other TFNG MSes got their rookie rides. He had selected me to fly my second mission before eight of my peers got their chance at a second mission. With STS-27 I was a.s.signed to an important flight with a robot arm task. Yes, I was definitely conflicted about Abbey's bureaucratic demise. I was disturbed enough to wonder if it had really beenmy problem all along. Maybe a tougher man could have accommodated Abbey's Machiavellian managerial style. But deep down I knew that wasn't the case. McGuire had said I wasn't the only astronaut to have come to him, and given the time it would have taken him to acquire the data and write his astronaut leaders.h.i.+p doc.u.ment, he must have been talking to astronauts who had "lost it" long before I did. Even as I questioned my emotional mettle as the source of my Abbey problem, other astronauts were celebrating. One commented, "If we had any lamp shades in our offices we'd be running up and down the halls with them on our heads." Another celebrant was heard in the hallway singing, "The wicked witch is dead. The wicked witch is dead." Still another bitterly offered, "I hope one day to see Abbey working as a grease monkey on the flight line at the Amarillo airport. It's all he's good for." I doubted there were any astronauts, even those who had benefited most from his largess, who were sorry to see Abbey go. problem all along. Maybe a tougher man could have accommodated Abbey's Machiavellian managerial style. But deep down I knew that wasn't the case. McGuire had said I wasn't the only astronaut to have come to him, and given the time it would have taken him to acquire the data and write his astronaut leaders.h.i.+p doc.u.ment, he must have been talking to astronauts who had "lost it" long before I did. Even as I questioned my emotional mettle as the source of my Abbey problem, other astronauts were celebrating. One commented, "If we had any lamp shades in our offices we'd be running up and down the halls with them on our heads." Another celebrant was heard in the hallway singing, "The wicked witch is dead. The wicked witch is dead." Still another bitterly offered, "I hope one day to see Abbey working as a grease monkey on the flight line at the Amarillo airport. It's all he's good for." I doubted there were any astronauts, even those who had benefited most from his largess, who were sorry to see Abbey go.

No, the problem wasn't mine. But, still, I didn't like the way I felt. I had wanted to love this man unconditionally. Like Donna, he had been integral to my dream fulfillment. If somebody else had been leading astronaut interviews in October 1977, would I have made the cut? I doubted it. Just as a different wife would have meant a different life, I suspect a different chief of FCOD would have had a different criterion for astronaut selection, most likely one I wouldn't have met. I had wanted to render Abbey a lifetime of fealty. At our welcome to JSC in 1978 there had been no more loyal TFNG on that stage. But over the years, his Stalinist-like secrecy, his indifference to the fear that dominated the astronaut office, his unfairness to the air force pilots, his gross inequities in flight a.s.signments, and his abysmal lack of communication had drained my allegiance completely.

As the office celebration continued, one astronaut commented, "Until someone drives a wooden stake through his heart, I won't believe he's really gone." The comment proved prophetic. Abbey's JSC days weren't over by a long shot. He used his time at HQ to ally himself with Dan Goldin, who, in 1992, would become NASA administrator. In 1996 Goldin appointed George director of Johnson s.p.a.ce Center, arguably the most powerful position within NASA. Ultimately, George got it all, proving what every TFNG had believed for so many years, that Abbey was unsurpa.s.sed in his ability to manipulate a byzantine organization like NASA's. It was a talent the CIA could have employed. If, during the darkest days of the Cold War, they had parachuted Abbey into Moscow's Red Square, naked, not knowing a word of Russian, and without a single kopeck in his hand, George still would have become a member of the Politburo within a year and Soviet premier within two. We could have ended the Cold War decades earlier.

On December 5, 1987, the astronaut office held a going-away party for Abbey at Pete's Cajun BBQ. It was billed "George Abbey Appreciation Night." About a third of the office were no-shows. Two astronauts told me they were boycotting the event. I suspected some of the other absentees were of a mind that they would rather fly a night TAL into Timbuktu than show any appreciation for George. I attended merely to celebrate the fact he was gone from our lives. There would be no weepy singing of "Auld Lang Syne"at this party. Mark Lee, cla.s.s of 1984, was the MC and did a terrific job, donning a buzz-cut wig to mimic Abbey. It was obvious Mark was of the opinion that George was forever powerless over astronauts, because his humor was "I'll-neversee-this-man-again" acidic. He made reference to Abbey's preferential treatment of the navy astronauts, of d.i.c.k Truly's suspected role in removing him from the FCOD position (d.i.c.k Truly and the new JSC director, Aaron Cohen, were both noticeably absent from the event), and of George's tendency to suffer episodes of narcolepsy when he didn't want to hear an opinion contrary to his. Then, to everybody's astonishment, Mark took off his wig and grew sentimental. "You can't have a boss for so many years and not be choked up about his departure." I couldn't believe it. Others around me held similarly incredulous looks.Choked up about George's departure? Only if one of Pete's Cajun rib bones got caught in my throat. But Mark continued his endearing comments, glibly flowing to a conclusion, "And for those of you who might be feeling a lump in the throat and getting all misty-eyed thinking about George leaving...just remember what an a.s.shole he can be!" Mark had flown well beyond the edge of the envelope. Everybody cheered and applauded. Abbey smirked. What was behind that smirk? I wondered. It could have been anything from Only if one of Pete's Cajun rib bones got caught in my throat. But Mark continued his endearing comments, glibly flowing to a conclusion, "And for those of you who might be feeling a lump in the throat and getting all misty-eyed thinking about George leaving...just remember what an a.s.shole he can be!" Mark had flown well beyond the edge of the envelope. Everybody cheered and applauded. Abbey smirked. What was behind that smirk? I wondered. It could have been anything fromI'm proud of these guys to toI'll get even with these traitorous d.i.c.kheads if it's the last thing I ever do.

Abbey was dead to me. The other significant man in my life, my father, would die unexpectedly in his sleep a few months later-February 10, 1988. He was sixty-six. He had lived exactly half his life with legs and half without. Only in the dim recesses of my mind, far back to my eighth and ninth years of life, could I see him standing next to me on rock-solid legs showing me how to turn into a fastball and lay down a bunt. Those memories were all but obliterated by the thirty-three years of images from his post-polio life. In those, I always see him in his wheelchair, as if the device were an organ of his living body. And in those scenes I see a man who stood taller than most of us will ever do on two good legs. My dad was my hero.

I chose to drive the eight hundred miles to Albuquerque for his funeral so I would have some quiet time for reflection before being plunged into the administrative details of his death. Two of my brothers lived in Albuquerque so my mom had plenty of help to deal with the situation, though I knew she wouldn't need it. Grief didn't stand a chance with my mom. Two days later, when I entered the house, she pulled me aside and said, "Mike, I loved your dad very much, but you won't see me cry. It's not in a Pettigrew to cry." And she didn't.

