Riding Rockets Part 16

Steel folding chairs were set out on the roof but everybody was too nervous to sit. Portable speakers had also been deployed so the countdown could be monitored. Behind us, the 500-foot-high Vertical a.s.sembly Building rose like a white cliff. In front of us was the route used by the 8-million-pound tracked crawlers to carry the stacked shuttles to their launch sites. The gravel road stretched eastward, its tan color bisecting the otherwise uniform green of the Florida lowlands. Three miles away the soaring lightning rod of Pad 39B, designed to protect s.p.a.ce shuttles from lightning strikes, provided a sight line toAtlantis.

A broken layer of rainless clouds threatened a delay. While they posed no problem for an ascending shuttle, if an RTLS abort became necessary they would hide the runway and make the CDR's landing task more difficult. The countdown would be held at T-5 minutes until the weather improved. As I had done in the c.o.c.kpit so many times, I now prayed fiercely for the count to resume. There was only one way to get the terror behind us...launch.

Dave, Greg, Bryan, and I circulated among the families translating the techn.o.babble on the speakers. As word came that the weather was a go and the count was resuming, we faded to the rear of the group. This was a sacred family moment. The wives and the others needed to be alone with their thoughts and prayers, not feeling obligated to talk to us.

T-4 minutes. The two mothers, Kirby Thagard and Mary Jo Grabe, squeezed their children to their sides.

T-3 minutes. Several of the family members bowed their heads and closed their eyes, their interlaced fingers drawn tightly to their mouths. I was certain they were in prayer...as was I.

T-2 minutes. I could imagine the scene in the c.o.c.kpit-the crew closing their helmet visors, cinching harnesses, exchanging good luck handshakes.

T-1 minute. The families were mute. One of the wives was shivering.

T-30 seconds. I looked at the kids and wondered how they would react to a disaster.G.o.d, keep the crew safe! It wasn't so much my prayer, as my demand. It wasn't so much my prayer, as my demand.

The NASA voice took up the famous cadence. "T-minus 9...8...7...go for main engine start...6...main engine start...5..."

A bright flash signaled SSME start. It was a sight that instantly brought excited shouts. Somebody clapped. The tension of the countdown had been broken and everybody felt a momentary, if premature, relief.

At SRB ignitionAtlantis rose on promethean pillars of fire. The scene had a dreamlike quality to it. A 4-million-pound machine was being borne upward on twin flames 1,000 feet long, and yet, there was no sound. That was being delayed fifteen seconds by the distance. The first noise to roll over us was the animal-like shriek of the SSMEs, which generated a new round of exclamations from the families. Six seconds later the SRB-generated noise came, a sound that made every listener wonder if the air itself was being tortured. It began as a rolling thunder, then quickly increased in decibel to a violent, ragged crackle. Birds jerked in midflight confusion. The noise echoed off the VAB wall and came back to shudder the LCC roof. From the parking lot below came the sound of car alarms, activated by the vibrations. rose on promethean pillars of fire. The scene had a dreamlike quality to it. A 4-million-pound machine was being borne upward on twin flames 1,000 feet long, and yet, there was no sound. That was being delayed fifteen seconds by the distance. The first noise to roll over us was the animal-like shriek of the SSMEs, which generated a new round of exclamations from the families. Six seconds later the SRB-generated noise came, a sound that made every listener wonder if the air itself was being tortured. It began as a rolling thunder, then quickly increased in decibel to a violent, ragged crackle. Birds jerked in midflight confusion. The noise echoed off the VAB wall and came back to shudder the LCC roof. From the parking lot below came the sound of car alarms, activated by the vibrations.

Atlantisentered the clouds and those gave momentary form to the shock waves of the SRB exhaust. They raced outward like the sonic waves of explosions. At booster burnout and separation the families cheered loudly.Challenger had forever stigmatized the SRBs and everybody was glad to see them, and the threat they represented, tumbling away. had forever stigmatized the SRBs and everybody was glad to see them, and the threat they represented, tumbling away.

With the twin rockets gone, the blue-white trinity of the SSMEs was all that marked the streaking machine. That fire slowly faded and within three minutes there was no sight or sound ofAtlantis. Only the SRB smoke remained as a sign of her launch. That effluent had seeded the air so thoroughly with particulate that a cloud grew from it and showered the launchpad with an acid rain. Only the SRB smoke remained as a sign of her launch. That effluent had seeded the air so thoroughly with particulate that a cloud grew from it and showered the launchpad with an acid rain.

Now everybody was talking. The wives wiped tears and hugged one another. Through the excited chatter I kept an ear tuned to the speakers. I wouldn't be totally relieved until I heard the MECO call. At eight and a half minutes it came and I closed my eyes in prayer and thanked G.o.d there were no widows on that roof.

Back in the LCC, I called Donna to tell her of the successful launch and was shocked to find her sobbing in near hysteria. "Mike, I can't do it! I just can't do it again." She had watched the launch on TV and it had served as a terrifying reminder of what awaited her. She would have to make that T-9 minute walk again, probably multiple times, given my luck. For the first time in my life I was hearing my wife put herself first. But I wasn't going to step away from STS-36. That would never happen. I calmed her. "It'll be okay, Donna. Just this one more time and then it'll be over." I was confident she would rally. There were nine months until STS-36 would fly, which I hoped would give her enough time to sh.o.r.e up her emotional reserves.

But only six weeks later those reserves took another hit. We awoke on Father's Day to news that TFNG Dave Griggs had died the day before in the crash of a WWII aircraft while practicing for an air show. While his death was unrelated to shuttle operations, it was another grim reminder of the business of flying. Dave had left a wife, Karen, and two teenage daughters. One more time Donna and I drove to the home of a woman widowed in the prime of her life. One more time I watched Donna enter a sobbing clinch with a grieving friend.

After a service at St. Paul's Catholic Church, a group of us rendezvoused at the Outpost to continue Dave's wake. Kathy Thornton, a fellow crewmember on what would have been Dave's second shuttle mission, STS-33, brought one of the flower wreaths from the church and dropped it on the bar. With tears wetting her cheeks she sipped beer and remembered Dave with stories of their mission training. As I watched her, I wondered how many more tears would be shed for dead astronauts in this smoky dump of a bar. The sky was our Siren and no matter how we answered her call, in a plane or a rocket ship, she was always ready to kill us.

