Riding Rockets Part 15

I couldn't sleep and floated upstairs to watch the sights. The autopilot was holding the shuttle's belly to the Sun, courtesy of our tire leak, so I had to move from window to window to get the best view. I was annoyed at the inconvenience...until our unique att.i.tude served up a s.p.a.ce sight I had never seen before. I was looking through the overhead windows in a direction that was precisely "down"-Sun when the upward-pointing att.i.tude control thrusters fired. As their effluent of billions of ice crystals blossomed above the orbiter, a perfect shadow ofAtlantis appeared and was carried into infinity at hundreds of miles per hour. The strikingly beautiful sight reminded me of Captain Kirk's appeared and was carried into infinity at hundreds of miles per hour. The strikingly beautiful sight reminded me of Captain Kirk'sStarship Enterprise dashing into warp speed. I kept staring, hoping the display would repeat but it did not. The Sun dipped below the horizon and dashing into warp speed. I kept staring, hoping the display would repeat but it did not. The Sun dipped below the horizon andAtlantis was plunged into preternatural darkness. But there was one certainty about orbit flight: the pa.s.sing of one incredible s.p.a.ce sight only meant the arrival of another. My eyes were drawn to the lime green curtain of an aurora borealis waving over the Arctic Ocean far to the north. It brightened and dimmed as the rain of magnetic particles from the Sun varied in intensity. I was still staring at this phenomenon when the long streak of a shooting star brought my mind back to our heat-shield problem. In just a few hours that would be was plunged into preternatural darkness. But there was one certainty about orbit flight: the pa.s.sing of one incredible s.p.a.ce sight only meant the arrival of another. My eyes were drawn to the lime green curtain of an aurora borealis waving over the Arctic Ocean far to the north. It brightened and dimmed as the rain of magnetic particles from the Sun varied in intensity. I was still staring at this phenomenon when the long streak of a shooting star brought my mind back to our heat-shield problem. In just a few hours that would beAtlantis ...a shooting star blazing across the Pacific with a tail of ionized gas a thousand miles long. We were locked in an aluminum machine that would melt at 1,000 degrees. On reentry the belly tiles would be subjected to 2,000 degrees. The nose and leading edge of the wings would see even hotter temperatures. Just a couple inches of silica and carbon fiber were all that protected us from immolation, and our camera survey had shown some of those inches had been ripped away. The heat would definitely be getting closer to that aluminum. And what about the missing tile? Could the wind use the cavity it created to grab the edge of adjacent tiles and strip even more off, just like roof shingles being sequentially stripped in a hurricane? Engineers had always a.s.sured us that was not possible, but then I was certain the SRB nose cone engineers would have a.s.sured us their work could not fail either. ...a shooting star blazing across the Pacific with a tail of ionized gas a thousand miles long. We were locked in an aluminum machine that would melt at 1,000 degrees. On reentry the belly tiles would be subjected to 2,000 degrees. The nose and leading edge of the wings would see even hotter temperatures. Just a couple inches of silica and carbon fiber were all that protected us from immolation, and our camera survey had shown some of those inches had been ripped away. The heat would definitely be getting closer to that aluminum. And what about the missing tile? Could the wind use the cavity it created to grab the edge of adjacent tiles and strip even more off, just like roof shingles being sequentially stripped in a hurricane? Engineers had always a.s.sured us that was not possible, but then I was certain the SRB nose cone engineers would have a.s.sured us their work could not fail either.

Of one thing I was certain. IfAtlantis 's wounds were mortal, our fortress c.o.c.kpit would protect us long enough to watch death's approach. Certainly it would last long enough for us to see multiple warning messages as various systems were affected by the heat. We would probably live to experience the out-of-control tumble and breakup of the vehicle. Even after our fortress was penetrated by the incandescent heat, death would not be immediate. Our pressure suits would protect us from the loss of c.o.c.kpit air. Only when the fire penetrated the fabric of our LESes would we die. If we were lucky, unconsciousness would come before the heat began to consume our flesh. 's wounds were mortal, our fortress c.o.c.kpit would protect us long enough to watch death's approach. Certainly it would last long enough for us to see multiple warning messages as various systems were affected by the heat. We would probably live to experience the out-of-control tumble and breakup of the vehicle. Even after our fortress was penetrated by the incandescent heat, death would not be immediate. Our pressure suits would protect us from the loss of c.o.c.kpit air. Only when the fire penetrated the fabric of our LESes would we die. If we were lucky, unconsciousness would come before the heat began to consume our flesh.

I kept returning to MCC's a.s.sessment for comfort. It was hard not to yield to their conclusion that we were going to be fine. I had never been a.s.sociated with any teams as good as those that manned the MCC. But ifChallenger had proven anything, it was that great teams do fail. A lot of very smart people had mishandled the O-ring issue that killed the had proven anything, it was that great teams do fail. A lot of very smart people had mishandled the O-ring issue that killed theChallenger crew. Were they now mishandling our heat-shield damage? Would an crew. Were they now mishandling our heat-shield damage? Would anAtlantis presidential commission report end up containing the statement, "The crew radioed that the damage to their heat tiles looked serious, but in Houston their concerns were dismissed"? presidential commission report end up containing the statement, "The crew radioed that the damage to their heat tiles looked serious, but in Houston their concerns were dismissed"?

The anxiety was exhausting and I finally gave in to Hoot's solution. The day before, as he floated to the windows to do some sightseeing, he said, "No reason to die all tensed up." I would do my best to relax and enjoy the sights.

Chapter 35.

Riding a Meteor.

"Fifty seconds." Hoot gave the time remaining until the OMS deorbit burn. I floated behind Jerry Ross and watched the countdown on the computer displays. As the burn execute time neared, I tightened my grip on Jerry's seat. The one-quarter G of the thrusting OMS engines was trivial but it was enough to put anything unrestrained on the back wall, me included.

Astronauts have great faith in the OMS engines. They are the essence of simplicity. They have no spinning turbo-pumps to worry us, not even an igniter to fail and jeopardize our lives. The fuel and oxidizer are pushed into the combustion chamber by helium pressure, and their chemical composition causes them to ignite on contact. No spark needed. Getting stuck in orbit would ruin your whole day, so having a deorbit engine that was as foolproof as possible eased one of our perennial worries.

At time-zero the c.o.c.kpit shuddered under the hammer of the two engines. Small bits of food crumbs, which had escaped our cleanup, drifted to the back wall. Hoot and Guy watched the computer displays of helium pressures, temperatures, and other indications of engine performance. They were all nominal.

The burn, and its acceleration on our bodies, ended. We were back in weightlessness. Hoot checked the residuals, which indicated the error of the maneuver. They were negligible. Whatever fate awaited us, we were now irrevocably committed. The OMS deorbit burn had clipped 200 miles per hour from our speed and changed our orbit so its low point was into the Earth's atmosphere. There was no way we could climb back up to the temporary sanctuary of orbit.