Like many children who experience the sudden loss of a father, I regretted all the things I hadn't said while he had been alive to hear them. I wished I had told him how much it had meant to me that he had stayed in our kid-games even after polio. My brothers and I would carry him to the mound and he would be our permanent pitcher in games of baseball. He would referee our driveway basketball games. He would play water polo with us, his shrunken legs trailing in his wake like two ribbons of flesh.

He had endowed me with an easy and spontaneous sense of humor and I wanted him back to hear me say, "Thanks, Dad." I could recall him sitting in his wheelchair, fully clothed, smoking his pipe and deciding it would be fun to go swimming. He bellowed, "Banzai," and raced his wheelchair straight into the pool. It sank to the bottom, where he sat for several seconds with his pipe still clamped in his teeth. My brothers and I laughed at his underwater pose. We begged him to do it again and, after hauling him and the wheelchair from the water, he did.

I wished for a chance to tell of the thrill I felt watching my rubber bandpowered gliders soaring across the desert. Dad had shown me how to build them and I could still see his hands, made huge and calloused from the use of his crutches and wheelchair, guiding mine in the sanding of the balsa-wood propeller spinner.

I wanted him back to tell how much it had mattered that he had kept me home from school to watch Alan Shepard ride his candle into s.p.a.ce. I wanted to tell him thanks for driving me to Kirtland AFB, where I watched the weather officer launch his radiosondes. Dad would then hurry me home so I could follow the helium balloon with my Sears telescope. I would hope against hope the instrument package hanging beneath it would parachute into my yard. Just the thought of touching something that had been in the stratosphere would turbo-boost my heart.

I remembered him buying me my first rocket-a plastic device powered by vinegar and baking soda. And then there were his gifts of Tinkertoys, chemistry sets, Erector Sets, a Heathkit crystal radio, and myConquest of s.p.a.ce book. I ached to tell him how all of those had empowered my dream. book. I ached to tell him how all of those had empowered my dream.

Dad's death unleashed long-dormant memories of the minutiae of my childhood. By itself each memory seemed inconsequential but connected together they revealed my pathway into s.p.a.ce. George Abbey may have selected me as an astronaut but my dad made me one.

Dressed in military uniform, with his medals and wings on his chest, Dad was laid to rest in the Veterans Cemetery in Santa Fe, New Mexico. A rifle salute was fired and the honor guard lifted the American flag from the casket, folded it, and presented it to my mother. "Taps" sounded as I came to attention and rendered a salute to the greatest man I have ever known. Tears finally came to my eyes. There are some things that will make even a Pettigrew cry.

Later, I would return to his grave and place the mission decals of STS-41D, STS-27, and STS-36 on the marker. Each patch had the name "Mullane" on it. They were Dad's missions, too.

Chapter 32.

Swine Flight.

STS-27 was a cla.s.sified DOD mission. I wouldn't be able to share much with Donna. I had entered the "black" world of the Cold War, where I would be taking trips to locations I couldn't discuss. I would study checklists in an underground vault. At parties Donna wouldn't be able to ask our contractors and support team about their work. She wouldn't even be able to ask in what city they worked. To complicate the spying efforts of Russian s.h.i.+ps, the launch date wouldn't be announced until twenty-four hours prior to the planned liftoff. That little detail would seriously complicate family travel arrangements. As Donna would later say, "It's like making plans for a wedding where the date is kept secret." The mission photography would be cla.s.sified. There would be no photos of me with my payload. When asked what the mission was about, I would have to borrow a line fromTop Gun : "If I told you, I'd have to kill you." (Four years after the mission some aspects of it were decla.s.sified. I can now say I used the robot arm to deploy a cla.s.sified satellite into s.p.a.ce. I am forbidden to describe the satellite or its intended function.) : "If I told you, I'd have to kill you." (Four years after the mission some aspects of it were decla.s.sified. I can now say I used the robot arm to deploy a cla.s.sified satellite into s.p.a.ce. I am forbidden to describe the satellite or its intended function.) I was thrilled with my crew. Hoot Gibson was a natural-born leader. He didn't micromanage as some commanders did. (One was known to reach completely across the c.o.c.kpit to make a switch change rather than allow the crewmember at that position to do it.) Hoot gave each of us our duties and set us free to be creative to get the job done. He was also a blood brother from Planet AD. The office secretaries quickly named STS-27 "Swine Flight," and gave each of us strap-on novelty pig snouts because of our animal "snorting" sounds whenever an attractive woman came within eyeshot (as in, "I'd like to snort her flanks").

Guy Gardner, Jerry Ross, and I had trained together on the canceled STS-62A mission so we were already teamed. Rookie Bill "Shep" Shepherd was a soft-spoken, powerfully built Navy SEAL who specialized in underwater demolition. Like Hoot and I, Bill was from Planet AD. He was also a bachelor astronaut, which meant he had achieved a higher state of earthly rapture than the Dalai Lama.

Everyone was excited to be doing something warriorlike on the mission, instead of commercial or scientific. It felt good to don a military uniform again and pose for our crew photo. We were going to stick it to the G.o.dless commies in s.p.a.ce. There were no press releases on our mission preparations. The air force wanted us to remain as invisible as possible, which proved easy to do. Rick Hauck's STS-26 mission, aka "The Return to Flight Mission," was so hyped by NASA that it provided a very dark shadow in which we could hide. But the overarching importance attached to STS-26 grated on us and the rest of the astronaut office. We felt Rick and his crew were wearing their fame too conspicuously, which was a grievous violation of astronaut commandment number two, "Thou shalt not glory in public adoration." While the press marveled that anyone could be so brave as to fly on the first mission afterChallenger, every astronaut knew it would be the safest s.p.a.ce mission ever flown. Not only had the SRBs been completely redesigned and retested, but every shuttle system had been put under a microscope, and appropriate changes had been made. Also, the STS-26 mission objective was relatively trivial, the release of a TDRS communications satellite, something that had been done several times in the past. Hoot called it "The Quiche Mission." Another AD pilot observed, "We even let the girls release TDRSes." But it was obvious the STS-26 crew thought their mission was the most important s.p.a.ceflight since Angel Gabriel flew to the Virgin Mary. We all wearied of listening to their Monday morning pontifications on the criticality of STS-26 issues. When the limits of forbearance were finally exceeded, the glorious "Return to Flight" crew became a target of satire for the invisible "Swine Flight" crew. every astronaut knew it would be the safest s.p.a.ce mission ever flown. Not only had the SRBs been completely redesigned and retested, but every shuttle system had been put under a microscope, and appropriate changes had been made. Also, the STS-26 mission objective was relatively trivial, the release of a TDRS communications satellite, something that had been done several times in the past. Hoot called it "The Quiche Mission." Another AD pilot observed, "We even let the girls release TDRSes." But it was obvious the STS-26 crew thought their mission was the most important s.p.a.ceflight since Angel Gabriel flew to the Virgin Mary. We all wearied of listening to their Monday morning pontifications on the criticality of STS-26 issues. When the limits of forbearance were finally exceeded, the glorious "Return to Flight" crew became a target of satire for the invisible "Swine Flight" crew.

