Riding Rockets Part 6

I knew there were binoculars focused on us as we made the trek to Building 1. I was in the company of four others who had also been called for the same appointment: Hank Hartsfield, a veteran of STS-4, and fellow TFNGs Mike Coats, Steve Hawley, and Judy Resnik. There was no mistaking the meaning of this gaggle. It screamedflight a.s.signment . It was all I could do not to break into a sprint for the headquarters building. . It was all I could do not to break into a sprint for the headquarters building.

It might have been the very first time in my five years as a TFNG that I had been to Abbey's office. As befitting a deity, it was a large corner office on the eighth floor that looked out on our home, Building 4. None of us believed that sight line was an accident. George wanted his shadow to fall over his subjects at all times.

The secretary waved us through and we entered to find him standing behind his expansive desk. He wore a coat and tie, the coat unb.u.t.toned and his belly prominent. Though it was midmorning his jowls were already darkened with a faint beard. Several doc.u.ments and an overflowing in or out box (I couldn't tell which) littered the mahogany. I had a momentary wonder,What was all the paper about? It was a standing TFNG joke that Abbey never left a paper trail. Few could recall ever seeing his signature on any doc.u.ment. It was a standing TFNG joke that Abbey never left a paper trail. Few could recall ever seeing his signature on any doc.u.ment.

"Have a seat." He motioned us to a ring of chairs.

"We've been looking at the mission manifest..." As was his custom, George never made significant eye contact and he mumbled his words. I could sense everybody leaning forward to gain another decibel. "...and think it's time to a.s.sign some more crews. I was wondering if you would be interested in STS-41D? It would be the first flight ofDiscovery. " It was beyond what I had prayed for. Not only was I being offered a mission, I was being offered a position on the first flight of the orbiter " It was beyond what I had prayed for. Not only was I being offered a mission, I was being offered a position on the first flight of the orbiterDiscovery. Aviators live for the day they might be the first to take a new jet into the air, and we were being offered the first flight of a s.p.a.ce shuttle. Like the Stockholm Syndrome hostages we were, we all groveled in thanks. Aviators live for the day they might be the first to take a new jet into the air, and we were being offered the first flight of a s.p.a.ce shuttle. Like the Stockholm Syndrome hostages we were, we all groveled in thanks.

George asked us not to publicly mention the a.s.signment until the press release was made in a couple days. Mike Coats whispered to me, "When I get home, I'm calling everybody in my Rolodex." There was no way I was going to withhold this information from my family, either.

On the walk back to Building 4, I considered my incredible fortune. Besides getting the first flight ofDiscovery, I was also part of a great crew. At age forty-nine, snowy-haired Hank Hartsfield was the old man. He had come to NASA in 1969 as an air force test pilot with more than seven thousand hours of fighter jet flying time. STS-41D would be his second s.p.a.ce mission and first as a commander. Unlike a number of his peers who were so a.n.a.l that even the rest of us a.n.a.l-retentives noticed, Hank was easygoing and quick with a laugh. He was an Alabama boy who had retained the drawling speech and the political ideals of the Deep South. Hank was so far right on the political spectrum he made even the John Birch Society look like a collection of hankie-wringing, pantywaist liberals. I was also part of a great crew. At age forty-nine, snowy-haired Hank Hartsfield was the old man. He had come to NASA in 1969 as an air force test pilot with more than seven thousand hours of fighter jet flying time. STS-41D would be his second s.p.a.ce mission and first as a commander. Unlike a number of his peers who were so a.n.a.l that even the rest of us a.n.a.l-retentives noticed, Hank was easygoing and quick with a laugh. He was an Alabama boy who had retained the drawling speech and the political ideals of the Deep South. Hank was so far right on the political spectrum he made even the John Birch Society look like a collection of hankie-wringing, pantywaist liberals.

Mike Coats would be our PLT. He was a former Navy A-7E attack pilot with movie-star good looks. My daughter hadn't been wrong when she likened him to Christopher Reeve's Superman character. A curl of black hair would periodically fall across his forehead, making the Clark Kent appearance complete. Mike was a quiet family man, devoted to his wife, Diane, and their two children. I never heard him swear or bring a disgusting joke to the table or get intoxicated or look twice at any of the beautiful women we met on our trips. Mike was a rare exception to the rule that military aviators are root-bound on Planet AD.

I was also happy to be crewed with Judy. It wasn't just because she was so AD tolerant, although that was a big reason. She was smart, hardworking, and dependable, all the things you would want in a fellow crewmember. Of course the male in me also appreciated her beauty. The five years since our arrival at JSC had been kind to JR (her nickname). As most of us had done (under the hammer of astronaut compet.i.tiveness) she had taken to jogging and dropped her weight. Her ravishingly curly anthracite black hair now framed a leaner, bronze tan face.

Steve Hawley was a gift to all of us. More than any other post-doc, baby-faced Hawley was the source of my conversion from doubter to believer in the capabilities of the TFNG scientists. A Kansan with a PhD in astrophysics, Hawley was living proof an advanced civilization of aliens have visited Earth. He was one of them. No human had a comparable brain. In just a glance, Steve could commit the most complex shuttle schematics to permanent memory. Every checklist, including the two-volume malfunction ma.s.sif, was in a virtual file drawer in his brain, ready for instant retrieval at the sound of a c.o.c.kpit warning tone. He was a maestro in simulations, directing responses to ten different system failures simultaneously. John Creighton once commented that to have Hawley in the c.o.c.kpit was to have a sixth GPC aboard, a play on the fact that the shuttle computer system consisted of only five IBM General Purpose Computers (GPC). Steve had so much brainpower, the s.p.a.ce shuttle was hardly enough to occupy him. He found additional challenges. One was to attend professional baseball umpire camp over his vacation (he was a sports addict). It wouldn't have surprised me to have learned he was also ghostwriting Stephen Hawking's books. Hawley was held in such high regard by the military TFNGs that the pilots christened him "Attack Astronomer." Since pilots were particular about their own t.i.tles-fighter pilot, attack pilot, gunship pilot-Hawley's t.i.tle was an honorific. Steve was recently married to Sally Ride and for the sake of that marriage he was trying to distance himself from us AD bottom feeders. But it was a struggle. Hoot kept pulling him back to the dark side.

There would also be a sixth crewmember aboard, a McDonnell Douglas employee, Charlie Walker, flying as a payload specialist (PS) to operate a company experiment.

That night, February 3, 1983, Donna and I celebrated over dinner and later in bed. As she slept beside me, I stared at the ceiling and thanked G.o.d for pa.s.sage through one more gate on my journey to s.p.a.ce. I finally had a mission. s.p.a.ce was looking closer than ever. But there were six other shuttle flights in front of me. A lot could yet go wrong. I prayed for the crews of those missions. I prayed for their safety and success. I prayed more fiercely than they were praying for themselves. I wanted them out of the way.