According to the checklist I should have been strapped into the mid-deck seat, but there was nothing to do or see down there, so I had asked Hoot if I could hang out on the flight deck and shoot some video of the early part of reentry. I would get into my seat before the Gs got too high.

During the next twenty-five minutes we fell across the Indian Ocean, across the darkened continent of Australia, and shot into the night sky of the great Pacific basin. In our dive toward perigee,Atlantis gained back the velocity lost in the deorbit burn and added more. Shuttles achieved their peak speed on reentry, not ascent. The ride was as smooth and silent as oil on gla.s.s. The machine was on autopilot, with only her rear thruster jets active. Those were holding gained back the velocity lost in the deorbit burn and added more. Shuttles achieved their peak speed on reentry, not ascent. The ride was as smooth and silent as oil on gla.s.s. The machine was on autopilot, with only her rear thruster jets active. Those were holdingAtlantis 's nose 40 degrees high and presenting her wounded belly to the approaching atmosphere. Her aerodynamic control surfaces, the elevons on the wings and rudder on the tail, wouldn't be able to hold her in att.i.tude until we were much deeper into the atmosphere. If the rear thrusters failed, we would slowly drift out of att.i.tude, tumble, and die. But an RCS system failure was far down on our lists of worries. The thruster jets were just smaller versions of the OMS engines, using a simple blow-down helium pressure feed system with propellants that burned on contact. 's nose 40 degrees high and presenting her wounded belly to the approaching atmosphere. Her aerodynamic control surfaces, the elevons on the wings and rudder on the tail, wouldn't be able to hold her in att.i.tude until we were much deeper into the atmosphere. If the rear thrusters failed, we would slowly drift out of att.i.tude, tumble, and die. But an RCS system failure was far down on our lists of worries. The thruster jets were just smaller versions of the OMS engines, using a simple blow-down helium pressure feed system with propellants that burned on contact.

Hoot called the descent. "Mach 25.1...340,000 feet...Guidance looks great." We were slightly faster than 25 times the speed of sound and at an alt.i.tude of 64 miles. Our little green bug was tracking perfectly down the center energy line. We were on course for Edwards AFB, still 5,000 miles away.

The atmosphere had thickened enough to become an obstacle to our hypersonic sled. Compression againstAtlantis 's belly heated the air to a white-hot glow now visible from the front windows. I wondered what was happening underneath us. I had visions of molten aluminum being smeared backward like rain on a windshield. None of our instruments or computer displays showed 's belly heated the air to a white-hot glow now visible from the front windows. I wondered what was happening underneath us. I had visions of molten aluminum being smeared backward like rain on a windshield. None of our instruments or computer displays showedAtlantis 's skin temperature. Only Houston had that data. I wondered if they would call us if they saw it rising. I hoped not. Such a call would definitely have us all tensed up as we died. Even Hoot wouldn't be able to laugh away that MCC call. I looked at our displays and meters, not sure which would be the first to reveal a heat-shield problem. They were all in the green. Hoot would later tell me his eyes were never long from the elevon position indicators, certain a left-right split in those instruments would be the first hint the right wing was melting. 's skin temperature. Only Houston had that data. I wondered if they would call us if they saw it rising. I hoped not. Such a call would definitely have us all tensed up as we died. Even Hoot wouldn't be able to laugh away that MCC call. I looked at our displays and meters, not sure which would be the first to reveal a heat-shield problem. They were all in the green. Hoot would later tell me his eyes were never long from the elevon position indicators, certain a left-right split in those instruments would be the first hint the right wing was melting.

With the nominal displays I was happy to consider that our worries might have been misplaced. Maybe we had been alarmists. Maybe the damage was minor, as MCC had indicated. I still couldn't believe that, but I prayed it was the case. I would have no problem offering the flight director, the CAPCOM, and everybody else an apology for having questioned their judgment.

"Three hundred ten thousand feet...still holding Mach 25...some Gs starting to build."

Hoot didn't have to tell me about the Gs. Dressed in my LES I had added more than sixty pounds to my body. My zero-G-acclimated muscles were finding it difficult to bear that weight against even a small G-load.

I looked upward through the top windows. As I had seen on STS-41D a snake of plasma flickered over us and slithered into the black. Periodically it would pulsate in incandescent-bright flashes that filled the c.o.c.kpit like camera flashes. I wished I had paid more attention to the reentry light show during myDiscovery mission. Wasn't this plasma ribbon brighter? Weren't those flashes more frequent? Was it mission. Wasn't this plasma ribbon brighter? Weren't those flashes more frequent? Was itAtlantis 's vaporized skin enhancing the show? There were no calls of distress from Hoot or Guy and the radios were mute. If the heat was dissolving 's vaporized skin enhancing the show? There were no calls of distress from Hoot or Guy and the radios were mute. If the heat was dissolvingAtlantis 's belly, the damage had yet to reach a system sensor. 's belly, the damage had yet to reach a system sensor.

At 240,000 feet and Mach 24.9 the guidance system commandedAtlantis into a 75-degree right bank. She was high on energy and the autopilot was pulling her off course to increase the distance to landing. In that extra distance we would have more time to descend. We trusted the autopilot to turn us back toward the Edwards AFB runway at the appropriate time. It was impossible for a shuttle pilot to look out the window at a featureless ocean from 45 miles high while still 3,000 miles from the runway and manually modulate the orbiter's energy state. We had to trust the wizardry of accelerometers in into a 75-degree right bank. She was high on energy and the autopilot was pulling her off course to increase the distance to landing. In that extra distance we would have more time to descend. We trusted the autopilot to turn us back toward the Edwards AFB runway at the appropriate time. It was impossible for a shuttle pilot to look out the window at a featureless ocean from 45 miles high while still 3,000 miles from the runway and manually modulate the orbiter's energy state. We had to trust the wizardry of accelerometers inAtlantis 's inertial measuring units to do that. 's inertial measuring units to do that.

The plasma vortex intensified in brightness. I wondered how many earthlings were watching the celestial spectacle. The trail of superheated air would glow for many minutes after our pa.s.sage. We were painting a white-hot arc from horizon to horizon to take away the breath of anybody watching, be they jungle island shaman or the crew of a supertanker.

The horizon came into view from Guy's window. The Earth's limb was tinted with the indigo of an impending sunrise.

"Mach 22 at 220,000 feet, a half-G."

I wasn't going to be able to stand much longer. My leg muscles were quivering. I had to get down the ladder to my seat. Before I left the flight deck, though, I craned my neck to see the Earth. The Sun had risen and painted a broken layer of clouds in flamingo pink. Just when I thought I had seen every "wow" scene in s.p.a.ce, I was treated with a new feast for the eye. We were still traveling at a couple miles per second but had dropped to within forty miles of the cloud tops. The illusion was that we were accelerating, not slowing down. The clouds appeared to skim by at science-fiction speeds. The sight was a narcotic and I watched it until my zero-G-weakened legs couldn't take my weight any longer and I collapsed to the floor. It was beyond time to get to my seat. I crawled to the mid-deck ladder like a wounded infantryman and felt with my feet for the ladder rungs. In slow, deliberate movements I worked my way downward and into my seat. By the time I was strapped in, I felt as if I had just descended the Hillary Step with a Sherpa on my back. I was exhausted from working in a G-force that was one half of the Earth's pull.