The first public act of rebellion occurred at an astronaut reunion party. Shep and I were sitting at a bar when the helium balloons anch.o.r.ed as table decorations caught our eye. We grabbed a brace of these, ripped the nozzles open, and inhaled the gas. With squeaky falsetto voices we wandered through the audience introducing ourselves to legendary astronauts from the Apollo program. "Hi, I'm Rick Hauck, commander of the STS-26 crew. Would you like my autograph?" Meanwhile Buzz Aldrin, Pete Conrad, and other celebrity astronauts looked at us with expressions reading, "The astronaut corps has sure gone to h.e.l.l." Again and again we would run back to the bar for a swallow of beer and a hit of helium, and then it was off to another moonwalker. During one of these refills Shep must have gotten some bad gas and experienced a flashback to some combat event. His eyes glazed over and he fell into a thousand-yard stare and then, without provocation, he grabbed the collars of my golf s.h.i.+rt and ripped it open. I glanced around to ensure there were no knives on the bar, then retaliated. I grabbed his s.h.i.+rt and ripped it apart. A handful of TFNGs gathered around to watch me die. The 145-pound weakling had just kicked sand in the face of a knife-skilled SEAL. Fortunately for me, Shep's post-traumatic stress pa.s.sed quickly and he merely laughed at the tatters of his s.h.i.+rt. We drained our beers, took another helium hit, and headed back into the audience. I found Jim Lovell and in a Donald Duck voice repeated my lie, "Hi, I'm Rick Hauck, commander of the STS-26 crew. Would you like my autograph?" Lovell looked at me as if I were a derelict.

Swine Flight's most outrageous a.s.sault on the sanct.i.ty of the STS-26 mission came after a fund-raiser for aChallenger -related charity. This was a black-tie affair and most astronauts and spouses were present. The venue was the downtown Houston performing arts center, the Wortham Center, and hundreds of local dignitaries and their spouses were in attendance. As the program drew to a close, the master of ceremonies brought a young girl on the stage to sing Lee Greenwood's popular song, "I'm Proud to Be an American." As she was belting out this arrangement at 150 decibels, the MC screamed into his microphone, "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the crew of STS-26, the Return to Flight Mission!" At this cue the orchestra pit platform began a slow rise. Artificial smoke swirled about it and spotlights flashed through the vapor. And there, to the astonishment of every astronaut, were Rick Hauck and d.i.c.k Covey. They stood like carvings on Mount Rushmore: chins jutted out, chests puffed up, arms rigidly at their sides, steely eyes straight ahead. The public crowd around us went wild with their cheers and applause. You would have thought the platform bore Jesus Christ, Himself. Meanwhile every astronaut and spouse wanted to vomit. Shep looked at me and made a finger-in-the-mouth gagging pantomime. -related charity. This was a black-tie affair and most astronauts and spouses were present. The venue was the downtown Houston performing arts center, the Wortham Center, and hundreds of local dignitaries and their spouses were in attendance. As the program drew to a close, the master of ceremonies brought a young girl on the stage to sing Lee Greenwood's popular song, "I'm Proud to Be an American." As she was belting out this arrangement at 150 decibels, the MC screamed into his microphone, "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the crew of STS-26, the Return to Flight Mission!" At this cue the orchestra pit platform began a slow rise. Artificial smoke swirled about it and spotlights flashed through the vapor. And there, to the astonishment of every astronaut, were Rick Hauck and d.i.c.k Covey. They stood like carvings on Mount Rushmore: chins jutted out, chests puffed up, arms rigidly at their sides, steely eyes straight ahead. The public crowd around us went wild with their cheers and applause. You would have thought the platform bore Jesus Christ, Himself. Meanwhile every astronaut and spouse wanted to vomit. Shep looked at me and made a finger-in-the-mouth gagging pantomime.What next, we wondered- we wondered-the STS-26 crew driving to the launchpad in a convoy of pope mobiles, each man waving clinched hands over his head in self-congratulations?It was too much.

The very next evening our crew had a party during which, no surprise, the favorite topic of conversation was Rick Hauck's ascension into heaven. Shep plotted a "let's get 'em" mission with the same intense focus a SEAL might plot to blow up an enemy fortification. Early Monday morning he and I smuggled two fire extinguishers into the astronaut conference room. We wrapped them in our jackets and placed them directly behind Hoot Gibson's and Guy Gardner's seats. Jerry Ross brought a tape player loaded with Lee Greenwood's "I'm Proud to Be an American." Hoot and Guy secreted black bow-ties in their pockets.

After Rick covered his STS-26 issues, Brandenstein asked Hoot if he had any STS-27 items to discuss. That was Jerry Ross's cue to trigger Greenwood's tune. Shep and I fired off the fire extinguishers for the smoke effect and Hoot and Guy clipped on their ties and slowly rose from their chairs in a mimic of Hauck's and Covey's rise from the Wortham Center orchestra pit. The conference room exploded in laughter. There was thunderous applause. I looked at Rick. He had a smile on his face but his flexing jaw muscles said more about what he was really feeling. He had just been lampooned and was dying to issue a reb.u.t.tal, but he knew he couldn't. To do so would be a violation of astronaut commandant number three, "Thou shalt not show a weakness." A three-legged gazelle limping across the Serengeti would survive longer than an astronaut exhibiting a wounded ego among his peers.

As our STS-27 training progressed we were introduced to a new shuttle design feature, a bailout system. It wasn't what we had hoped. The best design would have had the entire c.o.c.kpit being blasted away to parachute into the water. But this option would have required a complete redesign of the orbiter and there was insufficient money for that. Our second preference had been ejection seats. The shuttle was originally designed to include two of these for the two astronauts flying the first test flights. But two ejection seats were all that would fit in the upstairs c.o.c.kpit and none could be added to the mid-deck. While it would have been relatively easy to reinstall the two upstairs seats, such a modification was also rejected. No mission specialist was going to climb aboard a shuttle in which the two pilots had the only escape capability.