The official NASA press release followed within a couple days and we bought the beer at an Outpost happy hour. George had also named the STS-41C crew so there was a total of seven TFNGs who had jumped to the sunlit side of the una.s.signed/a.s.signed fence. I was now the one being congratulated and I ached for the others who showed me their fake smiles.

During the party I heard one frustrated astronaut redefine TFNG-thanks for Nothing, George. I would never understand George Abbey. Some interpreted his dictatorial style as megalomania, but I never saw him seek a spotlight. In fact, a recent newspaper photo had appeared on the astronaut B-board showing Abbey shaking hands with a shuttle crew. It was captioned, "Unidentified NASA official welcomes astronauts." We all laughed at that. It was as if a photo of the pope had appeared in a newspaper over the caption, "Unidentified papal official welcomes pilgrims." But it was an indication of how invisible Abbey was. Though his management of the astronaut corps provided many opportunities for him to be in the press and on TV, he was never featured in either. Abbey was no megalomaniac. I don't think anybody had a clue what he was. Hoot Gibson would later offer me his best guess...that Abbey loved us, but, like a stern parent, he didn't care how we felt. He knew what was best for us and would give it to us at the time and place of his choosing. The problem was, we weren't children. We were freakin' astronauts who would have gladly taken whatever he thought was best for us, if he would have just told us what that was. Abbey's secretive leadership style was a cancer on astronaut morale.

Our 41D crew was at the end of the training line for the JSC simulators, but there were still opportunities for payload training and we traveled to Seattle to learn the intricacies of the 25,000-pound Boeing-built Inertial Upper Stage (IUS) rocket booster that would be our primary cargo. After we deployed it fromDiscovery 's cargo bay, it would lift a large communication satellite to geosynchronous...o...b..t 22,300 miles above the equator. At the contractors' factories, we also did some widows and orphans appearances, pa.s.sing out "Maiden Voyage of 's cargo bay, it would lift a large communication satellite to geosynchronous...o...b..t 22,300 miles above the equator. At the contractors' factories, we also did some widows and orphans appearances, pa.s.sing out "Maiden Voyage ofDiscovery " safety posters to the workers. Judy had me laughing when she whispered, "There are no " safety posters to the workers. Judy had me laughing when she whispered, "There are nomaidens on this flight." on this flight."

Maiden or not, Judy was the center of attention wherever we traveled. At one contractor event a young engineer went, quite literally, mad for her. Throughout a daylong factory visit, he was constantly at her side trying to antic.i.p.ate her needs. When she had none, he created some, bringing her water, soft drinks, and snacks. When we sat for briefings he would stand in a corner and stare at her like a Labrador waiting for the Frisbee to fly. On our factory tour he would rush ahead to hold a door until she walked past, then sprint ahead to the next. If there had been a puddle anywhere on our route, I was certain he would have flung himself face first into it, offering his back as a bridge. I expected the senior contractor official to tell his drooling puppy to get lost, but he turned a blind eye. I could tell Judy was seriously upset by the attention, but she was too much of a lady to say what needed to be said-"f.u.c.k off!" We all breathed a sigh of relief when we were finally in our cars and on the way to the sanctuary of our T-38s. Those were parked at the gate-guarded military ap.r.o.n of Los Angeles International Airport. Then, to our astonishment, as we sat in our c.o.c.kpits with the engines running, Judy's want-to-be paramour appeared out of nowhere, rushed under her jet, and pulled the chocks!

Back in Houston, over an Outpost beer, we laughed off the incident as a one-time case of extreme infatuation. It wasn't. It proved to be Jody FosterJohn Hinckley creepy. Judy began to receive letters, poems ("your raven hair and eyes"), and gifts. JSC security was notified and they promised to call the wacko's employer and have them discipline the man. I thought that was the end of it until one night I received a panicked call from Judy. "Tarzan, can you come over right away? I just got home and there was a package at my door from that engineer. It doesn't have any postage on it." The implication was obvious: It had been hand delivered. He was in town. The guy was a stalker and Judy his prey.

By the time I arrived, Judy had already called the JSC security people and they had sent a car to patrol around her house through the night. They had also promised to call the man's employer...again. But, again, whatever warnings were delivered didn't take. A few weeks later the man walked into our office! I could only a.s.sume he was there on official contractor business because he wore the proper JSC badges. He went immediately to Judy's desk and asked her to autograph one of his poems. She refused. He begged her to write him one letter a year. She refused. He begged her to come to dinner with him. She refused. As this was going on, I was moving to Judy's side, watching the man like a secret service agent watching the crowd at a presidential event. He didn't look violent, but if he reached into his briefcase I was going to tackle him. Grabbing JR by the arm I said, "We've got a meeting to attend," and escorted her from the room. We called security and, this time, whatever they did apparently had the desired effect-the stalking ended. Beauty and celebrity had their downside, as Judy was learning.

Our crew soon acquired nicknames. Tarzan stuck on me. Judy christened Hawley, my Bo Derek salivating cohort, Cheetah. I'm sure Steve would have preferred the more macho handle Attack Astronomer, but Cheetah stuck. In keeping with the Ape Man theme, I branded JudyJane, asking her as I did so, "Would you like to swing on my vine?" She replied, "Sure, Tarzan. But first I'll have to tie a knot in it so I have something to hold on to." Judy always had a comeback for my AD bulls.h.i.t. Mike Coats maintained his Superman call sign. Upon hearing these t.i.tles the office secretaries began to refer to STS-41D as the "Zoo Crew" and Hank Hartsfield naturally became the "Zookeeper." asking her as I did so, "Would you like to swing on my vine?" She replied, "Sure, Tarzan. But first I'll have to tie a knot in it so I have something to hold on to." Judy always had a comeback for my AD bulls.h.i.t. Mike Coats maintained his Superman call sign. Upon hearing these t.i.tles the office secretaries began to refer to STS-41D as the "Zoo Crew" and Hank Hartsfield naturally became the "Zookeeper."

G.o.d apparently didn't hear my prayers to watch over every mission in front of us. STS-6 returned home safely but the IUS booster rocket it deployed, identical to the one we would carry onDiscovery, malfunctioned. Its communication satellite was released into an unusable orbit. It was going to take as much as a year for the Boeing engineers to fix the IUS, meaning several IUS missions-including ours-had just lost their payloads. I was miserable. Any ripples in the flight schedule could generate changes in flight a.s.signments. But after many tense weeks of worry, we acquired a new payload of two smaller communication satellites with different booster rockets. Best of all, we still retained the first flight of malfunctioned. Its communication satellite was released into an unusable orbit. It was going to take as much as a year for the Boeing engineers to fix the IUS, meaning several IUS missions-including ours-had just lost their payloads. I was miserable. Any ripples in the flight schedule could generate changes in flight a.s.signments. But after many tense weeks of worry, we acquired a new payload of two smaller communication satellites with different booster rockets. Best of all, we still retained the first flight ofDiscovery.

