Riding Rockets Part 5

Columbiawas less than a year from launch, and, when it flew, it would mark NASA's first manned s.p.a.ceflight in six years. That was a concern for the NASA safety office. A six-year hiatus in manned operations provided a fertile environment for complacency. In defense, the office sent astronauts to various factories and shuttle support facilities to refocus the workers. We wanted to put a face on manned s.p.a.ceflight, to reacquaint people with the deadly consequences of making a mistake on the job. Teams of astronauts were dispatched around the country and around the globe to give speeches, shake hands, and pa.s.s out NASA safety posters. We astronauts referred to these appearances as "widows and orphans" visits. While we never said, "Don't f.u.c.k up or you could kill us and make widows of our wives," that was exactly the message we hoped to impart by just standing there in our blue flight suits.

Steve Hawley and I were tapped to travel to Madrid, Spain, and the Seych.e.l.les Islands to deliver that message to the NASA and air force contingents who manned the shuttle tracking sites at those locations. NASA did not yet have its own communication relay satellites in orbit, so we depended upon an earth-girdling network of ground sites to communicate with orbiting astronauts. Other TFNGs were sent to Australia, England, Guam, Ascension Island, and the other overseas sites that completed this global tracking system.

To go to the Seych.e.l.les is to die and go to heaven. The nation is a collection of islands a thousand miles east of Africa just south of the equator in the bath-warm waters of the Indian Ocean. The beaches are white, the surf is turquoise, and both are filled with topless vacationing Scandinavian women. As if that isn't enough of a temptation, many of the local island women are beautiful manhunters. Their preferred quarry are American men, as they represent a means of escape to the land of the Big BX (the USA). At a party hosted by the tracking site commander, Hawley and I learned just how aggressive they could be. A young and exceptionally beautiful woman came to us and requested our autographs. "Sure, we'd be happy to sign something for you," I replied. I was expecting her to hand over one of the s.p.a.ce shuttle photos we had previously distributed but, instead, she pulled up her skirt, thrust a cheek of her a.s.s in my face, and asked me to sign her panties. I searched my memory but couldn't remember "a.s.s signing" being covered in our JSC training. I looked at Hawley and suggested, "To refuse could cause an international incident." We had been cautioned by the resident state department official not to alienate the locals, as the United States was in sensitive negotiations with the island's current Dictator for Life. Steve concurred: "It's our NASAduty to fulfill her request." That settled it. I turned my pen to the silky fabric, only to be struck by the limited real estate. Her pet.i.te posterior didn't give me a lot to work with. But astronauts love a challenge. In a font so tiny I could have penned the Declaration of Independence on a grain of rice, I leisurely inscribed on the side of her underwear, to fulfill her request." That settled it. I turned my pen to the silky fabric, only to be struck by the limited real estate. Her pet.i.te posterior didn't give me a lot to work with. But astronauts love a challenge. In a font so tiny I could have penned the Declaration of Independence on a grain of rice, I leisurely inscribed on the side of her underwear,Richard Michael Mullane, Major, United States Air Force, Astronaut, National Aeronautical and s.p.a.ce Administration. I was thinking of adding, I was thinking of adding,In the Year of Our Lord One Thousand Nine Hundred and Eighty and the date, but Hawley was getting impatient. If anybody's hand should be on that heinie, it was his. He was the bachelor of our duo, a fact that had spread across the island on the coconut telegraph as fast as a trade wind. This young woman had probably set her sights on him when we stepped off the plane. I finally capped my pen and she immediately presented her other cheek for Steve and he began his treatise. The things we do for our country. There ought to be a medal awarded to men who return from the Seych.e.l.les. Bachelors, like Hawley, should get the Order of and the date, but Hawley was getting impatient. If anybody's hand should be on that heinie, it was his. He was the bachelor of our duo, a fact that had spread across the island on the coconut telegraph as fast as a trade wind. This young woman had probably set her sights on him when we stepped off the plane. I finally capped my pen and she immediately presented her other cheek for Steve and he began his treatise. The things we do for our country. There ought to be a medal awarded to men who return from the Seych.e.l.les. Bachelors, like Hawley, should get the Order ofI Walked Away from Heaven with accouterments of oak leaf cl.u.s.ters, laurel wreaths, dangles, bobbles, flames, and shooting stars. with accouterments of oak leaf cl.u.s.ters, laurel wreaths, dangles, bobbles, flames, and shooting stars.

As if the local women weren't enough, Hawley and I also discovered the vacationing Dereks...as in John and Bo Derek. Even among the hard-bodied, oil-smeared Danish pastries decorating the beach, Bo stood out. To say she was a "Ten" didn't do her justice. She made a Step-ford Wife look like a hag. Unfortunately, she wasn't topless. Nor was she jogging down the beach in slow motion. But, like Dudley Moore's famous character, I had an active imagination.

Hawley and I debated whether or not to approach the star, a debate that lasted about as long as it takes a quark to decay. We were at her side in a flash, mumbling and stuttering like Dumb and Dumber. I think I blurted out, "I want to have your baby!"

We made sure to include the t.i.tle "astronaut" in our introduction. John, at least, was impressed by that and asked us several questions about the upcoming launch of STS-1, including some technical questions about landing speeds and glide path angles. Bo didn't ask us anything. In fact, she didn't say much at all. Maybe it was the way Hawley leered at her. Surely it couldn't have been me. We learned the couple was taking a break before the filming of that celluloid cla.s.sicTarzan, the Ape Man. I said to Bo, "Me Tarzan. You Jane." John looked at my 145-pound frame and said, "I don't think so." I said to Bo, "Me Tarzan. You Jane." John looked at my 145-pound frame and said, "I don't think so."

"How about Cheetah?" I certainly had the chimp ears to qualify. But, once again, I was rejected.

Hawley and I posed with Bo for some photos and said our good-byes. (Or maybe John said he was going to call the island police if we didn't leave. I can't recall.) I couldn't wait to get back and phone every male I had ever met in my entire life beginning with my high school cla.s.smates and scream, "Eat your hearts out! Guess who I met?"

Back in Houston, when Judy Resnik heard our story, she began to call me Tarzan. For the rest of her short life, she never again called me Mike. Always Tarzan.

By the second year of our TFNG careers the bloom had begun to fade on our management: George Abbey and John Young. George had chaired the dozen-man astronaut selection committee. If the office vets were to be believed, the "committee" t.i.tle was a joke. George didn't operate by committee any more than Josef Stalin had. His was the only vote that counted in the TFNG selection process. George was a pear-shaped man with silver-tinted buzz-cut hair, a permanent five o'clock shadow, and sleepy, ba.s.set hound eyes. The wordenigmatic was coined to describe a man like George. His heavy face revealed nothing. His rare smiles were hardly more than grimaces. I never saw him in a teeth-showing laugh. I never heard him raise his voice in anger. I never saw him animated in any way. When he spoke, which wasn't much, it was in low mumbles. He was as unreadable as a marble bust. was coined to describe a man like George. His heavy face revealed nothing. His rare smiles were hardly more than grimaces. I never saw him in a teeth-showing laugh. I never heard him raise his voice in anger. I never saw him animated in any way. When he spoke, which wasn't much, it was in low mumbles. He was as unreadable as a marble bust.