With the elimination of a c.o.c.kpit pod and ejection seats as potential escape systems, the engineers gave us the only thing they could give us, a backpack parachute. We would jump out the side hatch just like B-17 crewmembers did in WWII. Good freakin' luck! We'd be juiced against the wing like a gra.s.shopper on an automobile winds.h.i.+eld. But the engineers had a solution to get us clear of the wing-tractor rockets. A bundle of small rockets would be installed in the c.o.c.kpit above the side hatch. After blowing the hatch, astronauts would lie on their backs on a table in the hatchway, attach their harness to a rocket, and then pull a lanyard, which would fire a mortar, hurling the rocket outward. A cable connecting the rocket to the astronaut would unreel for twenty or so feet before the rocket would ignite and then jerk the astronaut by the scruff of the collar out of the hatch and clear of the wing. When astronauts saw movies of this system being tested with anthropomorphic dummies there was grim laughter. It looked like something Wiley Coyote had ordered from Acme Rocket Company to catch that speedy Roadrunner. Fortunately, a more practical design was adopted from a suggestion by flight surgeon Joe Boyce-a slide pole. A banana-shaped, telescoping pole was installed on the ceiling of the mid-deck c.o.c.kpit. After blowing the hatch, astronauts would throw a handle that would release springs to slam the pole outward and downward. Astronauts would then clip their harnesses to rings on the pole and slide out. When they came free of the pole, they would be underneath the wing. But even this design was a joke. The very reason ejection seats were invented was because aircraft crewmembers were being pinned inside c.o.c.kpits by wind pressures and the G-forces of an out-of-control craft. Ejection seats overcame these forces by blasting the crewmembers out of the c.o.c.kpit. The idea of getting out of an upstairs shuttle seat wearing nearly ninety pounds of equipment and enc.u.mbered by an iron-hard pressurized Launch-Entry Suit (LES), then climbing down the narrow interdeck ladder and making it to the side hatch while the shuttle was in powered flight and/or tumbling out of control (the two most common conditions of aircraft ejections) was a fantasy. The only scenario in which a backpack parachute would save a crewmember would be in controlled, gliding flight at subsonic velocities, and below 50,000-feet alt.i.tude. It was difficult for astronauts to imagine a failure that would put us in those conditions. Astronauts were still living with the consequences of anoperational shuttle design. shuttle design.*

Many of us placed the slide-pole bailout procedures in the same category as the pre-Challengercontingency-abort procedures-busywork while dying. But we all completed the training. A mock-up of the side hatch and pole were installed on a platform over the WETF pool, and we practiced sliding down the pole to smack into the water.

While most of my time was spent in STS-27 cla.s.sified training, I was occasionally required to perform other short-term duties. One proved enlightening. Pinky Nelson and I were given the task of polling the spouses for suggestions regarding the family escort policy. One wife responded that she wanted to sleep with her husband on the night before launch. Pinky and I short-stopped that recommendation. We could not imagine any astronaut wanting to be with their spouse in those hours. I certainly didn't want Donna in my bed. The beach house good-bye was agony enough-I couldn't imagine enduring an all-night good-bye. If the wife making the recommendation was alluding to having prelaunch s.e.x, then her husband was a better man than me. Even a doughnut-size v.i.a.g.r.a pill wouldn't help me at T-12 hours.

Many of the wives were extremely critical of what had happened to theChallenger spouses after the disaster. June Scobee and the other widows had been held at KSC so Vice President Bush could fly down and meet them. The wives were of one voice-in the event of a disaster they wanted to immediately return to Houston with their children. Screw the politicians. Pinky and I couldn't have agreed more and said so in our recommendations. spouses after the disaster. June Scobee and the other widows had been held at KSC so Vice President Bush could fly down and meet them. The wives were of one voice-in the event of a disaster they wanted to immediately return to Houston with their children. Screw the politicians. Pinky and I couldn't have agreed more and said so in our recommendations.

The spouses also complained that the part-timer politicians and Abbey's "buddies" were exempt from the rules; for example, the number of family guests allowed on the NASA buses. One wife wrote, "Senator Garn had no problem getting anybody he wanted to attend any of the dinners, ride on the family buses, etc." It was just another example of how NASA management had allowed the politicians to have their way with us. We recommended there be no exceptions to family escort policy for any crewmembers regardless of their pedigree. Theoretically this recommendation was irrelevant sinceChallenger had ended the pa.s.senger program. But neither Pinky nor I believed NASA HQ would ever say no to any politician who still wanted to fly (and we were proven right when, years later, Senator Glenn asked for a flight). had ended the pa.s.senger program. But neither Pinky nor I believed NASA HQ would ever say no to any politician who still wanted to fly (and we were proven right when, years later, Senator Glenn asked for a flight).

Another major source of irritation was the fact that wives could fly to the launch aboard NASA's Gulfstream jets at government expense, but their children could not. Since NASA required the spousesand children to be on the LCC roof for the launch, many of the wives felt Uncle Sam should pick up the transportation tab for the children, too. They also wanted their lodging needs handled by NASA. In prime tourist seasons and around holidays-where no-vacancy signs were the rule-a mission slip could make reservation extensions problematic and a terrible additional strain on the family. The spouses wanted NASA to take on that burden. Pinky and I agreed and added that to the recommendations. children to be on the LCC roof for the launch, many of the wives felt Uncle Sam should pick up the transportation tab for the children, too. They also wanted their lodging needs handled by NASA. In prime tourist seasons and around holidays-where no-vacancy signs were the rule-a mission slip could make reservation extensions problematic and a terrible additional strain on the family. The spouses wanted NASA to take on that burden. Pinky and I agreed and added that to the recommendations.

These modifications to the family escort policy were adopted and, beginning with STS-26, NASA transported crew children to KSC via its Gulfstream jets. The agency also a.s.sumed control over all lodging issues. As for any wife who wanted to have KSC s.e.x with her husband, she would just have to be satisfied with a quickie at the beach house or behind closed doors during a visit to the crew quarters. And she better not be a screamer-the rooms weren't that soundproof.

