Riding Rockets Part 18

I took off my headset and watched the Earth in silence. I also wanted tohear s.p.a.ceflight and seal that memory in my mind. The cabin fans stirred the air with their constant soft whoosh. From downstairs I could hear the muted clatter of the teleprinter printing out checklist changes and weather reports for tomorrow's reentry. Someone coughed. The UHF radio captured the gibberish of a foreign pilot talking to his controller somewhere below. s.p.a.ceflight and seal that memory in my mind. The cabin fans stirred the air with their constant soft whoosh. From downstairs I could hear the muted clatter of the teleprinter printing out checklist changes and weather reports for tomorrow's reentry. Someone coughed. The UHF radio captured the gibberish of a foreign pilot talking to his controller somewhere below.

I inhaled the smell ofAtlantis. There was no evidence of the humanity that inhabited her, no odor of our bodies, our food, our waste, our emesis. The engineers had done a remarkable job of filtering the air. The only "smell" was that of unnatural sterility. I missed the scents of rain, desert, and sea...and I had only been away from the Earth for four days. I wondered if engineers would ever be able to package smells of our home planet so that Martian pioneers could remember their roots. For their sakes, I hoped so. There was no evidence of the humanity that inhabited her, no odor of our bodies, our food, our waste, our emesis. The engineers had done a remarkable job of filtering the air. The only "smell" was that of unnatural sterility. I missed the scents of rain, desert, and sea...and I had only been away from the Earth for four days. I wondered if engineers would ever be able to package smells of our home planet so that Martian pioneers could remember their roots. For their sakes, I hoped so.

I took a moment to look aroundAtlantis 's c.o.c.kpit and capture that memory, knowing that when I crawled from her side hatch tomorrow it would be for the last time. The windows and floor were the only surfaces not covered with switches, controls, circuit breakers, computer monitors, or TV screens. Cue cards dotted the panels. Bound checklists were similarly scattered on Velcro pads. Twelve years ago, I had been overwhelmed with the machine's complexity. Now, the c.o.c.kpit was as familiar and comforting as my living room. 's c.o.c.kpit and capture that memory, knowing that when I crawled from her side hatch tomorrow it would be for the last time. The windows and floor were the only surfaces not covered with switches, controls, circuit breakers, computer monitors, or TV screens. Cue cards dotted the panels. Bound checklists were similarly scattered on Velcro pads. Twelve years ago, I had been overwhelmed with the machine's complexity. Now, the c.o.c.kpit was as familiar and comforting as my living room.

I turned and looked forward. The PLT's seat belt hovered like a charmed snake. The three computer screens were off. No reason to waste power during a sleep period. My eyes touched on the life-and-death switches I had so often feared might play a part on one of my missions: the abort selection switch, the SSME shutdown b.u.t.tons, the BFS engage b.u.t.tons. I would never need any of them and I thanked G.o.d for it.

I floated back to the forward windows. The orbits continued...25,000 miles, 90 minutes, one sunrise, one sunset, a brush with the Arctic Circle, a brush with the Antarctic Circle. At each equatorial crossingAtlantis pa.s.sed 1,500 miles west of its prior transit, an effect of the Earth's eastward spin underneath our orbit. In circuit after circuit, I was seeing a different sea, a different land, a different sky. I watched North African deserts stretch to the horizon in dunes as perfectly s.p.a.ced as ripples in a pond. I pa.s.sed over snowy Siberian forests as virgin as the Garden of Eden. I saw the green vein of the Nile and the white-tipped chaos of the Himalayas and the Andes. I saw perfect fans of alluvial debris debouching onto desert floors, each a signature of millions of years of mountain erosion. I thrilled to shooting stars and the stellar mist of s.p.a.ce and twinkling satellites and the jewel that was Jupiter. I saw the Baikonur Cosmodrome, pa.s.sed 1,500 miles west of its prior transit, an effect of the Earth's eastward spin underneath our orbit. In circuit after circuit, I was seeing a different sea, a different land, a different sky. I watched North African deserts stretch to the horizon in dunes as perfectly s.p.a.ced as ripples in a pond. I pa.s.sed over snowy Siberian forests as virgin as the Garden of Eden. I saw the green vein of the Nile and the white-tipped chaos of the Himalayas and the Andes. I saw perfect fans of alluvial debris debouching onto desert floors, each a signature of millions of years of mountain erosion. I thrilled to shooting stars and the stellar mist of s.p.a.ce and twinkling satellites and the jewel that was Jupiter. I saw the Baikonur Cosmodrome,Sputnik I 's launch site, with the nearby Aral Sea appearing oil black against the winter white of the Kazakh Steppes. A few turns later the desert-lonely lights of Albuquerque came into view and I marveled at how those two places, so geographically distant from each other, had been inexorably linked in my life. I pa.s.sed over every unimproved road my parents had ever dared, every mountain I had ever climbed, every sky I had ever flown. With the music of Vangelis and Bach and Albinoni as a sound track, I watched the movie of my life. 's launch site, with the nearby Aral Sea appearing oil black against the winter white of the Kazakh Steppes. A few turns later the desert-lonely lights of Albuquerque came into view and I marveled at how those two places, so geographically distant from each other, had been inexorably linked in my life. I pa.s.sed over every unimproved road my parents had ever dared, every mountain I had ever climbed, every sky I had ever flown. With the music of Vangelis and Bach and Albinoni as a sound track, I watched the movie of my life.

Chapter 41.

The White House.

Our first order of postlanding business was to review our mission film and edit two separate movies, one intended for security-cleared eyes only, the other for the public. Because of the secrecy surrounding our orbit activities, the latter had little in it. We wanted to include the fun video we had taken of our satanic crewmember in hilarious poses, but Dan Brandenstein squelched that. "If we keep showing on-orbit pranks, headquarters is going to a.s.sume control of editing our postflight movies. They're getting p.i.s.sed the press only shows us s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g off in s.p.a.ce." We thought it was bulls.h.i.t, but understood Dan's position and honored it. The world would never see Beelzebub clamped on a shuttle toilet.

Our postflight travel was similar to that of STS-27. I journeyed to places I can't mention to be congratulated by people whose office t.i.tles are similarly unmentionable. I received another National Intelligence Medal of Achievement from another "black world" Wizard of Oz that I could only wear in a vault. This citation (decla.s.sified years later) reads: ...Colonel Mullane's superior performance led to the safe deployment and successful activation of a system vital to our national security. The singularly superior performance of Colonel Mullane reflects great credit upon himself, the United States Air Force, the National Aeronautics and s.p.a.ce Administration, and the Intelligence Community.

