Riding Rockets Part 17

As I walked toward the c.o.c.kpit access arm I ran into John Casper, who was exiting the toilet. He was pulling his LES crotch zipper closed. I teased him, "We're going to have to call you Long Dong Casper. n.o.body else has a lizard long enough to reach around the UCD, past the long johns, and out of the LES." He laughed. I was happy to help someone else relax, if only for a moment. I just wished someone would do it for me.

I got my wish in the White Room. One of the Astronaut Support Personnel (ASP) had placed a sign on the wall reading "Cut her loose!" This was the punch line of a particularly offensive joke-circulating among the Planet AD contingent-involving a naked woman bound to a bed. I chuckled. For five seconds I was able to forget what was about to happen.

Jeannie Alexander went to work securing me to the seat. Then she quizzed me on the components I would have to find in the event of a ground or bailout emergency. "s.h.i.+p's O2connection?" It was on my left thigh. "Parachute disconnect?" My hands reached for my shoulders and I touched them. "Rip cord?" Another touch. "Barometric actuator lollipop?...Life raft actuator?...Overhead ground escape carabineer?" I found them all. She broke a light stick to activate its glow and Velcroed it to my shoulder. Now the fire-and-rescue people could find my body. She leaned over me and gave me a peck on the lips. "Have a great flight." She was another person I would remember for the rest of my life. As she left the c.o.c.kpit she placed another light stick over the side hatch to show the exit in the event of a lights-out emergency. I heard the hatch close and soon my ears were popping as the c.o.c.kpit pressure test started.

The wait began. My heart was in afterburner. The seat was a torture. My bladder distended toward rupture even as I was mad with thirst from my prelaunch dehydration efforts. And this time I faced a new experience certain to tax my reserves even more-I was launching in the downstairs c.o.c.kpit. My dislike of the position had not changed since I last sat here on STS-27's reentry. I hated the tomblike isolation. I hated not having a window to look from or instruments to monitor. And I could never entirely expel from my mind the image of what it must have been like for Christa, Greg, and Ron inChallenger 's lower c.o.c.kpit. There are some things best forgotten, but locked in the same box, I couldn't help but remember them. 's lower c.o.c.kpit. There are some things best forgotten, but locked in the same box, I couldn't help but remember them.

G.o.d, let us gowas my prayer. The thought of having to do this tomorrow made me nauseous. Maybe the cards had been a sign. Maybe seven would be my lucky number. At least I had Pepe's rookie complaints to entertain me. They came over the intercom in a nonstop flood: "Oh G.o.d, my back is killing me...My bladder is ready to explode...My stomach is being pushed out of my mouth...I got a cramp in my calf...I'm dying of thirst...I'm going to puke before I even get into s.p.a.ce." J.O. jokingly asked how he would throw up in the LES while strapped to his seat. Ever the engineer, Pepe gave the question a moment of serious thought and replied, "I'll just roll my head around and puke in the back of my helmet."

Maybe I was just punch-drunk with exhaustion and fear but I found Pepe's constant dialogue hilarious. I was going to puke from laughing. J.O. warned, "Don't make me laugh, Pepe. I'll fall into another coughing fit." J.O. could barely talk without inducing a phlegmy hack.

After several waves of complaints, Pepe prefaced his next chapter with "Guys, I know I'm not a wimp, but..." and then continued the litany. John Casper picked up on the preamble and began to use it every time he had a complaint. "Guys, I know I'm not a wimp, but..." Soon the entire upstairs c.o.c.kpit was doing it. Pepe heard my laughing cackle and continued his comedy routine by mimicking it...an explosion of rapid and high-pitchedhee, hee, hee s. That got me giggling even more. If the launch director was listening he probably thought we had all gone insane. s. That got me giggling even more. If the launch director was listening he probably thought we had all gone insane.

Pepe's complaints faded and we looked for other ways to occupy our time and take our minds off our misery. We resorted to the old standby-roasting the flight surgeon. He was a captive audience, required to monitor our intercom but forbidden to speak to us directly unless we requested a conversation, and none of us were about to do that.