As the summer of 1988 was drawing to a close, John Denver came to the astronaut office to brief us on his plans to fly with the Soviets. BeforeChallenger, we had frequently heard Denver's name mentioned as a potential partic.i.p.ant in NASA's pa.s.senger program. That program had been terminated by the disaster, so now the singer was pursuing a trip into s.p.a.ce via a Russian rocket. On a visit to Houston, he made contact with JSC and was invited to the astronaut office to discuss his mission plans. He received a chilly reception. Most military astronauts harbored a severe dislike for all things a.s.sociated with the commies. Russian bullets had been aimed at our planes in Vietnam. Our friends had been killed or imprisoned by their surrogates, the North Vietnamese. The idea that anybody would cozy up with those a.s.sholes for any purpose was an outrage to many of us. Denver was peppered with criticism. One Vietnam vet told him that his Russian plans "sucked." Denver argued that he wasn't being any more cooperative with the Russians than others in the past had been. "Like Jane Fonda" came a rejoinder from the back. Several astronauts applauded at that. Denver continued to defend himself, explaining that he had always been a big supporter of the s.p.a.ce program and it had been a lifetime dream to fly in s.p.a.ce. In fact, he said, "I was the one who first suggested to NASA they have a pa.s.senger program on the shuttle." That comment didn't win him any friends-many in the office were still silver-pinned astronauts because of the pa.s.senger program and the seats into s.p.a.ce it had consumed. New tracers of criticism shot his way. One astronaut made the observation that when Denver returned from his mission, the press and public would elevate him to the status of "expert" on the s.p.a.ce program just because of his celebrity. He would end up on every blue ribbon panel and s.p.a.ce policy committee for the next decade, while the real experts, astronauts and others at NASA, would be forgotten. The meeting definitely didn't give Denver a Rocky Mountain High. He later dropped his Russian flight plans because of the cost, rumored to be $20 million...or maybe he was afraid of what an astronaut would do to him if he made the trip. we had frequently heard Denver's name mentioned as a potential partic.i.p.ant in NASA's pa.s.senger program. That program had been terminated by the disaster, so now the singer was pursuing a trip into s.p.a.ce via a Russian rocket. On a visit to Houston, he made contact with JSC and was invited to the astronaut office to discuss his mission plans. He received a chilly reception. Most military astronauts harbored a severe dislike for all things a.s.sociated with the commies. Russian bullets had been aimed at our planes in Vietnam. Our friends had been killed or imprisoned by their surrogates, the North Vietnamese. The idea that anybody would cozy up with those a.s.sholes for any purpose was an outrage to many of us. Denver was peppered with criticism. One Vietnam vet told him that his Russian plans "sucked." Denver argued that he wasn't being any more cooperative with the Russians than others in the past had been. "Like Jane Fonda" came a rejoinder from the back. Several astronauts applauded at that. Denver continued to defend himself, explaining that he had always been a big supporter of the s.p.a.ce program and it had been a lifetime dream to fly in s.p.a.ce. In fact, he said, "I was the one who first suggested to NASA they have a pa.s.senger program on the shuttle." That comment didn't win him any friends-many in the office were still silver-pinned astronauts because of the pa.s.senger program and the seats into s.p.a.ce it had consumed. New tracers of criticism shot his way. One astronaut made the observation that when Denver returned from his mission, the press and public would elevate him to the status of "expert" on the s.p.a.ce program just because of his celebrity. He would end up on every blue ribbon panel and s.p.a.ce policy committee for the next decade, while the real experts, astronauts and others at NASA, would be forgotten. The meeting definitely didn't give Denver a Rocky Mountain High. He later dropped his Russian flight plans because of the cost, rumored to be $20 million...or maybe he was afraid of what an astronaut would do to him if he made the trip.

On September 29, 1988, STS-26 put America back in s.p.a.ce. Four days laterDiscovery streaked out of the Pacific sky to touch down at Edwards AFB. The mission was virtually flawless. At Rick Hauck's call, "Wheel stop," I was once again part of a Prime Crew. With the t.i.tle came a reserved parking place, euphoric joy, and intestine-knotting fear. streaked out of the Pacific sky to touch down at Edwards AFB. The mission was virtually flawless. At Rick Hauck's call, "Wheel stop," I was once again part of a Prime Crew. With the t.i.tle came a reserved parking place, euphoric joy, and intestine-knotting fear.

*Some astronauts believe even the backpack parachute arrangement might have enabledChallenger 's downstairs crewmembers to escape. However, there probably wouldn't have been enough time for the upstairs crewmembers to make it out. 's downstairs crewmembers to escape. However, there probably wouldn't have been enough time for the upstairs crewmembers to make it out.

Chapter 33.

Cla.s.sified Work.

December 2, 1988, found me and the rest of the STS-27 crew strapped intoAtlantis waiting out a weather delay at T-31 seconds. We had already scrubbed the day before due to out-of-limits high-alt.i.tude winds. With the potential of a second scrub hanging over us, the mood in the c.o.c.kpit was gloomy. I was beginning to think I was cursed. This was my sixth launchpad wait for only a second mission. The problem today was the weather at our transatlantic abort sites in Africa. They were below minimums. The launch director was on the phone with the astronaut observer in Morocco. With the APUs running, a decision had to be made quickly. waiting out a weather delay at T-31 seconds. We had already scrubbed the day before due to out-of-limits high-alt.i.tude winds. With the potential of a second scrub hanging over us, the mood in the c.o.c.kpit was gloomy. I was beginning to think I was cursed. This was my sixth launchpad wait for only a second mission. The problem today was the weather at our transatlantic abort sites in Africa. They were below minimums. The launch director was on the phone with the astronaut observer in Morocco. With the APUs running, a decision had to be made quickly.

I heard the range safety officer speaking on the LCC voice net and used the opportunity to joke, "The RSO's mother goes down like a Muslim at noon." (The termgoing down was from Planet AD and referred to an act of oral s.e.x.) I didn't worry about the RSO hearing me. He didn't have access to our intercom. was from Planet AD and referred to an act of oral s.e.x.) I didn't worry about the RSO hearing me. He didn't have access to our intercom.

The crew cringed...and laughed. I was slandering the mother of the man who was just two switches away from killing us. Hoot shouted, "Mullane, don't joke about the RSO's mother! Pick on the pope's mother. h.e.l.l, pick onChrist's mother. Anybody but the RSO's mother!" mother. Anybody but the RSO's mother!"

The laughter faded and the intercom fell quiet. I thought of Donna on the roof of the LCC. I knew the delay was killing her. Every wife-mother said the same thing:Watching a husband being launched into s.p.a.ce is like being in a never-ending difficult childbirth...without any pain medication. My mom certainly thought so. She greeted me after my first mission with a sign reading, "September 10, 1945 was easier." My mom certainly thought so. She greeted me after my first mission with a sign reading, "September 10, 1945 was easier."