At one of our stops some spooks hosted us to a candlelit dinner in their black-world building. The office secretaries acted as servers since no caterers could enter. We showed our mission movie and, lubricated by wine, I added my own editorial comments. As s.p.a.ce video of the BostonCape Cod area was shown, I injected, "Moscow doesn't have as many communists as are living in this picture." There was a peal of laughter. Hank Hartsfield would have been proud.

The highlight of our meager postflight PR tour was a visit to George Bush, Senior's White House. We were shocked by the invitation. STS-36 had been virtually ignored in the press. There were no women on the crew, no minorities, no firsts of any kind that might have turned out the press to cover a presidential handshake. Whatever the reason, the invitation was sincerely appreciated.

We met the president in the Oval Office, taking seats in sofas set around a coffee table. Mr. Bush sat in a nearby chair. The questions he asked indicated that he was well briefed on our mission. But it was hard to carry on a conversation. A steady stream of aides and secretaries were constantly coming to his side to get answers to questions and his signature on doc.u.ments. I wondered if the man was ever alone, even on the toilet.

I knew my air force master sergeant dad was watching from heaven, his chest puffed up with b.u.t.ton-busting pride. It was a proud moment for me, too. What my crewmates and I had done on STS-27 and STS-36 would probably remain cla.s.sified for decades. We were the most invisible of astronauts. n.o.body would sing "I'm Proud to Be an American" while we were raised on a platform before the cheering ma.s.ses. Our names would never be in the lyrics of a Billy Joel song. But this was infinitely better. I was standing in the Oval Office of the White House while the president of the United States shook my hand and thanked me for my contribution to America's security.

Later, we gathered behind the president's desk to have a crew photo taken. The desktop was littered with doc.u.ments bearing red-striped "Top Secret" covers. John Casper whispered, "Mike, look at his notepad." I did. On it was written "Gorb dinner?"-obviously the president's self-reminder about something a.s.sociated with the upcoming visit to Washington by the Gorbachevs. I whispered back to John, "Maybe he's looking for a joke to loosen up things at a state dinner. Why don't you suggest a golfing joke with a cow's a.s.s in the punch line?"

"No" was John's terse reply.

After we finished the cla.s.sified discussions, Mrs. Bush ushered in our wives to meet her husband. We all posed for photos with the First Family. The president gave each of the crew a pair of cuff links embossed with the presidential seal and the wives received a stick pin with the same logo.

It was a beautiful May day and the doors to the Rose Garden were open. At one point during the photo session a b.u.mblebee joined us and hovered around the president's brightly colored tie. An aide shooed it away, and it found another target...a secretary who obviously had a phobia of buzzing insects. She screamed, threw a sheaf of papers in the air, and began to run in circles, flailing at her hair and trying to escape the insect. This was hardly a scene I expected to witness in the presidential Oval Office. I whispered to Pepe, "I sure hope she doesn't fall on the b.u.t.ton labeled 'DEFCON 1.'"

We left the president to his never-ending work and followed Barbara Bush on a tour of the White House. If I had not been aware she was the First Lady, I would have never guessed it from her behavior. She was talkative, witty, and completely devoid of any air of celebrity. She reminded me of my mother. I could easily picture her baiting a hook or hoisting a beer or throwing another log on the campfire.

We stepped into an ancient elevator for a trip to the upstairs living quarters. With five astronauts, five wives, Mrs. Bush, and an a.s.sistant, we were cheek to jowl in the small volume. Mrs. Bush was directly behind me and I did my best to resist being crushed into her front. Before the elevator door closed, Millie, the first dog, somehow managed to wiggle under our feet to make it an even tighter squeeze. As the box crept upward, the silence was total. In spite of Mrs. Bush's easy manner we were all very self-conscious of her company. To occupy the uncomfortable seconds we watched the elevator indicator panel with the same intensity as an astronaut watching a s.p.a.ce rendezvous. Some of us moved slightly to accommodate the dog. Chris Casper, John's wife, finally cracked under the oppressing silence. She nervously offered an icebreaker-"Oh, I feel it between my legs." While it was obvious she was referring to Millie's wagging tail, the words hung over our sardined group like really bad flatulence. A reference to anything between a woman's legs was tough to comment on in polite company, much less in the company of the First Lady of the nation. Chris quickly realized her mistake and tried to recover by amending her words. She nervously added, "I mean I feel the dog between my...er...my legs."

It was just too much for me to keep my mouth shut. She had served up a ball just begging to be spiked. I couldn't resist. "Are you sure it's not John's hand?" I inquired. My comment elicited a few snickers and an elbow jab from Donna. As had frequently been the case in my life, I immediately wished the joker in me would have kept quiet.What was Mrs. Bush thinking? I wondered. Maybe this time I had gone too far. I wondered. Maybe this time I had gone too far.

I need not have worried. As regret shot through my brain, I felt Mrs. Bush's hand lightly pat me on a b.u.t.t cheek as she said, "That'sJohn's hand." Then she winked at Donna and said, "I've got him right where I want him." I was stunned. She was a Mike Mullane clone. She couldn't let a perfect setup fall to the sand-she had to nail it.

Upstairs her joking continued. She halted in front of a painting of some daughters of a forgotten nineteenth-century president. "What do you think about this portrait?"

We were all mute. The women in the painting had a striking resemblance to hogs wearing wigs and gowns. They were creatures right off of Dr. Moreau's island of horrors. As our collective silence was fast approaching embarra.s.sment, Mrs. Bush took the heat off and answered her own question. "This is the ugliest painting I've ever seen. The women were part of the First Family, for G.o.d's sake. They could have requested some artistic license. What were they thinking? For my official portrait I intend to get an artist who will make me look good."

She led us to a room with a view of people waiting to begin their White House tour. The crowd screamed in delight and grabbed their cameras when they saw Mrs. Bush waving. She was a queen who deported herself in every way as a commoner.

She was also a proud mother and grandmother. On every table and mantel were framed photos of her family. I didn't see a single photo of her posed with any of the mult.i.tude of stars she had certainly met in her life. Clearly her VIPs were her children and grandchildren. She spoke of her philosophy of life: "In your old age you will never regret the contract never signed, the trip never taken, the money never earned, but you will definitely regret it if your children turn out poorly because of neglect." She used Ronald Reagan as an example. "He's a wonderful man but he has four children who won't speak to him." Maybe she was giving us the unsolicited advice because she could see in our eyes how driven we were. If there was ever a collection of men vulnerable to neglecting their families, it was astronauts.

