Riding Rockets Part 12

As we climbed to alt.i.tude, ATC cleared us direct to Ellington Field and added, "NASA flight, please accept our condolences." I was certain those same sympathies were being offered to NASA crews everywhere as they hurried home. The entire nation was grieving.

The rest of our flight continued in silence. At each ATC handover the new controller would offer a few words of comfort and then leave us alone. There was no chatter among our formation on our company frequency. Crippen was silent on the intercom. We were each coc.o.o.ned in our c.o.c.kpits, alone with our grief. I watched the contrails of the other '38s streaming away in billowing white and prayed for theChallenger crew and their families. crew and their families.

My thoughts returned to the last time I had seen the crew-before they entered health quarantine-more than two weeks ago. I pa.s.sed them on their way to a simulation. Each wore the thousand-watt smiles of Prime Crew. I shook their hands and wished them good luck and added a hug for Judy. With my arms around her I whispered, "Watch out for hair-eating cameras." She laughed. It was the last I would see of her and the others. Now, their shredded bodies were somewhere on the floor of the Atlantic. Friends whose joyous faces I had watched only two weeks ago were now being discussed by the TV talking heads as "remains." I could feel Judy's arms on my back and her hair brushing my cheek in that last hug. Now those arms, that hair, her smile were gone. They were just...remains. Though I'd known it would happen to some of us one day, I still could not come to grips with the reality of it. They were gone. Forever.

My only comfort was in my belief that their deaths had been mercifully quick, the instantaneous death we all hope for when our time comes. In one heartbeat they had been feeling the rumble of max-q (maximum aerodynamic pressure) and watching the sky fade to black and antic.i.p.ating the beauty of s.p.a.ce and then...death. I was so certain of it. How could anybody have survived the ET explosion? The c.o.c.kpit was only a few feet from it. There were more than a million pounds of propellant still remaining in the tank when it detonated. The explosion must have destroyed the c.o.c.kpit and everything in it. The more I dwelled on it, the more certain I was. They died instantly. I would later learn how wrong I was.

My thoughts drifted to the cause of the disaster. The video replays on TV showed fire flickering near the base of the orbiter just before vehicle destruction. Had an SSME come apart as so many of us had feared would one day happen? I was certain the SRBs had nothing to do with the disaster. They were seen flying after the breakup. It was to be expected their flight would be unguided and erratic, but other than that they appeared fine. Again, I would be proven wrong on all counts.

I asked Crippen what he thought had caused the tragedy. "I don't know. But whatever it was, we've all ridden it."

He was right. Whatever it was, the same mechanism of death had been with all of us on every mission. How close had it come to killing me on STS-41D? A second? A millisecond? Had theChallenger SSME that failed (and I was SSME that failed (and I wa.s.sure one of them had exploded) been one of the engines powering one of them had exploded) been one of the engines poweringDiscovery on my first mission? It was entirely possible. The engines were frequently interchanged among orbiters. on my first mission? It was entirely possible. The engines were frequently interchanged among orbiters.

As I fell deeper into melancholy another thought wiggled its way to the fore. I hated that I couldn't keep it at bay but, like smoke under a door, it crept in to choke off every other thought.What was Challenger Challenger's loss going to do to me?To ask such a question at this moment defined me as one sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d but try as I might, I could not stop it. I suspected every other TFNG was similarly stricken. Would the shuttle ever fly again? I thought of my morning run and how perfect my future had seemed, with images of polar orbit s.p.a.ceflight filling my brain. Now those images blurred like a mirage.

Our flight entered the Ellington landing pattern, each pilot following Crippen's peal-off "break" to circle for touchdown. As we were marshaled to a parking spot, I searched the guest waiting area, expecting to see someone from the press. I dreaded the thought of speaking to them. But the only person to greet us was Donna. Crying, she walked to the side of the jet and rushed into my arms.

At home my fourteen-year-old daughter, Laura, informed me that someone from the newspaper had called and when she told them I was out of town they interviewedher. I was outraged. They had taken advantage of her naivete to ask questions about my STS-41D experiences with Judy. "Daddy, they asked me how you felt when you saw I was outraged. They had taken advantage of her naivete to ask questions about my STS-41D experiences with Judy. "Daddy, they asked me how you felt when you sawChallenger blow up." It was a good thing I hadn't fielded that question. I could imagine the answer that might have leaped from my mouth. I had already pa.s.sed the denial phase of grieving and had entered the anger phase. I told the kids to let the answering machine take the calls. I didn't want to speak to anybody in the press. blow up." It was a good thing I hadn't fielded that question. I could imagine the answer that might have leaped from my mouth. I had already pa.s.sed the denial phase of grieving and had entered the anger phase. I told the kids to let the answering machine take the calls. I didn't want to speak to anybody in the press.

That evening there were church services throughout Clear Lake City. Donna, the kids, and I went to our parish church, St. Bernadette's. It was packed. I wasn't the only astronaut parishioner. There were a few others. Our friends and neighbors came to us and sobbed their condolences. Complete strangers did the same. The grief was beyond anything I would have ever predicted.

At the request of some of the parish members, my son had put together a slide and music show to play as people entered the church. Pachelbel's Canon and Copland's "Fanfare for the Common Man" accompanied slides depicting shuttle launches, s.p.a.cewalkers, and other s.p.a.ce scenes. There was a slide from STS-41D showing a grinning Judy with her cannon-cleaner weightless hair. When it appeared on screen, people were overcome, laughing and sobbing at the same moment.Watch out for hair-eating cameras. The slide resurrected from my memory the words I had spoken to her two weeks earlier. I closed my eyes. I wanted to cry, like the others around me, but I couldn't. That gene just wasn't in me. I was my mother. The slide resurrected from my memory the words I had spoken to her two weeks earlier. I closed my eyes. I wanted to cry, like the others around me, but I couldn't. That gene just wasn't in me. I was my mother.

The next day Donna and I drove to visit the widows. We first went to June Scobee's home. The street in front of her house was a mob scene. A large crowd of the curious filled the neighbors' driveways and lawns. The elevated microwave poles of news vans provided a beacon that drew a slow current of cars through the neighborhood streets. Power cables crisscrossed sidewalks. Technicians shouldered cameras and framed their news reporters with the Scobee home in the background. It would have been chaos but for a contingent of local and NASA police who kept everybody from June's front door. Several NASA PR personnel were teamed with the police to recognize and allow astronauts and other NASA VIPs to enter the home. Donna and I were waved through the cordon.

The house was filled with family, friends, and several other astronauts and wives. June was the picture of exhaustion, her face puffy and tear-stained. She and Donna hugged for a long moment, each crying into the neck of the other. As they parted, I embraced June, clumsily mumbling my sympathies then fading out of the scene as another visitor came to her. I observed how much better the women were at handling the situation. They easily conversed with June. The men mimicked my awkward performance-a quick hug, a few words, and then escape to a corner where they fidgeted uncomfortably.