Though my a.s.signment to STS-36 had buried all thoughts of immediate retirement, I continued to debate the course of my life after the mission was complete. Time and again I would resolve to tell Mike Coats (now the acting chief while Brandenstein was in mission training) that I would be resigning after STS-36, only to walk into something that would shatter that resolve. On one occasion it was an astronaut party at a local bar. Word spread through the crowd that the Long Duration Exposure Facility (LDEF), a large satellite launched beforeChallenger -which was to be retrieved and returned to Earth on STS-32-was seconds from being visible in the overhead twilight. We made a frantic dash for the doors. The bouncers and some redneck patrons interpreted this as the sign of a big fight moving into the parking lot. Imagine their surprise when they rushed outside to find thirty astronauts standing with their necks craned and fingers pointing at a bright point of light sailing overhead. I looked to my left at Bonnie Dunbar. In a month she would be the mission specialist at -which was to be retrieved and returned to Earth on STS-32-was seconds from being visible in the overhead twilight. We made a frantic dash for the doors. The bouncers and some redneck patrons interpreted this as the sign of a big fight moving into the parking lot. Imagine their surprise when they rushed outside to find thirty astronauts standing with their necks craned and fingers pointing at a bright point of light sailing overhead. I looked to my left at Bonnie Dunbar. In a month she would be the mission specialist atColumbia's robot arm controls, grabbing LDEF from s.p.a.ce. robot arm controls, grabbing LDEF from s.p.a.ce.G.o.d, what an incredible business, I thought. I thought.How can I ever walk away from it?

The same question arose at another social function, this one for a new group of astronaut interviewees. In their presence, I traveled through a time portal. A dozen years earlier I had been one of these eager young men, my eyes bright with the hope that I would miraculously make the cut, that I would be named an astronaut. They came to me, as I had gone to the vets in 1977, to ask what it was like to ride a rocket, what did the Earth look like from two hundred miles alt.i.tude? I could see it in their faces and hear it in their voices. They had been imprinted with a pa.s.sion for s.p.a.ceflight, just as I had been. How could I ever quiet that pa.s.sion? How could I ever walk away from NASA?

I began the journey on December 18, 1989. After most astronauts had left for the day, I walked into Mike Coats's office and told him I was going to retire from NASA and the air force after STS-36. It was the most difficult decision of my life. There wasn't a eureka moment that had finally pushed me into it. Rather, it was a culmination of twelve years of "moments." Donna's telephone breakdown still weighed on me. My tour on the LCC roof with the STS-30 wives gave me a much better sense of what my launches were doing to her. And it wasn't just Donna's fear. My own fear had become a wearisome burden. How many times could I make the trip and survive?

The fear, the unknowns of the business, my doubts about NASA's management...all of it had conspired to propel me down the hall to Mike. But, even as I stood in front of him, I knew my decision was perilously balanced. I was like the circus acrobat tottering in a chair on top of a pole on top of a ball. The weight of a dust mote falling on my shoulder would be enough to send me toppling. If Mike had questioned my decision in the slightest manner-had he just said, "Are you sure?"-I suspect I would have immediately retracted my statement and walked away. But he didn't. As he continually flipped his pen, he confided to me that he had already made the same decision. He had told Puddy he would be leaving after his next flight. He probably heard me exhale. His decision endorsed my own. He didn't ask for an explanation, but I provided one. When I admitted that fear had a lot to do with it, he replied that it had been a huge factor for him, too-his own fear as well as Diane's. "That LCC roof wait is a torture."There should be a monument to astronaut wives, I thought. I thought.It should feature the LCC with the countdown clock at T-9 minutes.

I left Mike's office and called home. "I did it, Donna. I just told Coats we would be leaving after the mission." For a moment, Donna was silent. I had told her that morning of my retirement intentions, but I knew she didn't believe me. I had changed my mind too many times before. She understood the agony I was going through. She had seen the videos of me as a young teen running toward a parachuting coffee-can capsule. She knew the significance of my finger-wornConquest of s.p.a.ce book. She had boxes of s.p.a.ce memorabilia from my youth. She finally spoke. "Mike, I'm so happy. Thank you. I know you'll second-guess this decision to death, but it'll be okay. It'll all work out for the best. G.o.d has His plan." As I hung up the phone, I knew exactly what she was doing...lighting a candle of thanksgiving at her home shrine. book. She had boxes of s.p.a.ce memorabilia from my youth. She finally spoke. "Mike, I'm so happy. Thank you. I know you'll second-guess this decision to death, but it'll be okay. It'll all work out for the best. G.o.d has His plan." As I hung up the phone, I knew exactly what she was doing...lighting a candle of thanksgiving at her home shrine.

Chapter 38.

"I have no plans past MECO"

I made my last flight to Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center as a member of a Prime Crew on February 19, 1990. With our T-38 afterburners tagging us with twin streaks of blue fire, we roared down the Ellington Field runway and shot into the dark. At our cruise alt.i.tude of 41,000 feet, we skimmed across the tops of ma.s.sive thunderstorms a.s.sociated with a cold front pushing through Dixie. Lightning illuminated the nimbus heads in colors of white and gray and blue. Fantastic shapes of electricity jumped from cloud to cloud. The charged atmosphere produced a St. Elmo's fire that painted the leading edge of our wings in a blue haze. As if that wasn't enough, I looked upward into a star-misted deep black.G.o.d, how I'll miss this-the beauty and purity that is flight . .

At the KSC crew quarters, Olan Bertrand outlined the next three days of our lives. We were reminded to stay in health quarantine at all times, to not leave the quarters without telling Olan, to eat meals only cooked by the dieticians, to claim all meals on our travel voucher as "Government Furnished Meals." As employees of Uncle Sam we traveled on official orders, the itinerary of which read,FROM: Houston, TX. TO: Earth Orbit. All of our meals, transportation, and lodging would be provided by NASA, so we would only receive a standard per diem of a few dollars a day. A typical s.p.a.ceflight earned an astronaut an extra $30 to $50 total. All of our meals, transportation, and lodging would be provided by NASA, so we would only receive a standard per diem of a few dollars a day. A typical s.p.a.ceflight earned an astronaut an extra $30 to $50 total.