My fear was "off-scale high," an astronaut expression meaning the needle of a c.o.c.kpit instrument had soared past the highest reading and had pegged itself against a physical stop. The fear wasn't any greater than it had been on my first launch.Challenger had changed nothing in that regard-I had known before STS-51L that flying the shuttle could kill me, and I knew this flight could kill me. On the drive to the pad I had pa.s.sed the same rescue vehicles I had pa.s.sed on my way to had changed nothing in that regard-I had known before STS-51L that flying the shuttle could kill me, and I knew this flight could kill me. On the drive to the pad I had pa.s.sed the same rescue vehicles I had pa.s.sed on my way toDiscovery and had, again, thought of the body bags they certainly contained. I thought of the full-mouth dental photos and clip of hair and the footprint the flight surgeon had archived in Houston. In another ten minutes would somebody be pulling those from my medical file to send to a Florida pathologist? If it was to be so, I prayed I would be brave in whatever form of death and had, again, thought of the body bags they certainly contained. I thought of the full-mouth dental photos and clip of hair and the footprint the flight surgeon had archived in Houston. In another ten minutes would somebody be pulling those from my medical file to send to a Florida pathologist? If it was to be so, I prayed I would be brave in whatever form of deathAtlantis might serve me. might serve me.Challenger had convinced me there would be no merciful, instantaneous deaths granted to any shuttle crews. The c.o.c.kpit was a fortress; at least it was a fortress until it slammed into Earth. If it had kept the crew alive through had convinced me there would be no merciful, instantaneous deaths granted to any shuttle crews. The c.o.c.kpit was a fortress; at least it was a fortress until it slammed into Earth. If it had kept the crew alive throughChallenger 's destruction, it would keep me alive through any breakup of 's destruction, it would keep me alive through any breakup ofAtlantis. The shuttle engineers had done what engineers always do...built their machine to spec and then added their own margins. The seat I was strapped to would survive twice the number of Gs my body could withstand. The windows (each The shuttle engineers had done what engineers always do...built their machine to spec and then added their own margins. The seat I was strapped to would survive twice the number of Gs my body could withstand. The windows (eachtriple -paned) and the walls around me would remain intact until the Earth crushed them. I was strapped into a fortress that would keep me alive long enough to watch Death's approach. If fire was to kill me, I would have time to watch the flames. If a multimile fall was to kill me, I would watch the Earth rus.h.i.+ng into my face. Even a c.o.c.kpit decompression would no longer mercifully grant us unconsciousness, as it might have spared the -paned) and the walls around me would remain intact until the Earth crushed them. I was strapped into a fortress that would keep me alive long enough to watch Death's approach. If fire was to kill me, I would have time to watch the flames. If a multimile fall was to kill me, I would watch the Earth rus.h.i.+ng into my face. Even a c.o.c.kpit decompression would no longer mercifully grant us unconsciousness, as it might have spared theChallenger crew. We now wore full-pressure suits that would keep us alive and conscious through any c.o.c.kpit rupture. crew. We now wore full-pressure suits that would keep us alive and conscious through any c.o.c.kpit rupture.

As I stared at the countdown clock, still frozen at T-31 seconds, my prayers covered a spectrum of needs.Please, G.o.d, let the TAL weather clear so we can launch...Please, G.o.d, let us have a safe flight...Please, G.o.d, don't let me screw up...Please, G.o.d, if I'm to die, let me die fighting, joking, helping the CDR and PLT with a checklist, reaching for a switch. Please, G.o.d, let me die as Judy and the others died...as working, functioning astronauts to the very end.

Since I had first heard Jim Bagian and Sonny Carter reveal that Mike Smith's PEAP had been turned on by Judy or El, I wondered if I would have had the presence of mind to do the same thing had I been inChallenger 's c.o.c.kpit. Or would I have been locked in a catatonic paralysis of fear? There had been nothing in our training concerning the activation of a PEAP in the event of an in-flight emergency. The fact that Judy or El had done so for Mike Smith made them heroic in my mind. They had been able to block out the terrifying sights and sounds and motions of 's c.o.c.kpit. Or would I have been locked in a catatonic paralysis of fear? There had been nothing in our training concerning the activation of a PEAP in the event of an in-flight emergency. The fact that Judy or El had done so for Mike Smith made them heroic in my mind. They had been able to block out the terrifying sights and sounds and motions ofChallenger 's destruction and had reached for that switch. It was the type of thing a true astronaut would do-maintain their cool in the direst of circ.u.mstances. "Better dead than look bad." My greatest fear was that I would fail if I was ever faced with a similar disaster, that I would die as a blubbering, whimpering, useless coward, an embarra.s.sment to my fellow crewmembers and, worst of all, it would all be captured on the voice recorder to be played in a Monday morning meeting. 's destruction and had reached for that switch. It was the type of thing a true astronaut would do-maintain their cool in the direst of circ.u.mstances. "Better dead than look bad." My greatest fear was that I would fail if I was ever faced with a similar disaster, that I would die as a blubbering, whimpering, useless coward, an embarra.s.sment to my fellow crewmembers and, worst of all, it would all be captured on the voice recorder to be played in a Monday morning meeting.

The launch director's voice put a stop to my depressing thoughts and pleading prayers. "Atlantis,the TAL weather is acceptable. We'll be picking up the count." There were audible sighs of relief on the intercom. Now...if onlyAtlantis would cooperate and keep humming along without a problem. would cooperate and keep humming along without a problem.

There was a short count by the LCC and the clock was released.

"Thirty seconds."

Hoot reminded everybody to stay on the instruments. An unnecessary order. If a naked Wonder Woman had suddenly appeared in our midst, n.o.body would have been able to pull their eyes from the displays. Well...maybe I would have taken a quick peek.

"Ten seconds. Go for main engine start." I wondered how many times I would have to do this before I could do it with a heart rate below 350 beats per minute.

The engine manifold pressures shot up. Fuel was on the way to the pumps.

Engine start. The now familiar vibrations of more than a million pounds of tethered thrust rattled me. I watched shadows move across the c.o.c.kpit asAtlantis rebounded from the start impulse. When she was once again vertical, the SRB and hold-down bolt fire commands were issued. Seven million pounds of thrust rammed me into my seat. I was on my way into s.p.a.ce for a second time. rebounded from the start impulse. When she was once again vertical, the SRB and hold-down bolt fire commands were issued. Seven million pounds of thrust rammed me into my seat. I was on my way into s.p.a.ce for a second time.

"Pa.s.sing 8,500 feet, Mach 1.5."

We came out of the other side of max-q and the vibrations noticeably lessened.

"Atlantis,you are go at throttle up."

"Roger, Houston, go at throttle up." At Hoot's call, I knew everybody was thinking the same thought. Those had been the last words heard fromChallenger.

"Ninety thousand feet, Mach 3.2." Hoot gave the markers.

"P-C less than 50." The SRBs were done. A flash-bang signaled their separation and we all cheered. Someone added, "Good riddance." We wouldn't know it until we were in s.p.a.ce but the right SRB had already placed us in mortal danger...not because of an O-ring failure but because the very tip of its nose cone had broken off and hitAtlantis. The number-three SSME was also running sick, a fact we wouldn't learn until after the mission. The inner-bearing race on its oxidizer turbo-pump had cracked. We were blissfully unaware of these two threats to our lives. The c.o.c.kpit instruments were all in the green. The number-three SSME was also running sick, a fact we wouldn't learn until after the mission. The inner-bearing race on its oxidizer turbo-pump had cracked. We were blissfully unaware of these two threats to our lives. The c.o.c.kpit instruments were all in the green.

The rest of the ride continued smoothly. The sky faded to black while the flare of the sun painted the c.o.c.kpit. We listened to the cadence of the abort boundary calls. With each call, we breathed a little easier.

"Here it comes, rookies...40...45...50 miles. Congratulations, Guy and Shep. You're now astronauts." They cheered and the rest of us added our own congratulations. I thought again of the ridiculousness of the fifty-mile alt.i.tude requirement. Guy and Shep had earned their wings as we all had...at the instant the hold-down bolts had blown.