The rest of the day was a blur of grieving women and children as we made our rounds to the other widows. Lorna Onizuka was incapacitated by her loss. She refused to see anybody and rumors circulated that she had not given up hope that the crew would be found alive somewhere.

A few days after the tragedy, I flew to Akron, Ohio, for a memorial service for Judy. Most of the astronaut office made the trip. On the flight Mike Coats astounded us with news on the cause of the disaster. "It was a failure of the O-rings on the bottom joint on the right side SRB. There's video of fire leaking from the booster." He had been appointed to the accident board and had seen the films at KSC. Just by happenstance the video had been recorded by a camera whose signal was not being fed to the networks. n.o.body at the LCC or MCC had been aware of the leak. We were all stunned. The SRBs had never been a major concern to us.So much for being certain certainan SSME had failed, I thought. I thought.

Mike also recounted his disgust with how the families had been handled immediately after the disaster. He had encountered them in the crew quarters three hours afterChallenger 's destruction. They were clamoring to return to Houston but NASA was holding them at KSC, supposedly to retrieve their luggage from the condos for the return flight. But Mike didn't believe it. "The women said they didn't care about the luggage. They wanted to leave immediately. They were being held so Vice President Bush could fly to the cape and offer the nation's condolences." He sarcastically added, "The wives had to cool their heels so the VP could feel better." I didn't blame Bush-his intentions had been n.o.ble. But the incident was just another example of how useless NASA HQ was when it came to standing up to politicians. They should have explained the situation to the White House and immediately flown the wives to Houston. The VP could have consoled them there. 's destruction. They were clamoring to return to Houston but NASA was holding them at KSC, supposedly to retrieve their luggage from the condos for the return flight. But Mike didn't believe it. "The women said they didn't care about the luggage. They wanted to leave immediately. They were being held so Vice President Bush could fly to the cape and offer the nation's condolences." He sarcastically added, "The wives had to cool their heels so the VP could feel better." I didn't blame Bush-his intentions had been n.o.ble. But the incident was just another example of how useless NASA HQ was when it came to standing up to politicians. They should have explained the situation to the White House and immediately flown the wives to Houston. The VP could have consoled them there.

Judy's hometown memorial service was held at Akron's Temple Israel. A photo of her replaced a casket. Death in the arena of high-performance flight frequently left only that, a memory. Judy and the others had been perpetually frozen in their vibrant youth.

Judith Arlene Resnik, dead at age thirty-six, was eulogized into a person I didn't recognize, as heroic as Joan of Arc and flawless as the Virgin Mary. In multiple Houston ceremonies I had heard the same glowing praise bestowed on the other crewmembers. I excused the excess. It was the perfection the living always demand of their fallen heroes and heroines.

As I listened to Hebrew prayers being said for my friends, guilt rose in my soul. Every astronaut shared in the blame for this tragedy. We had gone along with things we knew were wrong-flying without an escape system and carrying pa.s.sengers. The fact that our silence had been motivated by fear for our careers now seemed a flimsy excuse. There were eleven children who would never again see a parent.

The news of NASA's and Thiokol's bungling of the O-ring problem quickly reached the astronaut office and had a predictable effect. We were bitterly angry and disgusted with our management. How could they have ignored the warnings? In our criticisms we conveniently forgot our own mad thirst for flight. If NASA management had reacted to the O-ring warnings as they should have and grounded the shuttle for thirty-two months to redesign and test the SRB (the time it took to return the shuttle program to flight afterChallenger ), some of the loudest complaints would have come from astronauts. We were as guilty of injecting into the system a sense of urgency to keep flying as the NASA manager who had answered the Thiokol engineers' worries with "My G.o.d, Thiokol, when do you want me to launch, next April?" Only janitors and cafeteria workers at NASA were blameless in the deaths of the ), some of the loudest complaints would have come from astronauts. We were as guilty of injecting into the system a sense of urgency to keep flying as the NASA manager who had answered the Thiokol engineers' worries with "My G.o.d, Thiokol, when do you want me to launch, next April?" Only janitors and cafeteria workers at NASA were blameless in the deaths of theChallenger Seven. Seven.

After the White House learned of the O-ring history, it concluded there was no way NASA could conduct an impartial investigation into itself. President Reagan ordered the formation of the Roger's Commission to take over the investigation. (The commission was named for its chairman, former attorney general William P. Rogers.) As I followed their reports, I learned that my rookie flight, STS-41D, had been one of the fourteen O-ring near misses. In fact it had been the first to record a heat blow-by past a primary O-ring. As Bob Crippen had said, "Whatever it was, we've all ridden it." I wondered why STS-51L had been lost and not 41D? Would the "b.u.mp" of just one more max-q shock wave onDiscovery 's flight have opened the SRB joint seal enough for total O-ring failure and death? Only G.o.d knew that answer. But on August 30, 1984, the breeze from Death's scythe had fanned my cheek. 's flight have opened the SRB joint seal enough for total O-ring failure and death? Only G.o.d knew that answer. But on August 30, 1984, the breeze from Death's scythe had fanned my cheek.

In the weeks afterChallenger I went to work each morning wondering why. I had nothing to do. A handful of astronauts were appointed to support the Roger's Commission but I wasn't one of them. My phone rarely rang. There were no payload review meetings to attend, no simulations to fill the hours. In the astronaut office safe was a preliminary copy of my cla.s.sified STS-62A payload operations checklist, something I had been devouring in my pre- I went to work each morning wondering why. I had nothing to do. A handful of astronauts were appointed to support the Roger's Commission but I wasn't one of them. My phone rarely rang. There were no payload review meetings to attend, no simulations to fill the hours. In the astronaut office safe was a preliminary copy of my cla.s.sified STS-62A payload operations checklist, something I had been devouring in my pre-Challengerlife. But now it sat abandoned. I saw no reason to continue my training for the Vandenberg mission. It was obvious the shuttle would not fly for a very long time and when it did it wouldn't be from California. Rumor had it the USAF was going to bail out of the shuttle program altogether and go back to their expendable rockets. They had never been fans of launching their satellites on the shuttle in the first place. Congress had rammed that program down their throats. The air force had rightly argued that when expendable rockets blew up, they could be fixed and returned to flight status within months, whereas the human life issue of manned vehicles could delay their return to flight for years. During that lengthy delay national defense could be jeopardized. That was exactly whereChallenger had put the air force. It was easy to believe the rumors that the air force was going to walk away from their investment in the Vandenberg shuttle pad. had put the air force. It was easy to believe the rumors that the air force was going to walk away from their investment in the Vandenberg shuttle pad.