We were also reminded not to carry anything personal on board the orbiter. When we climbed intoAtlantis, everything on our persons, from the condoms on our p.e.n.i.ses to the LES helmets on our heads, was the property of the U.S. taxpayer. Gone were the days of astronauts stuffing their pockets with rolls of coins, corn beef sandwiches, and golf b.a.l.l.s before their trips into s.p.a.ce. In the early days of the s.p.a.ce program these colorful items of contraband added a human interest touch to missions. Now they were forbidden, due in large part to an Apollo-era incident in which astronauts carried philatelic items they later sold. NASA felt it was inappropriate for crews to profit from items transported aboard a taxpayer-funded vehicle and imposed tight control over shuttle-flown material. Shuttle astronauts were restricted to twenty items in a Personal Preference Kit (PPK), which, together, could not exceed 1.5 pounds in weight. Weeks before launch, the PPK items were submitted to NASA HQ for approval and packed in a shuttle locker. In the PPK for my STS-36 mission, I had included the crucifix from my dad's casket, the wedding bands of my daughter Amy and her husband, Steve, a gold medallion that would be imprinted with the mission patch after landing, and some other small items of personal significance for the rest of the family. everything on our persons, from the condoms on our p.e.n.i.ses to the LES helmets on our heads, was the property of the U.S. taxpayer. Gone were the days of astronauts stuffing their pockets with rolls of coins, corn beef sandwiches, and golf b.a.l.l.s before their trips into s.p.a.ce. In the early days of the s.p.a.ce program these colorful items of contraband added a human interest touch to missions. Now they were forbidden, due in large part to an Apollo-era incident in which astronauts carried philatelic items they later sold. NASA felt it was inappropriate for crews to profit from items transported aboard a taxpayer-funded vehicle and imposed tight control over shuttle-flown material. Shuttle astronauts were restricted to twenty items in a Personal Preference Kit (PPK), which, together, could not exceed 1.5 pounds in weight. Weeks before launch, the PPK items were submitted to NASA HQ for approval and packed in a shuttle locker. In the PPK for my STS-36 mission, I had included the crucifix from my dad's casket, the wedding bands of my daughter Amy and her husband, Steve, a gold medallion that would be imprinted with the mission patch after landing, and some other small items of personal significance for the rest of the family.

Olan also reminded us to pack our clothes and wallets and mark the bag EOM (End of Mission) before leaving for launch. The items would be delivered to us at Edwards AFB after landing. "Also, include some civilian clothes in case of an abort." This was a standard request, but I knew some astronauts refused to pack their civvies out of a superst.i.tious dread that to do so wouldcause an abort. I was one. If an abort occurred, I would just have to walk around Zaragoza, Spain, in my underwear. an abort. I was one. If an abort occurred, I would just have to walk around Zaragoza, Spain, in my underwear.

As the VITT briefing ended, the family escorts arrived with our wives. They would be joining us for our midnight lunch. Unlike STS-41D and STS-27, both of which had banker's hours for launch windows, STS-36's window was from midnight to 4A.M . This necessitated a killer sleep/awake schedule. We were going to bed at 11 . This necessitated a killer sleep/awake schedule. We were going to bed at 11A.M . and waking at 7 . and waking at 7P.M . Breakfast was at 8 . Breakfast was at 8P.M ., lunch at midnight, and supper at 6 ., lunch at midnight, and supper at 6A.M . A vampire kept better hours. . A vampire kept better hours.

The wives were exhausted. Besides being Prime Crew spouses and wanting to see their men in the few opportunities remaining, they were also family entertainers for the week. Relatives and friends who were on a normal sleep schedule sought them out for KSC tour information, weather forecasts, and information on launch-day bus schedules. Cheryl Thuot and Chris Casper also had young children to deal with. If our wives were getting three hours of sleep a night, I would have been surprised.

They certainly didn't get much sleep this night. We met them again at the beach house for an L-2 barbecue dinner...at 8A.M . Each of us was allowed an additional four health-screened guests, so this was a real crowd. In fact the gathering was too much. Introductions consumed a significant part of our time. The guests were also frantic to use this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get photos in every imaginable permutation: the STS-36 crew alone, the crew with wives, the crew with parents. All of this was being done on the outside deck so a billion no-see-um bugs also wanted to be in the picture. Photos were delayed while we slapped and danced and scratched them away. Inevitably we would pose for one shot and be into the next permutation when some old lady would scream, "I forgot to take off my lens cap. We'll have to pose that one again." Or, "I need to change film, so hold on." Or, "I left Aunt Betty's camera inside. Wait while I get it." Meanwhile I was thinking, . Each of us was allowed an additional four health-screened guests, so this was a real crowd. In fact the gathering was too much. Introductions consumed a significant part of our time. The guests were also frantic to use this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get photos in every imaginable permutation: the STS-36 crew alone, the crew with wives, the crew with parents. All of this was being done on the outside deck so a billion no-see-um bugs also wanted to be in the picture. Photos were delayed while we slapped and danced and scratched them away. Inevitably we would pose for one shot and be into the next permutation when some old lady would scream, "I forgot to take off my lens cap. We'll have to pose that one again." Or, "I need to change film, so hold on." Or, "I left Aunt Betty's camera inside. Wait while I get it." Meanwhile I was thinking,This is bulls.h.i.t! I had no patience for the extended families of the others and, no doubt, the other crewmembers were thinking the same thing as my mom jumped into firing position and started fiddling with her camera. I just wanted to be alone with my mom and children and Donna. I didn't want to share this time making small talk with people I had never met before. I had no patience for the extended families of the others and, no doubt, the other crewmembers were thinking the same thing as my mom jumped into firing position and started fiddling with her camera. I just wanted to be alone with my mom and children and Donna. I didn't want to share this time making small talk with people I had never met before.

During our first break from the Kodak moments I pulled my family to the beach. I would see Donna again, so I devoted my time to my mom and children. The kids were now old enough to make the beach house visit after being cleared by the flight surgeon. As I had been in previous launch good-byes, I was honest with them now about the risks. I didn't talk up the danger, but neither did I paint a Potemkin village for them. SinceChallenger 's loss I was even more determined to keep them informed. I had heard that one of the older children watching 's loss I was even more determined to keep them informed. I had heard that one of the older children watchingChallenger 's destruction from the LCC roof had screamed, "Daddy, you said this could never happen!" I wanted my children and mom to know it could happen and to be prepared as much as possible. 's destruction from the LCC roof had screamed, "Daddy, you said this could never happen!" I wanted my children and mom to know it could happen and to be prepared as much as possible.

