Riding Rockets Part 13

In mid-October 1986, astronaut medical doctors Jim Bagian and Sonny Carter presented theChallenger autopsy results. We expected to hear the answer to the question that had tormented all of us since the moment of autopsy results. We expected to hear the answer to the question that had tormented all of us since the moment ofChallenger 's destruction. Had the crew been alive and conscious in their fall to the water? I had been certain they had not. I had said it a hundred times to Donna, "At least they died or were knocked out instantly." That belief was my security blanket. It was too great a horror to think they may have been conscious in the two-and-a-half-minute fall to water impact. New revelations throughout the investigation had given me momentary doubts but I had always managed to build a new scenario to hide behind. My "c.o.c.kpit-shredding explosion" theory had long been proven wrong. The fire leaking from the right-side SRB had weakened its bottom attachment to the ET. As the SRB pulled free it ruptured the external tank, and the aerodynamic forces and the G-loads of the moment caused the catastrophic breakup of the stack. There had been no high-power detonation. The enormous "explosion" seen in the sky was merely tons of liquid oxygen and hydrogen vaporizing and burning. NASA cameras had picked out the c.o.c.kpit module as a piece of the fragmentation. It trailed some wires and tubing but otherwise appeared intact, suggesting it was bearing a live, conscious crew. But I created a scenario in which the c.o.c.kpit G-forces at the moment of breakup had pulled the crew seats from their floor attachments and hurled them against the interior of the cabin, killing the occupants instantly, or at least knocking them unconscious. When engineers later determined that the c.o.c.kpit G-loads were not incapacitating, much less fatal, I created a scenario in which a window had broken or, in some other manner, the pressure integrity of the c.o.c.kpit had been explosively compromised, causing crew unconsciousness within seconds. 's destruction. Had the crew been alive and conscious in their fall to the water? I had been certain they had not. I had said it a hundred times to Donna, "At least they died or were knocked out instantly." That belief was my security blanket. It was too great a horror to think they may have been conscious in the two-and-a-half-minute fall to water impact. New revelations throughout the investigation had given me momentary doubts but I had always managed to build a new scenario to hide behind. My "c.o.c.kpit-shredding explosion" theory had long been proven wrong. The fire leaking from the right-side SRB had weakened its bottom attachment to the ET. As the SRB pulled free it ruptured the external tank, and the aerodynamic forces and the G-loads of the moment caused the catastrophic breakup of the stack. There had been no high-power detonation. The enormous "explosion" seen in the sky was merely tons of liquid oxygen and hydrogen vaporizing and burning. NASA cameras had picked out the c.o.c.kpit module as a piece of the fragmentation. It trailed some wires and tubing but otherwise appeared intact, suggesting it was bearing a live, conscious crew. But I created a scenario in which the c.o.c.kpit G-forces at the moment of breakup had pulled the crew seats from their floor attachments and hurled them against the interior of the cabin, killing the occupants instantly, or at least knocking them unconscious. When engineers later determined that the c.o.c.kpit G-loads were not incapacitating, much less fatal, I created a scenario in which a window had broken or, in some other manner, the pressure integrity of the c.o.c.kpit had been explosively compromised, causing crew unconsciousness within seconds.

The first fact that Bagian and Carter put on the table was that the time of death could not be determined from an examination of the crew remains. I was not surprised. High-performance-vehicle crashes typically leave little of the human body for pathologists to work with. In the case ofChallenger, the weeks of immersion in salt water had resulted in additional deterioration of the remains. The story of crew survivability and consciousness would have to be told by the remains of the machine, not the crew. Bagian and Carter began that story. the weeks of immersion in salt water had resulted in additional deterioration of the remains. The story of crew survivability and consciousness would have to be told by the remains of the machine, not the crew. Bagian and Carter began that story.

There was proof, in the form of Mike Smith's Personal Emergency Air Pack (PEAP), that the crew had survived vehicle breakup. PEAPs were portable canisters intended to provide emergency breathing air to a crewmember escaping through toxic fumes in a ground emergency. They were not intended for use in flight. But Mike Smith's PEAP, stowed on the back of his seat and only accessible in flight by mission specialist 1 or 2, had been found in the on position. Either El Onizuka (MS1) or Judy (MS2) had to have thrown the switch and there would have been only one reason to do so-they were suffocating. Breakup had ripped away their only source of oxygen, the tanks under the cargo bay. Within a couple breaths, the residual oxygen remaining in their helmets and in the feed lines would have been consumed. The fierce urge to breathe would have immediately driven all of the crew either to turn on their PEAPs or raise the faceplates of their helmets. Judy or El had turned on Mike Smith's PEAP knowing he could not reach the switch himself. (Onizuka, sitting directly behind Mike, had the easiest access to the switch, though Judy, sitting to El's left, could have reached it with some difficulty.) Enough pieces of one other PEAP were recovered to determine it had also been in the on position, but crash damage made it impossible to establish the seat location of that canister. The fact that two PEAPS had been turned on was proof the crew had survivedChallenger 's breakup. I would later learn that some of the electrical system switches on Mike Smith's right-hand panel had been moved out of their nominal positions. These switches were protected with lever locks that required them to be pulled outward against a spring force before they could be toggled to a new position. Tests proved the G-forces of the crash could not have moved them, meaning that Mike Smith made the switch changes, no doubt in an attempt to restore electrical power to the c.o.c.kpit. This is additional proof the crew was conscious and functional immediately after the breakup. Mike Smith's PEAP also provided proof the crew had been alive all the way to water impact. It had been depleted by approximately two and a half minutes of breathing, the time of the c.o.c.kpit fall. 's breakup. I would later learn that some of the electrical system switches on Mike Smith's right-hand panel had been moved out of their nominal positions. These switches were protected with lever locks that required them to be pulled outward against a spring force before they could be toggled to a new position. Tests proved the G-forces of the crash could not have moved them, meaning that Mike Smith made the switch changes, no doubt in an attempt to restore electrical power to the c.o.c.kpit. This is additional proof the crew was conscious and functional immediately after the breakup. Mike Smith's PEAP also provided proof the crew had been alive all the way to water impact. It had been depleted by approximately two and a half minutes of breathing, the time of the c.o.c.kpit fall.