There was also a very big technical reason Vandenberg was dead. Because rockets being launched into polar orbit lose the boost effect of the eastward spin of the Earth, they cannot carry as much payload as eastward-launched KSC rockets. To recover some of that payload penalty, NASA had developed lightweight, filament-wound SRBs for use on Vandenberg missions. If Thiokol had been unable to seal asteel booster, the thinking went, how much more difficult would it be to seal one made of spun filament and glue? No one expected the lightweight Vandenberg SRBs to be certified now. The s.p.a.ce shuttle would never see polar orbit, and neither would I. I removed the Vandenberg photo from my wall and placed it in the bottom drawer of my desk. I didn't want to be reminded. booster, the thinking went, how much more difficult would it be to seal one made of spun filament and glue? No one expected the lightweight Vandenberg SRBs to be certified now. The s.p.a.ce shuttle would never see polar orbit, and neither would I. I removed the Vandenberg photo from my wall and placed it in the bottom drawer of my desk. I didn't want to be reminded.

It was impossible to escape the torment that wasChallenger. In a walk down the hall my eyes would catch the 51L office nameplates. On a visit to the mail room I encountered the staff moving the In a walk down the hall my eyes would catch the 51L office nameplates. On a visit to the mail room I encountered the staff moving theChallenger crew photos to the "Deceased Astronauts" cabinet. I wanted to cry. I wanted to stand there and just weep. But the Pettigrew in me denied that release. crew photos to the "Deceased Astronauts" cabinet. I wanted to cry. I wanted to stand there and just weep. But the Pettigrew in me denied that release.

The flight surgeon's office informed everybody that Dr. McGuire-one of the psychiatrists who had interviewed us during our TFNG medical screening, in what now seemed like a different life-would be available for counseling. Some of the wives sought his therapy, Donna included. Most people in my mental condition would have jumped at the opportunity for some help. But most people were not astronauts. I was dyed through and through with the military aviator's ethos that psychiatrists were for the weak. I was an astronaut. I was iron. So I held it all in. If I could hold an enema for fifteen minutes, I could hold all this in and deal with it myself. I would cure myself of depression or survivor's guilt or post-traumatic stress syndrome or whatever it was that ailed me...probably all of the above.

Six weeks afterChallenger, NASA announced they had found the crew c.o.c.kpit wreckage in eighty-five feet of water. It contained human remains. I had been hoping the wreckage would never be found, that the c.o.c.kpit and crew had been atomized at water impact. If it had been me, that's how I would have wanted it. Let the Atlantic be my grave. But as shallow as the wreckage rested, NASA had no option but to pull it up. Otherwise it would eventually be snagged on a fishing net or discovered by a recreational diver. NASA announced they had found the crew c.o.c.kpit wreckage in eighty-five feet of water. It contained human remains. I had been hoping the wreckage would never be found, that the c.o.c.kpit and crew had been atomized at water impact. If it had been me, that's how I would have wanted it. Let the Atlantic be my grave. But as shallow as the wreckage rested, NASA had no option but to pull it up. Otherwise it would eventually be snagged on a fishing net or discovered by a recreational diver.

Having been at an aircraft crash site, I suspected the condition of the remains was horrific. The c.o.c.kpit had been sheared from the rest ofChallenger , and after a 60,000-foot fall had impacted the water at its terminal velocity of nearly 250 miles per hour. At that speed the Atlantic would have been as unyielding as solid earth. I couldn't imagine the remains would allow the pathologists to learn anything. And I was equally certain nothing relevant to the tragedy would be discovered on the voice recorder, even if it was in good enough condition to be read. d.i.c.k Scobee's "Go at throttle up" was uttered only a couple seconds prior to breakup and there was nothing out of the ordinary in his call. Obviously he and the rest of the crew were unaware of their problem. And nothing could have been recorded after breakup because the recorder lost electrical power and stopped at that instant. Not that there would have been anything to record. I remained convinced the crew had been killed outright or rendered unconscious when , and after a 60,000-foot fall had impacted the water at its terminal velocity of nearly 250 miles per hour. At that speed the Atlantic would have been as unyielding as solid earth. I couldn't imagine the remains would allow the pathologists to learn anything. And I was equally certain nothing relevant to the tragedy would be discovered on the voice recorder, even if it was in good enough condition to be read. d.i.c.k Scobee's "Go at throttle up" was uttered only a couple seconds prior to breakup and there was nothing out of the ordinary in his call. Obviously he and the rest of the crew were unaware of their problem. And nothing could have been recorded after breakup because the recorder lost electrical power and stopped at that instant. Not that there would have been anything to record. I remained convinced the crew had been killed outright or rendered unconscious whenChallenger fragmented. fragmented.

After the remains were removed, TFNG Mike Coats and several other astronauts examined the wreckage. Mike returned to Houston with the comment, "The c.o.c.kpit looks like aluminum foil that had been crushed into a ball." It was largely unrecognizable as a c.o.c.kpit, a fact that didn't surprise me. He added, "I saw a few strands of Judy's hair in the wreckage...and I found her necklace." He didn't have to say any more. I knew the necklace. Judy always wore it...a gold chain with a charm displaying the two-finger-and-thumb sign language symbol for "I love you." She had a hearing-impaired family member and the necklace was a display of her support for those with similar handicaps. The image Mike's words conjured would not leave me. Like the flash of a camera, I continued to see it no matter where I looked-the crushed c.o.c.kpit, Judy's hair, her necklace.

The remains were held at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station for pathologists to identify. A few weeks later I watched NASA's TV broadcast as a procession of hea.r.s.es drove onto the KSC runway and unloaded seven flag-draped caskets. Each was accompanied by an astronaut. A military honor guard reverently carried the remains into the belly of an air force C-141 transport aircraft. There was no dialogue to accompany the TV footage. The silence made the images even more heartrending. The camera followed the plane as it rolled down the runway and receded to just a dot in the sky. TheChallenger crew was finally returning to their families. crew was finally returning to their families.

On May 19 a horse-drawn caisson slowly bore the remains of d.i.c.k Scobee toward his final resting place in Arlington National Cemetery. The day was sultry and the air tinted with the odor of horse dung and freshly mowed gra.s.s. A military band, playing a medley of patriotic arrangements, led our procession. A formation of skin-headed GI pallbearers, dressed in mirror-polished livery, marched with them. Another group of buzz-cut soldiers bore the American flag and other standards streaming blue and red battle ribbons. Rivulets of sweat poured into their eyes from under their headgear, but they did not break the precision of their march to wipe it away. The astronaut corps and a handful of our spouses trailed the entourage. Between music selections the drummer maintained a solo staccato. The clop of hooves on the cobblestone mingled with the tapping of the women's heels to compete with the drummer's cadence. A symphony of other mournful sounds tugged at the heart: the choking sobs of women, the creak of the caisson, the groan of the leather tack, the jingle of a bridle.