"I hear the doc's wife is having an affair with a chiropractor."

"And his daughter is sleeping with a malpractice lawyer."

"And his son is studying to be a malpractice lawyer."

There was a fake "Shhhhh...He might hear us."

"He's not listening. He's going over his stock portfolio."

"He's on the phone with his Hong Kong broker getting the fix on gold and the yen."

"He's probably phoning for a tee time."

"h.e.l.l, it's Sunday. He's not even there. Docs don't work on Sunday."

"Well, they don't worksober on Sundays." on Sundays."

Then we began to enumerate the perks the flight surgeons enjoyed. "They get hired by NASA as GS Infinities," a reference to the higher government service pay grade they were given.

"They get reserved parking places."

"They get preferential tee times."

"They just have to ask and women take off their clothes for them."

The banter finally ended and the intercom fell silent. Even Pepe got quiet. We all retreated into our own little chaotic worlds of pain and fear and prayer. Around T-45 minutes the range safety officer threw in the first wrench of what had been a smooth countdown. "RSO is no-go for blast." The blast to which he referred was the s.p.a.ce shuttle being blown up. The RSO's computers had determined atmospheric conditions would amplify the power of the shuttle's destruction and jeopardize the safety of those around the LCC. His no-go call elicited groans and profanities in the c.o.c.kpit. We'd reached the point of,I'll kill anybody who gets in the way of our launch. The RSO must have sensed the universal outrage at his no-go call and quickly reran the calculations to come up with acceptable numbers. "The RSO is go for blast." We all cheered...and laughed at the irony. We were cheering because a detonating shuttle would now kill only us and that was The RSO must have sensed the universal outrage at his no-go call and quickly reran the calculations to come up with acceptable numbers. "The RSO is go for blast." We all cheered...and laughed at the irony. We were cheering because a detonating shuttle would now kill only us and that wasgood because it meant the countdown could continue. because it meant the countdown could continue.

At T-5 minutes Casper started the APUs and the flight control system checkout followed. Everything was nominal and I was beginning to actually believe I had carried my luck from the card table to the c.o.c.kpit.

"Atlantis...close helmet visors." Before complying with LCC's call I heard J.O. and John snort Afrin for a last time. I would be flying with a CDR and PLT on drugs.

I rechecked my harness. Other than look at a wall of lockers, it was all I could do. G.o.d, how I wished I was upstairs and had the distraction of the instruments. I had nothing whatsoever to do but dwell on my fear. I was the gas chamber victim waiting for the tablets to fall.

And then..."RSO is no-go for backup computer."

The intercom was immediately alive with our colorful a.s.sessments of the RSO:b.a.s.t.a.r.d, a.s.shole, sonofab.i.t.c.h! We were now at the point of We were now at the point ofI'll kill anybody AND THEIR WIFE AND CHILDREN AND MOTHER who gets in the way of our launch.

The launch director ordered the countdown held at T-31 seconds in the hopes the RSO could clear his problem and the count could resume. But we couldn't hold for long with the APUs burning their fuel. A minute ticked away.Come on...come on...fix your freakin' computer and give us a go for launch! But as we waited, the liquid oxygen inlets on all of the SSMEs got too cold. The mission was scrubbed. I just melted into a formless blob. The suit technicians would have to look for me in the bottom of the LES. But as we waited, the liquid oxygen inlets on all of the SSMEs got too cold. The mission was scrubbed. I just melted into a formless blob. The suit technicians would have to look for me in the bottom of the LES.

Upon our return to the crew quarters we were offered the opportunity to go to the beach house and visit the wives. I called Donna and we both agreed we didn't want another beach good-bye. I could sense her complete exhaustion...mental and physical. I called my mom, the iron woman who had birthed six children and raised them with an invalid husband, and she was similarly incapacitated. The only silver lining to the scrub was that it reinforced my retirement decision. If stress was the killer the docs were saying it was, I was killing Donna, the kids, my mom, and myself with these launch attempts.