The question remaining was whether the crew had stayed conscious beyond the few seconds needed to activate their PEAPs and for Mike Smith to throw some switches on his panel. They could not have remained conscious if the c.o.c.kpit had rapidly depressurized to ambient (outside) air pressure. Breakup occurred at 46,000 feet, an alt.i.tude 17,000 feet higher than Mount Everest, and the nearly Mach 2 upward velocity at breakup continued to carry the c.o.c.kpit to an apogee of approximately 60,000 feet. To stay conscious in the low atmospheric pressure of these extreme heights, the crew would have needed pressurized pure oxygen in their lungs and the PEAPs only supplied sea levelair, a mixture of about 80 percent nitrogen and 20 percent oxygen. But had there been a c.o.c.kpit depressurization? a mixture of about 80 percent nitrogen and 20 percent oxygen. But had there been a c.o.c.kpit depressurization?

An explosive depressurization-due to a window breaking, for example-would have been a blessing and I prayed fiercely that had been the case. ButChallenger 's wreckage said it didn't happen. If it had, the c.o.c.kpit floor would have buckled upward as the air in the lower c.o.c.kpit rapidly expanded. The wreckage revealed no such buckling. That news was a dagger in my heart. 's wreckage said it didn't happen. If it had, the c.o.c.kpit floor would have buckled upward as the air in the lower c.o.c.kpit rapidly expanded. The wreckage revealed no such buckling. That news was a dagger in my heart.

Bagian and Carter explained there was still the possibility of a nonexplosive but rapid enough depressurization to cause quick unconsciousness. Such air leakage could have occurred due to numerous penetrations at the rear c.o.c.kpit bulkhead. These provided pathways for wire bundles and fluid lines to pa.s.s between the c.o.c.kpit and the rest of the orbiter. At breakup those wires and tubes were violently ripped apart, and it was possible the pressurization sealing for those manufactured penetrations could have failed. There was also evidence of breakup debris striking the c.o.c.kpit from the outside. A piece of steel had been found jammed into a window frame. While that particular piece of debris did not penetrate the c.o.c.kpit, other debris might have, resulting in a depressurization rapid enough to cause unconsciousness.

But it was all conjecture. There was no way to know the pressure integrity of the c.o.c.kpit and, therefore, the state of crew consciousness. Bagian and Carter did have some ancillary evidence suggesting crew inactivity, which some thought could be a signature of crew blackout. Every piece of paper recovered from the wreckage was examined to see if any crewmembers had written a note. Nothing had been discovered. Neither had the c.o.c.kpit overhead emergency escape hatch been blown. Some astronauts had suggested they would have jettisoned it as they neared the water to facilitate escape if impact was survived. The status of Mike Smith's PEAP also hinted at crew inactivity-the canister was only depleted by two and a half minutes, which meant his visor had remained closed during the fall. If it had been open, all five minutes of PEAP air would have leaked out. But, if the crew had been conscious, wouldn't they haveraised their visors to talk to one another in their fight for survival? That was Bagian's and Carter's hypothesis. After all, we were trained to react to emergencies as a team and that required communication. At breakup the intercom failed, leaving visors-open, direct speaking as the only means of communicating. (Crash damage had obliterated all the helmets and all but Mike's PEAP, making it impossible to know if the visors of the others were up or down.) their visors to talk to one another in their fight for survival? That was Bagian's and Carter's hypothesis. After all, we were trained to react to emergencies as a team and that required communication. At breakup the intercom failed, leaving visors-open, direct speaking as the only means of communicating. (Crash damage had obliterated all the helmets and all but Mike's PEAP, making it impossible to know if the visors of the others were up or down.) After the presentation was concluded, someone put the escape question to Bagian and Carter. "If this had occurred during OFT [the first four shuttle flights in which the two-man crews had ejection seats], do you think the crew would have been able to bail out?" Their answer was a definite yes. The OFT crews had worn pressure suits. Even if cabin pressure had been lost, those suits would have kept the crew conscious and they would have been able to pull an ejection handle.

Carter next informed everybody that the flight surgeon's office was going to archive a clip of our hair and a footprint to facilitate our identification in the event of a future shuttle loss. That comment suggested how difficult identification of theChallenger crew remains had been. Even dental records hadn't been enough. John Young sagely observed, "When extraordinary methods are being taken to make sure you can be identified after you're dead, everybody ought to think twice about the job they're in." He was right. crew remains had been. Even dental records hadn't been enough. John Young sagely observed, "When extraordinary methods are being taken to make sure you can be identified after you're dead, everybody ought to think twice about the job they're in." He was right.

He was also right when he added, "We shouldn't fly again until we have an escape system." Already some NASA managers were suggesting we should return to flight as quickly as possible and the escape system modifications could catch up. As much as I disliked Young for his attempts to torpedo my astronaut career, the position he took on some issues were the right ones.

Carter reminded everybody, "Keep the information you just heard to yourselves." At that d.i.c.k Richards (cla.s.s of 1980) lashed out, "Who does NASA think it's protecting? The families? They don't care if the information is released."

John Young answered him. "NASA is protecting NASA." He had it right again.

After the meeting broke up, I went to the gym for a run. It quickly became a sprint. I wanted to punish myself. I wanted the agony of burning lungs and a pounding heart and aching legs to overwhelm me so I wouldn't have to deal with the reality of what I had just heard. Sweat stung my eyes but I made no effort to wipe it away. I had become a self-flagellating penitent. Pain was good. I relaxed my jaw to its limits and tilted my head back, trying to form a straight pipe to my lungs. Strings of saliva grew from the corners of my mouth and were jerked away by the pounding of my legs. My respiration took on the sound of an emphysemic wheezing and gasping for breath. Several NASA employees pa.s.sed opposite me and I caught the question in their eyes: "What's he running from?"