I hated being downstairs. I was staring at a wall of lockers. There were no windows, no instruments. I felt claustrophobic. I could not imagine anything more terrifying than being in this room and hearing the death throes of a disintegrating shuttle while simultaneously having the lights and intercom go off, as had Ron McNair, Greg Jarvis, and Christa McAuliffe onChallenger. If the lights went dark and my intercom failed, I resolved to unstrap from my seat and try to climb upward so at least I could die looking out a window. There would be no reason to go to the side hatch and try our new bailout system. If I jumped out during aerodynamic heating, my body would be vaporized as quickly as a mosquito in a bug lamp. If the lights went dark and my intercom failed, I resolved to unstrap from my seat and try to climb upward so at least I could die looking out a window. There would be no reason to go to the side hatch and try our new bailout system. If I jumped out during aerodynamic heating, my body would be vaporized as quickly as a mosquito in a bug lamp.

I could hear rumbling throughAtlantis 's structure. Again, I wished I had paid more attention on STS-41D. Was the rumbling normal wind noise? 's structure. Again, I wished I had paid more attention on STS-41D. Was the rumbling normal wind noise?

We had glided 11,000 miles in the past 50 minutes but most of our deceleration was still ahead of us. Hoot's dialogue came quicker. "Mach 20; 210,000 feet; 1,190 miles to go...Mach 18; 200,000 feet...one-G...185,000 feet; Mach 15.5...1.4 Gs."

We had pa.s.sed through the hottest part of reentry andAtlantis was flying just fine. Without a hiccup she was completing her transformation from s.p.a.ceship to airship. My doubts about our a.s.sessment of the tile damage were growing and, again, I was happy to be alive to have those doubts. was flying just fine. Without a hiccup she was completing her transformation from s.p.a.ceship to airship. My doubts about our a.s.sessment of the tile damage were growing and, again, I was happy to be alive to have those doubts.

Now there was significant wind noise accompanied with heavy vibrations.

"Speed brakes coming out." We were ten minutes from landing.

At Mach 5 Guy activated the switches to deploy the air-data probes on the sides of the nose. The information they provided on airspeed and alt.i.tude would further refineAtlantis 's guidance. 's guidance.

"Mach 3.7...100,000 feet...I've got the lakebed in sight."Atlantis 's computers had done their job. After a glide spanning half the Earth, they had put a runway within our reach. 's computers had done their job. After a glide spanning half the Earth, they had put a runway within our reach.

The wind noise outside my little room had become a freight train roar.

"Mach 1.0...49,000 feet." AsAtlantis 's velocity dropped below the speed of sound our shock waves raced ahead of us, lashing the vehicle with a buzzing vibration. No doubt they were also sonic-booming the high desert and heralding our arrival to the wives. 's velocity dropped below the speed of sound our shock waves raced ahead of us, lashing the vehicle with a buzzing vibration. No doubt they were also sonic-booming the high desert and heralding our arrival to the wives.

We had finally entered the useable envelope of our crude bailout system. We were at subsonic velocity and below fifty thousand feet. If an escape became necessary now, I would pull the emergency cabin depressurization handle, followed by the hatch jettison handle. Then, I would unstrap from my seat, deploy the ceiling-mounted slide pole, clip my harness to a ring, and roll out. Of course all of this presupposed Hoot or the autopilot would be able to keepAtlantis flying in a straight-ahead, controlled glide. If the vehicle was in a tumble, the G-loads would pin us in the c.o.c.kpit like bugs on a display board. flying in a straight-ahead, controlled glide. If the vehicle was in a tumble, the G-loads would pin us in the c.o.c.kpit like bugs on a display board.

Hoot took control from the autopilot and bankedAtlantis into a left turn toward final approach. Guy's calls of airspeed and alt.i.tude came like an auctioneer's. "Two hundred ninety-five knots, 800 feet...290...500 feet...400 feet...290...gear's coming." I heard and felt the nose landing gear being lowered. "Gear's down...50 feet...250 knots...40...240...30 feet...20...10...5...touchdown at 205 knots." We were safely home. Our heat shield had held. I was anxious to look at it and see how much crow we'd have to eat. into a left turn toward final approach. Guy's calls of airspeed and alt.i.tude came like an auctioneer's. "Two hundred ninety-five knots, 800 feet...290...500 feet...400 feet...290...gear's coming." I heard and felt the nose landing gear being lowered. "Gear's down...50 feet...250 knots...40...240...30 feet...20...10...5...touchdown at 205 knots." We were safely home. Our heat shield had held. I was anxious to look at it and see how much crow we'd have to eat.

After the standard postlanding c.o.c.kpit visit by the flight surgeon, we changed into our blue coveralls and walked down the steps from the side hatch. NASA Administrator James Fletcher was present to greet us. We exchanged handshakes and then turned to inspectAtlantis. There was already a knot of engineers gathered at the right forward fuselage shaking their heads in disbelief. The damage was much worse than any of us had expected. Technicians would eventually count seven hundred damaged tiles extending along half of There was already a knot of engineers gathered at the right forward fuselage shaking their heads in disbelief. The damage was much worse than any of us had expected. Technicians would eventually count seven hundred damaged tiles extending along half ofAtlantis 's length. It was by far the greatest heat-shield damage recorded to date. Some of the more severely damaged tile had been melted deeper than the initial kinetic penetrations. The area around the missing tile had been particularly brutalized and the underlying aluminum looked as if it had been affected by the heat. But there had been no "zipper" effect, as the engineers had promised. If any of them had been present, I would have flung my arms around them and kissed them. 's length. It was by far the greatest heat-shield damage recorded to date. Some of the more severely damaged tile had been melted deeper than the initial kinetic penetrations. The area around the missing tile had been particularly brutalized and the underlying aluminum looked as if it had been affected by the heat. But there had been no "zipper" effect, as the engineers had promised. If any of them had been present, I would have flung my arms around them and kissed them.