We set to work on our crew patch design. SinceDiscovery was named after one of Captain Cook's eighteenth-century ships, we included a sailing vessel morphing into the s.p.a.ce shuttle was named after one of Captain Cook's eighteenth-century ships, we included a sailing vessel morphing into the s.p.a.ce shuttleDiscovery. We also teased Judy about adding the symbol for the female gender to the patch We also teased Judy about adding the symbol for the female gender to the patch[image] . There was precedent for this: The STS-7 crew had included a da Vinci Vitruvian Manlike representation on their patch. Four "male" symbols, arrows radiating outward, formed the head, arms, and one leg, while a lone female symbol-obviously representing Sally Ride-formed the other leg. When the patch appeared, Mike Coats observed, "Sally wears her gender like a chip on her shoulder." I jokingly suggested to Judy we add something similar to our STS-41D patch and penciled an idea. It had the + of the female symbol as the . There was precedent for this: The STS-7 crew had included a da Vinci Vitruvian Manlike representation on their patch. Four "male" symbols, arrows radiating outward, formed the head, arms, and one leg, while a lone female symbol-obviously representing Sally Ride-formed the other leg. When the patch appeared, Mike Coats observed, "Sally wears her gender like a chip on her shoulder." I jokingly suggested to Judy we add something similar to our STS-41D patch and penciled an idea. It had the + of the female symbol as thecenter of the creature and five male arrows pointed inward at it. It would have been interesting to see how HQ would have reacted to that design. of the creature and five male arrows pointed inward at it. It would have been interesting to see how HQ would have reacted to that design.

STS-7 and -8 flew into history and I prayed my hallelujahs.

In November our crew celebrated Hank's fiftieth birthday at the Monday meeting. Because he wore his political leanings on his sleeve, he was an easy target to lampoon. We presented him outrageously satirical gifts, including a copy ofMs. magazine dedicated and autographed to him by Gloria Steinem, "In recognition of your support of the feminist movement." (Sally Ride, a friend of Ms. Steinem, had secured the magazine and her autograph, a one-of-the-guys act that shocked me.) We read fake congratulatory messages from Hank's supporters, including the ACLU, Jane Fonda, and the Nuclear Freeze Movement. There was also a congratulatory card from Yuri Andropov thanking Hank for "promoting global communism," as well as a card from Senator Ted Kennedy thanking him for his recent donation to the Democratic party. A final gift, a box of Ayds diet candy, was from the gay rights political caucus acknowledging Hank's support for their cause. The gift card read, magazine dedicated and autographed to him by Gloria Steinem, "In recognition of your support of the feminist movement." (Sally Ride, a friend of Ms. Steinem, had secured the magazine and her autograph, a one-of-the-guys act that shocked me.) We read fake congratulatory messages from Hank's supporters, including the ACLU, Jane Fonda, and the Nuclear Freeze Movement. There was also a congratulatory card from Yuri Andropov thanking Hank for "promoting global communism," as well as a card from Senator Ted Kennedy thanking him for his recent donation to the Democratic party. A final gift, a box of Ayds diet candy, was from the gay rights political caucus acknowledging Hank's support for their cause. The gift card read,Here are some AIDS for you. Nothing was out of bounds when it came to astronaut humor. Nothing was out of bounds when it came to astronaut humor.

On December 8, 1983, my dream of s.p.a.ceflight, not to mention the entire shuttle program, almost ended when STS-9 landed on fire. During the final moments ofColumbia 's approach, one of its hydraulic pumps experienced a propellant leak that dumped hydrazine, a particularly wicked fuel, into the aft engine compartment. The resulting fire quickly spread to a second hydraulic system and both systems failed shortly after touchdown. Had the fire started a moment earlier, it probably would have caused all three hydraulic systems to fail while 's approach, one of its hydraulic pumps experienced a propellant leak that dumped hydrazine, a particularly wicked fuel, into the aft engine compartment. The resulting fire quickly spread to a second hydraulic system and both systems failed shortly after touchdown. Had the fire started a moment earlier, it probably would have caused all three hydraulic systems to fail whileColumbia was still airborne. Like a car losing power steering, the controls would have frozen. was still airborne. Like a car losing power steering, the controls would have frozen.Columbia would have rolled out of control and crashed into the desert. John Young and his crew missed death by a handful of seconds. As I later examined photos of the fire damage, I thought of John's earlier p.r.o.nouncement, "G.o.d watches out for babies, drunks, and astronauts." would have rolled out of control and crashed into the desert. John Young and his crew missed death by a handful of seconds. As I later examined photos of the fire damage, I thought of John's earlier p.r.o.nouncement, "G.o.d watches out for babies, drunks, and astronauts."

The failure mode that caused the hydrazine leak was quickly identified and corrected. The shuttle program rolled on and my spirits soared...and then, just as quickly, came crashing back to Earth. On the very next mission, STS-41B, both of its deployed satellites failed to reach their intended orbit due to booster rocket malfunctions. I was thrown back into h.e.l.l. We had the identical booster rocket attached to one of our two communication satellites. It was unlikely NASA would launchDiscovery with only a single satellite as freight. For weeks we fretted and sweated while NASA HQ shuffled payloads and, for a second time, we survived with with only a single satellite as freight. For weeks we fretted and sweated while NASA HQ shuffled payloads and, for a second time, we survived withDiscovery. One mission to go. One mission to go.

We were now practically living in the simulators-one session was fifty-six hours in duration. Hank and Mike were spending most of their time practicing launch aborts and landings. Steve, Judy, and I were consumed with payload training. There was also s.p.a.cewalk training. None was planned for our mission but every shuttle crew included two astronauts who were prepared for an emergency s.p.a.cewalk. This was to provide one more line of defense against things that could kill a crew, like not being able to close the Payload Bay Doors (PLBD). To attempt reentry with those open would be certain death. This was why every component a.s.sociated with the door closing and locking systems was redundant. Redundant motors were powered by redundant electrical systems through a myriad of redundant black boxes and redundant wiring. One failure of anything would not prevent an astronaut crew from closing and locking the doors. But that wasn't good enough for NASA. They wanted to back up even this redundancy with astronaut s.p.a.cewalkers who could manually string a lanyard to a door edge and winch it closed, then hand-install and manually tighten locks. Other contingencies also had to be considered. The shuttle's high-gain antenna and the robot arm were both mechanisms that could become stuck outside the PLBD envelope and interfere with door closure. The two-man contingency s.p.a.cewalkers were trained to muscle these devices inside the bay and tie them down. Hank designated Hawley and me as the EVA (s.p.a.cewalk) crewmembers and Judy as our Intra-Vehicular Activity (IVA) crewmember. It would be her job to help us dress in the 300-pound Extra-vehicular Mobility Unit (EMU), i.e., a s.p.a.cesuit, a.s.sist us in the suit checkout, and follow us in the EVA checklists to ensure we didn't make a mistake. A s.p.a.cewalking crewmember entered a whole new arena of risks. When pressurized, the suits became as hard as a steel-belted radial, severely impairing movement and tactile feel. In this condition a mistake was possible, perhaps a deadly one. If Hawley and I had to do a s.p.a.cewalk, Judy would be our omnipresent guardian angel, watching us from insideDiscovery and making certain we followed every procedure exactly. and making certain we followed every procedure exactly.