I was running from my thoughts...and predictably losing. Judy or El had flipped Mike's PEAP to on. There had been no c.o.c.kpit floor buckling, therefore no explosive decompression. Those twin facts opened the door to the possibility that the c.o.c.kpit had held its pressure as tightly as a bathysphere and the crew had been conscious throughout the fall. Try as I might I could not find shelter in the evidence of crew inactivity. Would I have written a note? I seriously doubted it. Would I have jettisoned the overhead hatch? No. Of that, I was certain. Had I been Scobee or Smith, I would have been fighting to regain vehicle control all the way to the water, knowing that if I didn't, death was certain. The hatch on-off status was irrelevant to survivability. I also thought it was a big leap to a.s.sume the crew would have felt it necessary to raise their visors and communicate by direct speaking. I had been in the backseat of F-4 jets when the intercom had failed and hand signals had worked fine. And Scobee and Smith, sitting side by side, had the advantage of being able to see exactly what the other was doing. If I had been in their position and was conscious with the helmet visor down, would I have taken the chance of raising it to communicate? To do so would have meant overcoming years of jet crewmember training, which emphasized keeping your maskon during flight, particularly if there was any hint c.o.c.kpit pressure integrity might be compromised. The mask in this case would have been the helmet visor. I would have kept it down. during flight, particularly if there was any hint c.o.c.kpit pressure integrity might be compromised. The mask in this case would have been the helmet visor. I would have kept it down.

Like everyone else I wanted to believe the crew had been unconscious but there was no hard proof. I kept seeing the horrificother possibility, that they had gone down in possibility, that they had gone down inChallenger like galley slaves chained to the benches of their sinking s.h.i.+p and been aware of every torturous second. They had been trapped. They had no escape system. They were flying an like galley slaves chained to the benches of their sinking s.h.i.+p and been aware of every torturous second. They had been trapped. They had no escape system. They were flying anoperational s.p.a.ce shuttle. s.p.a.ce shuttle.

I couldn't go on. I hit my wall. I slowed to a walk, steered off the track, found a tree, and collapsed against it. There would be no escaping the projector of my mind as it played what might have been the last moments ofChallenger.

"Challenger,you're go at throttle up."

Scobee answered, "Roger, Houston. Go at throttle up."

Mike Smith watched the power tapes climb toward 104 percent. Even as he was doing so, the stack was disintegrating The leaking fire had weakened the bottom SRB attachment strut. The right-side booster snapped free, rupturing the ET. Tons of propellant poured from the gas tank. The left-side booster ripped from its struts and joined the right-side SRB in chaotic, unguided flight.Challenger 's fuselage and wings were broken into multiple parts. The c.o.c.kpit was torn from its mounts. 's fuselage and wings were broken into multiple parts. The c.o.c.kpit was torn from its mounts.

At the instant of vehicle breakup the crew was whipsawed under their seat harnesses. Checklists were s.n.a.t.c.hed from their Velcro tabs and jerked on their tethers. Pencils and drink containers separated from their tabs and were hurled through the volume. The noise of debris cras.h.i.+ng into the outside of the c.o.c.kpit added to the chaos. Exclamations of surprise came from some of the crew's throats, but fell dead in their microphones. All electrical power had been lost at the separation of the c.o.c.kpit from the rest of the fuselage.

The mayhem of breakup lasted only a moment before the equally startling calm of free fall began. While the c.o.c.kpit and the other debris were still moving upward at 1,000 miles per hour, they were freely under the slowing influence of gravity. Like human cannonb.a.l.l.s, the crew had experienced a momentary violence, followed immediately by the silence of gravity's grip. They floated under their harnesses. Pencils and pens spun in the air around them. Checklists floated on their tethers.

The crew was alive but suffocating. They turned on their emergency air packs. Judy or El switched on Mike Smith's PEAP.

Scobee and Smith were test pilots and reacted as they had been trained. Even the brief, wild ride through breakup would not have mentally incapacitated them. They had faced countless serious emergencies in their flying careers. They knew the situation was perilous, but they were in a c.o.c.kpit with a control stick and there was a runway only twenty miles away. They believed they had a chance.

They snapped their attention to the instruments hoping to identify the problem, but the c.o.c.kpit was electrically dead. Every computer screen was a black hole. Every caution and warning light was off. There were no warbling emergency tones. Every "talk back" indicator showed "barber pole"-its unpowered indication. The att.i.tude indicator, the velocity, acceleration, and alt.i.tude tapes were frozen with OFF flags in view. They had nothing to work with. As they attempted to make sense of the situation, Scobee's hand was never off the stick. He fought for vehicle control, oblivious to the fact there was no longer a vehicleto control. control.

"Houston,Challenger ?" He and Mike Smith made repeated calls to MCC, but those were into a lifeless radio. ?" He and Mike Smith made repeated calls to MCC, but those were into a lifeless radio.

With no instrument response and an apparently dead stick, Scobee and Smith mashed down on their stick "pickle b.u.t.tons" to engage the backup flight system. It was the emergency procedure for an out-of-control situation. If the problem was due to a primary flight system computer failure or software error, the BFS computer would jump online and bring life back to the c.o.c.kpit. Again and again their right thumbs jammed downward on the spring-loaded red b.u.t.tons. Again and again they searched the instruments hoping to see life in them, hoping to have something, anything, to work with. ButChallenger was now a blossoming cloud of debris. No switch was going to put her back together. was now a blossoming cloud of debris. No switch was going to put her back together.

Very quickly the crew realized the futility of their actions. The upstairs crewmembers-d.i.c.k, Mike, El, and Judy-had window views of the disaster in which they were immersed. As the tumbling c.o.c.kpit moved ever higher those views became more synoptic. They looked downward to see the white-orange cloud marking the place ofChallenger 's death. They saw the billowing trails of the disconnected SRBs. 's death. They saw the billowing trails of the disconnected SRBs.

The downstairs crewmembers-Ron McNair, Christa McAuliffe, and Greg Jarvis-were locked in the most horrifying of circ.u.mstances. They had no windows, no instruments. They were totally dependent upon the upstairs crewmembers to keep them informed on the progress of the flight. But no words came. At the instant of breakup the intercom went dead and the mid-deck lights went out. They were trapped in a tumbling, darkened, silent room.