George's parents had obviously expected great things from their son, christening him George Was.h.i.+ngton Sherman Abbey at his birth in 1932. It was a handle that earned him the acronym GWSA from us TFNGs. George met the challenge of his name. He graduated from Annapolis in 1954, took a commission in the USAF, and acc.u.mulated more than four thousand hours of flying time as an air force pilot. He earned a master's degree in electrical engineering from the Air Force Inst.i.tute of Technology. In 1967 he resigned from the air force and began his NASA career as an MCC engineer (he wasn't an astronaut). For his work on theApollo 13 Mission Operations Team, he was awarded the Medal of Freedom, the nation's highest civilian award. Mission Operations Team, he was awarded the Medal of Freedom, the nation's highest civilian award.

Every TFNG walked into NASA a slavishly loyal subject of King George, and we competed in pathetic attempts to brown-nose him. The nineteen new astronauts of the cla.s.s of 1980 did the same, so there was real crowd around George's backside. Two of the 1980 newbies made an exceptionally flamboyant attempt to put their names in front of George. On Abbey's birthday Guy Gardner and Jim Bagian called the JSC security police pretending to be employees of a window-cleaning service needing access to the ninth-floor windows of the JSC HQ building. After the police unlocked the windows and departed, Bagian dressed in a Superman costume, dropped a rope to the ground, and repelled to Abbey's eighth-floor office. There, he pounded on the gla.s.s to gain George's attention and sang "Happy Birthday." Mission complete, he continued to the ground. Gardner freed the rope of its anchor, closed the window, and disappeared.

It didn't take long for word of the prank to reach the security police and for its chief to be pounding on Center Director Chris Kraft's office door with an angry complaint about astronauts duping his people and conducting a dangerous stunt. In a cla.s.sic demonstration of the old adage "s.h.i.+t flows downhill," it didn't take long for the t.u.r.ds being shoveled onto Kraft's ninth-floor office desk by the chief of security police to find their way to Abbey's eighth-floor desk and thence to John Young's third-floor desk in Building 4. In effect, Dr. Kraft's message to John was "Johnson s.p.a.ce Center isn't a private playground for your astronauts." So Guy Gardner and Jim Bagian picked up some early, if not exactlypositive, visibility with George. visibility with George.

But even as we TFNGs and the cla.s.s of 1980 were doing our best to gain George's favor we were also developing serious doubts about our leader. While he frequented our social functions, he rarely made appearances in the astronaut office. In particular he offered no insight into the one thing that mattered most to us, the shuttle flight a.s.signment process. Initially, we believed that John Young would be making shuttle crew a.s.signments. Since he bore the t.i.tlechief of astronauts, how could it be otherwise? But the older astronauts were certain Abbey would be a.s.signing crews independent of Young. In our rookie naivete we found that hard to believe. Young was in a much better position to know our capabilities, limitations, and interpersonal compatibilities. Abbey's office was in a separate building. How could he know what crew composition would be best for a particular mission? We could understand why Abbey wanted crew a.s.signment authority, since it represented considerable power, but we could not understand why Young would have rolled over and allowed him to take it. While NASA's management hierarchy did put Young under Abbey's authority, it seemed to us Young could have easily insisted on having a big say in crew a.s.signments without the slightest risk to his career. John was a living legend. He was a four-time veteran of s.p.a.ceflights-two Gemini missions and two Apollo missions. He had walked on the moon. There was no way a midlevel bureaucrat like Abbey could have ever prevailed against him if Young had told Chris Kraft, "These are my astronauts. I know them. I want to have a hand in crew a.s.signments. I'll consider HQ's inputs, your inputs, and Abbey's inputs, but I want a significant say in the matter because I will have to bear the ultimate responsibility if there are any mistakes made by crews." But the vets in the office were adamant in their opinion that Abbey was a rapacious power monger who had taken all flight a.s.signment responsibility from Young. Why Young would have ever accepted such an office-neutering arrangement would remain a mystery throughout my astronaut life. how could it be otherwise? But the older astronauts were certain Abbey would be a.s.signing crews independent of Young. In our rookie naivete we found that hard to believe. Young was in a much better position to know our capabilities, limitations, and interpersonal compatibilities. Abbey's office was in a separate building. How could he know what crew composition would be best for a particular mission? We could understand why Abbey wanted crew a.s.signment authority, since it represented considerable power, but we could not understand why Young would have rolled over and allowed him to take it. While NASA's management hierarchy did put Young under Abbey's authority, it seemed to us Young could have easily insisted on having a big say in crew a.s.signments without the slightest risk to his career. John was a living legend. He was a four-time veteran of s.p.a.ceflights-two Gemini missions and two Apollo missions. He had walked on the moon. There was no way a midlevel bureaucrat like Abbey could have ever prevailed against him if Young had told Chris Kraft, "These are my astronauts. I know them. I want to have a hand in crew a.s.signments. I'll consider HQ's inputs, your inputs, and Abbey's inputs, but I want a significant say in the matter because I will have to bear the ultimate responsibility if there are any mistakes made by crews." But the vets in the office were adamant in their opinion that Abbey was a rapacious power monger who had taken all flight a.s.signment responsibility from Young. Why Young would have ever accepted such an office-neutering arrangement would remain a mystery throughout my astronaut life.