When the crew returned from the beach house, they found me in the conference room watching a movie. Pepe tilted his chair onto its back on the floor and lay in it to watch TV. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" I was certain he had lost his mind.

"I've got to acclimate myself to lying in the orbiter. I was ready to die out there."

"Pepe, you're crazy. That's like practicing getting kicked in the b.a.l.l.s. You'll never acclimate yourself."

But Pepe was not dissuaded. He remained in the reclined position throughoutLawrence of Arabia. I don't know how he did it. Only a gun to my head would have made me practice for tomorrow. I barely had the strength to lift a beer to my lips. I don't know how he did it. Only a gun to my head would have made me practice for tomorrow. I barely had the strength to lift a beer to my lips.

The next morning we relived it: Olan's Cajun face at my door, faking a smile for the photographers, having my nuts squeezed in the LES pressure test, confronting my fears on the drive to the pad, getting a kiss and a glowing light stick from Jeannie, laughing at Pepe's complaints, worrying about death, praying for life, and finally hearing, "Atlantis,the RTLS weather is no-go. We're going to have to pull you out." I didn't even have the strength to swear. This time the launch director decided to slip the mission by forty-eight hours to give everybody time to rest. Our next try would be on February 28.

Back in the crew quarters the techs stripped me out of the LES. After grabbing two beers from the kitchen, I walked to the bathroom, shed my long johns (reeking of sweat and faintly of urine), unfastened my diaper, and stood at the mirror. The craters under my eyes could have hidden a moon buggy. I wondered what a decent night of chemical-free REM sleep would feel like. It had been so long I couldn't imagine the experience. My neck was ringed red from the chafing of the LES neck dam. There were other suit tattoos: ruptured capillaries on the insides of my arms and bruises on my biceps from trying to move while the LES was pressurized. There were still multiple shaved and sandpaper-roughened hickeys on my chest from the EKG attachments applied during a prequarantine medical test. My thighs and calves had similar shaved and roughened patches of skin marking the attachment locations of sensors for a muscle-response test. The end of my p.e.n.i.s was cherry red with what I could only hope was temporary diaper rash. Whatever it was, I wasn't about to bring it to the attention of the flight surgeons. If I had a urinary tract infection, it would come along for the ride. I had invested far too much in this mission to be pulled from it now. I entered the shower, stood under the cascading hot water, and drank my beer.

By the time we completed our debriefings the sun had risen and J.O. suggested we meet our wives at the beach house. I called Donna and this time we agreed it would be fun to get together.

The five of us entered the beach house living area to find it strewn with clothing: s.h.i.+rts, shoes, socks, panty hose, bras. There was even a bra swinging from the end of a ceiling fan. It was obvious we had entered a joke in progress. Sure enough, when we walked into the bedroom we found the family escorts, Hoot Gibson and Mario Runco, lying s.h.i.+rtless on the bed. Crowded next to them were all the wives, clothed but for their underthings, pretending to beshocked at our appearance. Everyone laughed, something we all needed as much as a good night's sleep. at our appearance. Everyone laughed, something we all needed as much as a good night's sleep.

Hoot teased us with the obvious point of the joke. "You guys are taking so long to get this mission going, your wives are developing some realneed issues." issues."

I threw it back in his face. "I'm not worried. You and Mario are navy officers. You have to be heteros.e.xual to know what a woman needs. I'm surprised you guys aren't in a bedroom by yourselves."

Hoot and I had a well-deserved reputation for a disgusting synergy. Our exchanges devolved into more offensive comebacks and counter-comebacks until Donna finally hollered, "Enough! Will you guys ever grow up?" I had now heard that outburst from so many women so many times in my life, I thought it should be in Latin on the official s.h.i.+eld of Planet Arrested Development-umquam grow idiotum.