As the c.o.c.kpit arced across its apogee, the upstairs crew saw the sky turn s.p.a.ce-black,Challenger 's lost goal. The silence was nearly total, just the merest whisper of wind. Then, the two-minute fall to the sea began. The rippled blue of the Atlantic filled the windows. The noise of the wind rose to a loud rush as the c.o.c.kpit quickly reached a terminal velocity of nearly 250 miles per hour. The upstairs crew watched the finer details of the sea become visible: rumpled wind-blown areas, the froth of whitecaps, and brighter splashes marking the impact of other pieces of their machine. The horizon rose higher and higher in their windows, the blue reaching toward them until...blessed oblivion. 's lost goal. The silence was nearly total, just the merest whisper of wind. Then, the two-minute fall to the sea began. The rippled blue of the Atlantic filled the windows. The noise of the wind rose to a loud rush as the c.o.c.kpit quickly reached a terminal velocity of nearly 250 miles per hour. The upstairs crew watched the finer details of the sea become visible: rumpled wind-blown areas, the froth of whitecaps, and brighter splashes marking the impact of other pieces of their machine. The horizon rose higher and higher in their windows, the blue reaching toward them until...blessed oblivion.

Chapter 29.

Change.

On January 9, 1987, Abbey made a rare and impromptu appearance before the astronaut office. Since his prior visits had almost always included flight a.s.signment announcements, there was a buzz on the walk to the conference room. I couldn't believe my name would be on any press release. I had significant doubts I would ever see my name on a crew list again. But hope springs eternal in the souls of astronauts. The fact that the meeting was unscheduled, on a Friday afternoon, no less, suggested something unusual was in the offing.

As always, Abbey spoke at low volume and everybody craned forward to listen. For ten minutes he discussed some changes in the management structure of HQ, a topic none of us believed was the reason for the meeting. We were right. He concluded his HQ remarks and then, almost offhandedly, mumbled, "The crew for STS-26 will be Rick Hauck as commander, d.i.c.k Covey as pilot, and Dave Hilmers, Pinky Nelson, and Mike Lounge as MSes."

For a long moment the room was gripped in a stillness that rivaled deep s.p.a.ce. We were hoping Abbey would continue with more crew a.s.signments, or at least tell us when those might happen. But there was nothing. Except for the lucky five, who wore embarra.s.sed smiles, the rest of us slumped in crus.h.i.+ng disappointment. Why didn't Abbey get it? If he was the power monger that many believed him to be, couldn't he see the power to be gained with one hundred faithful-unto-death astronauts? With a little communication, that's exactly what he would have had. But he didn't offer a single hint regarding the timetable for other a.s.signments. In the enduring silence, I noticed some of the faces around me hardening into glares of something beyond anger. If I were Abbey I would hire a food taster.

The meeting broke up and I drifted back to my office. Several other TFNGs came by for a losers' commiseration session. The USAF contingent was angry that a navy astronaut, Rick Hauck, would be commanding the return-to-flight mission. Rick would be making his second flight as a commander while his PLT, fellow TFNG and air force colonel d.i.c.k Covey, had yet to command his first mission. Others were livid that Pinky Nelson had been a.s.signed to the flight. While Pinky was well liked, he had taken a sabbatical to the University of Was.h.i.+ngton afterChallenger . The rest of us had stuck around to do the dog work and be brutalized by Young in the process. In our minds Pinky hadn't paid the dues to have received such a prize as the first post- . The rest of us had stuck around to do the dog work and be brutalized by Young in the process. In our minds Pinky hadn't paid the dues to have received such a prize as the first post-Challengermission. It was also a sore point that his last mission had been the flight prior toChallenger, so he had the additional plum of having back-to-back missions. Norm Thagard was certain Abbey had picked Nelson just to show the rest of us how unfair and capricious he could be. I recalled a line from McGuire's astronaut leaders.h.i.+p doc.u.ment, "Inconsistency, ambiguity, silence, evasion...all have their place in his studied unpredictability." so he had the additional plum of having back-to-back missions. Norm Thagard was certain Abbey had picked Nelson just to show the rest of us how unfair and capricious he could be. I recalled a line from McGuire's astronaut leaders.h.i.+p doc.u.ment, "Inconsistency, ambiguity, silence, evasion...all have their place in his studied unpredictability."

There were other aspects of this crew selection that would have angered us even further had we known about them. Years later, at our TFNG twentieth-anniversary reunion, Rick Hauck would tell me that Abbey had allowed him to select d.i.c.k Covey as his pilot. No other TFNG commander I ever spoke with had been given that responsibility. Abbey had always named the mission crews, the CDRs, the PLTs, the MSes, everybody. Hauck also revealed he had been told six months prior to the press release that he would command the return-to-flight mission but had been sworn to secrecy by Abbey. I wondered how many times during those six months other hopeful commanders had been in Rick's company wondering aloud who would command STS-26, and Rick had pretended to wonder with them. Deep secrecy. It was Abbey's style and it was killing astronaut morale.

My winter of discontent continued. As we had antic.i.p.ated, the lightweight SRB program was canceled and, along with it, all Vandenberg AFB shuttle operations were terminated. I would never see polar orbit.

Challenger's wreckage-all of it-was sealed in a pair of abandoned Cape Canaveral missile silos. It was another head-shaking moment for me. Pieces of the wreckage should have been retained for permanent display in key NASA locations as reminders of the cost of leaders.h.i.+p and team failure. At a minimum, displays of the wreckage should have been placed at NASA HQ and in every NASA field center's headquarters' building. The LCC and the MCC buildings needed a similar display. Even the astronaut office should have been the site of an exhibit. Other astronauts agreed. I heard Bob Crippen remark that every astronaut should berequired to view the wreckage before it was sealed away, adding, "I don't think some of the civilian astronauts yet appreciate the risks they are taking when they climb into a s.p.a.ce shuttle." But no such displays were established. to view the wreckage before it was sealed away, adding, "I don't think some of the civilian astronauts yet appreciate the risks they are taking when they climb into a s.p.a.ce shuttle." But no such displays were established.Challenger 's broken body was sealed away as if the very sight of it was somehow obscene. 's broken body was sealed away as if the very sight of it was somehow obscene.