There were occasional hints that Abbey's rule over astronautswas absolute, as when Jerry Ross (cla.s.s of 1980) returned from Chris Kraft's welcome for his cla.s.s. Jerry told us he had been shocked when Kraft had implied he didn't understand why their cla.s.s had even been selected. He thought there were enough astronauts as it was. (As Jerry said, it was a strange way of welcoming them.) Jerry's story implied Abbey had selected a new cla.s.s over Kraft's objections. Did even Dr. Kraft answer to Abbey on the subject of astronauts? n.o.body knew. Kraft, Abbey, and Young never said a word about their responsibilities. Everything about the most important aspect of our career-flight a.s.signments-was as unknown to us as the dark matter of s.p.a.ce was to astrophysicists. Who made a.s.signments? Who approved them? Who had veto power over them? Would there be a rotation system? Would our preferences for a mission be considered? Would military astronauts fly only military missions? Abbey said nothing. Nor did he ever provide the slightest performance feedback-positive or negative. If he had an agenda, that was never revealed either. I have never worked in any organization where there was such a complete lack of communication from above. The result of this information vacuum was predictable. FEAR. The line into s.p.a.ce was long and n.o.body wanted to be at its end, or worse, be banished from it altogether. We were all terrified of doing something that might cross our king. We lived by rumor and innuendo because that was all there was. An early instance was a warning to Steve Nagel from Don Peterson (cla.s.s of 1969) to stop work on a shuttle autopilot improvement project, "because rumor has it Abbey hates that project." Nagel was stunned. He had been absolute, as when Jerry Ross (cla.s.s of 1980) returned from Chris Kraft's welcome for his cla.s.s. Jerry told us he had been shocked when Kraft had implied he didn't understand why their cla.s.s had even been selected. He thought there were enough astronauts as it was. (As Jerry said, it was a strange way of welcoming them.) Jerry's story implied Abbey had selected a new cla.s.s over Kraft's objections. Did even Dr. Kraft answer to Abbey on the subject of astronauts? n.o.body knew. Kraft, Abbey, and Young never said a word about their responsibilities. Everything about the most important aspect of our career-flight a.s.signments-was as unknown to us as the dark matter of s.p.a.ce was to astrophysicists. Who made a.s.signments? Who approved them? Who had veto power over them? Would there be a rotation system? Would our preferences for a mission be considered? Would military astronauts fly only military missions? Abbey said nothing. Nor did he ever provide the slightest performance feedback-positive or negative. If he had an agenda, that was never revealed either. I have never worked in any organization where there was such a complete lack of communication from above. The result of this information vacuum was predictable. FEAR. The line into s.p.a.ce was long and n.o.body wanted to be at its end, or worse, be banished from it altogether. We were all terrified of doing something that might cross our king. We lived by rumor and innuendo because that was all there was. An early instance was a warning to Steve Nagel from Don Peterson (cla.s.s of 1969) to stop work on a shuttle autopilot improvement project, "because rumor has it Abbey hates that project." Nagel was stunned. He had beena.s.signed the work by another office vet. It wasn't something he had initiated. Yet he was being told he was jeopardizing his career by doing his a.s.signed job. Shannon Lucid and I had a similar experience. Moon walker Al Bean directed us to prepare a report justifying why nonpilot MS astronauts should be trained as pilots. Later we heard from another office vet that Abbey was vehemently opposed to such a program. Shannon and I dropped the work as if it were radioactive waste. Everybody was constantly second-guessing their actions. It was a poisonous situation. the work by another office vet. It wasn't something he had initiated. Yet he was being told he was jeopardizing his career by doing his a.s.signed job. Shannon Lucid and I had a similar experience. Moon walker Al Bean directed us to prepare a report justifying why nonpilot MS astronauts should be trained as pilots. Later we heard from another office vet that Abbey was vehemently opposed to such a program. Shannon and I dropped the work as if it were radioactive waste. Everybody was constantly second-guessing their actions. It was a poisonous situation.

If John Young had been more involved in our professional lives, things might have been better, but he was also an absentee leader. He was consumed with training for STS-1. His interaction with the rank and file was mostly limited to the weekly one-hour Monday meetings, and at those he had an irritating and morale-eroding habit of publicly rebuking us when we failed to win battles on shuttle issues at the various NASA review panels. I recall one meeting in which Bill Fisher (cla.s.s of 1980) leaned over to me and sarcastically whispered, "That's it, John, yell atus. " Fisher's implication was obvious to all within earshot: John should have been at the panel meeting in question using his vast experience as a veteran s.p.a.ceman to defend his position instead of expecting one of us rookies to carry the day. " Fisher's implication was obvious to all within earshot: John should have been at the panel meeting in question using his vast experience as a veteran s.p.a.ceman to defend his position instead of expecting one of us rookies to carry the day.

Many TFNGs would grow to loathe the Abbey-Young duopoly and its black hole of communication.

In our second year at JSC we received our first real astronaut job a.s.signments. Because we lacked any other information on the flight a.s.signment process, we quickly constructed a belief system in which these early jobs portended our place in the line into s.p.a.ce. To draw an "STS-1 Support" job was thought to be indicative of a position at the head of the TFNG line because of the overarching importance of that first shuttle flight. My name wasn't under "STS-1 Support." Next were jobs supporting STS-2, -3, and -4. Again, it was a.s.sumed TFNGs a.s.signed to support those missions must be impressing Abbey and be in line for an early s.p.a.ce mission. My name was absent from those a.s.signments. And neither was my name typed next to jobs supporting s.p.a.cewalk, robot arm, and payload development. I finally found "Mullane" next to "s.p.a.celab Support." This was at the rock bottom of TFNG job preferences. I felt as if I were back in high school after baseball tryouts seeing my name penciled next toB-squad backup right fielder.

s.p.a.celab was a cylindrical module that would be installed in the cargo bay of a shuttle and connected to the c.o.c.kpit by a pressurized tunnel. Since s.p.a.celab flights would be science missions, I had a.s.sumed the post-docs would fly those missions. But it was my name on the jobs list next to "s.p.a.celab Support," not theirs. Over lunch in the cafeteria I got to listen to Pinky Nelson and Sally Ride and the others excitedly discuss their work of validating robot arm malfunction procedures, developing s.p.a.cewalk procedures in the WETF swimming pool, and getting down and dirty with STS-1 issues. I averted my eyes, praying n.o.body would ask me about my days of listening to science briefings on upper-atmospheric gases and the Earth's magnosphere. I was crushed. I now had the scent of s.p.a.celab on me. I had to believe I was at the end of the flight a.s.signment line, and, most maddening, I had no idea how I had gotten there or how I might recover. But, as I had done throughout my career, I resolved to set aside my disappointment and do my best at my new job. I also resolved to do a better job at getting my nose up George Abbey's behind.

My disappointment at my s.p.a.celab job was mitigated when, in late 1980, I was a.s.signed to be part of the STS-1 "chase" team. WhenColumbia came streaking to a landing, NASA wanted a T-38 chase crew on her wing to warn Young and Crippen if anything looked amiss, if there was evidence of leaking fluids or fire or damaged flight controls or the landing gear didn't extend properly. Thermal protection engineers also wanted the backseater in the chase aircraft to photograph came streaking to a landing, NASA wanted a T-38 chase crew on her wing to warn Young and Crippen if anything looked amiss, if there was evidence of leaking fluids or fire or damaged flight controls or the landing gear didn't extend properly. Thermal protection engineers also wanted the backseater in the chase aircraft to photographColumbia 's mosaic of ceramic belly heat tiles before she landed. There was some concern those tiles could be damaged by fragments of the Edwards AFB dry lakebed runway being hurled backward by the tires. Prelanding photos would enable engineers to determine whether a tile sustained damage during the mission or during landing. Several chase crews were formed and I was a.s.signed to fellow TFNG Dave Walker's backseat. During STS-1's launch we were to be positioned at El Paso's airport in case 's mosaic of ceramic belly heat tiles before she landed. There was some concern those tiles could be damaged by fragments of the Edwards AFB dry lakebed runway being hurled backward by the tires. Prelanding photos would enable engineers to determine whether a tile sustained damage during the mission or during landing. Several chase crews were formed and I was a.s.signed to fellow TFNG Dave Walker's backseat. During STS-1's launch we were to be positioned at El Paso's airport in caseColumbia had a problem that necessitated an Abort Once Around the Earth (AOA) with a landing at the nearby White Sands Missile Range runway. If that happened we would scramble to do the rendezvous and I would take the photos. had a problem that necessitated an Abort Once Around the Earth (AOA) with a landing at the nearby White Sands Missile Range runway. If that happened we would scramble to do the rendezvous and I would take the photos.