I was filled with a father's pride as I watched my children. Pat was in the final weeks of his senior year at Notre Dame. He had attended the school on an ROTC scholarship and upon graduation was to be commissioned as a second lieutenant in the air force. He had matured into a real leader. He had also developed a wonderful wit. Friends who knew Pat and me would frequently joke, "The nut doesn't fall far from the tree." They were right. In many ways Pat was my clone-the most notable exception being his very good looks. But we did share the same c.r.a.ppy eyesight. As it had for me, his less than 20/20 vision was keeping him from air force pilot training. I had made calls to some general officer friends hoping they might know of a way for Pat to gain a medical waiver, but the Berlin Wall had come down, the Cold War was over, peace was going to reign forever, the air force had too many pilots, blah, blah, blah. All I heard were excuses. But I hadn't left it there. TheChallenger disaster had shown me that dead astronauts had more cachet than live ones. Astronaut widows were consoled by presidents who told them to call if they needed anything. If I died on this mission I intended to posthumously use my celebrity status to get Pat into pilot training. Before leaving Houston, I had written a letter to fellow TFNG and USAF colonel d.i.c.k Covey on that topic. "...I'd like to thank you for taking care of Donna and the kids. I've always hated paperwork and I imagine dying generates more of it than anything else. At least I don't have to worry about it...I've told Donna to tell the president himself of Pat's desire to serve his country as a pilot. You might tell General Welch he's going to be getting the order from above, so he might just want to get ahead of the game by approving Pat's application right now..." Donna was holding the letter with my instructions to give it to Covey in the event of my death. (Visual acuity defects that are correctable have no flight safety impact-many military pilots wear gla.s.ses-and waivers have been given in the past for officers with gla.s.ses to enter pilot training.) There was also one other favor I had already asked of Covey: "If I die on this mission and there's anything left of my body, I don't want any of the female docs in the office doing an autopsy on me. I worry they'll get back at my s.e.xist bulls.h.i.t by telling everybody in the office I had a little d.i.c.k." (A d.a.m.nable lie!) Covey had a great laugh at that, but he promised to make my wishes known. disaster had shown me that dead astronauts had more cachet than live ones. Astronaut widows were consoled by presidents who told them to call if they needed anything. If I died on this mission I intended to posthumously use my celebrity status to get Pat into pilot training. Before leaving Houston, I had written a letter to fellow TFNG and USAF colonel d.i.c.k Covey on that topic. "...I'd like to thank you for taking care of Donna and the kids. I've always hated paperwork and I imagine dying generates more of it than anything else. At least I don't have to worry about it...I've told Donna to tell the president himself of Pat's desire to serve his country as a pilot. You might tell General Welch he's going to be getting the order from above, so he might just want to get ahead of the game by approving Pat's application right now..." Donna was holding the letter with my instructions to give it to Covey in the event of my death. (Visual acuity defects that are correctable have no flight safety impact-many military pilots wear gla.s.ses-and waivers have been given in the past for officers with gla.s.ses to enter pilot training.) There was also one other favor I had already asked of Covey: "If I die on this mission and there's anything left of my body, I don't want any of the female docs in the office doing an autopsy on me. I worry they'll get back at my s.e.xist bulls.h.i.t by telling everybody in the office I had a little d.i.c.k." (A d.a.m.nable lie!) Covey had a great laugh at that, but he promised to make my wishes known.

Amy, Pat's twin, was now married and living in Huntsville, Alabama. I didn't need to write any letters on her behalf. She was completely fulfilled as a wife and looking forward to the day she would be a stay-at-home mom. I had only recently come to accept her as she was. As obsessive-compulsive-West Point-engineer-astronaut fathers are apt to do, I attempted to fashion her into my own image and was frustrated by my repeated failures. I wanted her to graduate from college, but she dropped out after just one semester. I wanted her to have skills that would make her financially independent, if ever that was required, but she acquired none. Donna set me straight. "She's a sweet, good-hearted young woman. She doesn't want what you want. You just have to accept that." I finally had and was happy for her.

Laura was now nineteen and a freshman at DePaul University in Chicago majoring in the single degree field most guaranteed to drive an obsessive- compulsive-West Point-engineer-astronaut father into madness...theater. Laura wanted to be an actress. At least I had the experience of my older daughter to learn from-I accepted Laura's dream and enthusiastically supported her. I knew most theater degrees ended up being degrees in waiting tables, but it was her dream, and-as a man who had made a similar journey toward a long-odds prize-I wasn't about to discourage it.

As I walked the beach with my children beside me I was struck by the swiftness of life. TheFiddler on the Roof song "Sunrise, Sunset" came to mind. "Is this the little girl I carried? Is this the little boy at play?" It seemed like just yesterday I was running alongside bikes as the kids made their first no-training-wheels rides. Now, I walked with adults who would be doing the same thing with their children in the not-too-distant future. How swiftly fly the years. song "Sunrise, Sunset" came to mind. "Is this the little girl I carried? Is this the little boy at play?" It seemed like just yesterday I was running alongside bikes as the kids made their first no-training-wheels rides. Now, I walked with adults who would be doing the same thing with their children in the not-too-distant future. How swiftly fly the years.

I had missed a lot in those years, all in the name of career. How many times had I left for work with the kids asleep and returned after they were in bed for the night? How many evenings had there been no time to read to them or play with them because I had graduate school homework? How many birthdays had I missed? I didn't want to count. I had been a good father but not a great one. I had missed a lot that was irretrievable. The thought bolstered my confidence in the decision to retire from NASA. I didn't have many years left to build memories with my children and future grandchildren. I was forty-five years old-I was entering middle age. One glance in the mirror told me that. A proto-spare tire was faintly visible at my waist, and either my sink was going through p.u.b.erty or my hair was thinning. I suspected the latter. I was only twenty-one years from the age of my dad's death. I had only thirty years left in an average life span. Of course, with a shuttle launch pending, all of those years were hypothetical. L-2 days to launch might mean two days until my death. So I gathered in this memory of my children as young adults...strong, healthy, attractive, their eyes and hearts set on the distant horizons of their lives.

Finally, our time was up. I hugged and kissed the kids. As I embraced my mom, she handed me a note. It was Psalm 91:We live within the shadow of the Almighty, sheltered by the G.o.d who is above all G.o.ds.... Now you don't need to be afraid of the dark any more, nor fear the dangers of the day; nor dread the plagues of darkness, nor disasters in the morning. I wasn't afraid of the dark or plagues. It was the "disasters in the morning" I feared. I wasn't afraid of the dark or plagues. It was the "disasters in the morning" I feared.

Mom also handed me a card she had prepared and reproduced and was pa.s.sing out to guests who had come to watch the launch. It was a prayer to Our Lady of s.p.a.ce.Blessed Mary, Mother of our Savior and of mankind, watch over our men and women in s.p.a.ce, and through your intercession, obtain for them protection from all harm and evil, grace to do G.o.d's will, and the courage and strength to fulfill their mission for the honor and glory of G.o.d. Amen. Watch over the crew of STS-36.

That was my mom. She had the faith of ten people. Between her and Donna's prayers I should have been bulletproof. I just hoped Mom, the papist, didn't end up proselytizing to some Baptists in the family viewing area and find herself in a fistfight.