The primary facility for practicing s.p.a.cewalks was the WETF swimming pool. Few experiences in life are more claustrophobic than being lowered underwater while dressed in an EMU. One astronaut confided in me that he repeatedly exhibited excessively high blood pressure when the flight surgeons conducted their pre-WETF vital sign checks. In fact, the docs became so suspicious, they required him to do multiple blood pressure checks at the flight clinic to ensure it wasn't a more chronic problem. I never had a problem with these checks. I could always put myself in a happy place while the cuff was on. After it was off, my veins got an elastic workout.

Training in the WETF pool was the most physically demanding of all astronaut training. As it would be in s.p.a.ce, the suit was pressurized to the consistency of iron. The simple task of opening and closing one's hand rapidly fatigued those muscles. And while the suit was neutrally buoyant, the body inside wasn't. When I was in an upright position, I was standing inside it. But when the s.p.a.cewalk practice sessions required me to work upside down, which was frequently the case, I would "fall" an inch or two inside the suit until my entire body weight was borne by the top of my shoulders pressing into the EMU neck ring. That was torture. Moving against the stiffness of the suit also resulted in abrasions on the arms and wear marks on other parts of the body. But, in spite of the pain and occasional nibbles of claustrophobia, I loved the WETF sessions. Like the robot arm training, the work was more personally challenging and yielded a greater sense of accomplishment than learning how to throw a switch to release a satellite. I prayed that someday I would get to do a s.p.a.cewalk...aplanned s.p.a.cewalk. I never wanted to hear the word s.p.a.cewalk. I never wanted to hear the wordcontingency on any of my missions. on any of my missions.

Our final EVA training session afforded me a unique insight into the burden of feminism on the TFNG females. The lesson involved a soup-to-nuts s.p.a.cewalk dress-out conducted in an exact replica of the shuttle c.o.c.kpit/airlock. The shuttle mid-deck, though the largest volume in the two-deck c.o.c.kpit, was small, measuring about 7 feet fore-to-aft, 10 feet wide, and 7 feet floor-to-ceiling. Astronauts liked to impress the public with the gee-whiz fact that the Texas prison system allocated more s.p.a.ce for one inmate than the shuttle provided for crews of six people. The airlock was even smaller, a cylinder 7 feet tall and 4 feet in diameter. Most of this s.p.a.ce was filled with the two wall-mounted EMUs.

Under the critical eye of our instructor, Judy entered the airlock, disa.s.sembled our suits, and pa.s.sed the helmets and pants into the mid-deck. The torso portion of the suit that contained the electronics, oxygen bottles, water supply, and controls-and weighing nearly 200 pounds-would remain on the airlock wall. While she was busy with this task, Steve and I retrieved our condom UCDs, bio-data attachments, and Liquid Cooling Garments (LCG) from the EVA lockers. The LCGs were a netlike long underwear. Weaved into the material were small tubes that carried chilled water next to the skin to prevent s.p.a.cewalkers from overheating.

The first task of donning a s.p.a.cesuit is to get naked and put on the UCD. I had a.s.sumed Judy would step out of the c.o.c.kpit during this intimacy, but I had failed to appreciate how feminism had complicated our situation. No male IVA crewmember would have left the mock-up while other males rolled on their condoms, so Judy knew she could not either. To do so would be a violation of the feminist cause, to send a message that women were different from men. As Judy made no attempt to leave, I shot Steve a nervousYou go first glance, only to see his eyes answer, glance, only to see his eyes answer,Screw you. You go first. This was going to be interesting, I thought. At least if I was going to get naked around a nonwife woman, I had a ripped body and the a.s.s of a Greek G.o.d to impress her. But, even for me, a guy with few inhibitions, the thought of rolling on a condom while JR was standing in front of me discussing the checklist was, well, inhibiting. Certainly she didn't intend to make sure we did This was going to be interesting, I thought. At least if I was going to get naked around a nonwife woman, I had a ripped body and the a.s.s of a Greek G.o.d to impress her. But, even for me, a guy with few inhibitions, the thought of rolling on a condom while JR was standing in front of me discussing the checklist was, well, inhibiting. Certainly she didn't intend to make sure we didthat task correctly? task correctly?

I need not have worried. As Steve and I started with our shirt b.u.t.tons, Judy sat on the edge of the hatchway, put her head down, and faked reading the checklist. She gave us as much privacy as possible while still holding on to her feminist sensibilities.

As fast as I could, I sheathed myself in latex, Velcroed the nylon bladder around my waist, then slipped into the LCG. Hawley did the same. We were once again presentable.

Before zipping our LCGs fully closed, we attached biosensors to our chests. It was only on s.p.a.cewalks that MCC monitored astronauts' heart rates. The data was a measure of how much the s.p.a.cewalker was exerting him- or herself. Astronauts also suspected flight surgeons wanted to be able to remotely p.r.o.nounce a s.p.a.cewalker dead in the event of a suit malfunction.

Judy referred to a torso photo in the checklist to ensure we had positioned the sensors correctly. The photo was of a man's chest, his nipples being the landmarks used in positioning the sensors. Those of us from Planet AD had jokingly complained of the s.e.xism represented in the photo. There were female s.p.a.cewalkers, too, we argued. The checklist should also have a photo of a woman's naked chest showing the sensors properly applied. One AD male cut out aPlayboy model's photo, drew in the biosensors on her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and pasted it into an EVA checklist. He said he was going to clandestinely subst.i.tute it for the actual checklist in his next training session with a female s.p.a.cewalker, but I never heard about the prank being executed, so I suspect he chickened out. model's photo, drew in the biosensors on her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and pasted it into an EVA checklist. He said he was going to clandestinely subst.i.tute it for the actual checklist in his next training session with a female s.p.a.cewalker, but I never heard about the prank being executed, so I suspect he chickened out.

We continued with the rest of the dress-out. We pulled on our pants, waddled into the airlock, and squatted under the wall-mounted torso/arm pack. While Judy held the suit arms vertical, I drove my head and arms upward and into the torso part of the suit. The squeeze through the neck ring ripped at my ears and made my eyes tear. Judy locked the pant waist to the torso, then dropped my helmet into place and locked that down. She next pushed on my gloves and locked those to the wrist rings. It had taken the better part of two hours, but I was now fully dressed. The training session would go no further. If I released myself from the wall mounts, as I would have to do on a real s.p.a.ce-walk, I would collapse under the 300-pound weight.