Dave was known by his navy call sign, Red Flash, bestowed on him for his red hair. (Air force flyers of my era did not have personal call signs, as those in the navy did.) Over several months Red Flash and I, along with the other TFNG chase crews, practiced shuttle rendezvous with ground-based radar personnel. One T-38 would simulate the landing shuttle while the others would be vectored toward it by the radar controllers, as would be the case ifColumbia made an emergency White Sands landing. made an emergency White Sands landing.

During this training, trajectory engineers in Houston asked us to examine other dry lakebeds in southern New Mexico and Texas as potential emergency landing sites forColumbia. They wanted to cover every contingency, including "low energy" trajectory errors that might prevent the shuttle from reaching the White Sands runway or "high energy" errors that would result in the shuttle overflying White Sands completely. Their fears were well founded. When They wanted to cover every contingency, including "low energy" trajectory errors that might prevent the shuttle from reaching the White Sands runway or "high energy" errors that would result in the shuttle overflying White Sands completely. Their fears were well founded. WhenColumbia came to Earth, it would do so as a powerless glider. It had no engines the pilots could use to fly around and search for a runway. If there wasn't a suitable landing site within reach, Young and Crippen would have to eject and came to Earth, it would do so as a powerless glider. It had no engines the pilots could use to fly around and search for a runway. If there wasn't a suitable landing site within reach, Young and Crippen would have to eject andColumbia would crash. would crash.

Day after day, Red Flash and I would take off from El Paso and search the Chihuahuan desert for twelve thousand feet of straight, flat, firm earth. And day after day, I would return to El Paso with my b.u.t.t cheeks fatigued from an hour of a.s.s-clinching fear. It wasn't that Dave was a bad pilot. Rather he was too c.o.c.ky, the type of pilot who thinks he's bulletproof even when he's sober. (All fighter pilots think they're bulletproof when they're intoxicated.) He was the pilot that backseaters had in mind when they had coined this joke: Question: "What are the last words a dead backseater ever hears from his pilot?" Question: "What are the last words a dead backseater ever hears from his pilot?" Answer: "Watch this." Answer: "Watch this."

I was living that grim joke in Dave's backseat. When we spied a likely playa from alt.i.tude, Dave would say, "Watch this," and dive for the sand. To my left or right I would see our plane's shadow paralleling us at 300 knots. It would porpoise over hill and dale, quickly drawing closer and closer as Dave dropped lower and lower, until it finally disappeared underneath us. If our jet had had the curb-feelers of a '59 Edsel, I would have heard them scratching a warning into the desert a foot underneath us. Our engine exhaust had to be frying lizards, snakes, prairie dogs, and other ground-hugging fauna. And while I was white with fear, Dave was jotting observations about the condition of the terrain on his knee board.

In the early morning hours of April 12, 1981, Dave and I and the rest of the chase team were in the El Paso airport flight operations office, gathered around a TV watching the final moments ofColumbia 's countdown. The previous night I had slept lightly and each time I awoke I would pray for Young and Crippen. I had a strong sense of dread about the mission. When 's countdown. The previous night I had slept lightly and each time I awoke I would pray for Young and Crippen. I had a strong sense of dread about the mission. WhenColumbia 's hold-down bolts blew, her crew would be irrevocably committed to a flight that was more experimental than any manned flight in history. Forget Alan Shepard, John Glenn, or Neil Armstrong as astronauts who had taken unequaled gambles. Their Redstone, Atlas, t.i.tan, and Saturn rockets had all been proven before they had ever climbed on board. Young and Crippen would be making history by riding a rocket on its very first launch. They weren't doing so reluctantly. The astronaut office had no problems with this decision, even though it would have been relatively easy to modify the vehicle to fly a first test mission unmanned. (In 1988 the Russians successfully flew, 's hold-down bolts blew, her crew would be irrevocably committed to a flight that was more experimental than any manned flight in history. Forget Alan Shepard, John Glenn, or Neil Armstrong as astronauts who had taken unequaled gambles. Their Redstone, Atlas, t.i.tan, and Saturn rockets had all been proven before they had ever climbed on board. Young and Crippen would be making history by riding a rocket on its very first launch. They weren't doing so reluctantly. The astronaut office had no problems with this decision, even though it would have been relatively easy to modify the vehicle to fly a first test mission unmanned. (In 1988 the Russians successfully flew,unmanned, the first and only mission of their s.p.a.ce shuttle. It made two orbits of the Earth then flew under autopilot control to a perfect touchdown.) While the manned/unmanned debate over the first and only mission of their s.p.a.ce shuttle. It made two orbits of the Earth then flew under autopilot control to a perfect touchdown.) While the manned/unmanned debate overColumbia 's maiden flight had occurred before TFNGs had arrived at NASA, I could easily guess how long astronauts had discussed the topic before concluding a manned flight was the way to go...about five seconds. Astronauts will always be ready to jump into a c.o.c.kpit. Any c.o.c.kpit. Any time. There wasn't a single TFNG who wouldn't have volunteered to be ballast aboard 's maiden flight had occurred before TFNGs had arrived at NASA, I could easily guess how long astronauts had discussed the topic before concluding a manned flight was the way to go...about five seconds. Astronauts will always be ready to jump into a c.o.c.kpit. Any c.o.c.kpit. Any time. There wasn't a single TFNG who wouldn't have volunteered to be ballast aboardColumbia.