As they were climbing into the van for the ride back to the condo, Donna and Amy were wiping away tears. My mom, Pat, and Laura had their Pettigrew shields up. Their faces were pictures of worry, but they were dry-eyed.

Back at the crew quarters I went to the conference room to find that it had become a real bachelor pad. J.O., John, and Pepe had tossed money in the cash box, grabbed some beers, and were reviewing checklists while watching the Playboy Channel. I wondered how this was going to square with Our Lady of s.p.a.ce. Pepe's EKG recorder was on the table. As part of a life-science experiment, which would continue in weightlessness, he had been wired for heart data for the past week. I was glad I didn't have one. I could imagine what the docs would say when they saw my heartrate during one of my Prime Crew night terrors...Holy s.h.i.t!They would never let me on the rocket. And I wasreally happy I didn't have to wear a bowel sound monitor. In their efforts to solve the mystery of s.p.a.ce nausea, experimenters had requested some astronauts wear a microphone taped to their gut and a recorder on their hip to catch all the wheezes, pops, growls, and gurgles in their intestines. When the monitors were carried on secret DOD missions, the tapes could not be released to NASA until a USAF security official listened to them to be certain they hadn't captured a cla.s.sified orbit discussion. That would be one heck of a job t.i.tle to have on a resume-bowel sound screener. happy I didn't have to wear a bowel sound monitor. In their efforts to solve the mystery of s.p.a.ce nausea, experimenters had requested some astronauts wear a microphone taped to their gut and a recorder on their hip to catch all the wheezes, pops, growls, and gurgles in their intestines. When the monitors were carried on secret DOD missions, the tapes could not be released to NASA until a USAF security official listened to them to be certain they hadn't captured a cla.s.sified orbit discussion. That would be one heck of a job t.i.tle to have on a resume-bowel sound screener.

Pepe showed us his heart-activities log. The doctors had required him to record the time of every heart-affecting moment: bowel movements, meals, and each time he had intercourse. I noticed the "intercourse" column was blank. "Cheryl's not giving you any, huh?"

Dave Hilmers entered our company just as the TV was showing a topless Iowa coed doing naked handstands on a boat dock in a feature t.i.tledFarmer's Daughter. He was not happy. "Come on, guys...You shouldn't be watching this." I was surprised by Dave's complaint. Before I had been excommunicated from the office Bible study, I had learned he was one of the more religiously conservative astronauts. He wasn't the type of guy who would watch the Playboy Channel himself, but I had never heard him be openly critical of others who didn't share his belief system. Maybe it was the looming prospect of meeting Saint Peter and having to explain away the naked nineteen-year-old on the TV. I knew Dave was as scared as I was. While jogging with him, he had quoted a Scripture pa.s.sage that he found helpful in calming his fears. At one of our crew parties, when asked about some postflight activity, he had dismissively replied, "I have no plans past MECO." Those six words spoke volumes. The threat to our lives was so real and immediate during the eight-and-a-half-minute ride to MECO, there was no reason to waste time with post-MECO plans. A post-MECO life was hypothetical. He was not happy. "Come on, guys...You shouldn't be watching this." I was surprised by Dave's complaint. Before I had been excommunicated from the office Bible study, I had learned he was one of the more religiously conservative astronauts. He wasn't the type of guy who would watch the Playboy Channel himself, but I had never heard him be openly critical of others who didn't share his belief system. Maybe it was the looming prospect of meeting Saint Peter and having to explain away the naked nineteen-year-old on the TV. I knew Dave was as scared as I was. While jogging with him, he had quoted a Scripture pa.s.sage that he found helpful in calming his fears. At one of our crew parties, when asked about some postflight activity, he had dismissively replied, "I have no plans past MECO." Those six words spoke volumes. The threat to our lives was so real and immediate during the eight-and-a-half-minute ride to MECO, there was no reason to waste time with post-MECO plans. A post-MECO life was hypothetical.

Dave's criticism of our TV channel selection hung in the air. Our choice was either to appease him or watch the coed do naked handsprings off the dock and into a lake. It was a no-brainer. Pepe dismissed him. "Dave, a woman's body is a beautiful thing."

Hilmers shot back, "But not to be laughed at."

I defended Pepe. "We're not laughing.... We're l.u.s.ting."

Dave just shook his head in resignation that our sorry souls were beyond saving. He picked up a checklist and began his review.

On L-1 we drove to the beach house for a midnight lunch with our wives and some NASA support personnel. There were no other family guests this time, thank G.o.d. On the drive I noticed J.O.'s cough was getting worse. It had been bothering him for the past several days. I wondered if the flight surgeon was aware of it. Knowing aviators, I doubted it. He probably wouldn't go to the doc until he coughed up a lung.

After the meal, the NASA guests departed and we were left with our spouses for the final good-bye. Donna and I bundled up and walked to the beach. Earlier at the crew quarters I had jogged under a crescent new moon, but it had set and the sky now offered a planetarium view of the winter constellations. There was enough starlight to illuminate the foam of the surf but the night air was chilly so we steered clear of the water. On the walk our eyes were continually drawn to the northern horizon. The xenon lights of Pad 39A sketched the salt air in shafts of white.Atlantis was being readied. was being readied.

By now Donna and I were wizened veterans of shuttle launch good-byes. That's not to say this one was easier. It was actually harder. We had already confessed to each other that we were more terrified of this mission than either of the others because now there was an end in sight. It was hard not to recall all those Hollywood movies where the hero died on his last mission, and our last mission loomed. For me there was just one more time to surrender myself to the terrors of ascent. For Donna there was just one more T-9 minute climb to the LCC roof (or so she prayed). There was just one more adrenaline-draining launch. And then it would be over. We would finally close the NASA chapter of our lives and begin to write the post-MECO chapter. It would be a chapter filled with the fun and beauty of southwest living, of getting back to the deserts and mountains of our youth. It would be a chapter that would record the joys of watching Patrick and Laura follow Amy's lead into the bans of matrimony. And it would include the most wonderful part of life...grandchildren. Those were still glimmers in the eyes of our children, but we knew they would come. Yes, a wonderful post-MECO life awaited us. But to get there required one more "Go for main engine start."

With only the stars as witnesses, Donna and I kissed in a long and pa.s.sionate embrace that we both knew could be our last.

By noon on February 21, 1990, I should have been an hour into sleep, but instead I was staring into the dark of my room. Even a sleeping pill hadn't done the trick. I could hear doors opening and closing, murmurs of conversation, J.O.'s worsening cough. I couldn't imagine he was going to be able to hide it from the flight surgeon and prayed it wouldn't generate a delay.