We sat for tea and cookies and she told us stories about some of the people she had met and unusual places she had traveled. She volunteered her thoughts on a controversy in which she was embroiled and that was being given significant press coverage. She had been invited to give the commencement address at Wellesley College, but, after accepting, some of the students had organized a movement to disinvite her. These women considered her a poor role model since her only ident.i.ty was through her husband. Apparently, for them, being a wife and mother were not qualifying credentials for a commencement speaker. Mrs. Bush was completely gracious and accepting of their dissent, but from the first moment Donna had seen the story in the newspaper she had been furious. Donna had spent her life as a wife and mother and didn't consider herself a second-cla.s.s woman for having done so. I worried she was going to offer an opinion to Mrs. Bush along the lines that those Wellesley girls were just a bunch of small-minded, immature b.i.t.c.hes, but she maintained her composure. Fortunately Donna didn't have my hair-trigger mouth.

After tea, Mrs. Bush led us downstairs to finish our tour, giving us a running commentary on the history of the rooms we pa.s.sed. But she skipped over some recent history I was privy to. An astronaut who had made an earlier White House visit had told of entering a room in the company of Mrs. Bush and being brought to a sudden halt by the overpowering stench of fresh dog s.h.i.t. Everybody had quickly fixated on the source...Millie's deposit. The astronaut witness had recounted how a silence as heavy as the odor had enveloped their group. n.o.body wanted to acknowledge the obvious, that Millie had desecrated the carpet. But, without missing a beat, Barbara Bush turned to look at her astronaut visitors and jokingly warned, "If I read about this in thePost tomorrow, you're all dead meat!" tomorrow, you're all dead meat!"

Mrs. Bush would have fit perfectly into our TFNG gang. I could see her at the Outpost and Pete's BBQ and on the LCC roof. There are some things the trappings of wealth and power and great political office can never dissolve. Among these are the bonds of the military family. As the wife of a WWII naval aviator, Barbara Bush had long ago experienced everything we had lived and were continuing to live...fear, the heartache of hearing "Taps" played over friends' graves, and consoling grieving widows and fatherless children.

As we walked away, I thought of those dissident Wellesley women. They had been right about one thing-Mrs. Bush shouldn't have been invited to speak at their commencement merely because she was the First Lady. Any woman could be one of those. Rather, she should have been invited because she was a member of the Greatest Generation, because she had kissed her man off to war and been left to wonder if she would ever see him again, because-as the loving and supportive wife of a WWII naval aviator-she had done her part to save the world. Those were commencement address qualifications for any college, even Wellesley.

Chapter 42.

Journey's End.

In May 1990, I retired from the USAF and NASA in an astronaut office ceremony attended by thirty or so of my peers. The gathering was held in the main conference room where, twelve years earlier, I had first heard John Young welcome our TFNG cla.s.s. Dressed in my air force uniform, with my ribbons and the astronaut wings I had flown in s.p.a.ce pinned to my chest, I accepted the Air Force Legion of Merit from USAF Major General Nate Lindsay. Nate had become a close friend over the course of my two DOD missions and I was honored he and his wife, Shirley, had taken the time to fly to Houston to attend the ceremony. Donna, my mom, and my son, Pat, were also in attendance. Even my Pettigrew genes couldn't completely subdue the emotions that stirred in my soul at the sight of Pat. I could feel my throat tightening and my eyes welling. I began my air force career at my commissioning on the Plain at West Point in 1967. At that time, Donna and my mom had each pinned on one of my second lieutenant b.u.t.ter bars. Now, my twenty-two-year-old son, dressed in his air force uniform and wearing the same virginal rank, was shaking my hand and hugging me.

I kept my comments brief knowing everybody had to get back to work. Somewhere there was a countdown clock urgently marking the weeks to the next launch. I thanked everybody for their years of support, making a special reference to Pat, Amy, Laura (the girls had been unable to attend), and my mom. I saved my greatest praise for Donna. Tears threatened to douse her cheeks. I then concluded with the observation that I was the third generation of my family to have seen combat. My maternal grandfather had served in France in WWI and my dad in WWII. I had done a tour in Vietnam. I offered the hope my children's generation would never see a war. At that time it seemed like a sure bet. The Soviet Union had ceased to exist. How could there ever be another threat to America as great?

That night, the astronaut office hosted a going-away party for Donna and me at a local restaurant. Beth Turner, one of the office secretaries, obtained a life-size cardboard rendition of a studly bodybuilder and placed it at stage center. She covered the face with my astronaut photo and the crotch with a sequined jockstrap stuffed with something flattering. Against this backdrop Hoot Gibson roasted me with stories of my botched T-38 landing in Brewster Shaw's backseat, my near death experiences while performing STS-1 chase duties with "Red Flash" Walker, and my intercom comment from STS-27-"The RSO's mother goes down like a Muslim at noon." He also recounted how a group of female DOD security secretaries, tasked with decla.s.sifying our STS-27 audiotapes, had been confused by my multiple references to the "Anaconda." They had a.s.sumed it might be a secret code word for our payload. I had to explain to them it was a Swine Flight euphemism forp.e.n.i.s. As the crowd laughed at Hoot's stories (he was so d.a.m.ned good at As the crowd laughed at Hoot's stories (he was so d.a.m.ned good ateverything ), I thought of how all astronauts long to leave a memorable and heroic legacy. Hoot had defined mine...s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up a T-38 backseat landing, slandering the mother of the man who was two switches away from killing us on Swine Flight, and introducing some sweet young innocents to the disgusting humor of Planet AD. Oh well, I guess it could have been worse. ), I thought of how all astronauts long to leave a memorable and heroic legacy. Hoot had defined mine...s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up a T-38 backseat landing, slandering the mother of the man who was two switches away from killing us on Swine Flight, and introducing some sweet young innocents to the disgusting humor of Planet AD. Oh well, I guess it could have been worse.

Hoot finally ended the roast by embracing me in a cheek-to-cheek hug, an act of physical affection that surprised me. But I understood. Like warriors back from the battle, we were intimately bound by our own unique duels with death, by the incommunicable experience of s.p.a.ceflight.

The audience applauded, the youngest astronauts being the most enthusiastic. It had been the same way back in my freshmen days.Why don't these old farts just leave or die or something? I was now the old fart and my departure was freeing up one more seat into s.p.a.ce. For silver-pinned astronauts, that was something to applaud. I was now the old fart and my departure was freeing up one more seat into s.p.a.ce. For silver-pinned astronauts, that was something to applaud.

Back home Donna and I talked long into the night. I tried to convey to her my everlasting grat.i.tude for the life she had given me, but how do you say thanks for a dream? I tried with "I'm glad you walked out of that party in 1965 to kiss me." I don't think I could have said it better than with those few words. But for that kiss, my life would have been different.

As sleep was approaching, I thought there was one other thing I had to do before I walked out of NASA. I needed to hitch a ride to KSC.