The chaplain conducted a brief graveside service. Then an honor guard fired a rapid three-shot rifle salute, each shot punctuated by the metallic tinkle of the ejected bra.s.s. The young children and some of the adults startled visibly at the loudness of the firings. Other soldiers lifted the flag from the casket and folded it with machinelike precision. It was handed to George Abbey, who, in turn, presented it to June Scobee. A flight of four NASA T-38s zoomed into view in fingertip formation. Over the grave the number-two pilot jerked his plane upward and disappeared into the clouds leaving the missing man gap. Then the play of "Taps" drew out a new wave of sobs.

My grief wasn't refreshed in any way by the scene. It couldn't be. I had reached my limits of that emotion. But as the notes of "Taps" floated in the air I was stirred anew in my anger at NASA management. This should have never happened. It was completely preventable. There had been four years of warnings.

I wondered if any of them at that grave felt culpable. I suspected those who knew nothing of the O-ring problem, and most at JSC and HQ had not, felt they were off the responsibility hook. In my book they were not. It wasn't an O-ring failure that brought us to this Arlington service. That was merely a symptom. The real failure was in the leadership of NASA. Over many years it had allowed the agency to degenerate into a loose confederation of independent fiefdoms. As proof of that, the Roger's Commission was finding that many at MSFC had been aware of the O-ring issue, but the problem had not been communicated to the appropriate offices at HQ and JSC, including Young's and Abbey's offices. Neither did the Thiokol engineers' eleventh-hour worries about launching in cold temperature get to the launch director at KSC. And astronaut concerns about the lack of an escape system and the pa.s.senger program were unknown to NASA's senior management, of that I was certain. NASA was filled with incredibly talented people, some of the world's best. But the agency lacked the leadership necessary to bind everyone together into an effective and safe team. The NASA administrators were largely budget lobbyists beholden to the White House and Congress. They didn't lead NASA. They certainly didn't leadme. I couldn't recall any administrator ever visiting the astronaut office to solicit our opinions. I had heard one TFNG grumble, "We should fly every new NASA administrator on a shuttle mission. Maybe if they had the s.h.i.t scared out of them they'd be more beholden to us." That was a part-timer program I would endorse. I couldn't recall any administrator ever visiting the astronaut office to solicit our opinions. I had heard one TFNG grumble, "We should fly every new NASA administrator on a shuttle mission. Maybe if they had the s.h.i.t scared out of them they'd be more beholden to us." That was a part-timer program I would endorse.

"Who led NASA?" was the question. n.o.body. That's why we were standing in Arlington listening to "Taps" for d.i.c.k Scobee. It was even a mystery to me who led my fiefdom. Who was in charge at JSC? George Abbey seemed to be absolute ruler of his own little duchy. Even now, a previously planned new astronaut selection was still rolling along. The shuttle wouldn't fly again for years. Why bring in more astronauts now? We couldn't understand why the JSC director or NASA HQ didn't order a stop to it. It was more proof to us that when it came to anything a.s.sociated with astronauts,everybody, including the JSC director and NASA administrator, worked for Abbey. He didn't answer to anybody. How many other similarly independent fiefdoms existed within NASA? What were their kings like? What frustrations burdened their serfs? I could only speak of my own. Lack of leadership at JSC and in Washington, D.C., had allowed the astronaut office to become dominated by fear. Even outsiders had become aware of it. In a vitriolic March 12, 1986, memo addressed to John Young, Colonel Larry Griffin, commander of the air force detachment to NASA (he was not an astronaut), wrote, "...my personal experience in working with the astronaut office is that nearly everyone there is absolutely afraid to voice any opinion that does not agree with yours. You criticizing anyone for 'pressure' is ludicrous when the primary axiom in the astronaut office is, 'Don't cross John if you ever want to fly.' That's pressure!" Colonel Griffin had it slightly wrong. We were afraid to voice any opinion that did not agree with that of Young including the JSC director and NASA administrator, worked for Abbey. He didn't answer to anybody. How many other similarly independent fiefdoms existed within NASA? What were their kings like? What frustrations burdened their serfs? I could only speak of my own. Lack of leadership at JSC and in Washington, D.C., had allowed the astronaut office to become dominated by fear. Even outsiders had become aware of it. In a vitriolic March 12, 1986, memo addressed to John Young, Colonel Larry Griffin, commander of the air force detachment to NASA (he was not an astronaut), wrote, "...my personal experience in working with the astronaut office is that nearly everyone there is absolutely afraid to voice any opinion that does not agree with yours. You criticizing anyone for 'pressure' is ludicrous when the primary axiom in the astronaut office is, 'Don't cross John if you ever want to fly.' That's pressure!" Colonel Griffin had it slightly wrong. We were afraid to voice any opinion that did not agree with that of Youngor Abbey. Did the JSC director or the NASA administrator have any idea how fearful we were of our management? If they had been involved in our lives, they would have known and could have fixed the problem. That's what good leaders do. Abbey. Did the JSC director or the NASA administrator have any idea how fearful we were of our management? If they had been involved in our lives, they would have known and could have fixed the problem. That's what good leaders do.

I couldn't point to any single individual and say, "He did it!" but, collectively, NASA management put Scobee and the other six in their graves. I wanted them all gone. So did most of the astronaut corps. But we were so jaded by our NASA experiences, we doubted it would happen. Already it was more than three months sinceChallenger and there had been no firings. I saw the future and it looked remarkably like the past. Of course there would be new "oversight committees" and a new "safety emphasis," but to a significant degree the same people would remain in leadership positions and that meant nothing would really change. I would later hear a TFNG describe it perfectly. "You can paint a different tail number on the squadron dog [referring to the most malfunction-p.r.o.ne jet] but it's still the same dog." and there had been no firings. I saw the future and it looked remarkably like the past. Of course there would be new "oversight committees" and a new "safety emphasis," but to a significant degree the same people would remain in leadership positions and that meant nothing would really change. I would later hear a TFNG describe it perfectly. "You can paint a different tail number on the squadron dog [referring to the most malfunction-p.r.o.ne jet] but it's still the same dog."

I walked away from the Arlington ceremony angry, bitter, depressed, and guilt-ridden...making a mental note to tell Donna that if I died on a shuttle mission I didn't want Abbey or Young or anybody from NASA HQ anywhere near my grave. I certainly didn't want any of them handing her the flag from my coffin. (Upon my return to Houston, I did make that request of Donna.) The only positive thought I could muster was that at least there would be no more scab pulling. The crew was buried. Now the healing could begin.

But G.o.d granted us only the briefest of reprieves. A week after Scobee's funeral, astronaut Steve Thorne, cla.s.s of 1985, died in an off-duty recreational plane crash. It was another body blow to the astronaut corps.

*Enterprise,the first orbiter, was never designed for s.p.a.ceflight. It was used in preSTS-1 glide tests off the back of NASA's 747 carrier aircraft.

Chapter 27.

Castle Intrigue.