But it wasn't the faint noises keeping me awake. I was suffering a full-blown case of "last mission syndrome." I had experienced it in Vietnam. Then, the last mission had been identical to the other 133, but because it was my last, my fears had been magnified ten-fold. As I navigated the pilot to our reconnaissance target, I imagined every Viet Cong gunner in South Vietnam had my helmet in their sights. Now I envisioned every bug, glitch, and gremlin inAtlantis 's hardware and software was conspiring to end my life on STS-36. There was an SSME failure awaiting me, an APU fire, a turbo-pump ready to fly into a million pieces. My heart pounded in deep, thudding explosions. The adrenaline in my veins was eating the narcotic of the sleeping pill, like Pac Man munching through dots in his maze. 's hardware and software was conspiring to end my life on STS-36. There was an SSME failure awaiting me, an APU fire, a turbo-pump ready to fly into a million pieces. My heart pounded in deep, thudding explosions. The adrenaline in my veins was eating the narcotic of the sleeping pill, like Pac Man munching through dots in his maze.

I got up, went to my desk, and switched on the light. I wrote to Donna and the kids: 21 Feb 1990, 12:22P.M.Dearest Donna, Pat, Amy, and Laura,...I have no premonitions about this flight. I expect I will come home and we will pursue our other dreams in New Mexico. But there is no denying the danger. It is extreme, far beyond any other flying I've done. In spite of that I feel it is what I was born to do.... If it is G.o.d's intention to call me, then I want you to know how much I have loved you before I leave. Darling, I have loved you. I haven't always shown it but I love you with all my heart and soul. You are the first and greatest gift G.o.d has given me. The children are the second. There are many others-my health, your health, the kids' health, my dreams, and the wings to reach those dreams. I want you and the children to remember that. I have been blessed beyond all human reason. n.o.body should ever think that G.o.d was cruel to take me at this moment. Most people never come close to the self-fulfillment I've been blessed with.

I then wrote a separate letter to my mom: 21 Feb 1990, 12:47P.M.Dear Mom,Just wanted to tell you for a last time how much I have loved you and Dad. You are the source of my mortal life and have filled it with such abundant love.Please don't mourn my death. I've had the dreams of a thousand lifetimes fulfilled and died doing what I loved-to fly!Your Psalm 91 was beautiful and I thank you for giving it to me and for praying so hard for me. Though in your grief you may feel G.o.d did not fulfill the promises of that Psalm, I think He did so wonderfully. He fulfilled every word of it.Please continue to pray for me, as I will for you. I hope G.o.d allows me to get back to Dad. There's so much I would like to tell him. Also, tell Tim, Pat, Chipper, Kathy, and Mark that I loved each of them and wish them all the blessings I have known. I love you, Mom. Mike I folded the letters and slipped them inside a pocket of my T-38 flight coveralls. Those were packed in my EOM bag and would be held for me at Edwards AFB. If I didn't make it back to claim the letters, I knew they would find their way to Donna and my mom. I climbed back into bed and somewhere in midafternoon a shallow sleep finally took me.

I awoke to the depressing news that the mission had been postponed for forty-eight hours. J.O. had been diagnosed with an upper respiratory infection. It marked the first time sinceApollo 13 that a mission had been delayed for crew health reasons. That J.O. had gotten sick didn't surprise me-we were all exhausted. The week of JSC quarantine to progressively shift our sleep cycle had been completely inadequate. And the sleeping pills were useless at inducing good periods of refreshing sleep. I was certain all of our immune systems were in chaos. that a mission had been delayed for crew health reasons. That J.O. had gotten sick didn't surprise me-we were all exhausted. The week of JSC quarantine to progressively shift our sleep cycle had been completely inadequate. And the sleeping pills were useless at inducing good periods of refreshing sleep. I was certain all of our immune systems were in chaos.

To prevent J.O. from infecting the rest of us, he was moved out of the crew quarters and into an unused room next door. He was being quarantined from the quarantine. At our 6A.M . supper the rest of us put on germ masks and took him his meal. His room was an abandoned Apollo-era s.p.a.cesuit facility painted brilliant white and illuminated with a full ceiling of intense fluorescent lights. Except for a small table, chair, and bed, the room was deserted. J.O. was seated at the table and, in the supernova lighting, he appeared remarkably like the old astronaut at the end of . supper the rest of us put on germ masks and took him his meal. His room was an abandoned Apollo-era s.p.a.cesuit facility painted brilliant white and illuminated with a full ceiling of intense fluorescent lights. Except for a small table, chair, and bed, the room was deserted. J.O. was seated at the table and, in the supernova lighting, he appeared remarkably like the old astronaut at the end of2001: A s.p.a.ce Odyssey. We wished him a quick recovery but none of us wanted to go anywhere near him. We placed his food tray on the floor and used a long-handled push broom to shove it close to his table and then immediately retreated from the room. He croaked a laugh at that. We wished him a quick recovery but none of us wanted to go anywhere near him. We placed his food tray on the floor and used a long-handled push broom to shove it close to his table and then immediately retreated from the room. He croaked a laugh at that.

J.O.'s sickness was just the beginning. John Casper began to feel poorly and went on medication. Dave Hilmers quickly followed. Then one of the mission support astronauts rushed from a briefing to vomit. The crew quarters had suddenly become a biohazard. Health-and-safety technicians entered in full-body moonsuits to swab the quarters for viruses. The flight surgeons also ordered urine and stool samples from all of us. I tried to ignore the t.u.r.d request but I couldn't escape. I returned to my room from a briefing to find doctors Phil Stapaniak and Brad Beck had left me a not-so-subtle reminder-a Baby Ruth candy bar inside a collection container. My next bowel movement was into a Cool Whip dish. While I was forking a sample of the mess into a smaller container I screamed at the bathroom door, "This wasn't in the brochure!"

I sealed the smeared collection container in a plastic bag and dropped it in the garbage can. That contained more medical waste than a New Jersey beach: snotty tissues, other fecal collection bowls, packaging for antibiotics and decongestants, and an empty Pepto-Bismol bottle. STS-36 was being crewed by the walking wounded.

Pepe and I were the only healthy ones remaining. I prayed it would stay that way. If the bug slowly worked its way through all of us, there was the potential for a significant delay. If I was the last to be infected, I could get the giant screw. I could envision being pulled from the flight and a subst.i.tute MS taking my place. My old paranoia was back with me...that I would get to within hours of launch only to have the mission s.n.a.t.c.hed away. In spite of the fact it was my third mission, that it wasn't going to make my astronaut pin any more "golden," and that I was scared out of my wits, I stillneeded this mission as desperately as a heroin addict needs his fix. The flight surgeons were going to have to pry my jaws open to get a tongue depressor in my mouth. this mission as desperately as a heroin addict needs his fix. The flight surgeons were going to have to pry my jaws open to get a tongue depressor in my mouth.