We had taken seven hundred bullets and lived to talk about it. The damage had been sustained in the only place where it could exist and still be survivable. It started a few yards back from the carbon-composite nose cap and stopped just a few feet short of the right wing's leading-edge carbon panels. If any of those carbon-covered areas had been hit, we would have died as theColumbia crew would die fifteen years later, incinerated on reentry, except in our case the Pacific would have been our grave. Even the location of our missing tile proved fortuitous. By happenstance it covered an area where an antenna was mounted, and the underlying aluminum structure was thicker than in other locations. Had a different tile been blasted away, a skin burn-through might have occurred, allowing 2,000-degree plasma to run amuck inside crew would die fifteen years later, incinerated on reentry, except in our case the Pacific would have been our grave. Even the location of our missing tile proved fortuitous. By happenstance it covered an area where an antenna was mounted, and the underlying aluminum structure was thicker than in other locations. Had a different tile been blasted away, a skin burn-through might have occurred, allowing 2,000-degree plasma to run amuck insideAtlantis 's guts. G.o.d had watched after us. As Hoot turned from his inspection I heard him grumbling, "I'm going to be really interested in what MCC has to say about this." 's guts. G.o.d had watched after us. As Hoot turned from his inspection I heard him grumbling, "I'm going to be really interested in what MCC has to say about this."

A few days later we got to hear their story. The quality of the TV images in Mission Control had been very poor. The engineers had been convinced the damage was localized and minor. I wanted to say, "You should have listened to us," but they knew that. There was no reason to rub their noses in it. And then there was the nasty little fact that it didn't really matter. Even if MCC had determined the damage would positively result in vehicle destruction and our deaths, what could have been done? Nothing. The ticket home always entailed a flight through the blast furnace of reentry. We couldn't magically fly over, under, or around it. We couldn't have repaired any damage. There was no s.p.a.ce station outpost for us to have escaped to. Our only hope would have been to have another shuttle come to our rescue and we wouldn't have had enough oxygen to wait for that. All we could have done was pitched the robot arm overboard and dumped every ounce of water and excess propellant to get our weight to a minimum to reduce the heat load, but even these efforts would have been in vain. Stripping the shuttle would have made the reentry just fractionally cooler. Just as it was with our contingency abort cue cards, any MCC recommendations would have just given us "something to read while we died."

MCC did have an explanation for the failure of the SRB nose cone. There had been a change in the manufacturing process, intended to improve the performance of the ablative material that protected the SRB from the aerodynamic heating it encountered during launch. At our debriefing of the incident at the Monday astronaut meeting, others wondered how many other slide rule jockeys were violating the prime directive of engineering: "Betteris the enemy ofgood enough. " We all wanted to shout from the rooftops, "If it's working, don't fix it!" " We all wanted to shout from the rooftops, "If it's working, don't fix it!"

At this same debriefing, Hoot reacquainted the post-docs with the sick humor of the fighter pilot. During our mission, there had been a horrific earthquake in the Soviet Eastern Bloc state of Armenia, killing 25,000 people. The TV news was still showing images of masked workers pulling bodies from the rubble. "I know many of you have been very curious about our cla.s.sified payload." Hoot paused until the room was hushed in expectation. "While I can't go into its design features, I can say Armenia was our first target." The military astronauts laughed. A handful of the post-docs cringed in disgust. Hoot tormented them further by adding, "And we only had the weapon set onstun !" The comment elicited more laughter and a few female darts of "Don't you guys ever grow up?" !" The comment elicited more laughter and a few female darts of "Don't you guys ever grow up?"

Chapter 36.

Christie and Annette.

It was a few days after landing that Rhea Seddon bestowed another handle on Swine Flight. We became "The Grissom Crew." It was a play on a scene from the movieThe Right Stuff . After Alan Shepard returned from his history-making flight as the first American in s.p.a.ce, he and his wife had been hosted at the White House by JFK and Jackie. The movie dramatized how Gus Grissom and his wife had been expecting similar treatment when he returned as the second American in s.p.a.ce. But it didn't happen. Runner-ups never slept at the White House. Rhea's "Grissom Crew" label of STS-27 was poking fun at the fact there was no White House invitation awaiting us in our in-boxes, whereas President and Nancy Reagan had received the STS-26 crew and their spouses. In a wonderful parody of the movie scene in which Mrs. Grissom laments her lockout, Rhea exaggerated her already severe Tennessee accent and swooned, "You mean, I won't get to meet Nancy and Ronald?!" . After Alan Shepard returned from his history-making flight as the first American in s.p.a.ce, he and his wife had been hosted at the White House by JFK and Jackie. The movie dramatized how Gus Grissom and his wife had been expecting similar treatment when he returned as the second American in s.p.a.ce. But it didn't happen. Runner-ups never slept at the White House. Rhea's "Grissom Crew" label of STS-27 was poking fun at the fact there was no White House invitation awaiting us in our in-boxes, whereas President and Nancy Reagan had received the STS-26 crew and their spouses. In a wonderful parody of the movie scene in which Mrs. Grissom laments her lockout, Rhea exaggerated her already severe Tennessee accent and swooned, "You mean, I won't get to meet Nancy and Ronald?!"

While it appeared we would remain invisible to the civilian world, we did have a "black world" postflight tour around the country. We visited the cla.s.sified control center for our payload. We showed films of the satellite release and thanked everyone who contributed to the mission. It was all very staid and professional until Hoot presented a Swine Flight autographed photo to the unit commander. It was of the free-flying payload bearing Shep's inscription,Suck on this, you commie dogs! The group crowded around to see the photo. They couldn't wait to get it on their wall. Shep had made them feel like the warriors they were. The group crowded around to see the photo. They couldn't wait to get it on their wall. Shep had made them feel like the warriors they were.

In a visit to Washington, D.C., we were invited to the Pentagon to brief the Joint Chiefs of Staff on our mission. My heartrate was as high walking into that office as it had been walking across the shuttle c.o.c.kpit access arm. There was a veritable constellation of stars in the room, including five four-star generals and admirals. When a cute female lieutenant walked in, Hoot delivered a sotto voce "snort" in my ear.Jesus, I thought, I thought,does he ever NOT live on the edge? Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral William J. Crowe, Jr., was taking a seat not more than fifteen feet away and Hoot was snorting an aide-de-camp! Depending on your perspective it was either a new low or new high for Swine Flight. I discreetly elbowed him. If I got the giggles from his antics now, that urinal-scrubbing a.s.signment in Thule would be back in play. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral William J. Crowe, Jr., was taking a seat not more than fifteen feet away and Hoot was snorting an aide-de-camp! Depending on your perspective it was either a new low or new high for Swine Flight. I discreetly elbowed him. If I got the giggles from his antics now, that urinal-scrubbing a.s.signment in Thule would be back in play.

In a mark of his leadership style, Hoot asked each member of the crew to say a few words about our mission tasks. I knew there were plenty of other egocentric commanders who would have hogged the stage for themselves. Not Hoot. After we all made our remarks and had taken our seats, Admiral Crowe asked his staff to rise and said, "I think we owe this crew a round of applause for their outstanding work," and five flag officers heartily responded. I was numb. The joint chiefs of staff of the United States military, led by their chairman-a total of twenty stars-were standing to applaud Mike Mullane. I could not have been more shocked if Hoot had stood up and announced he and Shep were gay lovers.