Hoot's calls continued. "Sixty-one miles, Mach 16...a little over 2-Gs." We were paralleling the East Coast of America. No doubtAtlantis was generating some UFO reports. Even though the sun was up, the blue-white flare of our SSMEs would be visible all the way to Boston. We were steering for an orbit-tilted 57 degrees to the equator. Until launch that fact had been cla.s.sified. But it was impossible to hide our orbit parameters after liftoff. Russian spy s.h.i.+ps were most likely already sending our trajectory data to Moscow and their downrange radars would be picking us up as we came over their horizons. was generating some UFO reports. Even though the sun was up, the blue-white flare of our SSMEs would be visible all the way to Boston. We were steering for an orbit-tilted 57 degrees to the equator. Until launch that fact had been cla.s.sified. But it was impossible to hide our orbit parameters after liftoff. Russian spy s.h.i.+ps were most likely already sending our trajectory data to Moscow and their downrange radars would be picking us up as we came over their horizons.

"Twenty thousand feet per second and 3-Gs." Under the G-load Hoot's call was grunted.

"The engines are throttling." Guy watched his power tapes slowly drop toward 65 percent of maximum thrust to keepAtlantis at 3-Gs until MECO. If the engines failed to throttle, Guy was prepared to shut one of them off to prevent at 3-Gs until MECO. If the engines failed to throttle, Guy was prepared to shut one of them off to preventAtlantis from overstressing herself under higher G-loads. At this point she was nearly parallel to the Earth, running to the northeast with an almost empty gas tank, rapidly adding velocity. "Twenty-two thousand feet per second...23...24...25...here it comes...MECO." At slightly faster than 25,000 feet per second, about eight times faster than a rifle bullet, from overstressing herself under higher G-loads. At this point she was nearly parallel to the Earth, running to the northeast with an almost empty gas tank, rapidly adding velocity. "Twenty-two thousand feet per second...23...24...25...here it comes...MECO." At slightly faster than 25,000 feet per second, about eight times faster than a rifle bullet,Atlantis 's computers commanded the SSMEs off. There was the 's computers commanded the SSMEs off. There was thethunk of ET separation, the of ET separation, theboom of the forward RCS jets to get us clear of the tank, the noiseless squeeze of the OMS burn, and then we were in orbit. I started breathing again. of the forward RCS jets to get us clear of the tank, the noiseless squeeze of the OMS burn, and then we were in orbit. I started breathing again.

My stomach was flip-flopping like a hooked trout. It wasn't s.p.a.ce sickness-I was still spared that malady. Rather, it was showtime jitters. It was time for me to deliver on the millions of dollars of training NASA and the air force had invested in me during the past year. I was to operate the robot arm to deploy our satellite payload.

Hoot and I faced aft toward the cargo bay, he at the starboard-side window with the orbiter controls at hand, I at the port side with the RMS controls. Our feet were jammed under canvas foot loops, anchoring our bodies so our hands would be free to grasp controls. Many science-fiction writers had a.s.sumed astronauts would wear magnetic or Velcro or suction-cup shoes to keep them anch.o.r.ed while working. The reality was much less sophisticated, just loops of canvas duct-taped to the steel floor in front of the control panels.

I opened the locks that held the RMS to the port sill of the cargo bay, prayed the astronaut's prayer one more time, "Please, G.o.d, don't let me screw up," then grabbed the Rotational (RHC) and Translational Hand Controllers (THC) used to "fly" the robot arm. For once, the incredible beauty of the Earth pa.s.sed unseen beneath me. I had eyes only for the payload,Atlantis, and the robot arm. I focused on each one with the intensity of a doctor doing open-heart surgery. I steered the end of the arm over the payload grapple fixture and fired the snare, which rigidly latched the payload to the arm. Jerry Ross then released the cargo latches. My eyes now moved in a constant scan between the out-the-window view and the views on two c.o.c.kpit TV screens. There were cameras in each corner of the cargo bay as well as cameras at the end of the robot arm and at its elbow joint. At any time I could select the view of two of these six cameras to better determine the proximity of the satellite to and the robot arm. I focused on each one with the intensity of a doctor doing open-heart surgery. I steered the end of the arm over the payload grapple fixture and fired the snare, which rigidly latched the payload to the arm. Jerry Ross then released the cargo latches. My eyes now moved in a constant scan between the out-the-window view and the views on two c.o.c.kpit TV screens. There were cameras in each corner of the cargo bay as well as cameras at the end of the robot arm and at its elbow joint. At any time I could select the view of two of these six cameras to better determine the proximity of the satellite toAtlantis 's structure. I also had Shep in the airlock watching from its outer-hatch porthole and Jerry watching the TV views over my shoulder, both men ready to scream, "STOP!" if contact looked imminent. The tolerances were exceedingly tight and I finessed the controls with the deliberation of a soldier probing the dirt for a b.o.o.by trap. The payload, like all satellites, was as delicately constructed as fine crystal. Any mistake that caused a satellite-to- 's structure. I also had Shep in the airlock watching from its outer-hatch porthole and Jerry watching the TV views over my shoulder, both men ready to scream, "STOP!" if contact looked imminent. The tolerances were exceedingly tight and I finessed the controls with the deliberation of a soldier probing the dirt for a b.o.o.by trap. The payload, like all satellites, was as delicately constructed as fine crystal. Any mistake that caused a satellite-to-Atlantisimpact could damage a critical component and turn the object into a billion-dollar piece of s.p.a.ce junk and win me an open-ended a.s.signment to Thule, Greenland, where I would get to hone new skills as a urinal scrubber. An impact could also foul the payload bay-door closing system, a mistake that could kill us. Needless to say, the other members of the crew were as focused as I was.

All went well. The Canadian-built arm handled like a dream. Within an hour I had lifted the payload clear of the cargo bay and had flown it to its release att.i.tude. I called to Hoot, "We're there." He was all smiles and I knew that the rest of the payload team watching from the ground was wearing the same smiles. I had delivered for them. No Super Bowlwinning quarterback has ever felt more satisfied.

Hoot double-checked that his...o...b..ter hand controllers were on and got a "Go for payload release" from MCC. On his cue I squeezed the grapple release trigger and pulled the arm off the payload. The satellite was now flying free in a 17,300-mile-per hour formation withAtlantis. Hoot quickly executed the fly-away maneuvers and we watched the satellite slowly recede in the distance until it was the brightest star in our windows. I parked the robot arm in its cradle thinking this would be the last time in the mission it would be needed. I would be wrong. Hoot quickly executed the fly-away maneuvers and we watched the satellite slowly recede in the distance until it was the brightest star in our windows. I parked the robot arm in its cradle thinking this would be the last time in the mission it would be needed. I would be wrong.