Chapter 39.

Holding at Nine and Hurting.

Due to a bad weather forecast, the February 24 launch attempt was canceled before the gas tank was even filled. It was just as well since J.O. was still deathly ill. February 25 looked as if it would be the day. The weather forecast was good for the midnight opening of our launch window. J.O. looked and sounded like a consumptive, but he somehow managed to convince the flight surgeons he was okay. We headed for the suit room. For this flight I was wearing the diaper instead of the condom UCD. I was tired of worrying if the latex had slipped off. Maybe in my next life G.o.d would give me a p.e.n.i.s more suited for s.p.a.ceflight but for now I had to make do with what was there. The diaper was a more dependable choice.

We wore thermal underwear as an extra layer of insulation. Now that we had a bailout system, our pressure suits doubled as antiexposure suits and the long johns were intended to increase our survival time if we landed in the ocean. On the topic of surviving in the Arctic Sea during the dead of winter, we all had an Alfred E. Neuman,What, me worry? att.i.tude. As Hoot Gibson had said on STS-27 (borrowing a line from att.i.tude. As Hoot Gibson had said on STS-27 (borrowing a line fromButch Ca.s.sidy and the Sundance Kid ), "h.e.l.l, the fall is gonna kill you anyway." ), "h.e.l.l, the fall is gonna kill you anyway."

Coverall-clad technicians awaited us in the suit room. Our bright orange LES pressure suits were draped on five La-Z-Boytype recliners. Name tags on each recliner indicated which suit belonged to which astronaut, and every name but Pepe's was misspelled. He had snuck into the suit room earlier and made the bogus name placards in retaliation for our wearing of a prototype mission patch that bore his unusual French-Canadian-rooted name (Thuot) misspelled as Thout. We all laughed. Anything to ease the tension was welcome. I took a seat in the recliner marked "Mollane."

I removed my wedding band and put it in my gla.s.ses case. The ring could snag on something in an emergency escape. I would put it back on when I reached orbit. I had done the same thing for STS-41D and STS-27 and had come back alive. The act was now a ritual as much as a ballplayer's crossing himself in the batter's box. I had to survive to put the ring back on. G.o.d knew that and would protect me. Or, so I hoped.

The technicians helped me wiggle my feet into the bottom of the rear-entry suit. I then stood and zipped the integrated anti-G bladder around my gut. Next, I lowered my body and simultaneously inserted my arms into the suit's armholes while pushing my head through its neck "dam." The last time I had squeezed my head through an opening as tight as the LES had been at birth. The ring was intentionally made small so the rubber dam would clamp tight around the flesh of the neck and prevent the suit from filling with seawater.

After zipping the back of the suit closed, the technicians continued the dress-out. They laced my boots and b.u.t.toned my Snoopy-cap communication carrier on my head. Next came the pressure suit gloves. Finally the helmet was locked onto the neck ring. I was now fully dressed for the two things I never wanted to experience...a c.o.c.kpit depressurization and/or a bailout from a wounded shuttle.

The techs connected their pressure test equipment and gave me my instructions. "Close your visor, turn on your O2, take a deep breath and hold it." In the silence of the suit, my nervousness was obvious. I could hear my heart. It was squishing in my ears.

Next came a fully pressurized test. I gritted my teeth for this. As the suit filled with oxygen it stiffened to the consistency of steel. It felt as if a cinch was being run across each shoulder and through my crotch and then tightened until my prostate was in danger of being cleaved in half. Fortunately the test only lasted thirty seconds. I wasn't worried about dealing with the pain aboard the shuttle. If the suit ever pressurized in flight it would be because we had lost our c.o.c.kpit atmosphere. In an emergency that dire, any suit pain would be insignificant.

The suit check was nominal and the technicians removed my gloves and helmet. They handed me a tray of items to stow in my pockets. I loaded a gas-pressurized s.p.a.ce pen in the left-sleeve pocket and checked that my parachute knife was in my "p.e.c.k.e.r pocket," a sleeve on the inside of the left thigh. If I became entangled in my parachute and was being pulled to my death at sea, I could use the knife to hack at the shroud lines and hopefully save myself.

In my right thigh pocket I placed my spare gla.s.ses. In addition to my wedding band, I had secreted my mom's Psalm 91 in the case. Technically, the latter item was contraband, but it would only be discovered if Jim Bagian and Sonny Carter were cutting the suit from my dead body. In that case I wouldn't care. In the same pocket I also loaded a radiation dosimeter, some aspirin for the zero-G backache that awaited me, and a Ziploc bag for stowing my used diaper once I was in orbit. I also included a barf bag. While I had yet to feel the slightest nausea in s.p.a.ce, carrying the bag had become another ritual, as if that act alone prevented s.p.a.ce sickness.

In my right ankle pocket I placed a mirror. The immobility of the suit made it impossible to look at the hose connections, so a mirror was needed. I also stowed my right pressure suit glove and tethered my bailout survival radio.

In my left ankle pocket I placed my left glove and more survival equipment: flares, strobe light, and flashlight.Who am I kidding? The fall is gonna kill me anyway.

As I was finishing with my stowage, some NASA photographers entered the room and snapped a few pictures. We all a.s.sumed casual, not-a-care-in-the- world, lying smiles.

I looked at my watch. Unfortunately we were fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. In this business you never wanted time on your hands. Mike Coats, who had been observing the suit-up, pulled out a deck of cards. He had been where we were and knew of the need to have every moment occupied. We gathered at a table for a couple hands of Possum Fargo, a dumb fighter-pilot card game that required no strategy-the worst hand won. As we played, Pepe observed that the flight surgeons seemed to have hung around him more than anybody else. "It was like they were two padres waiting to escort me to the gallows. I wonder if they thought I was going to panic or pa.s.s out or something."

Casper noted, "Pepe, you're always in a panic. How would they know?" He was right. Pepe was a twenty-four-volt guy in a twelve-volt world. He reminded me of a hummingbird in the way he darted at whatever he was doing, whether he was turning the page of a checklist, punching in a phone number, or flipping c.o.c.kpit switches.

I added, "If they were watching for panic, they should have been at my seat." I told them of my pounding heart during the pressure test. Everybody nodded knowingly. We were all the same. Anybody who wasn't terrified getting ready to fly a s.p.a.ce shuttle must have chased a couple Valiums with a fifth of vodka.