The day only got more unusual. We were driven to a cla.s.sified location for an awards ceremony. As we followed our escort through multiple layers of security, I whispered to Hoot, "Maybe we'll meet p.u.s.s.y Galore." He replied with a snort.

We were finally led into a walk-in vault where we were greeted by a senior government official. He offered his thanks for our work, then pinned the National Intelligence Medal of Achievement on each of our chests. Inwardly I laughed at the t.i.tle. It sounded like an award for the brainless scarecrow inThe Wizard of Oz. But it was a pride-filled moment for me, even exceeding what I had experienced in Admiral Crowe's office. I felt directly connected to America's defense in a way I had never felt in Vietnam or in my NATO forces tour. On STS-27 with the RMS controls in my hand, I had been at the tip of the spear. But it was a pride-filled moment for me, even exceeding what I had experienced in Admiral Crowe's office. I felt directly connected to America's defense in a way I had never felt in Vietnam or in my NATO forces tour. On STS-27 with the RMS controls in my hand, I had been at the tip of the spear.

The citation accompanying the medal reads ...in recognition of his superior performance of duty of high value to the United States as Mission Specialist, s.p.a.ce Shuttle ...in recognition of his superior performance of duty of high value to the United States as Mission Specialist, s.p.a.ce ShuttleAtlantis, from 2 December 1988 to 5 December 1988. During this period, Colonel Mullane performed in a superior manner in deploying a critical national satellite to s.p.a.ce. Colonel Mullane expertly operated the Remote Maneuvering System (RMS) to lift the satellite out of its cradle and position it for deployment of subsystems. The release of the system was performed so expertly that the s.p.a.cecraft was left in a remarkably precise and totally stable condition. This allowed the activation sequence to continue expeditiously. Colonel Mullane's superior operation of the Shuttle Remote Arm, as well as his initiative and devotion to duty, led to the safe unberthing and deployment of a critical new satellite system crucial to our national defense and treaty verification. The singularly superior performance of Colonel Mullane reflects great credit upon himself, the United States Air Force, and the Intelligence Community. from 2 December 1988 to 5 December 1988. During this period, Colonel Mullane performed in a superior manner in deploying a critical national satellite to s.p.a.ce. Colonel Mullane expertly operated the Remote Maneuvering System (RMS) to lift the satellite out of its cradle and position it for deployment of subsystems. The release of the system was performed so expertly that the s.p.a.cecraft was left in a remarkably precise and totally stable condition. This allowed the activation sequence to continue expeditiously. Colonel Mullane's superior operation of the Shuttle Remote Arm, as well as his initiative and devotion to duty, led to the safe unberthing and deployment of a critical new satellite system crucial to our national defense and treaty verification. The singularly superior performance of Colonel Mullane reflects great credit upon himself, the United States Air Force, and the Intelligence Community.

As the meeting broke up, I was looking forward to telling Donna about the award. It was as much hers as it was mine. She had earned it on that LCC roof. But my antic.i.p.ation ended at the vault door. We were asked to hand back the medal. "Sorry, but this award is cla.s.sified. You can't wear it publicly or talk about it. It won't appear on your official records. But if you are ever in town and want to come over and wear it in this vault, be our guests." Amazing, I thought. We had received a medal we could only wear in a vault. James Bond might have been able to tell Dr. Goodhead(snort) about his daring adventures, but we couldn't tell anybody about ours, not even our wives. (The award was decla.s.sified several years after the mission.) about his daring adventures, but we couldn't tell anybody about ours, not even our wives. (The award was decla.s.sified several years after the mission.) No call ever came from the White House, but Swine Flight did score one gem of a PR trip into the civilian world. Dan Brandenstein decided that the STS-26 crew had overstayed their welcome in the "Return to Flight" spotlight and redlined them from the Super Bowl event. Our crew would make the trip to Miami and represent NASA during the Super Bowl XXIII halftime show.

Accompanied by our wives, we flew to Miami the day before the big game. That evening we were the guests of NFL Commissioner Pete Rozelle at a party...along with three thousand of his closest friends. The event was held in a convention facility and around its entryway balcony sat a clutch of harp-playing women dressed as cowgirl saloon hookers. The ch.o.r.eographer of that act had to have been on LSD. Later I noticed the ladies were faking their "plucks." When they took a break, the harp music continued. And their music wasn't the only thing being faked. Squadrons of silicone-stretched zeppelin b.r.e.a.s.t.s, mounted on Pamela Anderson look-alikes, cruised the room. Every escort service in the state must have sold out and then called Vegas for backup.

Mountains of food, rivers of booze, and live bands in every corner occupied the crowd. Donna and I loaded up our plates and searched for seats. I had the great misfortune to find two at a table with a fat, lavishly bejeweled gasbag of a woman who saw our arrival as an excuse to recount how rich and well-traveled she was. There was nothing on my guest badge to identify me as an astronaut and her glances at my cheap suit and Donna's middle-cla.s.s wardrobe must have given her the impression I was some NFL groupie she could lord over. Her husband looked up from his food and communicated a "sucker" look to me. He never said a word, just ate, maintaining a grin on his face the entire time as if to say, "Good, now you've got her and I don't have to listen to that runaway pie hole of hers." I finally wearied of her nonstop travelogue and interrupted to say, "I'm an astronaut, so I've seen a little of the world, too." With that Donna and I rose from the table and departed, leaving her speechless, no doubt for the first time in her life.

The next day, January 22, 1989, found us in a skybox at Joe Robbie Stadium preparing to watch the San Francisco 49ers battle the Cincinnati Bengals. There was just one significant distraction: Billy Joel, who was to sing the national anthem, brought along his wife, Christie Brinkley, and they were ensconced in an adjoining skybox. Just a gla.s.s wall separated us. This arrangement created the greatest dilemma in the history of maledom. In front of me was the sports spectacle of the year. Joe Montana and Boomer Esiason were calling the signals for their teams. Seventy-five thousand fans were screaming. Even the STS-26 crew didn't create a moment like this. But a few yards to our right was Christie Brinkley, arguably one of the most beautiful women on the planet. What was a man to do?

We did what every man would have done. We watched both. As soon as the ball was blown dead, we'd all stare at Christie like pound dogs hoping for adoption. Then our heads would snap back for the next play. Our heads oscillated back and forth as if we were watching a tennis match. The rhythm was only interrupted long enough to get a beer. Could it get any better? Yes, it could. Turned out Christie was a fan of the s.p.a.ce program. She came to our skybox to meet us. We all rose as if she were royalty, which of course she was. She was royally, freakin' beautiful. Hoot, Shep, and I generated more snorts than a hog farm.

"Are you guys astronauts?" We were all wearing our blue flight suits with patches reading "NASA" and other patches with renditions of s.p.a.ce shuttles. Then there were our gold navy and silver air force wings, our Mach 25 patches, and American flag patches. We were either astronauts or Epcot Disney characters. It must have been the blonde in her asking the question.