I stopped outside the launchpad perimeter fence, where the tourist buses parked, and stepped from the car. The visitors center was closed and tours had ended so I knew I wouldn't be disturbed.Columbia was being prepared for her tenth mission and was almost completely hidden by the rotating service structure. Only her right wing and nose and the tips of the SRBs were visible. I had wanted to drive to the pad and take the elevator to the c.o.c.kpit level, but I knew that would have been a bureaucratic ha.s.sle. Even astronauts weren't free to move through security checkpoints. So my last view of was being prepared for her tenth mission and was almost completely hidden by the rotating service structure. Only her right wing and nose and the tips of the SRBs were visible. I had wanted to drive to the pad and take the elevator to the c.o.c.kpit level, but I knew that would have been a bureaucratic ha.s.sle. Even astronauts weren't free to move through security checkpoints. So my last view ofColumbia would be as the tourists saw her: from a quarter mile away, wrapped in her steel coc.o.o.n, hardly looking like a s.p.a.ceship at all. would be as the tourists saw her: from a quarter mile away, wrapped in her steel coc.o.o.n, hardly looking like a s.p.a.ceship at all.

The sun had recently set and the pad xenon lights were on. The wind brought muted loudspeaker calls to my ear and the techno-talk spun me back to the summer of 1984, which had been filled with so much fear, disappointment, and joy. But mostly it was the joy of August 30 that now sharpened in my mind's eye. My heart accelerated at the memory of engine start. I could feel the rattle of max-q and see the fade-to-black asDiscovery raced toward her orbit. Hank's voice was as clear in my brain now as it had been six years earlier: "Congratulations, rookies. You're officially astronauts." I could hear the cheers of Judy, Mike, and Steve at the realization our silver pins had undergone the alchemy of fifty miles alt.i.tude and been transformed into gold. raced toward her orbit. Hank's voice was as clear in my brain now as it had been six years earlier: "Congratulations, rookies. You're officially astronauts." I could hear the cheers of Judy, Mike, and Steve at the realization our silver pins had undergone the alchemy of fifty miles alt.i.tude and been transformed into gold.

I got back in the car and steered for the astronaut beach house. My last moments as an astronaut had to end on that beach. No other place conjured up more memories or more emotions than its sands. Its quiet solitude and proximity to the infinity of the sea and sky gave my soul a release unattainable anywhere else.

I pulled into the driveway, climbed the stairs, and opened the door. The house was deserted, as I knew it would be. Except for prelaunch picnics and spousal good-byes, few astronauts or NASA officials ever visited the facility.

Nothing had changed since my STS-36 visits. In fact, nothing had changed since my first beach house visit twelve years earlier. A framed abstract painting, which suggested a collision of multiple sailboats, hung on a wall. It had probably been selected by the same decorator who had chosen an exploding volcano for crew quarters wall art. (We were astronauts, for chrissake. What would be so wrong with some s.p.a.ce and rocket photos?) The mantel of the fireplace was still crowded with various liquor and wine bottles. Some had probably been emptied by Alan Shepard, Neil Armstrong, Jim Lovell, and other legendary astronauts. On the windowsills and end tables were sh.e.l.ls, sand dollars, and other flotsam collected by generations of astronauts and their spouses. I was sure their beachcombing, like Donna's and mine, had merely been a distraction from that impending final good-bye. The small den was still crowded with the same Ozzie and Harrietera furniture: orange vinyl chairs, orange vinyl sofa, faux-wood coffee and lamp tables, and ceramic light fixtures decorated with splatters of, what else, orange paint. A small television, old enough to have captured the 1960s Gemini launches, sat on another imitation-wood piece.

I walked to the kitchen, ignored the desiccated carca.s.s of a roach on the countertop, shoved a few dollars in the honor cash box, and liberated a Coors from the refrigerator. I sipped on that as I continued my tour in the back bedroom. It held another astronaut artifact, the convertible sofa bed Hoot and Mario had used for their high jinks with the STS-36 wives. I knew the bed had supported more than just that one prank-at a Houston party one tipsy TFNG wife had jokingly complained, "I hated doing it at the beach house on a bare mattress." I looked in the closet. There was still no linen. If Hoot and the wives had thought about the multidecadespecial use of that particular piece of furniture, I doubt they would have climbed onto it. Even dressed in an LES, I wouldn't have sat on it. use of that particular piece of furniture, I doubt they would have climbed onto it. Even dressed in an LES, I wouldn't have sat on it.

On the other side of the den was the dining/conference room and I entered it. A large table dominated the area. An easel holding a blackboard and chalk sat at one end. The board featured a hieroglyphics of engineering data from a premission briefing on a prior shuttle launch. It was easy for me to imagine the crew in the surrounding chairs hanging on every word of the VITT presenter, praying he wouldn't use the D word...delay. I would never miss those worries.

Finally, I walked to the door and paused for one last moment to allow the memories to congeal and be sealed in my brain. As it was with every step of this journey, I was seeing a part of my life I would never see again. In a few more weeks I would be a civilian outsider with no more ability to access this beach house than one of the tourists on a KSC bus tour. With a lump in my throat I switched off the light, closed the door, and headed down the crumbling concrete walkway to the beach.

The breeze was cool and I zipped my jacket and took a seat in the sand. As far as I could tell, I was the only living being on the planet. Even the gulls had retired for the night to their hidden nests. The only sound was the respiration of the surf.

I had no agenda. I just wanted some time with my thoughts, wherever they might take me. And they immediately took me to the land of doubts. For the millionth time I wondered if I was doing the right thing leaving NASA. Even at this late hour, I knew my decision was reversible. I could walk back into the beach house and call Brandenstein and tell him I'd changed my mind and would like to stay at JSC as a civilian mission specialist. I knew he would make it happen. After my retirement ceremony, I had run into him at the bathroom urinals and he had said, "Mike, you should stay. I'm running out of MSes." But I knew if I returned to Houston with the news I had changed my mind, it would kill Donna. My decision stood. Now was the time to leave. My astronaut career was over.

Joy was the next emotion to overcome me. I was a three-time astronaut. My pin was gold. Sputnik had set me on a life journey toward the prize of s.p.a.ceflight, and I had gained that prize. It had not been easy. I started the journey without pilot wings, when only pilots were astronauts. I did it without the gift of genius. But G.o.d had blessed me through his earthly surrogates: my mom, my dad, and Donna. Every step of the way, they were at my side, physically and spiritually, giving me the things I needed to ultimately hear my name being read into history as an astronaut.