Judy finished dressing Hawley but before she could get out of the airlock, I encircled her and pulled her into my front in a writhing hug. She laughed. The embrace was as sensual as a fair maiden hugging an iron-suited knight.

Hawley and I had graduated. We were ready for a s.p.a.cewalk. And as much as each of us wanted to do one, we both prayed it wouldn't happen. If we were on a s.p.a.cewalk, it would be to save our lives.

Friday, April, 13, 1984, proved to be a very lucky day for the "Zoo Crew." STS-41C landed at Edwards AFB. We were next. We were Prime Crew. With that t.i.tle came top priority for simulators and T-38s. For me, it also brought Prime Crew night terrors. Until this moment every time my soul tried to deal with the fear and joy of what was fast approaching, I disallowed it. STS-6's IUS failure, STS-9's hydraulic fire, and STS-41B's twin satellite booster failures had made me a skeptic. There was too much in front of us that could jeopardize our mission. Even now, with the horizon clear of any other shuttle missions, I kept my emotions on a very short leash. Until the hold-down bolts blew there were no guarantees, I told myself. An engine could blow up in a ground test and stop the program. My health could become an issue. The payload contractors could find something seriously wrong with their machines. There were thousands of unknowns in this business.Don't even think about flying in s.p.a.ce, I ordered myself. And during my waking hours I obeyed that order. I had plenty of distractions. However, in sleep, the reality of being Prime Crew would creep past my defenses. I would bolt awake with my heart wildly drumming and my brain overwhelmingly aware that I would be next off the planet. Every fear I had ever harbored about death aboard a s.p.a.ce shuttle, every doubt I had ever held about my competence to do the mission, every joy I had ever celebrated at the thought of flying into s.p.a.ce would flash through my consciousness in a wild, chaotic fury and vaporize any hope of further sleep. I would get up and go for a walk or run. I ordered myself. And during my waking hours I obeyed that order. I had plenty of distractions. However, in sleep, the reality of being Prime Crew would creep past my defenses. I would bolt awake with my heart wildly drumming and my brain overwhelmingly aware that I would be next off the planet. Every fear I had ever harbored about death aboard a s.p.a.ce shuttle, every doubt I had ever held about my competence to do the mission, every joy I had ever celebrated at the thought of flying into s.p.a.ce would flash through my consciousness in a wild, chaotic fury and vaporize any hope of further sleep. I would get up and go for a walk or run.

By this time "Zoo Crew" had been together for fourteen months and we'd be together a few more. Because of delays in earlier missions,Discovery 's launch had slipped to June. In our thousands of hours of training Judy and I had become close friends and I would be a liar if I said I hadn't thought about expanding our relationship beyond the study of payload checklists. That thought was certainly nibbling at me as our T-38s landed on a warm spring Sunday at the KSC shuttle landing strip. Judy and I were there, alone, to support some payload tests that would begin the following day. We jumped into a rental car for the drive to the KSC crew quarters. Wearing Prime Crew smiles, sitting in a convertible (top down, of course), dressed in our blue flight suits, the wind in our hair, the sun on our face, we were everybody's image of the Right Stuff. 's launch had slipped to June. In our thousands of hours of training Judy and I had become close friends and I would be a liar if I said I hadn't thought about expanding our relationship beyond the study of payload checklists. That thought was certainly nibbling at me as our T-38s landed on a warm spring Sunday at the KSC shuttle landing strip. Judy and I were there, alone, to support some payload tests that would begin the following day. We jumped into a rental car for the drive to the KSC crew quarters. Wearing Prime Crew smiles, sitting in a convertible (top down, of course), dressed in our blue flight suits, the wind in our hair, the sun on our face, we were everybody's image of the Right Stuff.

Judy parked the car and we grabbed our luggage and headed for the elevator. The crew quarters occupied a small portion of the third floor of a huge Apollo-era rocket checkout building. The facility included a fully equipped kitchen, a small gym with weights and stationary bicycles, some conference rooms, ten or so bedrooms, and a handful of unis.e.x bathrooms. NASA must have consulted with Benedictine monks on the decor of the bedrooms: They were monastery spartan, containing a bed, desk, telephone, lamp, and chair. No TV. To ensure no outside noises would disturb a sleeping crew, the quarters were located on the interior of the floor. There were no windows.

Judy and I found the facility deserted.Come on, Satan, give me a break, I thought. I was going to be in sixteen hours of solitary confinement with a beautiful woman and idle hands, those instruments of the devil. I thought. I was going to be in sixteen hours of solitary confinement with a beautiful woman and idle hands, those instruments of the devil.

"Hey, JR," I shouted down the hall, "let's check out the old Cape Canaveral launch facilities." On multiple trips to KSC I had tried to fit in such a tour but the schedule had not allowed it. Now was a propitious time. My brain was screaming,Don't do something stupid. Get out of here!

"Sure, Tarzan," she called back.

It was too warm for flight suits so we changed into our NASA gym wear. I grabbed the NASA phone book, which included a map, and jumped in the car, letting Judy drive while I navigated. The early launch pads had been preserved as part of the Air Force s.p.a.ce and Missile Museum. The centerpiece of the museum was the concrete blockhouse that had served as the control center for the 1958 launch of America's first satellite. An outdoor display of a couple dozen rockets had been added to the area. The orange-painted latticed gantry of Launch Complex 26 speared the sky a mere four hundred feet east of the blockhouse.

It was late in the afternoon, long after tour hours. The facility was as deserted as the crew quarters. Judy looked at the rocket displays. "How many of these can you identify?"

I did a quick survey. "All of them."

"Bulls.h.i.t, Tarzan. I'll bet you a six-pack you can't identify all of these."

"Judy, I lived and breathed rockets from the age of twelve. Photos of these things wallpapered my bedroom. You're challenging a rocket geek. You're going to lose that bet."

Her smile said, "No way," and she rushed ahead to look at a placard. "What's this one?"

"The Navajo. It was the world's first supersonic cruise missile. Range fifteen hundred miles."

"Lucky guess." She walked to the next display. "This one?"

"Bomarc. A ramjet-powered supersonic antiaircraft missile."

I could see she was beginning to believe my rocket identification powers might not have been exaggerated.

"This one?"

"Easy. Firebird, an early air-to-air missile. By the way, make it a six-pack of Moosehead."

"You haven't won yet."

But I did. After correctly answering several more of Judy's challenges, she capitulated in front of a Skybolt missile.

"Tarzan, did you do anything as a kid besides memorize rockets, like go to rock concerts or dances?"

"I have one autograph in my high school yearbook. Does that answer the question?"

She laughed. "Yeah, I guess it does."