I continued to be beaten up by John Young any time I had anything to say about range safety or pre-MECO OMS burns. Every Monday rumors of his and Abbey's imminent removal swept through the office like blue northers out of the panhandle. But come Friday, nothing had changed. A good night's sleep had long become a memory. I would get up at weird hours and take walks or go for a run. Donna and I talked ad nauseam about leaving NASA. I had my twenty years with the air force. I could retire from it and NASA, go back to Albuquerque, and get a job. But every time I thought of giving up the T-38, of never hearing, "Go for main engine start," of never again seeing the Earth from s.p.a.ce, I would get angry. I was doing my job. I was doing a good job. Why should I be driven away for that?

In the spring of 1987, I got a temporary reprieve from astronaut frustrations. With the shuttle grounded for at least another year, the USAF decided it would be a good time to reacquaint their astronauts with air force s.p.a.ce operations. The navy planned to do the same for their astronauts. Both services referred to the program as a "re-bluing," a reference to the fact we would be back in our blue military uniforms. We would travel to various United States and overseas bases to be briefed on how military s.p.a.ce a.s.sets were being used to counter the Soviet threat.

When word of this program reached the civilians in the astronaut office, one particularly bookish scientist challenged the fairness of it. "If the air force and navy are sending its astronauts on a re-bluing, what is NASA going to do for us civilians?" Mark Lee, an air force fighter pilot, looked at the whiner and replied, "You guys are going to get re-nerded."

West Berlin was the best place to get eyeball to eyeball with the enemy, so the air force flew us there. This was 1987 and the infamous Berlin Wall still had two years of life left in it. We attended various cla.s.sified briefings and got a helicopter tour of the Iron Curtain, flying over death strips guarded from watchtowers and barricaded with razor wire.

One evening we donned our uniforms, pa.s.sed through a border checkpoint, and walked into East Berlin for supper. The city was still considered occupied and the military personnel of the occupying countries could pa.s.s into one another's zones, although it was a one-sided pa.s.sage. The East didn't allow their troops into the West, knowing they would never come back.

In our walk from West to East we traveled back to 1945. Color had yet to come to this part of the world. Everything was gray and drab, even the clothing of the women. Remote-control TV cameras mounted on buildings watched us and other pedestrians. The streets were heavily patrolled by Kalashnikov-toting East German and Soviet guards. They glared at us like we were the enemy, which, of course, we were. As we pa.s.sed one pair of guards, I pointed to a medal on my chest and said to John Blaha (cla.s.s of 1980) in an intentionally loud voice, "And I got this one for killing ten commies." The hostile expressions of the guards didn't change. Apparently they didn't speak English, which was probably a good thing for me.

Our air force host led us to his favorite East Berlin restaurant. I was prepared to be disappointed, but the place was clean, brightly lit, and staffed with young and beautiful East German frauleins. As we entered, the rest of the patrons, all East German and Soviet military officers, gave us their best game face. We ignored them. Several tables were shoved together to accommodate our entourage and we got down to the business of drinking. We were soon a rowdy spectacle for the rest of the crowd. They stared at us with disapproving expressions, as if laughing and smiling were forbidden in the workers' paradise.

Later in the evening an intoxicated John Blaha grabbed a vase of daffodils and began to peer into each bloom with the focus of a horticulturist. I wondered if he had slipped into alcohol poisoning, but he whispered to me, "I'll bet the KGB has bugged this vase. They're probably in a back room listening to everything we're saying. Well, I'll give them something to think about." He lifted the flowers to his mouth like a microphone and began to speak loudly into their blooms: "Mike, wasn't that briefing about our new F-99 Mach 7 fighter really interesting?" Then he handed the vase to me.

I joined in the fun. "Yeah, and to think Mach 7 is itssingle -engine speed." -engine speed."

The others at the table picked up on our disinformation campaign and the vase of flowers went from hand to hand while the rest of our group made even more outrageous claims about secret weapon systems we had recently seen or flown. Meanwhile, the humorless commie diners stared at us as if we were mad. Since we were talking into daffodil blooms, I could understand their bewilderment.

When the vase finally made it back to Blaha, he closed the floor show by speaking into it in an exceptionally loud voice. "Why is it that visiting Soviet basketball teams never play the Celtics or Lakers? Whenever they come to the USA they always play some p.i.s.s-poor university team. What are they...p.u.s.s.ies?" We all wondered how that would translate back in the Kremlin.

Imagine my shock when, several months later, Blaha ran into my office with a newspaper article describing how the Soviets, for the first time in history, were going to allow their basketball team to play an exhibition game with an NBA team. "I told you that vase was bugged," Blaha shouted. We laughed at the image of an army of KGB spies hunting for that F-99 fighter.

Our journey into the heart of the enemy camp wasn't the highlight of that evening. Back at our hotel, four of us donned our bathing suits and headed for the sauna. There we encountered a middle-aged fraulein with a Mr. T physique who handed us towels and shower clogs and then pointed to our suits and said,"Nein." The suits were not allowed. It was a nude spa. We exchanged a few self-conscious glances. But there were no other females present and only a saliva test would have confirmed our receptionist's gender. We stripped. What a photo that would have made...four of America's heroes marching to the sauna like we marched to our s.p.a.ce shuttles, except we were marching completely bare-a.s.sed. We opened the door and entered a steamy room. When our eyes adjusted to the dim light we realized we were sitting with a half dozen naked women. The spa was coed. Oh well, when in Rome... The suits were not allowed. It was a nude spa. We exchanged a few self-conscious glances. But there were no other females present and only a saliva test would have confirmed our receptionist's gender. We stripped. What a photo that would have made...four of America's heroes marching to the sauna like we marched to our s.p.a.ce shuttles, except we were marching completely bare-a.s.sed. We opened the door and entered a steamy room. When our eyes adjusted to the dim light we realized we were sitting with a half dozen naked women. The spa was coed. Oh well, when in Rome...

Later I was climbing out of a small pool when a very attractive and very naked German woman came to me. Someone in our group must have dropped the astronaut bomb because she wanted to ask a few questions about flying in s.p.a.ce. I could barely understand what she was saying...not because her English was poor. On the contrary, it was excellent. Rather, it was because 99 percent of my meager mental powers were being used to force my eyes to look straight ahead. As she spoke, my brain was screaming, "Don't look down! Don't look down!"I felt it would be a serious breach of naked etiquette to talk to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, something we denizens of Planet AD regularly did with clothed women. Given my struggles it was a wonder I could form a coherent sentence.