Mom and Dad gave me the gift of exploration. They tilted my head to the sky. They supported my childhood fascination with s.p.a.ce and rockets. In dealing with my dad's polio, they were living examples of tenacity in the face of great adversity. On countless occasions I had needed that example to persevere in my journey. I needed it to survive the rigors of West Point, to survive airsickness in the backseat of the F-4, to survive graduate school and flight test engineer school.

Donna was the other great dream-maker in my life. She never wavered in her support...ever...even though the journey had been difficult and terrifying. She a.s.sumed the role of single parent to our three children to give me the focus I needed for the journey. She waited for me through a war. She buried friends and consoled their widows and children. She came to accept my limitations as a husband-my sometimes blind selfishness for the prize. She endured the terror of nine s.p.a.ce shuttle countdowns, six beach house good-byes, six walks to the LCC roof, an engine start abort, and three launches. Throughout my journey she was my shadow...always there next to me.

I thought of the NASA team upon whose shoulders I had been lifted into s.p.a.ce. While I had serious issues with some of NASA's management, I had only the greatest respect and admiration for the legions who formed the NASA/contractor/government team...the schedulers, trainers, MCC team members, the USAF and other government personnel a.s.sociated with my two DOD missions, the Ellington Field flight ops personnel, the admin staff, the flight surgeons, the suit techs, the LCC teams, and thousands of others.

I considered how my NASA experience had changed me. I walked into JSC in 1978 as a c.o.c.ky military aviator and combat veteran, secure in my superiority over the civilians. But watching Pinky Nelson steer his jet pack across the abyss of s.p.a.ce toward the malfunctioning Solar Max satellite humbled me. Hearing Steve Hawley joke in the terrifying first moments of our STS-41D abort, "I thought we'd be higher when the engines quit," was another lesson. I learned that the post-docs and other civilians had skill and courage in spades, and I admired and respected them all.

By far, the greatest personal change my NASA experience had wrought was in my perception of women. I learned that they are real people with dreams and ambitions and only need the opportunity to prove themselves. And the TFNG women did. Watching a nine-month-pregnant Rhea Seddon fly the SAIL simulator to multiple landings was a lesson in their competence. Watching video downlink of her attempting an unplanned and dangerous robot arm operation to activate a malfunctioning satellite was a lesson. Watching Judy perform her STS-41D duties was a lesson. Knowing Judy might have been the one to turn on Mike Smith's PEAP in the h.e.l.l that wasChallenger was a lesson. Through their frequent displays of professionalism, skill, and bravery, the TFNG females took Mike Mullane back to school and changed him. was a lesson. Through their frequent displays of professionalism, skill, and bravery, the TFNG females took Mike Mullane back to school and changed him.

It was impossible to sit on this beach and not think aboutChallenger. The ocean that churned at my feet was more of a grave for that crew than anything in Arlington Cemetery. Why them and not me? As January 28, 1986, receded into the past, that question loomed larger and larger in my consciousness. There had been twenty TFNGs with the identical t.i.tle-mission specialist. One in seven of us had died. It could have been any of us aboard The ocean that churned at my feet was more of a grave for that crew than anything in Arlington Cemetery. Why them and not me? As January 28, 1986, receded into the past, that question loomed larger and larger in my consciousness. There had been twenty TFNGs with the identical t.i.tle-mission specialist. One in seven of us had died. It could have been any of us aboardChallenger. Why wasn't it the atoms of my body rolling in the beach house surf? It was the unanswerable question survivors everywhere asked...the soldier who sees the friend at his side take a bullet, the firefighter who watches the house collapse on his team, the pa.s.senger who missed her connection to the fatal flight. For some reason, known only to G.o.d, we had all been given a second life. Why wasn't it the atoms of my body rolling in the beach house surf? It was the unanswerable question survivors everywhere asked...the soldier who sees the friend at his side take a bullet, the firefighter who watches the house collapse on his team, the pa.s.senger who missed her connection to the fatal flight. For some reason, known only to G.o.d, we had all been given a second life.

And where would I journey on the ticket of my second life? I still didn't know. I had yet to do a job search. I just didn't have a pa.s.sion for anything in the civilian world. I was facing what every retiring astronaut faces-the reality we had reached the pinnacle of our lives. We groped above us searching for the next rung on the ladder of life and it just wasn't there. What does a person do for an encore after riding a rocket? Whatever it was, we would have to climbdown that ladder to reach it. No matter how much money we made or what fame we acquired in our new lives, we would never again be Prime Crew. We would never again feel the rumble of engine start or the onset of Gs or watch the black of s.p.a.ce race into our faces. We were forever earthlings now. It was a sobering thought, but I knew I would adjust. I would find a challenge somewhere. If there was one thing my mom and dad had taught me, there were plenty of horizons on the Earth I had yet to look over. that ladder to reach it. No matter how much money we made or what fame we acquired in our new lives, we would never again be Prime Crew. We would never again feel the rumble of engine start or the onset of Gs or watch the black of s.p.a.ce race into our faces. We were forever earthlings now. It was a sobering thought, but I knew I would adjust. I would find a challenge somewhere. If there was one thing my mom and dad had taught me, there were plenty of horizons on the Earth I had yet to look over.

I swallowed the last of my beer and rose from the sand. As I turned, my eyes were seized byColumbia's xenon halo. Over the black silhouettes of the palmettos, the salt-laden air glowed white with it. She awaited her Prime Crew. I envied the h.e.l.l out of them. xenon halo. Over the black silhouettes of the palmettos, the salt-laden air glowed white with it. She awaited her Prime Crew. I envied the h.e.l.l out of them.

Epilogue.

In my post-MECO life I found an unlikely horizon to explore-I became a professional speaker. Given my early adventures at the podiums of America, that might seem like a disaster waiting to happen but I've learned to corral my Planet AD tendencies and fake normalcy. With a microphone in my hand I am a model of political correctness. Hoot would never recognize me. I deliver inspiring, motivational, and humorous programs on the subjects of teamwork and leadership. I learned the good, the bad, and the ugly about those topics while at NASA.

This book has been another horizon I had to sail over. There has always been a secret chamber in my soul where the flame of literary creation has flickered. In high school I loved it when teachers a.s.signed term papers, a fact I kept quiet, knowing my cla.s.smates would have beaten me to death had they known. Sometimes my prose would be seriously misplaced, as when I devoted a paragraph in my science fair report to the beautiful sunset that had been a backdrop to one of my homemade rocket launches. I was teased by my fellow junior scientists for that. Of course, ego played its part in my literary quest-I wanted to tellmy story. But I had n.o.ble objectives, too. I wanted the world to understand the joy and terror that astronauts and our spouses experience. I know other astronaut authors have attempted to convey the same thing and, no doubt, many will try in the future. This has been my best shot at it. Finally, I wanted to tell the world a little about my mom and dad. Heroes like them are rare and they deserve a measure of immortality between the covers of a book. story. But I had n.o.ble objectives, too. I wanted the world to understand the joy and terror that astronauts and our spouses experience. I know other astronaut authors have attempted to convey the same thing and, no doubt, many will try in the future. This has been my best shot at it. Finally, I wanted to tell the world a little about my mom and dad. Heroes like them are rare and they deserve a measure of immortality between the covers of a book.