The rest of the visit was relaxing. We had all been cured of the need to deliver a Bergman-Bogey good-bye at the water's edge, so we just sat around, drank beer, and traded stories. Pepe told us of his agony during the wait on the pad. Dave Hilmers shot him a hypothetical question: "Pepe, if NASA needs someone to replace an MS on the next flight, would you volunteer?" Pepe instantly replied, "Absolutely." His eagerness embodied the astronaut conundrum. Even as we waited on the pad, scared s.h.i.+tless and physically tortured, none of us could imagine not taking every offered mission.

When we returned to the crew quarters we were greeted by the local news showing a large, unmanned, French-built Ariane rocket blowing up shortly after liftoff from its South American pad. The story wouldn't have been covered anywhere else in America, but, on Florida's s.p.a.ce coast, the competing French s.p.a.ce program was news. The stations played the video again and again. There was no way Donna and the rest of the families could possibly miss it and I was certain the images of the flaming rocket falling into the sea would add to their anxiety. And that wasn't the end of it. That evening one of the networks was airing a docudrama on theChallenger disaster. The advertis.e.m.e.nts for that show were in all the newspapers and magazines, and the network was constantly hyping it. The wives were going to have to be sedated to get them to the LCC roof. With J.O.'s illness, the two scrubs, the Ariane blowing up, and the disaster. The advertis.e.m.e.nts for that show were in all the newspapers and magazines, and the network was constantly hyping it. The wives were going to have to be sedated to get them to the LCC roof. With J.O.'s illness, the two scrubs, the Ariane blowing up, and theChallenger movie, it was a good thing I didn't believe in omens. movie, it was a good thing I didn't believe in omens.

The evening of February 26 our crew flew to Houston for a refresher simulation. It had been so long since J.O. and John had practiced ascent emergencies, the mission trainers thought it would be a good idea to get them back in the JSC sim. I made the trip even though I had no duties a.s.sociated with ascent. I just couldn't face the thought of sitting around the crew quarters all night with nothing to do. I had already watched more movies in the past thirteen days of quarantine than I had watched in the past thirteen years. I couldn't watch another. After landing at Ellington Field, I left the crew to their sim, drove home, watered the houseplants, and went running.

On the flight back to Florida I was stabbed with regret at my decision to leave NASA. The pain and fear that, yesterday, had provided validation for my retirement plans had been temporarily forgotten. Coc.o.o.ned in the warm c.o.c.kpit with the stars as a blanket, I wondered if I would ever find fulfillment outside of this business. There was an unknown scarier than s.p.a.ce and I was fast approaching it...my post-MECO future.

This time I asked Jeannie to put light sticks over the single cue card Velcroed on the locker in front of me. The downstairs lighting was poor and I wanted the extra illumination to read the card. It outlined the procedures for a launchpad escape, for bailing out, and for a crash landing escape. I had every step committed to memory and didn't need the card but it gave me something to read during the wait. I also asked her to put a light stick next to the altimeter in front of me. In a bailout scenario, after pulling the emergency c.o.c.kpit depressurization handle, I would watch the altimeter until it indicated we were below fifty thousand feet. Then, I would blow the side hatch and deploy the bailout slide boom. I would be the first out...into the ink black of a North Atlantic winter night and all the perils that it embodied.

Jeannie's face was beaded in sweat as she crawled over me to make my connections. Kevin Chilton, one of the ASPs, was the last to leave the c.o.c.kpit. He pulled the pin that locked a safety cover over the c.o.c.kpit depressurization and hatch jettison handles. a.s.suming we made orbit, I would reinsert the pin. He handed it to me. "Good luck, Mike."

"Thanks, Chilly. See you at Edwards."

I heard the hatch close, the mechanicalthunking noise carrying a note of finality. A few minutes later J.O. watched from his port-side window as the last pad workers hurried across the access arm and entered the elevator. "The close-out crew just left. We're alone." J.O.'s observation reminded us that we sat at ground zero. Everybody else was racing to get away from the shuttle kill zone. noise carrying a note of finality. A few minutes later J.O. watched from his port-side window as the last pad workers hurried across the access arm and entered the elevator. "The close-out crew just left. We're alone." J.O.'s observation reminded us that we sat at ground zero. Everybody else was racing to get away from the shuttle kill zone.