Several weeks afterChallenger I was finally given a job: to review the design of the Range Safety System (RSS). NASA wasn't just focusing on the SRB O-ring design. It wanted to be certain there were no other deadly failure modes lurking in other shuttle components. Astronauts were a.s.signed to work with experts from every subsystem to root out any safety issues. I was a.s.signed the RSS, the system designed to terminate the flight of an errant shuttle. It would prove to be an a.s.signment that would nearly terminate my career. I was finally given a job: to review the design of the Range Safety System (RSS). NASA wasn't just focusing on the SRB O-ring design. It wanted to be certain there were no other deadly failure modes lurking in other shuttle components. Astronauts were a.s.signed to work with experts from every subsystem to root out any safety issues. I was a.s.signed the RSS, the system designed to terminate the flight of an errant shuttle. It would prove to be an a.s.signment that would nearly terminate my career.

Most astronauts grudgingly accepted that the RSS was needed to protect civilian population centers. But there was no denying we hated it because it directly threatened our lives. Over several months I traveled to Cape Canaveral Air Force Station to meet with the RSS personnel-they were not NASA employees. By congressional law the protection of the civilian population from rocket mishaps was the responsibility of the Department of Defense, and DOD had given the job to the USAF. And the only way the air force could guarantee that protection was to place explosives on everybody's rockets, NASA's as well as all military and commercial missiles. (On the shuttle, the explosives were placed on each SRB and the gas tank. While there was none on the orbiter, detonation of the other explosives would also destroy the orbiter and kill the crew.) During every missile launch, USAF officers, who served as RSOs, monitored the machine's trajectory. If a rocket strayed off course, it would be remotely blown up to prevent it from falling on a city.

In multiple meetings I examined every aspect of the design of the RSS and the selection and training of the RSOs. (I would learn that RSOs routinely declined invitations to attend KSC social functions with astronauts. They did not want their launch-day judgment impaired by a friendship with crewmembers they might have to kill.) The system was as fail-safe as humanly possible. In these same meetings I also learned that the Range Safety Office was proposing some changes to shuttle launch abort procedures. They worried that in some aborts, pieces of the jettisoned gas tank could land in Africa. Their suggested solution was to have astronauts burn the OMS engines during these aborts. The additional thrust produced in the burn would result in an ET trajectory that would drop the fuel tank into the Indian Ocean.

When I brought this request to John Young, he became as hot as a reentering ET, arguing it was a dumb idea. The OMS propellant was the gas used for the final push into orbit, for maneuvers while in orbit, and for the braking maneuver to get out of orbit. The RSOs were asking us to burn gas during ascent that we might later need-just to put another zero behind their already conservative risk-to-Africans probability numbers. I agreed with Young. But then the trajectory planners at MCC did their own studies and found that igniting the OMS engines pre-MECO (burning them at the same time as the SSMEs) would actually improve nominal and launch abort performance. In other words, it would improve the crew's chances of reaching orbit or a runway. When I brought this data to Young, I expected him to enthusiastically endorse it, but I was stunned when he didn't. His position was that we would never do an OMS burn on the uphill ride. I a.s.sumed I hadn't made myself clear and tried again. "John, I'm not suggesting this be done to satisfy the RSO. This is our own FDO recommending it. The data shows it will improve performance during the abort." John would hear none of it.

Over the next several weeks, in multiple meetings in Young's office, I continued to bring him the results of various meetings on the pre-MECO OMS burn issue. The ball was rolling. It was going to happen.*Young was beyond angry at this news and focused his anger at me. Again and again I tried to make him understand the pre-MECO OMS burn was something FDO wanted to do to protect the crew. But he was deaf to my logic. Instead he remained focused on the fact the Range Safety Office wanted the OMS burn to keep the ET off Africa.

I appealed for help from the JSC office pursuing the OMS burn change, the office of Flight Director Jay Greene. Jay had cut his teeth as a young MCC flight controller during the Apollo program. I held him in great esteem. He was heart-and-soul dedicated to crew safety. If he and FDO were saying that an uphill OMS burn was going to make things safer for the crews during some aborts, then it would. I asked him to come to Young's office with the supporting engineers to make their case to Young. He would be happy to was his reply. I felt good about what I had arranged. Jay was a well-regarded flight director. John wouldhave to listen to him. to listen to him.

At the appointed hour I rendezvoused with Jay and his entourage of engineers and we walked to Young's office. It was empty. When I asked where he was, his secretary sheepishly replied, "He went to get a haircut." I wanted to scream. He had stiff-armed me. His mind was made up. He didn't want to hear any contrary arguments from anybody.

In an attempt to gain the support of other astronauts, I presented some data on the RSS situation at the September 15, 1986, Monday morning meeting. I was hardly able to finish a sentence. Young heckled me at every turn. I was humiliated. Over a beer I mentioned my travails to Hoot Gibson. Hoot exploded, "I've had the same problem with him on the issues I'm working and I've just quit listening and talking to him."

As the weeks pa.s.sed I fell further into the depression that had started withChallenger 's loss. I had lost friends. I had lost a mission into polar orbit. Now the core of my professional life, my work ethic, was slipping away. All my life I had been intent on getting the job done. When the first psychiatrist of my TFNG interview had asked me what my personal strength was, I had truthfully replied, "I always do my best." It was my hallmark. I knew I wasn't the smartest astronaut. But I was solid, reliable. I always got the job done...until now. I hated my job. I hated my boss. When I slept, which wasn't much, I had dreams of Judy's necklace and exploding shuttles and writhing SRBs and walking through the gore of a crash site. 's loss. I had lost friends. I had lost a mission into polar orbit. Now the core of my professional life, my work ethic, was slipping away. All my life I had been intent on getting the job done. When the first psychiatrist of my TFNG interview had asked me what my personal strength was, I had truthfully replied, "I always do my best." It was my hallmark. I knew I wasn't the smartest astronaut. But I was solid, reliable. I always got the job done...until now. I hated my job. I hated my boss. When I slept, which wasn't much, I had dreams of Judy's necklace and exploding shuttles and writhing SRBs and walking through the gore of a crash site.