I was worried an air force security officer would arrive at any moment to lock the blockhouse, so I suggested we take a quick tour of it. For me, stepping inside was a spiritually moving moment. I had never been to this place before, yet I was connected to it. As a child in Albuquerque, I had watched TV scenes of this building and the gantry beyond as the earliest satellites and monkey-nauts, Able and Baker, had ridden pillars of fire into the sky. Werner von Braun had stood where I now stood and directed America's first steps in the s.p.a.ce race. I touched a lifeless control panel and felt even closer to him and the history he and his team had written. My fingers brushed across the blockhouse periscope and archaic lights and switches and oscilloscopes.G.o.d, I thought, I thought,what I wouldn't give to go back to January 31, 1958, and be standing at this very spot as the final seconds clicked off the countdown clock for Explorer I Explorer I's launch.

"Be careful, Tarzan. You'll launch one of those rockets."

Judy interrupted my reverie. Her obvious indifference to the history of the site prompted a question that had been on my mind since I had first stood on the stage with her at our TFNG introduction. "JR, when did you first want to be an astronaut?"

"In 1977, when I saw the announcement on the company bulletin board."

She answered as I had expected. I had already heard several of the other females say the same thing in various press interviews. Only Shannon Lucid had a different answer. She had a copy of a letter she wrote toTime magazine in 1960 challenging NASA's male-only astronaut corps. She had dreamed of s.p.a.ceflight as a child, as I had. Only recently had I matured enough to give Judy, Sally, and the others some slack for their lack of lifelong zeal for the astronaut t.i.tle. If I had been raised in a society that told me I could never be an astronaut because of my gender (or color), would that dream have ever taken root in my soul? Probably not. How, I asked myself, could I hold it against this woman if she had not carried the dream from her childhood? I could not. Judy and the other women were teaching me the meaning and consequences of discrimination. magazine in 1960 challenging NASA's male-only astronaut corps. She had dreamed of s.p.a.ceflight as a child, as I had. Only recently had I matured enough to give Judy, Sally, and the others some slack for their lack of lifelong zeal for the astronaut t.i.tle. If I had been raised in a society that told me I could never be an astronaut because of my gender (or color), would that dream have ever taken root in my soul? Probably not. How, I asked myself, could I hold it against this woman if she had not carried the dream from her childhood? I could not. Judy and the other women were teaching me the meaning and consequences of discrimination.

We returned to the car, Judy still behind the wheel. "Let's go to the beach house," she suggested. "I'll buy you a beer there." It was a destination certain to test the male animal in me. The beach house was as isolated as Mars, situated just behind the dune line only a couple miles from the shuttle launchpads. The house was a relic of the 1950s, before the days of the great s.p.a.ce race. Then, the Cape Canaveral area was just one more place for s...o...b..rders to build their winter retreats, and private homes had dotted the landscape. But thebeep-beep of Sputnik had wrought a great change in this part of America. The newly formed s.p.a.ce agency needed a place to launch its rockets and Cape Canaveral was ideal. Exercising its right of eminent domain, Uncle Sam acquired the land and began its s.p.a.ceport renovations. Only one of the existing structures survived demolition, saved by some enlightened bureaucrat who had decided it would be the perfect retreat for the early press-hounded astronauts. The building selected was well into government property, so privacy was absolute. Even Jehovah's Witnesses wouldn't have been able to find this address. While the press no longer pursued astronauts as they had the Mercury Seven, the building was still used as an astronaut retreat. of Sputnik had wrought a great change in this part of America. The newly formed s.p.a.ce agency needed a place to launch its rockets and Cape Canaveral was ideal. Exercising its right of eminent domain, Uncle Sam acquired the land and began its s.p.a.ceport renovations. Only one of the existing structures survived demolition, saved by some enlightened bureaucrat who had decided it would be the perfect retreat for the early press-hounded astronauts. The building selected was well into government property, so privacy was absolute. Even Jehovah's Witnesses wouldn't have been able to find this address. While the press no longer pursued astronauts as they had the Mercury Seven, the building was still used as an astronaut retreat.

On the drive I tried to keep my eyes forward but could not. They kept going to Judy's smile, to her wind-flagged hair, to her golden legs.Danger, Will Robinson! Danger! There's never a good robot around when you need one. There's never a good robot around when you need one.

Judy turned the car onto a sh.e.l.l-covered driveway and parked. The house wasn't exactly Frank Lloyd Wright. It was something the Unabomber might have cobbled together: small, boxy, utilitarian. The downstairs was concrete and comprised a garage and storage area. The flat-roofed, wood-framed upper story contained a living area of two small bedrooms, a bath, and a kitchen/living area that opened onto an elevated wooden deck. NASA had done little to the structure over the decades. The exterior wood finish was sandblasted and warped, the weather stripping shredded, the concrete walkways uneven and crumbling. The interior furnishings were similarly old and worn.

I stayed outside while Judy walked upstairs to the kitchen with a handful of bills for the honor cash box. While she had been a model of professionalism and had done nothing to suggest there was more to this beach visit than watching the waves and having a beer, every molecule of testosterone in my body was busy suggesting otherwise. I could no longer see her as a fellow astronaut and crewmember. I could only see her as the beautiful woman she was. She came out with a six-pack of Coors hooked on a finger, stood with her hip c.o.c.ked to the side, and smiled. "It's not Moosehead, Tarzan, but here're your winnings." She tossed the package to me.G.o.d help me, I prayed. I prayed.

We walked over to the dunes and sat in the sand. I extracted beers for both of us and for a moment we were silent, just enjoying a perfect beach evening. A thunderstorm lashed the distant ocean at our front, its anvil head glowing orange in the dying sun. There was just enough of a breeze in our faces to keep the bugs away.

"Here's to Prime Crew, Tarzan." Judy held out her beer and I touched it with mine. Her face was illuminated by the reflections from the cloud and I could see her expansive smile. The Prime Crew t.i.tle did that to astronauts. We'd all be wearing those smiles until Hank's call of "Wheel stop."

We fell into conversation about our training and new issues on our communication satellite deployment procedures. I joined in halfheartedly. She was the only astronaut present on that beach. My mind was busy dealing with the scent of her shampoo, the feel of her body heat radiating across the gap between us, and the voices in my head. Those whispered that it would be different with Judy and me. Mortals had dirty, sinful, sordid affairs. But we weren't mortals. We were astronauts. We were demiG.o.d and -G.o.ddess, alpha male and female. The rules didn't apply to us. Not on this beach, they didn't. This was a place separate from Earth where vows and social conventions and the Sixth Commandment didn't apply. Of course, it was all testosteronic bulls.h.i.t, but I listened to those voices with the same intensity I listened to MCC in our simulations.

As I was popping another beer, Judy left the subject of communication satellites. "Tarzan, I want to thank you and Donna for including me in your family." I was glad to hear Donna's name. It was a reminder of what I was...married. My thumb folded onto my wedding band.

"You're welcome. We're always glad to have you over." Donna and I had extended numerous invitations to Judy for dinner or other social get-togethers.