Under my breath I whispered to Hoot, "I'll be anything she wants me to be." Hoot, no doubt, was thinking the same lecherous things I was thinking, but he played the gentleman and answered, "Yes."

"Have you been to the moon?"

I whispered fiercely to Hoot, "Tell heryes !" But he stuck to the truth, d.a.m.n him. Maybe she would have taken us home if he had lied. !" But he stuck to the truth, d.a.m.n him. Maybe she would have taken us home if he had lied.

She began to walk down our ranks, smiling and asking questions. At any moment I expected her to say, "You mean you aren't the famous STS-26 crew? How disappointing." But she didn't. She seemed pleased to meet us runner-ups.

To my amazement I noticed the rest of the crew were shaking her hand! Even Hoot. He must have stroked out when she walked into the room. There's no other way to explain his restraint.What a bunch of weak d.i.c.ks, I thought. You shake Billy Joel's hand. You shake Commissioner Rozelle's hand. But you don't shake Christie Brinkley's hand. I thought. You shake Billy Joel's hand. You shake Commissioner Rozelle's hand. But you don't shake Christie Brinkley's hand.

When she came to me, I embraced her. Her arms came around my back and echoed the hug. Afterward she didn't even signal her bodyguard to stand between us (and no restraining order arrived later in the mail). I might have a medal I couldn't talk about, but I sure as h.e.l.l was going to tell every male in the astronaut office what it was like to hug Christie Brinkley. The others could tell them what her handshake was like.

She remained to ask more questions while the game raged on behind us. Periodically we would hear waves of screams coming from the audience to signify some spectacular play, but with Christie in our company, who gave a s.h.i.t? Finally, with a breezy wave and a promise, "See you at halftime," she left the box. Donna smiled at me. "I guess you don't want me to ever wash that flight suit again." I laughed and kissed her. Billy Joel had a dream of a woman, but so did I.

A short time later, while I was stretching my legs in the corridor behind the skybox, Billy stepped out for a cigarette break. We fell into conversation. I was struck by how nervous he seemed in this one-on-one situation. His eyes never held mine. It was as if I were talking with John Young or George Abbey. I asked him questions about composing music and he asked me questions about flying in s.p.a.ce. I'm sure I was his inspiration for "We Didn't Start the Fire," but he had to go and use Sally Ride's name in the lyrics instead of Mike Mullane. I knew I should have written it down for him. I never asked him the one question I was burning to ask: "What's it like to sleep with Christie Brinkley?" I would bet he's been asked before.

As the game approached halftime, our crew was escorted down to the field to await our cue. While idling we met Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon, who were on deck for their performance, a celebration of the 1950s teenybopper Florida beach movies. I marveled at Annette. At forty-six, the mother of several children, she had a shape a woman twenty years younger would have envied. Later, when she was performing the beach blanket dance routines that made her famous, she moved like she was back in bobby socks. I was impressed.

Christy Brinkley held true to her promise and approached us, this time to pose for photos. If she had known what degenerates Hoot, Shep, and I were she probably would have maced us. All three of us were praying she would experience the first Super Bowl halftime show wardrobe malfunction. But, alas, that didn't happen. I made certain to stand next to her for our group photo. She put her arm around my waist, her hand accidentally slipping across my a.s.s as she did so. I'm certain my hard body and Mel Gibson good looks broke up her marriage to Billy, but somehow the paparazzi never picked up on that.

We were finally signaled to step onto a platform that had been towed onto the field. A narrator briefly traced the history of the s.p.a.ce program while various s.p.a.ce scenes played on the Diamond Vision. Our part in the program concluded with our introduction as the most recent s.p.a.ce shuttle crew. We waved to the audience and we were done. Then, to my amazement, nearby fans leaned over the railing to hand us paper for our autographs and gave us business cards to send photos. Others shook our hands, flashed thumbs-up, and shouted, "Go NASA!" These weren't s.p.a.ce geeks asking for autographs. And it wasn't the white collar crowd, either. This was the proletariat cheering us on. It gladdened me to see such enthusiasm among average Joes and Janes. ApparentlyChallenger hadn't diminished the public's support of the s.p.a.ce program, as many of us had feared it would. hadn't diminished the public's support of the s.p.a.ce program, as many of us had feared it would.

That evening, the NFL hosted another open-seating buffet supper for its mult.i.tude of guests. Having been burned once, I decided to be very selective in finding a tablemate. Luck was with me. I noticed Annette Funicello and her husband were sitting at an otherwise empty table and steered for their company. I introduced Donna and we sat down for a very pleasant dinner. Annette was delightful. I pried stories out of her about her Mouseketeer days, including how she had been forbidden by Disney to wear a two-piece swimsuit in the movies and how she had received thousands of engagement rings through the mail from "love-struck teenage boys." I wanted to tell her none of those boys had been love-struck. Like me, they had all beenstruck by the topography of her sweater. But I knew if I offered that opinion I would have been struck by Donna. by the topography of her sweater. But I knew if I offered that opinion I would have been struck by Donna.

Later, as Donna and I walked back to our hotel, she asked me which of the two celebrity women I had met that day, Christie Brinkley or Annette Funicello, was most captivating. Without hesitation I replied, "Annette."

Donna was surprised. "I thought for sure you would say Christie Brinkley. She's so much younger and so beautiful."

"Yeah, that she is. But at dinner tonight I kept thinking of all those times as a teenage boy I had watched Annette on the Mouseketeer TV program while fantasizing what was under the A and the E letters on her chest. And there she was, thirty years later, sitting right across the table from me and I was still fantasizing."

Donna laughed and offered up the familiar refrain, "Will you ever grow up?"

Chapter 37.

Widows.

After returning from Miami I fell into the standard postflight depression every astronaut experiences. As Bob Overmyer once said, "Being an astronaut is a ride on the world's biggest emotional roller-coaster. One day you're in orbit and talking to presidents, the next day you don't even have a reserved parking place." I was way down in the don't-have-a-parking-place dip. I felt certain it would be several years before I would have any shot at another flight. I was at the end of a long line. There were a hundred astronauts in the office. While I waited I would be a.s.signed to one of the supporting roles of the business: working as a CAPCOM in MCC, evaluating software in SAIL, supporting payload development, or otherwise involved in another support function. While I appreciated the importance of the work, it was mundane compared with the exciting world in which mission-a.s.signed crews lived. I had twice been a resident of that world and I knew. I didn't want to fly a desk. The wordretirement was frequently on my mind. I knew Donna would welcome a decision to leave Houston. Every trip to the LCC roof was killing her. But, like the good Catholic wife she was, she would never put her feelings first. It would have to be my decision. Other TFNGs had already made theirs. Jim van Hoften, Pinky Nelson, Sally Ride, Dale Gardner, and Rick Hauck had all announced their intention to leave NASA, or had already done so. Unlike some of them, I didn't have the offer of a high-paying civilian job setting a deadline. I had done no job search. I had no plans for a next life whenever it started, other than it would start in Albuquerque. Donna's dad had pa.s.sed away and left her the home in which she had grown up. That home and the Rocky Mountain West were magnets drawing us back. was frequently on my mind. I knew Donna would welcome a decision to leave Houston. Every trip to the LCC roof was killing her. But, like the good Catholic wife she was, she would never put her feelings first. It would have to be my decision. Other TFNGs had already made theirs. Jim van Hoften, Pinky Nelson, Sally Ride, Dale Gardner, and Rick Hauck had all announced their intention to leave NASA, or had already done so. Unlike some of them, I didn't have the offer of a high-paying civilian job setting a deadline. I had done no job search. I had no plans for a next life whenever it started, other than it would start in Albuquerque. Donna's dad had pa.s.sed away and left her the home in which she had grown up. That home and the Rocky Mountain West were magnets drawing us back.