My distress had long been known to Donna. Every evening I would recount my stories of abuse to her. As always, she listened and lent her support...and lit more bonfires of votive candles to send her prayers heavenward for my delivery from Young. We talked about leaving NASA. I could return to the air force, but I knew I wouldn't be happy there. The only thing awaiting me in the USAF was a desk. I would never see the inside of a c.o.c.kpit again. I was too old and too senior in rank. I would end up buried in the bowels of the Pentagon. I didn't want to leave NASA. I wanted to fly again. MyDiscovery flight couldn't compare with what some of my peers had done on their missions. Pinky Nelson, "Ox" van Hoften, Dale Gardner, and Bob Stewart had all done tetherless s.p.a.cewalks. They had donned MMUs and, like real-life Buck Rogerses, had jetted away from their shuttles into the abyss of s.p.a.ce. Kathy Sullivan, Dale Gardner, Dave Griggs, and Jeff Hoffman had done traditional tethered s.p.a.cewalks. Sally Ride had used the robot arm to deploy and retrieve a satellite. Rhea Seddon had used the robot arm in an attempt to activate a malfunctioning satellite. I wanted to do similar things that challenged my skills as a mission specialist. I wanted a s.p.a.cewalk flight. I wanted to fly a mission with an RMS task. I wanted a high-inclination orbit so I could see my Albuquerque home from s.p.a.ce. And there was only one place on Earth I could do these things...at NASA. As much as I wanted to walk into Young's office and tell him, "Take this job and shove it!" I couldn't. There was no place else to go and ride a rocket into s.p.a.ce. I would have to endure. flight couldn't compare with what some of my peers had done on their missions. Pinky Nelson, "Ox" van Hoften, Dale Gardner, and Bob Stewart had all done tetherless s.p.a.cewalks. They had donned MMUs and, like real-life Buck Rogerses, had jetted away from their shuttles into the abyss of s.p.a.ce. Kathy Sullivan, Dale Gardner, Dave Griggs, and Jeff Hoffman had done traditional tethered s.p.a.cewalks. Sally Ride had used the robot arm to deploy and retrieve a satellite. Rhea Seddon had used the robot arm in an attempt to activate a malfunctioning satellite. I wanted to do similar things that challenged my skills as a mission specialist. I wanted a s.p.a.cewalk flight. I wanted to fly a mission with an RMS task. I wanted a high-inclination orbit so I could see my Albuquerque home from s.p.a.ce. And there was only one place on Earth I could do these things...at NASA. As much as I wanted to walk into Young's office and tell him, "Take this job and shove it!" I couldn't. There was no place else to go and ride a rocket into s.p.a.ce. I would have to endure.

On September 19, astronauts celebrated for the first time sinceChallenger with a party at a local club. I had been looking forward to it. After nine brutal months, it would be good to erase my brain with a few drinks and have some fun with my fellow TFNGs. Donna and I sat at a table with the Brandensteins, Coveys, and Boldens (cla.s.s of 1980). After dinner, Bob Cabana, the cla.s.s leader of the latest group of astronauts to arrive at JSC (cla.s.s of 1985), walked to the stage and invited George Abbey to step forward and receive an autographed photo of their cla.s.s. The image immediately brought to mind our TFNG efforts to brownnose Abbey back in 1978. Kathy Covey let out a "woo, woo, woo" catcall. We all understood her sarcasm. Every astronaut cla.s.s prost.i.tuted itself to Abbey thinking it was going to help them. The cla.s.s of 1985 would soon learn what we had all learned-shoving your nose up Abbey's behind didn't get you anywhere. In a year they would all be cursing him and Young like everybody else. with a party at a local club. I had been looking forward to it. After nine brutal months, it would be good to erase my brain with a few drinks and have some fun with my fellow TFNGs. Donna and I sat at a table with the Brandensteins, Coveys, and Boldens (cla.s.s of 1980). After dinner, Bob Cabana, the cla.s.s leader of the latest group of astronauts to arrive at JSC (cla.s.s of 1985), walked to the stage and invited George Abbey to step forward and receive an autographed photo of their cla.s.s. The image immediately brought to mind our TFNG efforts to brownnose Abbey back in 1978. Kathy Covey let out a "woo, woo, woo" catcall. We all understood her sarcasm. Every astronaut cla.s.s prost.i.tuted itself to Abbey thinking it was going to help them. The cla.s.s of 1985 would soon learn what we had all learned-shoving your nose up Abbey's behind didn't get you anywhere. In a year they would all be cursing him and Young like everybody else.

Others at the table were soon speaking of their disgust with our leadership. At that, Kathy, a very successful and hard-nosed businesswoman, began to mock our impotence. "I've listened to this s.h.i.t for years. You guys are so gutless you deserve what you get" was her message. Of course she was right. But it all went back to that incontrovertible fact...there was no other place on the planet where we could fly a rocket. If Satan himself had been our boss and demanded we take a fiery pitchfork up the wazoo before we could climb into a shuttle c.o.c.kpit, all of us would have long ago become acrobatic in our ability to bend over and spread our cheeks.

I grabbed another beer and then another. I didn't want to hear any more of this. I was burned out. But it was impossible to escape. As the party was breaking up, Ron Grabe (cla.s.s of 1980) took me aside. "Mike, you better watch your six o'clock." It was fighter pilot lingo; I had an enemy on my tail. "This week I was waiting to see Young and I heard him on the phone. I don't know who he was speaking with, but I a.s.sumed it was Abbey. He was saying, 'Mike Mullane is one of the enemy. He's a nice kid and all that, but he's on the side of the Range Safety people.'"

A "nice kid"? I was forty years old. And what crime had I committed to earn the label "enemy"? I was guilty of doing my a.s.signed job.

I thanked Grabe for the warning and added, "I guess I'll talk to P.J." P. J. Weitz was a Skylab-era astronaut working as Abbey's deputy. He was well regarded, and I considered him the only manager I could trust within all of NASA.

Grabe added, "Don't bother with P.J. I've already spoken to him about Young. I told him John has become unbearable. n.o.body can make an objective presentation on any subject. He has made up his mind on everything. I used your Monday morning presentation on the RSS as an example. P.J. was sympathetic but said he couldn't do anything."

I reached a new nadir of depression. It was never clear how Young influenced flight a.s.signments. Most of us believed he had nothing to do with them, which, if true, was absolutely amazing given the t.i.tle on his office door: Chief of Astronauts. But none of us knew for sure. Maybe Abbey did listen to his input. I couldn't just dismiss Grabe's warning. I did need to watch my six.

The following week I made an appointment to see Abbey. I had been at NASA for eight years and had only met with George on a handful of occasions and always in the company of others. I had never had any real one-on-one time with him. I approached his desk with the same trepidation I imagine a departed soul experiences while being escorted by the seraphim to the judgment seat of G.o.d.

He motioned for me to take a seat and I began to explain my problems with Young. Abbey wouldn't look me in the eye. As I spoke he continued to shuffle through papers on his desk as if my problem were the merest of trivia. I was only a couple sentences into my rehea.r.s.ed speech when he saw where it was going and mumbled, "Don't worry about that," to his ink blotter. "John is just frustrated he can't do more." I kept talking. I needed resolution. I was still working the RSS and OMS burn issues and being savaged by Young in the process. I couldn't go on like this. Abbey interrupted me with a dismissive wave. "Don't worry about it. You'll be getting too busy with DOD affairs in the next six months." I was silenced by that comment. What was he suggesting? Was he hinting I was in line for a Department of Defense shuttle mission? There were several DOD payloads ready to go on the shuttle-satellites so optimized for the shuttle cargo bay they could not be easily switched back to the air force's unmanned boosters. Or was Abbey implying I would soon switch jobs from Range Safety to review the safety of DOD payloads? Or was this a polite warning that my career at NASA was being terminated and I would be going back to the USAF? There was no divining what George Abbey meant.