For the ninth time in my life I waited for launch. I was certain there would be a tenth time, tomorrow. The KSC weather was bad. I could feel the vehicle shaking in the wind and J.O. and John reported heavy rains las.h.i.+ng their windows from pa.s.sing squalls. And it wasn't just the Florida weather that was a problem. Our two transatlantic abort sights-Zaragoza, Spain, and Moron, Spain (p.r.o.nounced MORE-OWN)-also had weather issues. At T-9 the launch director held the count. G.o.d might have been punis.h.i.+ng us for ignoring Dave's request to turn off the Playboy Channel.

Pepe's practice countdown in the briefing room chair had been useless in preparing him for another pad wait. It didn't take more than thirty minutes before he was once again entertaining us with his complaints. He ended one session with "My organs are shoving my diaphragm into my throat."

I replied, "You're wearing a diaphragm?" Everyone laughed so hard the engineers in MCC probably sawAtlantis 's vibrations in their accelerometer data. J.O. fell into a gagging wet cough. He was still not well, a fact that had made the 's vibrations in their accelerometer data. J.O. fell into a gagging wet cough. He was still not well, a fact that had made theHouston Chronicle. An unnamed source was quoted in that newspaper suggesting that J.O. was actually suffering from viral influenza. It wouldn't have surprised me if that was the case, but I was glad he was soldiering on. The longer our delay, the greater the chances I would become infected. (I would fall ill a day after landing.) I seriously doubted NASA HQ would hold the launch for my recovery, or the recovery of any infected MS, for that matter. As CDR and PLT, J.O. and John Casper were relatively irreplaceable. But with three MSes trained on the payload, any one of us was expendable. Given HQ's attention to the flight rate, I suspected management had already instructed JSC to have some MS subst.i.tutes standing by just in case. I prayed for a weather miracle. An unnamed source was quoted in that newspaper suggesting that J.O. was actually suffering from viral influenza. It wouldn't have surprised me if that was the case, but I was glad he was soldiering on. The longer our delay, the greater the chances I would become infected. (I would fall ill a day after landing.) I seriously doubted NASA HQ would hold the launch for my recovery, or the recovery of any infected MS, for that matter. As CDR and PLT, J.O. and John Casper were relatively irreplaceable. But with three MSes trained on the payload, any one of us was expendable. Given HQ's attention to the flight rate, I suspected management had already instructed JSC to have some MS subst.i.tutes standing by just in case. I prayed for a weather miracle.

Pepe outlasted me as the c.o.c.kpit clown. He joked and complained without pause. Now he was reviewing all the movies we had watched during the past two weeks: "Lawrence of Arabia, The Great Escape, How the West Was Won, The Terminator, Predator, Alien, Top Gun..." We had seen more blood and guts than a meat packer. I resolved that the next movie I watched would beHeidi.

The T-9 minute hold dragged on...thirty minutes...an hour. Pepe gave us another item to consider. "I was just calculating...Since we started this never-go mission we've logged more than thirteen hours of on-the-back time. J.O. has even more time because he's first in and last out. In fact, J.O., you've been on your back for five hours just on this countdown."

"Thanks for cheering me up, Pepe."

I didn't have a body part that wasn't complaining. To ease the pain in my back, I loosened my harness and arched my hips upward. The restored circulation was heaven-sent but I couldn't hold the position for more than a moment. As my b.u.t.t collapsed into the seat, a tide of cold urine squeezed from the diaper, climbed up my a.s.s crack, and washed over my t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. This was particularly disgusting knowing that, if we ever launched, I wouldn't see a shower for five days. If I did this tomorrow, which seemed certain, I was going to take my chances with the condom UCD.

As the groans and moans ricocheted among us, Dave Hilmers broke into song, "When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad, I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don't feel so bad." That threw me into the punch-drunk giggles again.

Pepe suggested a new song for Max-q (the astronaut band): "Holding at Nine and Hurting." It would have been a hit. At one time or another most astronauts have been there.