Though there was no job to force a retirement decision, there were other factors pointing me to the NASA exit sign. NASA management was still an issue. After Abbey's departure, Don Puddy had been a.s.signed to fill the FCOD position, an announcement that had been greeted in the astronaut office with stunned silence. Like Abbey, Don had gotten his start at NASA as an MCC controller in the Apollo program and ultimately served as a flight director forApollo 16. He also served as a flight director for all three Skylab missions and the Apollo-Soyuz mission, and he was the reentry flight director for STS-1. Don was an exceptionally talented engineer and manager. But he wasn't a pilot. No matter how disliked Abbey may have been, we had all appreciated his four thousand hours of c.o.c.kpit time. He had a personal appreciation of the issues of high-performance flight. We worried Puddy's lack of flying experience would seriously hobble him in his ability to handle astronaut concerns about shuttle nose-wheel steering, brakes, runway barriers, drag chutes, auto-land, and the many other pilot-specific issues surrounding shuttle operations. If there was ever a position that needed to be filled by an astronaut, it was chief of flight crew operations. Don Puddy's appointment made us suspicious that NASA's senior leadership still didn't want to deal directly with astronauts. d.i.c.k Covey told us a story that supported those suspicions. He had been in a meeting with Aaron Cohen, the JSC director, in which Cohen had polled his senior staff on whether or not the FCOD position should be filled by an astronaut, and the unanimous answer had been yes. The fact that an astronaut had not been a.s.signed was proof to us that HQ had overruled Cohen. Our discontent with Puddy's a.s.signment was so widely known that a week after the announcement, Aaron Cohen took the unprecedented step of coming to the astronaut office to curtly tell us the decision had been entirely his, without any HQ input. n.o.body believed it. He then went on to list Puddy's attributes as a great manager, something that n.o.body was questioning. Puddy was exceptional. He just wasn't the best man for the job. An astronaut was. He also served as a flight director for all three Skylab missions and the Apollo-Soyuz mission, and he was the reentry flight director for STS-1. Don was an exceptionally talented engineer and manager. But he wasn't a pilot. No matter how disliked Abbey may have been, we had all appreciated his four thousand hours of c.o.c.kpit time. He had a personal appreciation of the issues of high-performance flight. We worried Puddy's lack of flying experience would seriously hobble him in his ability to handle astronaut concerns about shuttle nose-wheel steering, brakes, runway barriers, drag chutes, auto-land, and the many other pilot-specific issues surrounding shuttle operations. If there was ever a position that needed to be filled by an astronaut, it was chief of flight crew operations. Don Puddy's appointment made us suspicious that NASA's senior leadership still didn't want to deal directly with astronauts. d.i.c.k Covey told us a story that supported those suspicions. He had been in a meeting with Aaron Cohen, the JSC director, in which Cohen had polled his senior staff on whether or not the FCOD position should be filled by an astronaut, and the unanimous answer had been yes. The fact that an astronaut had not been a.s.signed was proof to us that HQ had overruled Cohen. Our discontent with Puddy's a.s.signment was so widely known that a week after the announcement, Aaron Cohen took the unprecedented step of coming to the astronaut office to curtly tell us the decision had been entirely his, without any HQ input. n.o.body believed it. He then went on to list Puddy's attributes as a great manager, something that n.o.body was questioning. Puddy was exceptional. He just wasn't the best man for the job. An astronaut was.

I was tired of the us versus them.Can't we all just get along? The frustrations were a constant topic at the coffeepot and over '38 intercoms. When a news article appeared on the B-board about NASA Administrator James Fletcher's planned departure at the end of President Reagan's second term, an astronaut graffitied it with the comment The frustrations were a constant topic at the coffeepot and over '38 intercoms. When a news article appeared on the B-board about NASA Administrator James Fletcher's planned departure at the end of President Reagan's second term, an astronaut graffitied it with the commentTwo years too late.

While Puddy's selection was a disappointment to astronauts, he inst.i.tuted one critically important change-empowerment of the position of chief of astronauts. Shortly into Puddy's tenure, Dan Brandenstein unequivocally informed us that all flight a.s.signments would originate with him and would then be successively approved or vetoed by Puddy, the JSC Director, d.i.c.k Truly, and the NASA administrator. Amazing! Someone in an astronaut leadership position was (gasp)...communicating with the astronaut corps! I was certain that the moon was in the Seventh House, Jupiter was aligned with Mars, and winged-swine were in the JSC treetops. If Abbey and Young had been present, they might have fainted. It had taken eleven freakin' years to hear this career-essential information-something John and George should have given us on day one.

Regardless of Dan's welcome leadership, there were other concerns. I could invest a couple years of my life working toward a third flight, only to have the rug pulled out from under me when a schedule change canceled my mission or another shuttle disaster interrupted the program or my health became an issue. In my last physical exam the cardiologist had seen an anomalous blip on the EKG traces. "It's no big deal, Mike. I'm not going to require you to fly on a waiver." But what if the blip became something serious enough to ground me?

I also considered what type of mission I might draw. I craved a s.p.a.cewalk, but so did every other MS. Instead of an EVA, I might find myself on a s.p.a.celab mission butchering mice and cleaning s.h.i.t from monkey cages. The thought of waiting around a couple years only to end up as a s.p.a.ce zoo janitor wasn't appealing.

And then there was the toll my career was taking on Donna. Though she wasn't about to use it against me, I was enough of a husband to at least think about it. And I was still learning about that burden. At a party I overheard a TFNG wife comment about the unaccompanied status of theChallenger widows. "There aren't a lot of men who would feel comfortable stepping into a dead astronaut's shoes." The observation hit me like a fist. I had never considered just how different the burdens of an widows. "There aren't a lot of men who would feel comfortable stepping into a dead astronaut's shoes." The observation hit me like a fist. I had never considered just how different the burdens of anastronaut widow were. I knew men. There weren't a lot of us capable of stepping into the shadow of a national hero-sure to wilt more than just an ego. Years later, at an astronaut reunion party, a TFNG widow told me, "I've dated, but nothing ever really develops." Men just couldn't deal with her deceased husband's astronaut t.i.tle, she explained. widow were. I knew men. There weren't a lot of us capable of stepping into the shadow of a national hero-sure to wilt more than just an ego. Years later, at an astronaut reunion party, a TFNG widow told me, "I've dated, but nothing ever really develops." Men just couldn't deal with her deceased husband's astronaut t.i.tle, she explained.