"Well, you guys are the only ones. Most of the wives hate me." She was right. Many of the wives did not like Judy. They were threatened by her. Their husbands jetted across the country with her in private planes to train in factories and go jogging together and perhaps, as I was doing at that very moment, to sit on a beach together enjoying a sunset and a beer.And what happened then? the wives wondered. At one TFNG party I saw a visibly shaken JR leave early. Later I heard the reason. One of the child-widened wives had taken her aside and screamed at her, "Stay away from my husband!" Though I had not heard a single rumor connecting JR to the woman's spouse and strongly suspected the accusation was completely groundless, I could understand where the woman was coming from. She understood what female youth and beauty did to men (and was doing to the wives wondered. At one TFNG party I saw a visibly shaken JR leave early. Later I heard the reason. One of the child-widened wives had taken her aside and screamed at her, "Stay away from my husband!" Though I had not heard a single rumor connecting JR to the woman's spouse and strongly suspected the accusation was completely groundless, I could understand where the woman was coming from. She understood what female youth and beauty did to men (and was doing tome on that beach) and she was dropping a preemptive nuke. Judy was feared by most of the wives. At one of our earliest TFNG get-togethers, she arrived wearing formfitting jeans and a white knit T-shirt. Every head, male and female, turned and the hubbub of the party diminished noticeably. A few of the wives looked into their man's eyes to read his thoughts. Some stepped closer to their husbands. There was nothing trashy about Judy's dress. I had seen many of the wives similarly dressed at various casual functions. It was just that Judy looked like one of those impossibly curvaceous mannequins in a boutique window. It was a fact of life that wives never looked like that. on that beach) and she was dropping a preemptive nuke. Judy was feared by most of the wives. At one of our earliest TFNG get-togethers, she arrived wearing formfitting jeans and a white knit T-shirt. Every head, male and female, turned and the hubbub of the party diminished noticeably. A few of the wives looked into their man's eyes to read his thoughts. Some stepped closer to their husbands. There was nothing trashy about Judy's dress. I had seen many of the wives similarly dressed at various casual functions. It was just that Judy looked like one of those impossibly curvaceous mannequins in a boutique window. It was a fact of life that wives never looked like that.

The last thing I wanted to talk about was Judy's beauty and its effect on men and their wives. I mumbled some bulls.h.i.t about her misreading the women and attempted to switch the conversation back to our training. A segue of "How 'bout them Astros?" would have been more sincere. Judy knew I was lying and I sensed she was hurt by the rejection of the wives. She ignored my training question and continued to talk about relationships, this time about her childhood relationship with her mother. I was shocked by this intimacy. I had never heard her talk about her past. She had been a TFNG for years before someone discovered she had been previously married and was divorced. Now she was opening her soul to me as if I were some harmless confidant. I could only a.s.sume she was trying to justify a heated telephone argument with her brother that she had recently conducted in my presence. The topic had been invitations for the Resnik family to attendDiscovery 's launch. In that conversation it was obvious there was some tension in the family. 's launch. In that conversation it was obvious there was some tension in the family.

I wasn't trained for this. I ached to return to the subject of communication satellite deployment. But Judy continued. She revealed a deep bitterness with her family's demands that she date only Jewish boys and other aspects of teen oppression in the name of religion. (Gee, and I thought only us Catholics were screwed up.) I had more in common with this woman than I had previously thought. But Judy's coming-of-age trauma had been significantly greater than mine. It had led to an estrangement from her mother. I couldn't imagine a daughter dealing with that.

This was the only time Judy ever gave me a glimpse into her past. And, while I'm no Dr. Phil, I sensed she was a deeply wounded and lonely woman. Of course I also considered her vulnerability at this moment. She wasn't crying, but I had never seen her more emotional. It would have been so easy to reach across and offer a consolation hug. I had a couple beers in me. My inhibitions were as feeble as the starlight. But I didn't. I didn't make any physical contact. Not a hand squeeze. Not a pat on the back. Not a hug. Nothing. My resistance to temptation was nothing short of miraculous. Those moments on that sand had been my Garden of Gethsemane. I offered Judy only conciliatory words about how things might change in the future for her and her mom. It was a prophetic comment. Things did change. Twenty-one months later Judy would die a few miles from where we now sat.

I rose from the sand. "We better get back to the crew quarters. Things are going to start early tomorrow."

Chapter 18.

Donna.

A month prior to our June 25, 1984, launch date another milestone was pa.s.sed. It wasn't noted in any press release but it was significant all the same. At a crew dinner the wives selected two astronauts to be their family escorts. The expanded training hours in the homestretch to launch made all prime crewmembers absentee spouses and parents, so the astronaut office had created the family escort role to take some of the load off the families. They helped spouses deal with the logistics of traveling to KSC and the landing site. They helped with airline, rental car, and condo reservations and, in general, served as 24/7 contacts for spouses seeking help on any mission issue. Some of NASA's rules on family travel necessitated this escort help. While NASA carried the spouses to launch and landing at government expense aboard the agency's Gulfstream jets, children were not allowed on those aircraft. Their travel arrangements (and expenses) were the responsibility of the families. So, as they departed for the most stressful week of their lives, spouses had to pa.s.s their children to grandparents or other family members serving as travel escorts and deal with the coordination of getting them from the Orlando airport to their condos. The spouses were also required to arrange their own lodging. This could be a big headache if the mission slipped, particularly during the prime Florida tourist season. Some spouses of earlier missions had found themselves begging with condo reservationists not to be evicted. The escorts could be an enormous help.

There were no formal criteria for selection of family escorts. Crew spouses usually threw out a few names to consider and quickly settled on two. Our spouses picked TFNG d.i.c.k Covey and Bryan O'Connor (cla.s.s of 1980) as their escorts. Unspoken in their deliberations was another duty for which the family escorts were being selected: IfDiscovery killed us, they would become casualty a.s.sistance officers. I suspected every wife knew this. Even if their husbands were negligent in not telling them, they probably heard from other wives. I had told Donna years earlier. NASA required her and the kids to watch my launches with the family escorts from the roof of the Launch Control Center. It wasn't the view NASA had in mind: NASA wanted to isolate the families from the press in the event of disaster. In that case the family escorts, turned casualty a.s.sistance officers, would drive them to KSC flight operations, where a NASA jet would whisk them back to Houston. killed us, they would become casualty a.s.sistance officers. I suspected every wife knew this. Even if their husbands were negligent in not telling them, they probably heard from other wives. I had told Donna years earlier. NASA required her and the kids to watch my launches with the family escorts from the roof of the Launch Control Center. It wasn't the view NASA had in mind: NASA wanted to isolate the families from the press in the event of disaster. In that case the family escorts, turned casualty a.s.sistance officers, would drive them to KSC flight operations, where a NASA jet would whisk them back to Houston.

That evening, on the ride back from the party, Donna turned to me and said, "This is a strange business when you have to preselect an escort into widowhood." She was enduring a lot for my dream.