Meanwhile, as I did my best to be a naked gentleman, I noticed she had no qualms about looking atmy body. As she spoke her eyes wandered up and down as if she were appraising a cut of beef. I felt body. As she spoke her eyes wandered up and down as if she were appraising a cut of beef. I feltso violated. violated.

Even the naked ladies weren't the most memorable part of our re-bluing trip. Events five thousand miles away trivialized everything we had encountered. We received word from Houston that John Young's tenure as chief of astronauts had ended. He had been rea.s.signed to the position of JSC deputy for engineering and safety, a technical rather than team-leaders.h.i.+p position. The celebration was immediate. Most of us had been looking forward to this day for a long, long time. My celebration was probably the most unrestrained. For the past year, John had made my life miserable. While I had heard of only two incidents in which he had suggested I was lacking as an astronaut and should be replaced, G.o.d only knew how many other times he had said it and to whom he had said it. Despite Abbey's "forget it" comment, I couldn't believe my reputation hadn't been damaged. Young had been my tor-mentor, and my joy at his departure was unalloyed. That's not to say I couldn't admire the man for his achievements in the c.o.c.kpit. He had flown in s.p.a.ce six times, including a moonwalk mission and the first s.p.a.ce shuttle mission. The latter had probably been the most dangerous mission ever flown by any astronaut. While many of us questioned John's leaders.h.i.+p abilities, no one doubted his flying skills and guts.

On April 27, 1987, TFNG Dan Brandenstein was picked to replace Young. I knew he would do a superb job as chief of astronauts. But at the same time I was angry that Abbey had screwed the air force again. The grapevine had it that the selection criteria for the position had mandated a TFNG who had flown as a shuttle commander. There were three navy TFNGs who qualified: Brandenstein, Hauck, and Hoot Gibson. There was only a single USAF TFNG veteran commander: Brewster Shaw. And why did such a disparity exist? Because of Abbey's longtime preferential treatment of the U.S. Navy astronauts. If a bomb went off under Abbey's car, the air force TFNGs would be at the top of the suspect list.

Chapter 30.

Mission a.s.signment.

With Brandenstein at the helm of the astronaut office, the summer of 1987 pa.s.sed much more pleasantly. At the Monday meetings there were actual exchanges of ideas. Astronauts, me included, were able to get up and make a presentation without being blasted with criticism. Dan even addressed one of the criteria for crew a.s.signments, a first in my nine years with NASA. "Crews will be picked not only on how they have performed in simulations and on past missions, but also on how well they perform their office duties." To imagine...someone in a management position at NASA was actually revealing something about the crew selection process. It was enough to make me want to step outside and see if a squadron of pigs was flying over. Actually, what Dan gave us wasn't much...andcouldn't be much because Abbey was still G.o.d. But he was doing his best to be a real chief. be much because Abbey was still G.o.d. But he was doing his best to be a real chief.

The days weren't all suns.h.i.+ne and roses. Along with the rest of the office, I remained in flight a.s.signment limbo. Also, STS-26 was slipping into the summer of 1988, a year away. If and when I ever got another mission, it was moving in lockstep to the right, too.

During this period of recovery fromChallenger, Abbey pressed ahead with a previously scheduled new astronaut cla.s.s selection. Every astronaut, and probably every other thinking person in NASA, thought it was insane to be selecting another group of astronauts when it was obvious the future shuttle flight rate was going to be a fraction of what it had been. Why bring more superachievers into certain frustration? Astronauts speculated that Abbey wanted more people to expand his empire. Whatever Abbey's motivations, the selection was made and another group of fifteen astronauts, the cla.s.s of 1987, walked into NASA that summer. Abbey pressed ahead with a previously scheduled new astronaut cla.s.s selection. Every astronaut, and probably every other thinking person in NASA, thought it was insane to be selecting another group of astronauts when it was obvious the future shuttle flight rate was going to be a fraction of what it had been. Why bring more superachievers into certain frustration? Astronauts speculated that Abbey wanted more people to expand his empire. Whatever Abbey's motivations, the selection was made and another group of fifteen astronauts, the cla.s.s of 1987, walked into NASA that summer.

At an Outpost Tavern welcoming party for this cla.s.s, I ended up alone with George. I turned from getting a beer and he was approaching me with purpose.Uh-oh, I thought. I thought.I sure hope he doesn't ask me about a doc.u.ment bearing Dr. Terry McGuire's name. I was still terrified that Abbey had hidden cameras around JSC, or had somehow put a homing device on all of us so he could keep track of where we went and who we talked to. Maybe he had listening devices in every office, including the ones that McGuire used. I regretted ever having seen that astronaut leaders.h.i.+p doc.u.ment. Whether I liked it or not, it made me a co-conspirator in any possible plots against him. I was still terrified that Abbey had hidden cameras around JSC, or had somehow put a homing device on all of us so he could keep track of where we went and who we talked to. Maybe he had listening devices in every office, including the ones that McGuire used. I regretted ever having seen that astronaut leaders.h.i.+p doc.u.ment. Whether I liked it or not, it made me a co-conspirator in any possible plots against him.

From his mumbles I thought I heard "How are you doing, Mike?"

"Fine, George." My heartrate was atGo for main engine start speed. That's what happens when G.o.d is speaking to you and you're hiding a mortal sin. speed. That's what happens when G.o.d is speaking to you and you're hiding a mortal sin.

"Are you going to be around this week?"

Here it comes,I thought. He wanted to see me in his office...with McGuire's treatise in hand. I was ready to blurt out, "I'm innocent! I didn't have anything to do with it! McGuire wrote it before I ever spoke to him. The others are evil, not me. Kill them. Mercy, my liege, mercy!" But all I croaked was, "This week? Well, yeah...I'll be here." At the moment I was very glad George never made eye contact with his audience. If the conversation continued in the direction I thought it was going, I wouldn't have to worry about him discovering any lies in my eyes. We were both talking to our shoes.