The unknowns, the fear, the burden on the family...they were all pointing to the NASA JSC front gate-time to drive out of it forever. I was within days of telling Brandenstein of my decision when the phone rang. It was Don Puddy. I was being a.s.signed to another DOD mission, STS-36, only a year away. My sentence as an una.s.signed astronaut had lasted a month.

Puddy's call put me on a 6-G pullout from the bottom loop of the astronaut roller coaster. I now soared skyward. Every doubt, every fear about staying at NASA was gone. Within a year, I would once again be Prime Crew. When I told Donna the news, she smiled, but her eyes said volumes more. My announcement gut-shot her. I knew she wanted out. But she took it like a loyal soldier. She would be there for me no matter what.

Only a single aspect of STS-36 would ultimately be decla.s.sified, our orbit inclination.Atlantis would carry us into an orbit tilted 62 degrees to the equator, the highest inclined orbit ever flown by humans (it still remains the record). This wasn't the polar orbit planned for STS-62A (that would have been nearly a 90-degree inclination), but it meant we would get a view of more of the Earth's surface than any astronauts in history. Our orbit would almost reach the Arctic and Antarctic circles. would carry us into an orbit tilted 62 degrees to the equator, the highest inclined orbit ever flown by humans (it still remains the record). This wasn't the polar orbit planned for STS-62A (that would have been nearly a 90-degree inclination), but it meant we would get a view of more of the Earth's surface than any astronauts in history. Our orbit would almost reach the Arctic and Antarctic circles.

I would be one of two TFNGs on the mission. The other, J. O. Creighton (owner of theSin Ship ski boat and Corvette my children found so alluring) would be the mission CDR. Like Hoot, J.O. was an exceptional pilot and leader. John Casper (cla.s.s of 1984) would be the PLT. The other two MSes on the mission would be Dave Hilmers (cla.s.s of 1980) and Pierre Thuot (cla.s.s of 1985). In spite of his wimpy-sounding French name, Pierre was all-American. His astronaut nickname was Pepe. ski boat and Corvette my children found so alluring) would be the mission CDR. Like Hoot, J.O. was an exceptional pilot and leader. John Casper (cla.s.s of 1984) would be the PLT. The other two MSes on the mission would be Dave Hilmers (cla.s.s of 1980) and Pierre Thuot (cla.s.s of 1985). In spite of his wimpy-sounding French name, Pierre was all-American. His astronaut nickname was Pepe.

Because our crew was at the back of the training line, Dave Hilmers and I had time to serve as the family escorts for STS-30. For the first time in my career, I was now the potential "escort into widowhood." The a.s.signment allowed me another glimpse into the world of the astronaut spouse. At one of the beach house gatherings, Kirby Thagard broke into tears as she told the others that June Scobee had called to wish them all good luck. Just the name of aChallenger widow was enough to sheen the eyes of many of the women...at least when their own husbands were hours from launch. widow was enough to sheen the eyes of many of the women...at least when their own husbands were hours from launch.

Our days in Florida with the families were pleasant. Unlike some spouses who had earned reputations for treating the family escorts as personal butlers, the STS-30 wives were easy to work with. Because the mission CDR, Dave Walker, and one of the MSes, Mary Cleave, were single, there were only three spouses in our care: Kirby Thagard, Mary Jo Grabe, and Dee Lee. They adopted Dave and me into their extended families and we were guests at their numerous parties and other functions.

The crew was also a pleasure to work with. Mary Cleave was great fun. Now forty-two years old, she had a name tag on her flight suit reading,Mary Cleave-PMS Princess. She was another woman who wore the feminist mantle very lightly. When NASA HQ received a complaint from the California Democratic Party Women's Caucus about photos of Mary preparing a shuttle meal during her first flight (while the men were photographed doing technical work), Mary had laughed it off, saying, "I do shuttle windows and toilets, too." When the STS-30 mission slipped six days and the crew grew bored with TV, she requested a list of movies from a Cocoa Beach video-rental business and asked an astronaut to pick up her selections. As gags for the men on the crew, her choices included She was another woman who wore the feminist mantle very lightly. When NASA HQ received a complaint from the California Democratic Party Women's Caucus about photos of Mary preparing a shuttle meal during her first flight (while the men were photographed doing technical work), Mary had laughed it off, saying, "I do shuttle windows and toilets, too." When the STS-30 mission slipped six days and the crew grew bored with TV, she requested a list of movies from a Cocoa Beach video-rental business and asked an astronaut to pick up her selections. As gags for the men on the crew, her choices includedHollywood Chain Saw Hookers and andAll Star Topless Arm Wrestling.

On the morning of STS-30's second launch attempt, May 4, 1989, Dave and I met with astronauts Bryan O'Connor and Greg Harbaugh. Bryan and Greg were at KSC supporting the mission and would also be on the LCC roof during the launch and available to help with the families ifAtlantis was lost. Over breakfast the four of us reviewed NASA's contingency procedures: who would stand next to which family on the LCC roof, where the families would be temporarily gathered in the event of disaster, who would drive them to the KSC landing strip for their plane rides back to Houston. The wives had already been told to have their bags packed and ready to go before they were picked up for the trip to the LCC. This arrangement ensured they would not have to return to their condos and into a press feeding frenzy if disaster struck. A NASA official could retrieve the packed bags and bring them to the families at the KSC landing strip. But the procedure also meant the wives would have to unpack if the launch was scrubbed, and many wives had gone through the pack/unpack cycle multiple times for that reason. It was a pain but everybody understood the need. was lost. Over breakfast the four of us reviewed NASA's contingency procedures: who would stand next to which family on the LCC roof, where the families would be temporarily gathered in the event of disaster, who would drive them to the KSC landing strip for their plane rides back to Houston. The wives had already been told to have their bags packed and ready to go before they were picked up for the trip to the LCC. This arrangement ensured they would not have to return to their condos and into a press feeding frenzy if disaster struck. A NASA official could retrieve the packed bags and bring them to the families at the KSC landing strip. But the procedure also meant the wives would have to unpack if the launch was scrubbed, and many wives had gone through the pack/unpack cycle multiple times for that reason. It was a pain but everybody understood the need.

Our breakfast table talk was devoid of emotion. Though we were planning our response to the death of friends and the widowing of their wives, our conversation was clinical and detached. We could have been talking about the logistics of a fishing trip. A review of the family escort procedures was just one more thing among thousands that had to be done as part of a shuttle launch. As I sipped my coffee, I thought of Donna's preSTS-41D observation. It is, indeed, a strange business that plans so thoroughly for helping a woman