At my suggestion, we started playing draw poker. The game required more thought and was therefore a greater distraction. To the astonishment of all, I pulled two straights in just six hands. Incredible luck. As we were called for the bus, I hoped I hadn't used it all up.

In the elevator I noticed J.O. and Casper had net bags filled with flight surgeonprescribed Afrin, throat lozenges, antibiotics, and other treatments. Casper held up his medicine bag and suggested a STS-36 motto: "Just saymaybe to drugs." I wondered if this was a first in the s.p.a.ce program...a commander and pilot carrying a small pharmacy as they headed for their machine. I wasn't worried. The autopilot would be flying us to orbit. If it wasn't, and J.O. was hand-flying us because of some malfunction, I knew he would do just fine. The threat of death has a way of focusing anybody, even a sick CDR. to drugs." I wondered if this was a first in the s.p.a.ce program...a commander and pilot carrying a small pharmacy as they headed for their machine. I wasn't worried. The autopilot would be flying us to orbit. If it wasn't, and J.O. was hand-flying us because of some malfunction, I knew he would do just fine. The threat of death has a way of focusing anybody, even a sick CDR.

It was 9:45P.M . on a Sunday night when we stepped outside and headed for the astro-van. There were only a handful of NASA workers there to greet us, a fact that proved fortuitous for Pepe, as there were fewer people to laugh at his near fall. We had been instructed to stay close together on our exit so the photographers could get a . on a Sunday night when we stepped outside and headed for the astro-van. There were only a handful of NASA workers there to greet us, a fact that proved fortuitous for Pepe, as there were fewer people to laugh at his near fall. We had been instructed to stay close together on our exit so the photographers could get aMagnificent Seven style group photo. Pepe was closest to the building door, and, as he pa.s.sed it, his oxygen hose caught on the handle and he nearly walked right out from under his feet. It was great entertainment for the small crowd. style group photo. Pepe was closest to the building door, and, as he pa.s.sed it, his oxygen hose caught on the handle and he nearly walked right out from under his feet. It was great entertainment for the small crowd.

At the LCC the driver stopped to let Mike Coats off. He would get a ride to the Shuttle Landing Facility and serve as the weather pilot in the STA jet. Before stepping down, Mike had us all join our hands in collective prayer. We bowed our heads as he led, "G.o.d help you if you screw this up." It was a prayer that Dan Brandenstein had first composed and made famous among TFNGs. We all laughed, but knew that Mike spoke the truth. G.o.d better help us if we screwed up anything because management would shish-kebab our t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es if we did.

The van continued toward the pad and I sucked in every detail of the journey. The memories would have to last me the rest of my life, be that another few hours or decades. We sat facing one another, our suit-cooling units in the aisleway. In the high-humidity air the units produced a vapor that swirled around our feet. Several of us had one hand at our throat pulling back the rubber dam to allow an escape pathway for the cooling air being blown into the sides of our suits. Others solved the problem by inserting their s.p.a.ce pens between flesh and rubber to create a flow path.

I watched the crew. Hilmers was quiet. I knew he was praying and that was more than fine with me. If G.o.d protected him, He would be protecting the rest of us Playboy Channelwatching children of Gomorrah. J.O. and Casper, still struggling with the effects of their illness, were subdued. Pepe and I were the motormouths, trying to hide behind our joking.

I observed, "With this swirling vapor at our feet, it's like being part of the STS-26 crew. Let's start singing 'I'm Proud to Be an American.' Come on, Dave, you know the tune." Dave Hilmers had been a "Return to Flight" crewmember.

Pepe quipped, "I forgot my badge. We're going to have to go back." We had left our NASA badges in our EOM bags-standard prelaunch protocol. With NASA security cars leading and trailing our van, the roadblock guards weren't about to stop us and ask for badges. It would be like the Vatican Swiss Guard stopping the pope mobile to check the badge of the guy in the funny hat.

Atlantisappeared above the darkened palmetto as an incandescent white obelisk. I couldn't imagine the gates of heaven appearing more brilliant or more beckoning. Everybody twisted in their seats to look and have their breath taken away. The scene instantly brought to mind Chesley Bonestell's paintingZero Hour Minus Five from my childhood book from my childhood bookConquest of s.p.a.ce. His winged rocket had been made of stainless steel but otherwise he had nailed the image. He had foreseen the soul-tugging drama of an illuminated s.p.a.ceship standing ready against a star-filled sky. His winged rocket had been made of stainless steel but otherwise he had nailed the image. He had foreseen the soul-tugging drama of an illuminated s.p.a.ceship standing ready against a star-filled sky.

As we drew nearer, the finer details of the pad appeared. The flame from the hydrogen gas waste tower streamed away in the wind. The same breeze s.n.a.t.c.hed a vapor of oxygen from the tip of the gas tank. The white spherical supply tanks of liquid hydrogen and oxygen squatted on steel legs on either side of the pad like alien s.p.a.ceships. The soaring finger of the lightning suppression mast seemed like an artistic touch, added merely to draw the eye skyward. The burnt orange of the ET and the American flag onAtlantis 's left wing provided the only color in what could have otherwise been an Ansel Adams photograph. 's left wing provided the only color in what could have otherwise been an Ansel Adams photograph.

As we stepped from the crew van, the pad sights and sounds closed around me: the screeching hiss of the engine purge, the shadows playing on the vapors, workers marked with yellow light sticks hurrying to the booming call of the countdown, a light fall of snow from the maze of frosted cryogenic propellant lines. I crammed it all into my brain.

I stood at the edge of the gantry awaiting my turn for c.o.c.kpit entry. I could feel Judy's presence. At this exact spot she and I had waited for our entry intoDiscovery ...four times. My STS-27 flight had launched from Pad 39B, so this return to the 39A gantry was sort of a homecoming for me. I could see Judy's smile, her wind-whipped hair. I could hear her voice, "See you in s.p.a.ce, Tarzan." I missed her. I missed them all. ...four times. My STS-27 flight had launched from Pad 39B, so this return to the 39A gantry was sort of a homecoming for me. I could see Judy's smile, her wind-whipped hair. I could hear her voice, "See you in s.p.a.ce, Tarzan." I missed her. I missed them all.

Pepe came to my side. "Sure hope it all works."

I appended his comment. "I sure hope it all workstoday. I've got a sorry record for launching on a first attempt. This will be my seventh strap-in for a third ride into s.p.a.ce." I've got a sorry record for launching on a first attempt. This will be my seventh strap-in for a third ride into s.p.a.ce."