My mom would not live to see herself in these pages. On Memorial Day 2004, she was diagnosed with advanced pancreatic cancer and died on July 4 at age seventy-nine. I was the one who told her of the doctor's prognosis-that she had just a few weeks to live. She took the news with her characteristic courage. She didn't utter a word of dismay or shed a single tear. She merely shrugged her shoulders, as if I had just told her she had nothing more serious than a stomach virus, and said, "Well, I've had a great life." This from a woman who endured the terror of her husband serving in WWII, who raised six children with that same man in a wheelchair, and who was further cheated when she was widowed at age sixty-four. It hardly sounded like a "great life." But my mom always saw the gla.s.s as half full and smiled and laughed her way through life until her last conscious moment. As one of my brothers said, "Mom set the bar d.a.m.ned high on living and dying." That she did. As I sat with her in the ebbing days of her life, random images from that life flashed in my brain. I saw her squatting next to a campfire, cooking pancakes and bacon. I saw her pouring my dad's urine from a milk carton into a motel toilet. I saw her handing over the stainless-steel extension tube of her vacuum cleaner so I could fashion it into a rocket. I saw her "mooning" the camera during her wait for the launch of STS-36. She had sewn the mission number on the rear of her "good luck" green briefs and, at the beach house, had bent over to show the unique cheerleading sign on the billboard of her sixty-four-year-old backside.

With me and two of my brothers holding her hands she died at home and was laid to rest in the same grave as my father at the Veterans Cemetery in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I placed another set of my shuttle mission decals on the new grave marker. They were Mom's missions, too.

As I write these words, only five TFNGs remain on active duty with NASA: Fred Gregory, Steve Hawley, Shannon Lucid, Anna Fisher, and Steve Nagel. All of them are in administrative positions and will probably never fly in s.p.a.ce again. The s.p.a.ce history books are closed on the TFNGs. But our cla.s.s wrote some remarkable entries in those books: First American woman in s.p.a.ce: Sally Ride.

First African American in s.p.a.ce: Guy Bluford.

First Asian American in s.p.a.ce: El Onizuka.

First American woman to do a s.p.a.cewalk: Kathy Sullivan.

Most s.p.a.ce-experienced woman in the world: Shannon Lucid, with a total of 223 days in s.p.a.ce, including a six-month tour on the Russian Mir s.p.a.ce station.

While flying the MMU, Bob Stewart, Pinky Nelson, Dale Gardner, and Jim van Hoften became some of the only astronauts to orbit completely free of their s.p.a.cecraft.

On STS-41C, TFNGs were part of a crew that completed the world's first retrieval, repair, and re-release into s.p.a.ce of a malfunctioning satellite. On STS-51A, TFNGs played key roles in the first capture and return to Earth of a pair of crippled satellites.

Rick Hauck commanded the first post-Challengermission. Hoot Gibson commanded the first shuttleMir s.p.a.ce station docking mission. Norm Thagard became the first American to fly aboard a Russian rocket when he was launched to the Russian Mir s.p.a.ce station. TFNG d.i.c.k Covey commanded the first repair mission to Hubble s.p.a.ce Telescope (HST) to correct its flawed vision. Dan Brandenstein commanded STS-49, a mission to capture and repair a ma.s.sive communication satellite stuck in a useless...o...b..t. The mission involved an emergency three-person s.p.a.cewalk, the only such s.p.a.cewalk ever conducted, and was one of the most difficult shuttle missions in history.

TFNGs logged nearly a thousand man-days in s.p.a.ce and sixteen s.p.a.cewalks. Five became veterans of five s.p.a.ce missions (Gibson, Hawley, Hoffman, Lucid, and Thagard). The first TFNGs entered s.p.a.ce in 1983 aboard STS-7. Steve Hawley became the last TFNG in s.p.a.ce sixteen years later, when he launched on his fifth mission, STS-93, in 1999. TFNGs were ultimately represented on the crews of fifty different shuttle missions and commanded twenty-eight of those. It is not an exaggeration to say TFNGs were the astronauts most responsible for taking NASA out of its post-Apollo hiatus and to the threshold of the International s.p.a.ce Station (ISS).

There are twenty-nine of the original thirty-five TFNGs still living. Besides the loss of theChallenger four and Dave Griggs's death, Dave "Red Flash" Walker, a veteran of four shuttle flights, succ.u.mbed to natural causes at the age of fifty-seven. Dave was the pilot who scared the holy bejesus out of me during the 1981 STS-1 chase plane practices. He had teased death so often, I had come to believe he was bulletproof. I had failed to consider cancer. four and Dave Griggs's death, Dave "Red Flash" Walker, a veteran of four shuttle flights, succ.u.mbed to natural causes at the age of fifty-seven. Dave was the pilot who scared the holy bejesus out of me during the 1981 STS-1 chase plane practices. He had teased death so often, I had come to believe he was bulletproof. I had failed to consider cancer.

We almost had to bury Hoot Gibson in 1990 when he was involved in a midair collision while racing his home-built plane. The other pilot died but Hoot was able to land his severely damaged machine and walk away. If ever there has been a pilot who has worn out a squadron of guardian angels, that would be Hoot. He and Rhea Seddon now live in Tennessee with their three children. Hoot flies for Southwest Airlines and Rhea is the a.s.sistant chief medical officer at Vanderbilt Medical Group at that Nashville university.

In my retirement I have noted the deaths of other astronauts whose life paths intersected mine. Sonny Carter's death was particularly shocking. Sonny had been one of the STS-27 family escorts and Donna had relied on his calming presence during her LCC waits for that mission. He was never without a smile and a positive word. On April 5, 1991, while on the way to give a NASA speech, he died in the crash of a commercial airliner. The manner of his death was a gross violation of the natural order-it was expected that an astronaut dying in a plane would do so as a crewmember, not as a pa.s.senger. Sonny was twice cheated...in death at age forty-three and while belted into a pa.s.senger's seat.