I came away from George's office only slightly unburdened. His manner suggested my career was intact. But in the same breath he also told me to basically ignore John Young-his chief deputy. That command was more proof NASA's leadership structure was a joke. How could I do that? Young was my immediate boss. He signed my air force performance reports. If any generals ever called to discuss my promotion potential, they would be talking to Young. Besides, there were some serious range safety issues that needed to be addressed. Was I supposed to "not worry about those"? There was also the possibility that perhaps John hadn't been talking to Abbey when Grabe overheard him. Maybe he had been bad-mouthing me to one of his champions, a champion far above Abbey's level who held veto power over Abbey's crew selections and was ready to redline me from any list based on Young's input. I hated the position I was in. I couldn't just ignore Young. My prayer was that Abbey would discuss the situation with Young and he would become rational on the OMS burn issue. But all hope in that regard was dashed a couple months later when I was warned a second time that there was somebody at my six o'clock. This time the messenger was Hank Hartsfield. "Mike, John has a real hard-on against you about the way the pre-MECO OMS burn issue has played out. I heard him mumbling that maybe you should be replaced. I hope your career hasn't been damaged."

I was blind with fury. At every meeting on the topic I had dutifully represented Young's position that he disapproved of burning OMS fuel during powered flight. But Young never personally attended these meetings to defend his position. He never used his bully pulpit as a six-time astronaut, moon-walking hero, and chief of astronauts to formally make his case. When I suggested to him in writing that he attend a Flight Techniques Panel meeting at which Jay Greene was going to "press forward with implementation [of pre-MECO OMS burns]," John shot back his written answer: "NO! We are NOT going to a forum or voting on this issue!"

I thanked Hank for the warning, suppressing the urge to ask, "Who do I appeal to for justice? Who runs this asylum called Johnson s.p.a.ce Center?"

But Hank's warning was the final straw. I broke. Mike Mullane, the man who prided himself on being able to hold it all inside, be it an enema in the colon or an agony of emotions in the soul, the man who had lived a life in abject fear of doctors, the man who thought psychiatry was for the feminine and weak...that iron man, Mike Mullane, called Dr. McGuire's office and made an appointment. I was losing my mind.

On the day of the meeting I picked up the phone several times to cancel. I was certain that if I walked into McGuire's office I would be recording a new astronaut first. I would become the first astronaut in the history of NASA to voluntarily see a shrink. I would be admitting failure. I would be violating the "Better dead than look bad" commandment. I could imagine how the office grapevine would carry the news if my dark secret was ever discovered. "John Young put Mullane in tears. He ran to the shrink like one of those weepy women onOprah. " My finger hovered over the phone keypad as this image of personal failure filled my mind. I would cancel the appointment. But I would always come back to the question, "What choice did I have?" I was going freakin' nuts. I would hang up the phone only to immediately s.n.a.t.c.h it back and begin to question myself all over again. " My finger hovered over the phone keypad as this image of personal failure filled my mind. I would cancel the appointment. But I would always come back to the question, "What choice did I have?" I was going freakin' nuts. I would hang up the phone only to immediately s.n.a.t.c.h it back and begin to question myself all over again.

Somehow my resolve triumphed. I made it to zero hour. I told my secretary I was going to the gym and then took a circuitous route to McGuire's temporary office. He merely consulted for NASA. His primary job was in San Antonio with the University of Texas. I found the unmarked room and walked by it several times, checking the hallways for any prying eyes. A Baptist preacher on a clandestine rendezvous with a prost.i.tute could not have acted more suspiciously. The hallway was deserted. Finally I grabbed the door handle, took one more hurried glance in all directions, rushed into the room, and immediately closed the door. That entry alone was probably enough for McGuire to make a diagnosis: paranoid.

As he had ten years earlier, Dr. Terry McGuire met me with a broad smile and enthusiastic handshake. "Come on in, Mike. Have a seat. What can I do for you?" He was largely unchanged from how I remembered him-tall, trim, yielding to baldness, clean shaven. He had the perfect voice for his job-deep, melodious, and soothing.

While I didn't think there was a d.a.m.n thing he could do for me, I cut to the chase. "Young and Abbey are driving me f.u.c.king nuts."

McGuire laughed at that. "I've heard that from a number of your fellow astronauts."

I'm sure he noticed the shock on my face. "Are you saying I'm not the first astronaut to meet with you?"

"Not at all."

The revelation was like a giant weight being lifted from my shoulders. Misery loves company and now I was being told I was part of a miserable crowd. Suddenly, I wanted to interview him, to find what others were saying, but he quickly steered me back to topic. "So, tell me what's happening with Young and Abbey."

For the next hour the demons of anger and disgust flew from my soul like bats from a cave. Emboldened by the thought that others had sat in this same seat, I didn't hold anything back. I told of my ongoing head-b.u.t.ting with Young on range safety and OMS burn issues and the warnings other astronauts had given me that my career was in peril for doing my job. "We're all afraid to speak up for fear it will jeopardize our place in line. There's no communication. n.o.body understands how crews are chosen or even who chooses them or who has veto power over them-and that's all that matters to us, flight a.s.signments. Fear dominates the office."

I recounted how astronauts had recently attempted to forecast flight a.s.signments based upon where people would be parking. "Hank Hartsfield put out an updated parking lot map. Some astronauts jumped on it as if it were the Rosetta Stone, which could decipher their place in the flight line. They a.s.sumed those with the closest parking s.p.a.ces to the simulators were to be on the next missions. It's sick. It just shows our desperation for some insight into the flight a.s.signment process."

I told him of something Hartsfield had related. "Hank is working as Abbey's deputy and told me that George is resisting bringing computer links into the astronaut office. It's Hank's opinion that Abbey doesn't want us to have a communication path he can't control."

I told him of a revealing incident in which one astronaut suggested, "There will be one hundred suspects, all astronauts, if Abbey was ever to die from foul play." Another astronaut offered, "No, there won't be one hundred suspects. There will be one hundred astronauts clamoring to take responsibility...'I'm the hero...I did it.'" A hundred astronauts were on the verge of going postal.

I explained the profound us-versus-them att.i.tude that had come to dominate our relationship with Young and Abbey. I told of astronauts who were perceived as spies for the duo. "Whenever they enter a conversation, everybody watches what they say for fear it will come back to haunt them. It's like being in a prison yard and worrying about the warden's stoolies overhearing an escape plan."