Time to celebrate. For all intents and purposes our mission was over. As...o...b..ting astronauts were p.r.o.ne to say, "It's all downhill from here." We raided our pantry, ignoring the dehydrated broccoli the NASA dietician had included to grab some M&M candies and b.u.t.ter cookies. Soon a baseball game was in full swing. I would pitch an M&M to Guy and he would bat it across the mid-deck with a locker tool. Jerry and I would then field it with our mouths. (Astronauts never play with their food like this while other crewmembers are vomiting.) Hoot filmed the fun, something NASA was not going to be happy about. HQ had relayed to the astronaut office their growing displeasure with astronauts filming their weightless games. It was all the press would show and they felt it trivialized our missions. The press had ignored video of the STS-26 crew deploying their quarter-billion-dollar TDRS satellite and instead showed them dressed in Hawaiian s.h.i.+rts engaging in 0-G surfing.

Hoot next liberated a football from a locker. NASA was going to be honored during the January Super Bowl halftime show and HQ wanted a s.p.a.ce-flown football to give to NFL Commissioner Pete Rozelle. The ball had been deflated to save s.p.a.ce, but using a food rehydration needle, Hoot was able to blow enough air into it to give it a useable shape and we paired up for a hilarious weightless football game. As with the baseball game, we filmed our Super Bowl. NASA HQ would have to cut us some slack. The cla.s.sified nature of our mission would prevent us from showing the public any of our payload activities. Our game films would be all that we could show.

We spent the rest of the day immersed in our Earth-observation experiment, taking photos for geologists, meteorologists, and oceanographers. For each of us, though, there was one very special Earth feature to photograph that wasn't on any of the scientists' lists...our hometowns. Even the other veterans on the flight, Jerry Ross and Hoot Gibson, had never seen their childhood homes from s.p.a.ce. The orbits of our earlier missions had been too close to the equator. ButAtlantis was crossing over all of America. was crossing over all of America.

Albuquerque was an easy target to locate. The dark, winter-dormant flora of the Rio Grande River Valley contrasted well with the adjoining deserts, and Albuquerque's western border was formed by that river. I needed only to spot a few other landmarks to know I was approaching the city. There were the snowcapped peaks of the Sandia Mountains to the east and solitary Mount Taylor to the west. As it came into view, the city itself was a gray patch filling the terrain between the river and the mountains. It was impossible to see individual houses or even neighborhoods, but I could approximate the location of my childhood home. No longer was it on the edge of the city but rather deep in suburbia. Like other Sun belt cities, Albuquerque had grown up. But my mom still lived in the same house and I could imagine the thrill she would have felt if she could have looked up to seeAtlantis pa.s.sing overhead. There was no chance of that, though. The sun was too high. pa.s.sing overhead. There was no chance of that, though. The sun was too high.

I snapped a few photos and then Velcroed the camera to the wall. This was another sacred moment in my life and I didn't want to be distracted with setting an f-stop. I was looking into the cradle of my astronaut dream. There was no other place on the planet that held more memories for me. Two hundred and forty miles below were the deserts from which I had launched my rockets. Here was the Rocky Mountain West that had excited my imagination with its infinite horizons. Here was the sky I had navigated in a Cessna while making plans to be a test pilot and astronaut. Here was the place G.o.d had steered Donna and me together. And, now, I was speeding over all of it in a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p.

Later we gathered around the window to watch the evening lights of Houston pa.s.s under us. The last rays of the setting sun were onAtlantis, so she would be visible as a bright star to anybody in the city who cared to look up. I wondered if someone had bothered to call our wives to tell them to watch for us. I would later learn that family escort Dave Leestma had. At the very moment I was staring downward, Donna was standing in an open field near our home and looking upward at our streaking star. After my return, she would tell me how the sight had overwhelmed her. "Mike, do you have any idea how amazing that was? so she would be visible as a bright star to anybody in the city who cared to look up. I wondered if someone had bothered to call our wives to tell them to watch for us. I would later learn that family escort Dave Leestma had. At the very moment I was staring downward, Donna was standing in an open field near our home and looking upward at our streaking star. After my return, she would tell me how the sight had overwhelmed her. "Mike, do you have any idea how amazing that was?You were in that point of light. I had to pinch myself to make certain I wasn't dreaming." I could appreciate her wonder. Every moment of orbit flight seemed like a dream to me, too. were in that point of light. I had to pinch myself to make certain I wasn't dreaming." I could appreciate her wonder. Every moment of orbit flight seemed like a dream to me, too.

Swine Flight went to bed without a care in the world...or off the world, for that matter. The dangers of ascent were behind us. We had already scored our mission success. Our only problem was a slow leak inAtlantis 's left inboard tire and that wasn't a big deal. MCC had noted it in their data and had directed us to program the autopilot to keep 's left inboard tire and that wasn't a big deal. MCC had noted it in their data and had directed us to program the autopilot to keepAtlantis 's belly pointed at the Sun. The heat was keeping the tire warm and its pressure up. We hoped the higher pressure would reseal the leak point. But, even if the tire went flat, we were scheduled to land on the Edwards AFB dry lakebed and would have its infinite runway to handle any type of steering problems after touchdown. 's belly pointed at the Sun. The heat was keeping the tire warm and its pressure up. We hoped the higher pressure would reseal the leak point. But, even if the tire went flat, we were scheduled to land on the Edwards AFB dry lakebed and would have its infinite runway to handle any type of steering problems after touchdown.

I fell asleep secure in the machine that surrounded me. This would be the last time on the mission any of us would feel safe.

Chapter 34.

"No reason to die all tensed up"

The call from MCC was disturbing. During a review of launch video, engineers at KSC had seen something break off the nose of the right-side SRB and strikeAtlantis . The concern was whether the object had damaged our heat s.h.i.+eld, a mosaic of thousands of silica tile, a design feature that earned the shuttle its nickname, "Gla.s.s Rocket." The CAPCOM asked if anybody had seen any strikes during ascent or had noted any damage looking out the windows. "No" was our collective answer, but we did have a tool that would extend our vision to the shuttle's belly-the camera at the tip of the robot arm. Within several hours MCC validated a heat-s.h.i.+eld survey procedure in the Houston sims and teleprintered it to me. I was going to get some unplanned arm time. . The concern was whether the object had damaged our heat s.h.i.+eld, a mosaic of thousands of silica tile, a design feature that earned the shuttle its nickname, "Gla.s.s Rocket." The CAPCOM asked if anybody had seen any strikes during ascent or had noted any damage looking out the windows. "No" was our collective answer, but we did have a tool that would extend our vision to the shuttle's belly-the camera at the tip of the robot arm. Within several hours MCC validated a heat-s.h.i.+eld survey procedure in the Houston sims and teleprintered it to me. I was going to get some unplanned arm time.

My heart was back in overdrive. Not only was I concerned about the possibility of heat-s.h.i.+eld damage, I was also worried about the arm maneuver I was about to perform. It would put the RMS in very close proximity to the inboard portions ofAtlantis 's right wing and fuselage, and I wouldn't win any friends if I caused damage while determining there had been none to begin with. 's right wing and fuselage, and I wouldn't win any friends if I caused damage while determining there had been none to b