I was selfishly consumed by the flight, and it weighed on the entire family. Why Donna didn't just walk away from me in the final weeks was a miracle. On one occasion I arrived home to news that Pat had strep throat. "The flight surgeon wants you to come in for a throat swab, too." It was no surprise that Donna had sought medical help at the surgeon's office. The doctors also served as astronaut family physicians. But I was furious with her. Though I was feeling fine, I had no idea what a throat culture would reveal. Visions ofApollo 13 and Ken Mattingly's removal from that mission because of an exposure to German measles aroused my paranoia to insane levels. I raged at her, "G.o.ddammit, Donna, I'm ten days from leaving for KSC! This could screw me!" I made no inquiry of Pat's condition. Donna had never met the man who was now in her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks. I ordered her, "Until I launch, don't go back to the surgeon's office for anything! Nothing! Find a civilian doctor." I would later apologize to her, but I will always carry the memory of this failure as a husband and father. There are some things you can't take back. I ignored the flight surgeon's request, but he badgered me at my office until I finally submitted. The swab results were negative. and Ken Mattingly's removal from that mission because of an exposure to German measles aroused my paranoia to insane levels. I raged at her, "G.o.ddammit, Donna, I'm ten days from leaving for KSC! This could screw me!" I made no inquiry of Pat's condition. Donna had never met the man who was now in her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks. I ordered her, "Until I launch, don't go back to the surgeon's office for anything! Nothing! Find a civilian doctor." I would later apologize to her, but I will always carry the memory of this failure as a husband and father. There are some things you can't take back. I ignored the flight surgeon's request, but he badgered me at my office until I finally submitted. The swab results were negative.

At T-7 days to launch I moved into the temporary trailer complex that served as the JSC crew quarters. This was a requirement of flight medicine's mandatory health quarantine, a program designed to minimize the chances of an ill family member infecting a Prime Crew astronaut in the homestretch to a mission-just what I had feared in the case of Pat's strep throat. From this point onward, everybody, including our wives and all NASA employees whose duties put them in contact with us, would have to first be checked by the flight surgeon before they could be in our company. School-age children were forbidden any contact.

I said good-bye to the kids. Pat and Amy were now sixteen, Laura thirteen. I had always been open with them about the dangers of s.p.a.ceflight, so they understood the significance of this parting, that it might be the last time they would ever see me. Pat and Laura were composed and quiet, while I detected a nervous intensity in Amy's eyes and voice.

I invited Donna to every crew quarters' supper and, after a quick exam by the surgeon, she was allowed to attend. On the last evening before our departure to Florida, we went to my room and slowly and quietly enjoyed ourselves under the sheets (veryslowly andvery quietly, for it was a trailer). In the dark I whispered in her ear, "The next time we do this, I'll be radioactive." Neither of us mentioned the other possibility...that there might not be a next time. quietly, for it was a trailer). In the dark I whispered in her ear, "The next time we do this, I'll be radioactive." Neither of us mentioned the other possibility...that there might not be a next time.

On June 22, 1984, "Zoo Crew" departed for Florida in a flight of four T-38s. In a routine that had long been perfected by NASA PR, our wives had preceded us. The press liked this human touch of the women waiting to greet their men and NASA was happy to oblige them. As we entered KSC airs.p.a.ce we took a turn aroundDiscovery, then slipped into a fingertip formation and entered the "break" over the shuttle landing facility. Hank waited until every plane was landed and we taxied to the ap.r.o.n together. We cut the engines, popped our canopies, and climbed from our jets. Our spousal embraces were captured by a clutch of news photographers. It was a then slipped into a fingertip formation and entered the "break" over the shuttle landing facility. Hank waited until every plane was landed and we taxied to the ap.r.o.n together. We cut the engines, popped our canopies, and climbed from our jets. Our spousal embraces were captured by a clutch of news photographers. It was aLife magazine moment. We were the heroic knights, come to joust with the forces of death...fire and speed and alt.i.tude...and our fair maidens were there to bid us adieu. magazine moment. We were the heroic knights, come to joust with the forces of death...fire and speed and alt.i.tude...and our fair maidens were there to bid us adieu.

The final two days before a launch were designed to be relaxing. There were no simulations. We studied our checklists, flew in T-38s, and enjoyed suppers with our wives. But relaxed? Not a chance. I was hours from achieving a lifelong dream. Pure adrenaline was surging in my veins. Sleep was a struggle. The night terrors were ready to awaken me at the instant of unconsciousness.

We said the final good-bye to our wives at an L1 luncheon at the astronaut beach house.*The last time I had been there was with Judy. As Donna stepped from the van, I was glad I had no regrets about that night. The NASA-catered lunch was attended by our wives, the family escorts, and key launch personnel. The gathering was informal. There were no speeches, no toasts. Everyone helped themselves from a table set with sandwich fixings and chips. We filled our plates, found a place to park a beer, and enjoyed ourselves.

After lunch, all but our significant others departed and we were left alone to say farewell. Diane Coats took it hard. She was a naval aviator's wife. She knew the danger. Hank's wife, Fran, seemed composed. This was her second time through the drama and that probably helped. Or maybe she was dying inside but hid it for the benefit of the younger wives. After all, she was the commander's spouse and had to set the example. Our payload specialist, Charlie Walker, and his wife were struggling. Judy was spared the spouse separation issue. If Sally Ride, Steve Hawley's wife, was experiencing any fear, it wasn't on display.

Donna and I walked to the beach and turned north. The day was a furnace and the surf splashing on our legs was welcome. Just a few miles away was Pad 39A andDiscovery. In our stroll we joined the end of a line of astronauts and their spouses, stretching two decades into the past, who had made this same walk in the shadow of their machines: Redstones, Atlases, t.i.tans, and Saturns. A river of tears had been shed on these sands as couples struggled to come to grips with their tomorrows and the potential for glory or death. Now it was our turn. In our stroll we joined the end of a line of astronauts and their spouses, stretching two decades into the past, who had made this same walk in the shadow of their machines: Redstones, Atlases, t.i.tans, and Saturns. A river of tears had been shed on these sands as couples struggled to come to grips with their tomorrows and the potential for glory or death. Now it was our turn.

I was ill-equipped to deal with this moment. When it came to emotions, I was my mother's son. I once teased Mom about her seeming lack of emotion and she replied, "You'll never know what a Pettigrew [her maiden name] is feeling. It's just the way G.o.d made us. We keep it all inside." At the DNA exchange of my conception I had been stamped a Pettigrew. It's not that I don't deeply feel things or that I'm afraid of unmanly labels if I reveal them. It's that I can't. What I feel in my soul and how those feelings are verbalized are two entirely different things.

The good-bye could not be delayed and Donna finally brought it to the surface. I could hear her sniffling. She stopped and embraced me. "Mike, hold me." As I had always done in poignant moments in my life, I now tried to hide behind humor. "We could go back to the beach house bedroom and do more than hold each other." Always the joker, that was me.

"Just shut up, Mike, and hold me. It's not funny."