"That's good. There are some things we need to discuss."

Oh, G.o.d. I'm screwed.

Abbey continued. "The SRB testing is going well. More flight a.s.signments will have to be made. We'll need to talk about that." I almost dropped my beer. The topic of conversation wasn't McGuire! While I couldn't be certain (n.o.body could be certain with Abbey about anything), I sensed he was teasing me about an imminent flight a.s.signment. I looked at him and sure enough there was a coy smile on his face. He was actually relis.h.i.+ng his G.o.dly role as the bearer of good news.

I immediately went to Donna to tell her about the exchange. I could see she was conflicted. She was happy that I might be on the verge of drawing a second s.p.a.ce mission, but terrified I would die flying it. Several of theChallenger widows were at the party and every spouse, Donna included, was watching them and thinking, widows were at the party and every spouse, Donna included, was watching them and thinking,That could be me.

The next week I sat in my office, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the phone on the first ring hoping to hear Abbey's voice, but the call never came. My paranoia began to ratchet upward. Maybe I had read too much into Abbey's words. Maybe the coy smile I thought I had detected had been nothing more than a gas pain grimace. Maybe George knew of my treasonous McGuire visit and was playing with me.

The week after also came and went with no call, and I was certain I had been toyed with. If a bomb went off under his car now, I would be alone at the top of the suspect list.

Finally, on September 10-my forty-second birthday-I landed from a T-38 mission and found a note on the crew lounge door asking me to call Abbey...at home. I was sure this was the call in which I would learn of my a.s.signment to a second mission. Why else would Abbey want me to disturb him at 10:15P.M .? What a birthday present this was going to be! I dialed the number. .? What a birthday present this was going to be! I dialed the number.

But it was another disappointment. George acted as if there had been no reason to call him at home. All he wanted to know was if I had seen a letter written by a New Mexico congressman on the shuttle program. I was certain, now, that Abbey was the cat and I was the crippled mouse. He was playing with me. There was no pending flight a.s.signment.

On Sat.u.r.day night I was able to momentarily forget about mission a.s.signments. The cla.s.s of 1987 hosted its first party and provided some great escapism entertainment in the form of a skit modeled after the TV showThe Dating Game. Dan Brandenstein played the eligible bachelor. He was onstage and screened from several women...or rather cla.s.s of 1987 men in drag, who were vying for his affection. The only real female partic.i.p.ant in the skit was Mae Jemison, the first black woman astronaut. She was introduced as "celebrity host Vanna White." I'm sure Johnny Cochran could have found a lawsuit in that. One of the men in drag was new astronaut Mario Runco. Imagine a tall, muscular Klinger from Dan Brandenstein played the eligible bachelor. He was onstage and screened from several women...or rather cla.s.s of 1987 men in drag, who were vying for his affection. The only real female partic.i.p.ant in the skit was Mae Jemison, the first black woman astronaut. She was introduced as "celebrity host Vanna White." I'm sure Johnny Cochran could have found a lawsuit in that. One of the men in drag was new astronaut Mario Runco. Imagine a tall, muscular Klinger fromM*A*S*H and you have an image of Mario. He had a cla.s.sic Roman nose, a perpetual five o'clock shadow, and a regional New York accent-Mario spoke Bronx. For the skit he squeezed into black fishnet stockings, a low-cut dress, and high heels. It was an ensemble that revealed enough hair to have generated a Sasquatch sighting. He was, without question, the ugliest drag queen to have ever put on lipstick. and you have an image of Mario. He had a cla.s.sic Roman nose, a perpetual five o'clock shadow, and a regional New York accent-Mario spoke Bronx. For the skit he squeezed into black fishnet stockings, a low-cut dress, and high heels. It was an ensemble that revealed enough hair to have generated a Sasquatch sighting. He was, without question, the ugliest drag queen to have ever put on lipstick.

The cla.s.s of 1987 gave Dan the list of questions he was required to ask of the prospective dates. Since the military personnel from the new cla.s.s were also from Planet AD, many of the questions were s.e.xually suggestive. One was an obvious play on the psych questions being asked in the astronaut interview. Apparently those hadn't changed in the past decade. "If you died and could come back as any animal, what would it be?"

Mario appeared to fall into deep thought on such a complex question. Finally he answered, "I would like to come back as...a beaver." As if the double entendre needed emphasis, he casually spread his legs. It was a move Sharon Stone would make famous years later in the movieBasic Instinct, but Mario did it first. It was also a move that is irrevocably burned into the synapses of my brain, where memories of my Most Terrifying Sights are stored. Even today, when I look at a blank white wall, I see that hair-way up his skirt and s.h.i.+ver in terror. but Mario did it first. It was also a move that is irrevocably burned into the synapses of my brain, where memories of my Most Terrifying Sights are stored. Even today, when I look at a blank white wall, I see that hair-way up his skirt and s.h.i.+ver in terror.

The remaining questions and answers were scripted to ensure Dan selected Mario's character as his date. When Mario came from behind the screen, he went to Dan, grabbed him, twirled so that his back was to the audience, and planted a kiss on Dan's lips...or so it appeared. Actually he clamped his hand over Dan's mouth and kissed the back of it. Mario was a h.e.l.l of a thespian.

The skit continued with a "word from our sponsor." Two members of the 1987 cla.s.s came onstage dressed as the hayseed spokesmen for Bartle & James wine coolers. The real B&J television advertis.e.m.e.nts were laugh-out-loud funny. They featured one character with a boring, monotone voice explaining some bizarre use of the product beyond its intended purpose as a beverage. As he did so, his doofus-looking silent partner, Ed, would give a demonstration in the background.

The B&J advertis.e.m.e.nt the cla.s.s of 1987 presented was definitely not ready for prime time. One astronaut adopted the deadpan voice and mannerisms of the B&J protagonist and explained how the wine coolers could be used to prevent the spread of STDs. Silent Ed rolled a condom onto a B&J bottle and vigorously shook it. The carbonation in the drink inflated the latex into its hotdog shape. Ed peered closely at the phallus, searching for leaks. As if that weren't suggestive enough, the advertis.e.m.e.nt spokesman continued, "The alcohol in Bartle & James wine coolers can also be used to disinfect body parts that might be exposed during intimate relations." Ed used that as his cue to pour some of the B&J into his palm and splash it on his face like aftershave. Political correctness might have subdued the office parties of the rest of the country, but it had yet to wet-blanket astronaut parties.