But Young and Crippen would be taking an enormous risk and I feared for their lives. The only thing that had been positively demonstrated about the shuttle design was that it would glide from 25,000 feet to a landing. Four flight tests off the back of a 747 carrier aircraft had proven that. The solid rocket boosters and SSMEs had been ground-tested multiple times but had never actually flown in s.p.a.ce. In fact, the SRBs had never even been tested vertically. In each of their firings, the rocket had been in a horizontal position, a fact that made many of us doubt the tests were really duplicating the stresses and strains of a vertical launch. The ma.s.sive gas tank had never experienced the shake, rattle, and roll of a launch. There had been no full-scale flight tests of the 24,000-heat-tile mosaic that was glued toColumbia 's belly. How would it do in the 17,000-mile-per-hour, 3,000-degree wind of reentry? And no s.p.a.cecraft had ever glided 12,000 miles to a "one-chance" landing-but that's exactly what 's belly. How would it do in the 17,000-mile-per-hour, 3,000-degree wind of reentry? And no s.p.a.cecraft had ever glided 12,000 miles to a "one-chance" landing-but that's exactly whatColumbia was going to have to do. And the unknowns weren't just in the STS hardware. The shuttle's computer system contained hundreds of thousands of lines of code. Billions of dollars and years of labor had been spent to validate that software but there were still thousands of permutations that had not been tested and that could contain fatal flaws. Would an engine failure at precisely T+1:13 in conjunction with an unexpected wind sheer at 65,000-feet alt.i.tude cause a software switch in some black box to flip to a different polarity and send was going to have to do. And the unknowns weren't just in the STS hardware. The shuttle's computer system contained hundreds of thousands of lines of code. Billions of dollars and years of labor had been spent to validate that software but there were still thousands of permutations that had not been tested and that could contain fatal flaws. Would an engine failure at precisely T+1:13 in conjunction with an unexpected wind sheer at 65,000-feet alt.i.tude cause a software switch in some black box to flip to a different polarity and sendColumbia out of control? To an extent never before seen in s.p.a.ceflight, the s.p.a.ce shuttle was certified to carry astronauts based upon the wizardry of computer modeling. For a decade, engineers conducted thousands of ground tests in every imaginable engineering specialty: aeronautical, electrical, chemical, mechanical, hypersonic flight dynamics, cryogenic fluid dynamics, propulsion, flutter dynamics, aeroelasticity, and a hundred others. They digitized data gleaned from wind tunnel tests, engine tests, hydraulic tests, heat tile tests, and flight control tests and dumped the results into computers humming with the equations of Max Planck, Bernoulli, and Fourier. When the thousands of answers were finally a.s.sembled and examined, the engineers cheered. Computer models said their new shuttle system would work, that its twin SRBs and three SSMEs burning 4 million pounds of propellant in out of control? To an extent never before seen in s.p.a.ceflight, the s.p.a.ce shuttle was certified to carry astronauts based upon the wizardry of computer modeling. For a decade, engineers conducted thousands of ground tests in every imaginable engineering specialty: aeronautical, electrical, chemical, mechanical, hypersonic flight dynamics, cryogenic fluid dynamics, propulsion, flutter dynamics, aeroelasticity, and a hundred others. They digitized data gleaned from wind tunnel tests, engine tests, hydraulic tests, heat tile tests, and flight control tests and dumped the results into computers humming with the equations of Max Planck, Bernoulli, and Fourier. When the thousands of answers were finally a.s.sembled and examined, the engineers cheered. Computer models said their new shuttle system would work, that its twin SRBs and three SSMEs burning 4 million pounds of propellant in81 / /2minutes would propel a quarter-million-pound winged orbiter to a speed of nearly 5 miles per second and an alt.i.tude of 200 miles. These same models also a.s.sured their brainy authors the orbiter would be able to make a powerless hemispheric-long glide to a 15,000-foot-long strip of runway. Of course, many of these same engineers had done the same thing in the development of the Redstone, Atlas, t.i.tan, and Saturn rockets of the past manned programs, but in those programs, after all their testing and modeling were complete and the answer was "This rocket will fly," they had still walked cautiously. "We could be wrong in this model, or maybe in this model, or in this one," they had said. "We better test this puppy unmanned a couple times before we strap astronauts to it. And when we do, we better give the crew a way of surviving a booster failure throughall of ascent." And they had. But not with the s.p.a.ce shuttle. Its cherry flight was going to be manned. The engineers had foreseen the possibility of catastrophe and had included SR-71 Blackbird ejection seats for the two-man crew, but those were only usable during the first two minutes of launch; after that, the shuttle would be too high and too fast for an ejection seat bailout. The seats wouldn't again be usable until the shuttle was below about 100,000 feet and Mach 3.0, about ten minutes prior to landing. During the rest of the ride Crippen and Young would have zero chance of escape. Actually, the two-minute launch envelope of the ejection seat was even suspect. Many felt there was a good chance an ejection during launch would send them through the 5,000-degree plume of the SRBs. They would be vaporized. There was no doubt about it. Young and Crippen were human guinea pigs like no other astronauts before. It was another manifestation of Apollo hubris. Mere mortals might not be able to certify a rocket as of ascent." And they had. But not with the s.p.a.ce shuttle. Its cherry flight was going to be manned. The engineers had foreseen the possibility of catastrophe and had included SR-71 Blackbird ejection seats for the two-man crew, but those were only usable during the first two minutes of launch; after that, the shuttle would be too high and too fast for an ejection seat bailout. The seats wouldn't again be usable until the shuttle was below about 100,000 feet and Mach 3.0, about ten minutes prior to landing. During the rest of the ride Crippen and Young would have zero chance of escape. Actually, the two-minute launch envelope of the ejection seat was even suspect. Many felt there was a good chance an ejection during launch would send them through the 5,000-degree plume of the SRBs. They would be vaporized. There was no doubt about it. Young and Crippen were human guinea pigs like no other astronauts before. It was another manifestation of Apollo hubris. Mere mortals might not be able to certify a rocket asman-ready with computers, but the G.o.ds of Apollo could. with computers, but the G.o.ds of Apollo could.

I watched on TV asColumbia 's SSMEs came to life and a cloud of steam billowed from the flame bucket. When the SRBs ignited and 's SSMEs came to life and a cloud of steam billowed from the flame bucket. When the SRBs ignited andColumbia was airborne, I almost p.i.s.sed my pants. We jumped from our seats cheering. It was an act duplicated around televisions at Johnson s.p.a.ce Center and Marshall s.p.a.ceflight Center and on the floors of countless aeros.p.a.ce factories and in millions of living rooms around the country. The TV showed a man at the Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center jumping up and down and punching his fist into the sky like a Little Leaguer celebrating a home run flying over the centerfield fence. Another view showed a man standing on top of an RV wildly waving an American flag as he watched was airborne, I almost p.i.s.sed my pants. We jumped from our seats cheering. It was an act duplicated around televisions at Johnson s.p.a.ce Center and Marshall s.p.a.ceflight Center and on the floors of countless aeros.p.a.ce factories and in millions of living rooms around the country. The TV showed a man at the Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center jumping up and down and punching his fist into the sky like a Little Leaguer celebrating a home run flying over the centerfield fence. Another view showed a man standing on top of an RV wildly waving an American flag as he watchedColumbia 's smoke trail arc to the east. Another camera caught a woman dabbing at her tearing eyes. Everywhere the cameras captured a frenzied public. It was Woodstock, a NASCAR race, and a Virgin Mary appearance all wrapped into one overpowering, soul-capturing Happening. 's smoke trail arc to the east. Another camera caught a woman dabbing at her tearing eyes. Everywhere the cameras captured a frenzied public. It was Woodstock, a NASCAR race, and a Virgin Mary appearance all wrapped into one overpowering, soul-capturing Happening.

And it only got better. At T+2 minutes and 12 seconds a flash of fire and smoke signaled the separation of the boosters. It was another computer-modeled milestone successfully pa.s.sed.Columbia rapidly diminished to just a blue-white star and then disappeared completely. But we didn't need to see her to know how things were going. We could tell by the abort boundary calls coming from MCC: Negative return, Two Engine TAL, Single-Engine TAL, Press to MECO. It was gobbledygook to most of America, but for astronauts it was the sweet song of nominal flight. At Young's call of "MECO!" we all cheered again. rapidly diminished to just a blue-white star and then disappeared completely. But we didn't need to see her to know how things were going. We could tell by the abort boundary calls coming from MCC: Negative return, Two Engine TAL, Single-Engine TAL, Press to MECO. It was gobbledygook to most of America, but for astronauts it was the sweet song of nominal flight. At Young's call of "MECO!" we all cheered again.Columbia had given her crew a perfect ride. I knew our celebration was premature. There was still a lot that could go wrong before had given her crew a perfect ride. I knew our celebration was premature. There was still a lot that could go wrong beforeColumbia was safely back on Earth. But, like the Apostle Thomas, I had seen with my own eyes and now I believed. If those G.o.ds of Apollo could put her into orbit with their computer models, they could certainly bring her safely home on the wings of their computer models. was safely back on Earth. But, like the Apostle Thomas, I had seen with my own eyes and now I believed. If those G.o.ds of Apollo could put her into orbit with their computer models, they could certainly bring her safely home on the wings of their computer models.