Bob Overmyer died in his retirement while flight-testing a small plane. I was one of the CAPCOMs for his STS-51B flight. During that mission, a communication glitch allowed the crew's private s.p.a.celab intercom to be momentarily broadcast to the world. It included a panicked call from Bob to his lab scientists: "There's monkey feces floating free in the c.o.c.kpit!" I later teased him that he was probably the first marine in the history of the corps to ever use the wordfeces. He laughed at that. Bob was dead at age fifty-nine. He laughed at that. Bob was dead at age fifty-nine.

Astronaut-scientist Karl Henize, whom I had worked with on my very first astronaut support job-the dreaded s.p.a.celab-died in his retirement at age sixty-six of respiratory failure while attempting to climb Mount Everest. He is buried on the side of that mountain at 22,000-foot elevation.

Besides these astronaut deaths, I noted other pa.s.sings. Don Puddy, who replaced George Abbey as chief of FCOD and who approved me for my STS-36 mission, died of cancer in 2004 at age sixty-seven. Jon and Brenda McBride's son, Richard, died in a plane crash while undergoing navy flight training. Brewster and Kathy Shaw suffered a horrific loss, too. One of their college-age sons was murdered in a random carjacking. If it is possible for a soul to audibly scream, mine did at that news. No death, not even the ones sustained in theChallenger and andColumbia tragedies, affected me as much. Every parent understands. tragedies, affected me as much. Every parent understands.

Gene Ross, the ever-present and ever-amicable owner of the Outpost Tavern, died in 1995. He didn't live to see his bar immortalized on the silver screen. Disney would use it as a backdrop for a scene in the 1997 movieRocketMan and a portion of the movie and a portion of the movies.p.a.ce Cowboys would be filmed inside the cluttered, smoky cave. would be filmed inside the cluttered, smoky cave.

Under its new management, the Outpost has seen a few minor changes. The sh.e.l.l-covered parking lot has been leveled. Gone are its bunker-buster craters. And a small red neon light proclaiming "The Outpost Tavern" now decorates a side of the building. But for that, the structure still appears abandoned and ready for demolition. The only improvement to the interior has been the addition of modern bathrooms. The old toilets-one-hole closets with tilting floors and rusted porcelain fixtures-had been intimidating enough to prompt Donna to once comment, "I would rather pee in the outside bushes than sit on an Outpost toilet seat." The interior of the bar remains a time capsule from the halcyon days of the TFNGs: Photos and posters of smiling astronauts and mission crews still cover the walls and ceiling. My NASA genesis photo is still there. In a display of Texas pride, Gene Ross put up the photos of all the Texas-born astronauts in the entryway next to the bikini-girl-silhouette saloon doors. Epochs of cigarette smoke and grease have put a yellow film over those photos but I'm still visible as the thin, dark-haired, thirty-two-year-old astronaut candidate I was in 1978. Whenever a trip takes me to Houston, I always make it a point to visit the Outpost. I will sit at the bar, order a beer, and listen to the TFNG ghosts whisper the stories of joy and heartbreak that have been written there.

John Young retired from NASA on December 31, 2004, after a forty-two-year career that included six s.p.a.ce missions covering the Gemini, Apollo, and shuttle programs. He twice flew to the moon, landing on it onApollo 16. In a NASA press release John was praised as an "astronaut without equal." You will never hear me say otherwise. In a NASA press release John was praised as an "astronaut without equal." You will never hear me say otherwise.

George Abbey was appointed director of the Johnson s.p.a.ce Center by NASA Administrator Daniel Goldin on January 23, 1996 (no doubt putting the fear of G.o.d in those who had celebrated, too enthusiastically, his JSC departure in 1987). Five years later he was "rea.s.signed" by Goldin from that position to NASA HQ to serve as Goldin's senior a.s.sistant for international issues. The press noted that the announcement of Abbey's JSC termination came after close of business on a Friday and with little description of the responsibilities of his new t.i.tle, signatures that the change was actually a firing. Some speculated that cost overruns on the ISS program had prompted Goldin to remove George. He retired from NASA on January 3, 2003, after a nearly forty-year career with the agency.

I was last face-to-face with John and George in 1998 at the twentieth anniversary of the TFNG cla.s.s. We traded empty h.e.l.los and then separated. I was no longer their hostage and would not pretend friendship.

As an outsider I watched the shuttle program fully recover fromChallenger. Though the STS never recaptured its Golden Age, it did achieve an average of seven missions per year throughout most of the 1990s. Among its more significant post- Though the STS never recaptured its Golden Age, it did achieve an average of seven missions per year throughout most of the 1990s. Among its more significant post-Challengermissions were the launch of Hubble s.p.a.ce Telescope, nine missions to the Russian Mir s.p.a.ce station, and multiple missions in support of the a.s.sembly and resupply of the International s.p.a.ce Station. The latter was being constructed in partnership with the Russians. The G.o.dless commies had become our friends. Even Bill Shepherd, who had penned theSuck on this, you commie dogs inscription on a photo of our STS-27 payload, would morph into inscription on a photo of our STS-27 payload, would morph intoComrade Shepherd and fly a five-month ISS mission with two Ruskies. Shepherd and fly a five-month ISS mission with two Ruskies.

The shuttle continued to experience near misses with disaster, providing more evidence that it would never be truly operational. One of the closest calls occurred on STS-93. During the early part of ascent a small repair pin in the combustion chamber of one SSME came loose and impacted the inside of the engine nozzle, puncturing its cooling jacket. Just as a hole in the radiator of an automobile will cause a leak of engine coolant,Columbia's nozzle damage was doing the same thing. As she roared upward, she was bleeding coolant. But in nozzle damage was doing the same thing. As she roared upward, she was bleeding coolant. But inColumbia's case the coolant was also the engine fuel. The shuttle's liquid hydrogen plumbing system circulates that supercold fluid around the engine nozzles before the hydrogen is burned. case the coolant was also the engine fuel. The shuttle's liquid hydrogen plumbing system circulates that supercold fluid around the engine nozzles before the hydrogen is burned.Columbia was headed into orbit in danger of running out of gas. Fortunately the damage and the resulting leak were small. The propellant loss resulted in an early engine shutdown, but was headed into orbit in danger of running out of gas. Fortunately the damage and the resulting leak were small. The propellant loss resulted in an early engine shutdown, butColumbia still achieved a safe orbit only seven miles lower than planned. still achieved a safe orbit only seven miles lower than planned.

The nozzle damage turned out to be just one of the near misses for the STS-93 crew. Five seconds into flight an electrical system short circuit resulted in the failure of several black boxes controlling two of the SSMEs. Backup engine controllers, powered by a different electrical system, took over the control of those engines and there was no impact to their performance. But for eight and a half minutes, two ofColumbia's engines were just one failure away from shutting down and forcing the crew into an ascent abort. The source of the short circuit was later isolated to an exposed wire. engines were just one failure away from shutting down and forcing the crew into an ascent abort. The source of the short circuit was later isolated to an exposed wire.