The following Monday I walked into my office still thinking about the skit. It had been a great party and I intended to tell the new arrivals how much I enjoyed their antics. But those thoughts evaporated when I arrived at my desk. A note from my secretary read,Please meet Dan Brandenstein at 8:15A.M. My office mate, Guy Gardner, had the same note on his desk and I quickly discovered three other astronauts were also notified of the meeting: Hoot Gibson, Jerry Ross, and Bill Shepherd. With two pilots and three MSes, the notification certainly suggested a flight a.s.signment announcement. But I wasn't about to cheer yet. John Young had never announced flight a.s.signments. That had always been exclusively Abbey's job. The fact that Dan Brandenstein's office, and not Abbey's, had called put a lid on my simmering antic.i.p.ation. There were certainly other things Dan might want to see us about. Again, I prayed it wasn't anything a.s.sociated with Dr. McGuire, as in, "Which one of you idiots has been talking to the shrink?" My office mate, Guy Gardner, had the same note on his desk and I quickly discovered three other astronauts were also notified of the meeting: Hoot Gibson, Jerry Ross, and Bill Shepherd. With two pilots and three MSes, the notification certainly suggested a flight a.s.signment announcement. But I wasn't about to cheer yet. John Young had never announced flight a.s.signments. That had always been exclusively Abbey's job. The fact that Dan Brandenstein's office, and not Abbey's, had called put a lid on my simmering antic.i.p.ation. There were certainly other things Dan might want to see us about. Again, I prayed it wasn't anything a.s.sociated with Dr. McGuire, as in, "Which one of you idiots has been talking to the shrink?"

We walked into Dan's office. It was still strange to see a TFNG in the big-time. As a navy pilot, Dan had been firmly in the grip of Planet AD's gravity. No more. His new management position had blasted him to escape velocity. We would all miss him.

Dan welcomed us with a smile, which I immediately interpreted as a good sign. "Abbey wants to see you guys. I'll walk over with you." There it was, the Abbey connection. More and more it was looking as if September 14, 1987, would be a special day for me. As we walked to the JSC HQ building my heart was a-flutter. It had been three years since I had stepped fromDiscovery. By far, the last twenty months had been the worst in my life. I had buried four TFNG friends killed in a preventable tragedy and had endured John Young's abuse. I couldn't wait to get back in s.p.a.ce. By far, the last twenty months had been the worst in my life. I had buried four TFNG friends killed in a preventable tragedy and had endured John Young's abuse. I couldn't wait to get back in s.p.a.ce.Please, G.o.d, I prayed, I prayed,let this be what I think it is.

Abbey, too, was ready for us with a smile. After a moment of small talk he relieved our suspense. "I was wondering if you guys would like to fly STS-27?"

Is a crab's a.s.s watertight?was one rejoinder that came to my mind.h.e.l.l, yes answered both questions. answered both questions.

Our group immediately broke into jokes and giddy laughter. No one really answered Abbey's question, but, of course, we didn't have to. He was offering us gold and n.o.body ever turned that down. I was now officially a crewmember for the second post-Challengermission. It was a cla.s.sified Department of Defense mission so n.o.body yet knew exactly what we would be doing, but it didn't matter. We were an a.s.signed crew. That wasall that mattered. that mattered.

As I floated in weightless joy back to my office, I considered for the billionth time that strange man known as George Was.h.i.+ngton Sherman Abbey. He defied a.n.a.lysis. To borrow a quote from Winston Churchill, George was "a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma." It seemed he went out of his way to drive astronauts to loathe him. Even in this STS-27 crew a.s.signment some would be rightly embittered. Bill Shepherd was cla.s.s of 1984 and would be flying his first mission before two mission specialists from the cla.s.s of 1980, Bob Springer and Jim Bagian, would fly their rookie flights. And STS-27 would mean Hoot Gibson would be flying his second mission as a commander before eight other TFNG pilots had yet to command their first mission. The STS-27 crew a.s.signment press release was going to be a bitter pill for many in the office to swallow.

Hoot would later tell me Abbey had informed him several weeks before the official announcement that he would be the CDR of STS-27. Hoot had replied, "George, it's not my turn." Abbey had said, "Turns have nothing to do with it." He might as well have said, "I don't give a s.h.i.+t about astronaut morale." The statements were identical.

While sitting in Abbey's office, though, I had never seen him as jolly as he had been while telling us of our new mission a.s.signment. It was as if he was high on our happiness. Why couldn't he understand it could be like that 24/7/365? All he had to do was understand that turns did matter, that visibility into flight a.s.signments mattered a h.e.l.l of a lot, that open communication mattered, that being positively stroked once in a while mattered...h.e.l.l, beingnegatively stroked once in a while, getting stroked once in a while, gettingANY performance feedback once in a while, mattered. During those ten minutes in his office I loved George Abbey, but the moment pa.s.sed. Now, if there were conspirators somewhere in NASA's hierarchy preparing to strike, I wished them all the luck in the world. performance feedback once in a while, mattered. During those ten minutes in his office I loved George Abbey, but the moment pa.s.sed. Now, if there were conspirators somewhere in NASA's hierarchy preparing to strike, I wished them all the luck in the world.

That evening, as I told the kids about the flight, my sixteen-year-old daughter, Laura, said, "You're not going to die on me, are you?" She said it with a smile, trying to make a joke out of it-a chip off the old block-but I knew she was worried. So were Donna, Pat, and Amy. And I knew, as soon as STS-26 was on the ground, I would be worried. Just as it had been with STS-41D, I knew Prime Crew night terrors awaited me for STS-27. But I had to do this. I couldn't stop or turn away from a flight into s.p.a.ce any more than a migratory bird could ignore the change of seasons. It was in my DNA, beyond rational understanding.

Chapter 31.

G.o.d Falls.