On the flight back to Houston I couldn't relax the smile on my face. It was giving me a headache. But I didn't care. It had been nearly three years since I had entered NASA and this was the first time I really felt I had a chance of becoming an astronaut in anything but name only. Until I heard Young's MECO call, I hadn't truly believed it could happen. I had been convincedColumbia was going to end up on the bottom of the Atlantic and the closest I would ever get to s.p.a.ce would be in a T-38. And I wasn't the only doubter. I would later hear that Pinky Nelson, upon the MECO call, had jumped from his seat and shouted, "Now I can put in a swimming pool!" Pinky had been a heretic, too. He hadn't truly believed in the G.o.ds of Apollo, and he had put off a decision to build a swimming pool until he knew he had a real job. In was going to end up on the bottom of the Atlantic and the closest I would ever get to s.p.a.ce would be in a T-38. And I wasn't the only doubter. I would later hear that Pinky Nelson, upon the MECO call, had jumped from his seat and shouted, "Now I can put in a swimming pool!" Pinky had been a heretic, too. He hadn't truly believed in the G.o.ds of Apollo, and he had put off a decision to build a swimming pool until he knew he had a real job. InColumbia 's 8 minute ascent, his dream of s.p.a.ceflight, 's 8 minute ascent, his dream of s.p.a.ceflight,all of our dreams of s.p.a.ceflight, had taken a giant leap toward reality. Mine was no longer the diaphanous mirage I had been following for twenty-five years. The G.o.ds of Apollo had fas.h.i.+oned a machine that could turn my astronaut pin to gold. of our dreams of s.p.a.ceflight, had taken a giant leap toward reality. Mine was no longer the diaphanous mirage I had been following for twenty-five years. The G.o.ds of Apollo had fas.h.i.+oned a machine that could turn my astronaut pin to gold.

Chapter 16.

Pecking Order.

April 19, 1982, effectively marked the end of the TFNG brotherhood. It was on that day George Abbey a.s.sembled us to announce, "We've made some crew a.s.signments." Like Hollywood stars hearing, "Can I have the envelope, please," we held our breath at Abbey's words. For four years, in hundreds of Outpost Tavern happy hours, on thousands of T-38 flights, around countless supper tables, we had asked the question of one another, of ourselves, of our spouses, of G.o.d:When would we be a.s.signed to a shuttle mission? The room was s.p.a.ce-silent as Abbey read the names. "The STS-7 crew will be Crippen, Hauck, Fabian, and Ride. STS-8 will have Truly, Brandenstein, Bluford, and Gardner. STS-9 will be Young, Shaw, Garriott, Parker, and two payload specialists. Hopefully we'll get more people a.s.signed soon." That was it. G.o.d walked from the room. The room was s.p.a.ce-silent as Abbey read the names. "The STS-7 crew will be Crippen, Hauck, Fabian, and Ride. STS-8 will have Truly, Brandenstein, Bluford, and Gardner. STS-9 will be Young, Shaw, Garriott, Parker, and two payload specialists. Hopefully we'll get more people a.s.signed soon." That was it. G.o.d walked from the room.

Poof.With Abbey's words TFNG camaraderie vaporized. I don't believe there was ever again a social gathering of all TFNGs. As a group wallowing in a common uncertainty and united in a common distrust of our management, it had been easy to share a beer at the Outpost. Now we had been cleaved into haves and have-nots. There was a pecking order; some of us were better than others. I tried my best to be rational-somebodyhad to be first. We couldn't all be. But I couldn't accept that rationale and I doubted any of the others could either. We were too compet.i.tive. It was to be first. We couldn't all be. But I couldn't accept that rationale and I doubted any of the others could either. We were too compet.i.tive. It wasThe Right Stuff syndrome as described by Tom Wolfe. The seven flight-a.s.signed TFNGs had more of that syndrome as described by Tom Wolfe. The seven flight-a.s.signed TFNGs had more of thatstuff than the rest of us. We, the than the rest of us. We, theuna.s.signed, had been left behind. I would later see first-flight a.s.signments have the same effect on every astronaut cla.s.s. Their all-for-one and one-for-all camaraderie would end just as abruptly as ours had. The effect could have been somewhat a.s.suaged if Young and Abbey had been open about the flight a.s.signment process, but all Abbey left us with was "Hopefully we'll get more people a.s.signed soon." That wasn't a lot to hang on to. Abbey's and Young's silence on the mechanics and calendar of flight a.s.signments was earning them a growing enmity. had been left behind. I would later see first-flight a.s.signments have the same effect on every astronaut cla.s.s. Their all-for-one and one-for-all camaraderie would end just as abruptly as ours had. The effect could have been somewhat a.s.suaged if Young and Abbey had been open about the flight a.s.signment process, but all Abbey left us with was "Hopefully we'll get more people a.s.signed soon." That wasn't a lot to hang on to. Abbey's and Young's silence on the mechanics and calendar of flight a.s.signments was earning them a growing enmity.

With George's announcement still echoing in my brain, I wished for a hole in the earth to open and swallow me. I wanted to nurse my wounded ego in private, but that wasn't an option. Like the also-rans at the Academy Awards, I had to don a fake smile and shake the hands of the winners. They were incandescent. You could feel the heat from their faces. Several of the blessed tried to mollify us with comments like, "You'll be getting a flight soon" and "Your day is coming, too." I was being pitied. I didn't think I could feel lower. But I was wrong. I heard Sally comment, "George told us of the a.s.signments a week ago, but he wanted us to keep it quiet until the press release." I wondered how many times in the past week I had been eating lunch in the cafeteria with Rick Hauck or John Fabian and whining about the delay in flight a.s.signments, and all the while he had been silently celebrating his mission appointment. G.o.d, I felt so pathetic.

As I drifted from the room, I heard Fred Gregory's sotto voce growl, "This is bulls.h.i.+t!" His head and shoulders slumped in depression. Another casualty. Then it dawned on me. He had not just been pa.s.sed over for an early flight a.s.signment. He was black. He had just been pa.s.sed over as the first African American in s.p.a.ce. Guy Bluford would seize that t.i.tle on STS-8. I was just a white guy. My name would never be on anybody's Trivial Pursuit card regardless of when I flew. But Guy Bluford would be history. And Sally Ride, as the first American woman in s.p.a.ce, would become an icon. Some had lost more than just a mission a.s.signment with Abbey's announcement. Some had lost history and the payday that came with celebrity. Sally Ride, in particular, had just been handed a free ticket through life. As the first American woman in s.p.a.ce she could look forward to book deals, speech honorariums, corporate board seats, and consulting fees that could earn her millions.