Another shuttle near miss occurred on STS-112 when a circuit failure resulted in only one set of the hold-down bolt initiators firing at liftoff. In the launch sequence the hold-down bolts are exploded apart just milliseconds prior to SRB ignition so the rocket is completely free of the ground when the boosters ignite. Had the redundant initiators in the hold-down bolts not fired,Atlantis would have been still anch.o.r.ed to the pad at SRB ignition. The machine would have destroyed herself trying to rip free of the bolts. would have been still anch.o.r.ed to the pad at SRB ignition. The machine would have destroyed herself trying to rip free of the bolts.

STS-93 and STS-112 were saved by system redundancy, but there was another recurring problem on shuttle launches for which there was no redundancy to provide protection. Insulation foam was shedding from the gas tank and striking the orbiter. The phenomenon was first noted on STS-1 and was subsequently doc.u.mented by photo imagery on sixty-four other shuttle missions. Hank Hartsfield and Mike Coats had observed it on our Zoo Crew flight in 1984. This foam-shedding anomaly was a violation of a design requirement, just as the pre-ChallengerSRB O-ring erosion had been a design violation. Nothing was supposed to hit our gla.s.s rocket, not even something as seemingly innocuous as the foam from the ET. But as. .h.i.t shuttles kept returning to the Earth safely, engineers became ever more comfortable with accepting the design violation as nothing more than a maintenance issue-the foam strikes were requiring a handful of damaged tiles to be replaced between missions. The "normalization of deviance" phenomenon that had doomedChallenger in 1986 had returned to infect NASA and blind management to the seriousness of the foam loss problem. On January 16, 2003, eighty-two seconds into the flight of in 1986 had returned to infect NASA and blind management to the seriousness of the foam loss problem. On January 16, 2003, eighty-two seconds into the flight ofColumbia, a briefcase-size piece of foam, weighing approximately one and a half pounds, shed from the ET and struck the Achilles' heel of the shuttle heat shield, one of the wing leading-edge carbon panels. The impact blasted a hole of indeterminate size in that carbon. The damage had no effect on ascent and a briefcase-size piece of foam, weighing approximately one and a half pounds, shed from the ET and struck the Achilles' heel of the shuttle heat shield, one of the wing leading-edge carbon panels. The impact blasted a hole of indeterminate size in that carbon. The damage had no effect on ascent andColumbia safely reached orbit. The site of the impact was not visible from the c.o.c.kpit windows and the crew remained oblivious to the fact that their shuttle was mortally wounded. It could not survive reentry. safely reached orbit. The site of the impact was not visible from the c.o.c.kpit windows and the crew remained oblivious to the fact that their shuttle was mortally wounded. It could not survive reentry.

On the ground NASA engineers were aware of the foam strike-KSC cameras had recorded the incident. But these same engineers had no idea what, if any, damage had occurred and sinceColumbia was flying without a robot arm, they could not direct the crew to remotely survey the site (as we had been able to do on STS-27). A handful of engineers requested their management to ask the Department of Defense to use its photographic sources to acquire images of the impact site. Had these photos or a crew s.p.a.cewalk determined was flying without a robot arm, they could not direct the crew to remotely survey the site (as we had been able to do on STS-27). A handful of engineers requested their management to ask the Department of Defense to use its photographic sources to acquire images of the impact site. Had these photos or a crew s.p.a.cewalk determinedColumbia could not survive reentry, there was a reasonable chance could not survive reentry, there was a reasonable chanceAtlantis could have been hurriedly readied for launch on a rescue mission. The could have been hurriedly readied for launch on a rescue mission. TheColumbia crew would have then donned s.p.a.cesuits and transferred to crew would have then donned s.p.a.cesuits and transferred toAtlantis, and andColumbia would have been abandoned in orbit. But key managers dismissed the photo request and never ordered a s.p.a.cewalk. On February 1, 2003, would have been abandoned in orbit. But key managers dismissed the photo request and never ordered a s.p.a.cewalk. On February 1, 2003,Columbia would burn up on reentry, killing her seven-person crew. would burn up on reentry, killing her seven-person crew.

I was in northern New Mexico at the time of the disaster, visiting my daughter and her family. Had I known of the reentry trajectory, I could have stepped outside and watchedColumbia pa.s.s nearly overhead. But I was not an eyewitness. I received the news from TV: "The s.p.a.ce shuttle pa.s.s nearly overhead. But I was not an eyewitness. I received the news from TV: "The s.p.a.ce shuttleColumbia is overdue for landing at the Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center." Images of is overdue for landing at the Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center." Images ofColumbia 's fiery destruction soon followed. As I watched them I couldn't help but visualize what the crew had experienced. I had no doubt their fortress c.o.c.kpit had kept them alive during the out-of-control breakup of their machine. Just like the 's fiery destruction soon followed. As I watched them I couldn't help but visualize what the crew had experienced. I had no doubt their fortress c.o.c.kpit had kept them alive during the out-of-control breakup of their machine. Just like theChallenger crew, they were trapped. Their backpack-parachute bailout system was useless at the extreme alt.i.tude and speed. And I couldn't help but visualize the families. They would have been waiting at the KSC Shuttle Landing Facility, giddy in antic.i.p.ation of having their loved ones safely on the ground and in their arms. They would have been chatting happily about the parties and postflight trips that were planned. Then an escort into widowhood would have come to their side to tell them the news. Their husbands and wife, fathers and mother would not be coming home. crew, they were trapped. Their backpack-parachute bailout system was useless at the extreme alt.i.tude and speed. And I couldn't help but visualize the families. They would have been waiting at the KSC Shuttle Landing Facility, giddy in antic.i.p.ation of having their loved ones safely on the ground and in their arms. They would have been chatting happily about the parties and postflight trips that were planned. Then an escort into widowhood would have come to their side to tell them the news. Their husbands and wife, fathers and mother would not be coming home.

I wasn't affected byColumbia 's loss as deeply as 's loss as deeply asChallenger 's. I had only a pa.s.sing acquaintance with a few members of the crew. But I was still heartbroken. I stepped from my daughter's house, walked into the adjacent desert hills, and began my prayers. Even as I was saying them, atoms of 's. I had only a pa.s.sing acquaintance with a few members of the crew. But I was still heartbroken. I stepped from my daughter's house, walked into the adjacent desert hills, and began my prayers. Even as I was saying them, atoms ofColumbia and her crew were quietly and invisibly settling to Earth around me. and her crew were quietly and invisibly settling to Earth around me.