I told him how we had all hoped theChallenger disaster would be the catalyst for change in management, but nine months had pa.s.sed and nothing had changed and, with each pa.s.sing day, it became more evident nothing ever would change. I offered my opinion that "n.o.body runs NASA. Young and Abbey don't answer to anybody. They're bulletproof." disaster would be the catalyst for change in management, but nine months had pa.s.sed and nothing had changed and, with each pa.s.sing day, it became more evident nothing ever would change. I offered my opinion that "n.o.body runs NASA. Young and Abbey don't answer to anybody. They're bulletproof."

Throughout my diatribe, I couldn't get it out of my head that I was engaged in an exercise of futility. What was McGuire going to do? He wasn't even a NASA employee: He was a consultant. I was wasting my breath.

I finally stopped and thanked him for listening. "I know there's nothing you can do on this, but it's been helpful to get it off my chest. Knowing others have been driven to you in their frustration is definitely helpful."

McGuire said nothing to dissuade my belief that he was powerless to effect any management changes. He would have been lying if he had, was my certain opinion. He encouraged me to stick it out. Changes might be in the works, brighter days might be ahead, blah, blah, blah. It was what I had expected. He was as impotent as the rest of us. He was a good listener but he had no cure for what ailed me. I wanted to fly in s.p.a.ce again and my immediate boss had twice indicated, if he had anything to do with it, that was never going to happen. I had long exhausted myself wondering if Young's opinion mattered at all.

As I rose to leave, McGuire handed me a ten-page, single-s.p.a.ced doc.u.ment. "You might want to read this sometime. It'll help explain the situation you're in."

I wanted to say, "I don't need to read anything to know the situation I'm in...It's called deep s.h.i.t," but held my tongue. I glanced at the cover page,Leadership as Related to Astronaut Corps, by Terence F. McGuire, M.D., Consultant in Psychiatry. It was undated. My curiosity was piqued by the t.i.tle. Why was McGuire writing about astronaut leadership? I could only a.s.sume it was a self-initiated private work. "Publish or perish" was the order of the day for university professors. I rolled the doc.u.ment into my hand, thanked McGuire for listening, and departed. It was undated. My curiosity was piqued by the t.i.tle. Why was McGuire writing about astronaut leadership? I could only a.s.sume it was a self-initiated private work. "Publish or perish" was the order of the day for university professors. I rolled the doc.u.ment into my hand, thanked McGuire for listening, and departed.

I wasn't about to be found at my desk reading anything with McGuire's name on it, so I put the doc.u.ment in my briefcase and took it home. That evening I popped a beer and began reading. "One of the more operationally practical ways of viewing personality subdivides the population into six basic cl.u.s.ters of characteristics that define distinct personality types...." Yawn. I felt like I was back in high school readingMoby-d.i.c.k (a book I'm convinced n.o.body has ever completed). But as I read further I realized McGuire did have an extensive knowledge of what was happening in the astronaut corps. (a book I'm convinced n.o.body has ever completed). But as I read further I realized McGuire did have an extensive knowledge of what was happening in the astronaut corps.

"In the last eight years or so, the dissatisfaction level relative to management style has risen significantly, if I am to judge from all the unsolicited comments offered by astronauts and their spouses. The level of dissonance is much higher than I experienced in my military career as a flight surgeon-psychiatrist working almost exclusively with pilots and their families. Nor have I seen its equal with the elite flying units or special projects air crew for whom I was a long-term consultant.... Though they are exceedingly careful about the setting in which they [astronauts] give voice to their dissatisfaction, there is no doubt that the current managerial style const.i.tutes an important morale issue with the astronaut community and, for many, has a stultifying effect on creativity and open discussion."

The writing was couched in scientific mumbo jumbo and not a single manager's name was mentioned. The opening paragraph implied it was nothing more than a technical paper. "This is a background doc.u.ment on leadership as it relates to the astronaut group, more specifically, on the impact of various leadership styles upon the morale, creativity and productivity of the astronauts." But much of the remainder of the work focused on a particular leadership style as it related to astronauts-the autocratic power merchant. It didn't take a rocket scientist to see the similarities between that style, as described by McGuire, and the way Abbey operated: "Like a good Pavlovian psychologist, he has learned not only that rewards and punishments reinforce behaviors, but also that there are times when an inconstant system of incomplete rewards can evoke even stronger adherence to desired behaviors than a predictable full-scale reward system. This second approach also lowers his predictability and keeps people off balance."

"...No one in the cadre is allowed to know all parts of the grand plans the power merchant may have."

"Inconsistency, ambiguity, silence, evasion...all have their place in his studied unpredictability."

Later in the doc.u.ment, McGuire makes the point, "The autocratic managerial style is the most ant.i.thetical to the needs of the astronaut corps, a group who in most settings would be chiefs rather than indians [sic]. Though calculated to be the least effective, if the autocrat is open, non-devious and fair, he can still be acceptable to the prototypical astronaut. But if he is the type of leader who is oriented toward the acc.u.mulation of personal power for power's sake, rather than for the good of the company, his impact on the corps will be destructive. Men of such inclination are drawn by nature toward the autocratic style. So I have gone to special pains to identify the hard-core autocratic power merchant because, of all leadership approaches, it has the greatest potential for negative impact not only on personnel cl.u.s.ters such as the astronauts, but also within the total inst.i.tution...."

He continued, "For many years astronaut morale has been, I believe, considerably below its potential. Many of the fine men who have moved on from its ranks to other endeavors have told me of the negative role astronaut management has played in their decision to leave. As is so often true, the most capable men, those with more options and more confidence, are the most at risk to depart NASA for new challenges. Usually they elect to leave with as little surface disturbance as possible, out of deference to NASA as an organization. In my several decades of a.s.sociation with NASA, I have never seen a more propitious time to inst.i.tute change, nor a time in which the morale-boosting effects of realistic positive change would be more welcome."

I set aside the doc.u.ment completely befuddled. What did it all mean? Had someone in management commissioned McGuire to doc.u.ment astronaut frustrations and scientifically show how Abbey's leadership style was the direct cause? If so, to what end-as justification to get rid of George? His comment "...never seen a more propitious time to inst.i.tute change..." certainly sounded like a recommendation to somebody. It certainly wasn't the type of statement you would expect to find in a technical paper written for publication in a medical journal. But I wasn't about to go back to McGuire and question him. More than ever I felt like I was living in medieval times with plots swirling about. I had one objective...not to get burned by any castle intrigue. If somebody was attempting to a.s.sa.s.sinate John and/or George I wished them luck, but I didn't want to be a partic.i.p.ant. Like a serf in the field, I wanted to be invisible when the opposing armies swept past. I just wanted to hold on long enough to fly another s.p.a.ce mission and then I would be gone from this madness.

*It did happen. Pre-MECO OMS burns are now regularly done during nominal ascents and are part of shuttle launch abort procedures.

Chapter 28.

Falling.