As the seismic wave of Abbey's announcement was tearing apart the TFNGs, we were blissfully ignorant of another 9.0 wave moving through the system. Five months earlier, one of the eight O-rings on STS-2's recovered right-side booster had shown heat damage. This discovery had shocked the SRB engineers. Since the boosters were twelve feet in diameter, had a hollow center, and burned from the inside toward the outside, the perimeter-installed O-rings were far from the 5,000-degree gas throughout most of the burn. The unburned propellant served as an insulator. (In the final seconds of the burn, other insulation material at the walls kept the heat from the O-rings.) The O-rings should never show heat damage. And in seven ground tests and one mission (STS-1), involving a total of sixty-four primary and sixty-four backup O-rings, no heat damage had ever been recorded. The fact that an O-ring inside STS-2's right-side booster had been damaged was an indication that, at some point in flight, it had not held the nearly 1,000-pounds-per-square-inch pressure inside the tube and a finger of fire had worked between the segment facings to touch it. This suggested a serious problem with the joint design. But no consideration was given to stopping shuttle flights and conducting more ground tests. The NASA PR machine had promised Congress and the American public a rapid expansion of the shuttle flight rate with a vehicle turnaround time measured in a few weeks.Schedule had become the 800-pound gorilla in shuttle operations. n.o.body wanted to wrestle with it. Instead, engineers at Thiokol and NASA searched for a way to continue operations in spite of the STS-2 anomaly. So they intentionally damaged an O-ring to a much greater degree than the damage they had observed on STS-2, put it in a laboratory test article, and pressurized it to three times the pressure developed by a burning SRB. The damaged O-ring held the pressure. Armed with these impressive results the Thiokol engineers endorsed their product as flight worthy. Lost in this process, however, was the fact something never expected and not completely understood had been accepted. had become the 800-pound gorilla in shuttle operations. n.o.body wanted to wrestle with it. Instead, engineers at Thiokol and NASA searched for a way to continue operations in spite of the STS-2 anomaly. So they intentionally damaged an O-ring to a much greater degree than the damage they had observed on STS-2, put it in a laboratory test article, and pressurized it to three times the pressure developed by a burning SRB. The damaged O-ring held the pressure. Armed with these impressive results the Thiokol engineers endorsed their product as flight worthy. Lost in this process, however, was the fact something never expected and not completely understood had been accepted.

No astronaut was aware of the SRB O-ring problem. In fact, most of us were ignorant of the entire SRB design. There was only a single indication of SRB performance available in the c.o.c.kpit of a launching shuttle. As the tube pressure fell to less than 50 pounds per square inch, a message flashed on the computer screens giving a warning that burnout and separation were near. Since we had little insight and no control over a burning SRB, we didn't waste our time in studying its design. We had too many other things into which we did have insight and over which we did have control (the liquid-fueled engines, hydraulics, electrical system, etc.). We devoted our time to learning the design and operation of these systems. We were convinced the SRBs were just big, dumb skyrockets, as safe and reliable as a hobby store model rocket. It was the SSMEs, which periodically blew up in ground tests, that we feared most.

The Thiokol and NASA SRB engineers were buoyed when STS-3's boosters returned with no O-rings damaged. It was full speed ahead with the shuttle program.

And the program s.h.i.+fted into overdrive on July 4, 1982. It was then that President Ronald Reagan and the First Lady celebrated Independence Day at Edwards AFB by personally welcoming Ken Mattingly and Hank Hartsfield back from s.p.a.ce after their successful STS-4 mission. Reagan called attention to the latest orbiter to join the shuttle fleet,Challenger. Fresh from the nearby Rockwell factory, that vehicle was mounted atop its 747 carrier aircraft ready to take off for Florida as soon as the president finished his comments. It was an incredibly intoxicating sight. Fresh from the nearby Rockwell factory, that vehicle was mounted atop its 747 carrier aircraft ready to take off for Florida as soon as the president finished his comments. It was an incredibly intoxicating sight.Columbia sat on the cracked dirt of the lakebed looking every bit the veteran of four s.p.a.ceflights, with her nose and fuselage streaked with soot from four blazing reentries. sat on the cracked dirt of the lakebed looking every bit the veteran of four s.p.a.ceflights, with her nose and fuselage streaked with soot from four blazing reentries.Challenger sparkled in her virgin newness. It was the perfect backdrop as the president continued his speech and declared the s.p.a.ce shuttle program "operational." sparkled in her virgin newness. It was the perfect backdrop as the president continued his speech and declared the s.p.a.ce shuttle program "operational."

That label had never really been defined, but it was easy to sense how most of NASA and all of the public interpreted it.Operational meant the shuttle was nothing more than a very high-flying airliner. I doubt there was a single military aviator astronaut who believed that. Fighter jets of far less complexity than the shuttle routinely suffered malfunctions resulting in crashes. We were certain one awaited the shuttle, too, and when it happened, it would mean death for her crew. While the operational label was nebulous, it did contain one certainty-all future shuttle missions would be flown in vehicles with no in-flight escape system. There were no ejection seats in meant the shuttle was nothing more than a very high-flying airliner. I doubt there was a single military aviator astronaut who believed that. Fighter jets of far less complexity than the shuttle routinely suffered malfunctions resulting in crashes. We were certain one awaited the shuttle, too, and when it happened, it would mean death for her crew. While the operational label was nebulous, it did contain one certainty-all future shuttle missions would be flown in vehicles with no in-flight escape system. There were no ejection seats inChallenger 's c.o.c.kpit and the two in 's c.o.c.kpit and the two inColumbia would soon be removed. That had been the plan from the very beginning. President Reagan's "operational" declaration was merely photo-op tensile. But contained in it was a shuttle design feature that would condemn some of us to death. would soon be removed. That had been the plan from the very beginning. President Reagan's "operational" declaration was merely photo-op tensile. But contained in it was a shuttle design feature that would condemn some of us to death.

With flight crews named to all the planned missions through 1983, I knew I would not be getting a flight a.s.signment for many months, perhaps even a year or more. But at least my purgatory of s.p.a.celab support had ended. I was now a.s.signed to shuttle software checkout in the Shuttle Avionics Integration Laboratory (SAIL). My frequent partner in that facility was the now very pregnant Rhea Seddon. She and Hoot Gibson had married in 1981 and their first child was due in July. In the SAIL c.o.c.kpit I would watch Rhea's nine-month distended belly crowd the control stick as she flew simulations to perfect landings. It was a sight certain to have sent some of the old Mercury astronauts fumbling for their nitro pills. Rhea would ultimately give birth to a son, one of the rare boys born to astronauts. We had long noticed a propensity for astronauts to sire daughters and wondered if the G-forces of our jet-jockey training were pus.h.i.+ng male sperm to the end of the line. As Hoot and Rhea were being congratulated at a Monday meeting, one pilot shouted, "This proves Hoot isn't an astronaut." I answered, "No. It proves Hoot isn't the father." Rhea had a good laugh at that.

I enjoyed Rhea immensely. Like Judy, she was a smart and capable beauty with a limitless tolerance for us AD males. She frequently parried our s.e.xist BS with biting humor. I once saw Hoot, our AD King, skewered with it. One of the men chosen to sit on an upcoming astronaut interview board had ducked his head into our office and asked for inputs on the selection criteria for the new cla.s.s of astronaut candidates. Hoot gave Rhea a body-appraising scan and answered, "Yeah, how about selecting some women with big b.r.e.a.s.t.s and small a.s.ses instead of the other way around." Rhea smiled wickedly at her husband and replied, "Robert, some night while you're asleep, I'm going to amputate your p.e.n.i.s [she was a surgeon] and graft it to your forehead, and when you come to work people are going to think it's a zit." Hoot had married perhaps the only woman on the planet who was his equal. When they were together it was a laugh a minute. I loved them both.

By 1982, like the other AD men, I had learned my boundaries around the six females. Rhea's and Judy's were the widest. Sally's were the tightest. Though I repeatedly warned myself to watch my mouth around Sally, I would have relapses, as when I once observed, "The female cosmonauts are sure ugly." Sally snapped, "Have you ever thought they might be good at their job?!"

Alcohol always held the potential to wreck my resolve. One evening, as Donna and I walked from a local restaurant (after a dinner that included more than a few beers), a friend stopped Donna and they fell into conversation. As I dallied, I noted Sally and Steve Hawley at another table dining with an attractive woman I didn't recognize. At the time, Steve was dating Sally so there was nothing surprising about seeing them together. With my wife engaged I walked over and said, "Hey, Stevie, are you getting cookie recipes from these girls?" Sally glared at me like I was something growing in her bathroom grout. Hawley cringed as if he had taken a bullet to the gut and shot Sally a glance that said, "I don't know this guy." There was an awkward silence during which the unidentified woman examined me as if I were whale s.h.i.+t, the lowest thing on the planet. Finally, I bid a good-bye and escaped back to my wife, my hands discreetly checking the zipper of my fly as I walked. The threesome's rude reaction made me wonder if I had forgotten to zip up after my last visit to the urinal. Nope, everything was secure.

As I returned, Donna's friend gushed, "You know her?!"

Of course, I a.s.sumed she was referring to Sally.

"Sure, that's Sally Ride."

"No, not her. The other woman."

"No. I wasn't introduced." I was still puzzled by that table's hostility toward me. Was it something I said?

"That's Jane Pauley."

I shrugged. The name was a mystery to me. "Who's Jane Pauley?"

Donna's friend nearly had a seizure. "Who's Jane Pauley!? You don't know? She's the NBCToday show newswoman." show newswoman."

I honestly didn't know. I didn't watch much TV. I certainly didn't watch those chatty morning shows. If she wasn't inAviation Week & s.p.a.ce Technology magazine, I wouldn't know her. magazine, I wouldn't know her.

With this new bit of knowledge, it slowly dawned on me why I had been stonewalled at Sally's table. No doubt Ms. Pauley was talking to her about her recent flight selection. I could just imagine how my cookie recipe comment must have played with those two pioneering females. I made Hugh Hefner look like a beacon of enlightenment. I guess it's no surprise I was never invited to theToday show. show.

On October 5, 1982, three more TFNGs were named to a flight, STS-10 (later to be designated STS-41B).*I wasn't among them.

I put on another happy face and congratulated the winners. A few weeks later Norm Thagard became the eleventh TFNG to draw an a.s.signment when he was retroactively a.s.signed to STS-7. NASA was growing concerned about the incidence of s.p.a.ce sickness and wanted Thagard, a physician, to run some experiments on what was being officially labeled s.p.a.ce Adaptation Syndrome (SAS). SAS had impacted the recently landed STS-5 mission in a very big way. One of the two s.p.a.cewalkers on that flight had been so stricken with vomiting the crew had asked MCC for permission to delay their EVA (Extra-Vehicular Activity, i.e., a s.p.a.cewalk) to give him time to recover. Vomiting inside a s.p.a.cesuit could kill an astronaut. The emesis could smear the inside of the helmet visor and blind the s.p.a.cewalker, making it impossible to respond to a suit emergency. Also, because there was no way to remove the fluid, the astronaut could inhale it and choke to death or it could clog the oxygen circulation system and suffocate the victim. The STS-5 s.p.a.ce-walk, which was to have been the first from a shuttle, had just been a demonstration exercise (and was ultimately canceled for a suit malfunction), but in future missions s.p.a.cewalks would be essential for mission success. Norm Thagard would be the first of many physicians sent into s.p.a.ce to determine the cause of SAS. He, like all who would follow, would have their studies seriously hampered by astronaut paranoia. s.p.a.cewalking was the most sought-after prize for MSes. It filled a powerful need to be in ultimate control. The pilots had their shuttle landings to fulfill them. Their hands and eyes delivered a 200,000-pound orbiter to a runway. It was the same with a rendezvous mission. A pilot's personal skill brought two 17,300-mile-per-hour objects together 200 miles above the earth. It was heroic work. On the other hand, much MS work was mundane-throwing a switch to release a satellite, drawing blood, changing a data tape on some scientist's experiment. s.p.a.cewalks and, to a somewhat lesser degree, robot arm operations were the exception in MS jobs. Like a pilot feeling the kiss of the runway on the s.p.a.ce shuttle wheels, MSes could enjoy a powerful sense of being in control as they a.s.sembled structures or repaired satellites or performed other hands-on s.p.a.cewalking tasks.

So physicians studying SAS, like Thagard, were hamstrung. Astronauts didn't want to admit to an episode of vomiting out of fear that it would eliminate them from consideration for future s.p.a.cewalk missions. As a result many astronauts were less than truthful about their symptoms. Some blatantly lied. We would hear stories of crewmembers who were seriously sick, yet the data would never appear on the flight surgeon's bar charts. SAS was considered an individual health issue and was therefore privileged information between the astronaut and flight surgeon. If an astronaut didn't tell the flight surgeons the truth, the doctors were not going to hear it from anybody else.

To be SAS-free was considered so important, many astronauts attempted inoculations. When it was first a.s.sumed the problem was related to Earth-based motion sickness (later disproved), astronauts would perform stomach-churning acrobatics in T-38 jets in the days prior to a launch. I was flying in Story Musgrave's backseat when he decided to prep his body for an upcoming mission. He asked ATC for a block of alt.i.tude and then went into a series of spiraling rolls and violent maneuvers that alternately had me slammed into my seat at 4-Gs and lifted from it in negative Gs. My head snapped back and forth like a palm tree in a hurricane. Within a minute I was ready to blow my last meal (and perhaps a few before that) and had to plead with him to stop.

Another equally ineffective attempt at SAS inoculation was to sleep on an incline with your head lower than your feet. This became popular when the flight surgeons hypothesized that the fluid s.h.i.+ft of weightlessness might be causing the inner ear to be disturbed, inducing vomiting. All astronauts experience an uncomfortable eye-popping fullness in the head during weightlessness because of an equalization of body fluid. By sleeping in a bed with bricks under the foot posts to tilt the head down, it was thought the resulting fluid s.h.i.+ft to the upper body would somehow prepare it for weightlessness and eliminate SAS. It didn't. Some of those practicing head-down sleep still got sick in s.p.a.ce, suggesting that those head-downers who didn't vomit had probably been immune anyw