Rain continued to fall at KSC and the TAL weather looked grim, but observers at both places predicted a brief moment of acceptable launch conditions. The chances those moments would coincide were slim, but, with our launch window nearing a close, the launch director decided to give it a shot. He released the clock and we counted to T-5 minutes and held there. The wives were on the LCC roof. No doubt the rain made it even more miserable for them.

The wait extended. Even Pepe couldn't find anything more to say. The only sounds were the steady breath ofAtlantis 's cooling system and the irritating high-pitched whine of our pressure suit fans. The latter gave me a headache on top of my other pains. I refused to look at my watch, certain the digits were changing in quarter time. If there had been a glimmer of hope we would actually launch, the wait wouldn't have been so interminable. But we were all certain our investment in pain and adrenaline was going to be for naught. We would hold for the weather until the close of the launch window and then scrub. We would have to do it all again tomorrow. 's cooling system and the irritating high-pitched whine of our pressure suit fans. The latter gave me a headache on top of my other pains. I refused to look at my watch, certain the digits were changing in quarter time. If there had been a glimmer of hope we would actually launch, the wait wouldn't have been so interminable. But we were all certain our investment in pain and adrenaline was going to be for naught. We would hold for the weather until the close of the launch window and then scrub. We would have to do it all again tomorrow.

I listened to the urgent voices of the launch controllers. Like us, they were exhausted and wanted to put the flight behind them and escape the inhuman sleep-work cycle. We were all gripped with a dangerous "launch fever," a headlong rush to getAtlantis flying. The sane one among us was our launch director, Bob Sieck. n.o.body was going to stampede him into a wrongheaded decision. As he did a final poll of his LCC team he was calm, deliberate. Mr. Rogers singing "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood" sounded manic compared with Bob's measured voice. Everybody listening wanted to jump in and finish his sentences. He was the perfect man for one of the most stressful jobs within NASA...and another person I would remember forever. flying. The sane one among us was our launch director, Bob Sieck. n.o.body was going to stampede him into a wrongheaded decision. As he did a final poll of his LCC team he was calm, deliberate. Mr. Rogers singing "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood" sounded manic compared with Bob's measured voice. Everybody listening wanted to jump in and finish his sentences. He was the perfect man for one of the most stressful jobs within NASA...and another person I would remember forever.

He polled the STA weather pilot and we heard Mike Coats reply, "Go." Next he polled the TAL weather pilot in Zaragoza, Spain, and got another go. There had been a blessed nexus of satisfactory weather conditions on both sides of the Atlantic. We were cleared to fly.

"Atlantis,we'll be coming out of the count in a few moments. It's been a real pleasure working with you guys. Good luck and G.o.dspeed."

I was shocked. For hours I had been convinced we would scrub. Now Casper was going through the APU start procedures. The clock was running. G.o.d had smiled on us. It had to have been Dave Hilmers's work. The rest of us reprobates didn't warrant any breaks from the Almighty.

I cinched my harness. My fear, which had ebbed with my certain belief the launch would be canceled, now roared over me like an avalanche. My mouth was metallic with it. My heart ran away with it. My hands shook with it. The palsy was a first for me. It had to be the combined effects of being downstairs and suffering from last-mission syndrome. Now, I was glad to be out of sight. Everybody knew everybody else was terrified, but n.o.body wanted tosee their neighbor's fear, and trembling hands were a sure sign of it. their neighbor's fear, and trembling hands were a sure sign of it.

At T-2 minutes I closed my visor and turned on my oxygen. Again, I could hear J.O. and Casper snorting Afrin before they dropped their faceplates.

J.O. gave me a count. "One minute, Mike."

I squeaked out a "Roger."

"Thirty seconds, go for auto-sequence start."

"Fifteen seconds."

"Ten seconds...go for main engine start."

There was a heavy rumble followed by a 2-G slap. We were off. The rest of my life was just 510 seconds away.

Chapter 40.

Last Orbits.

At MECO I silently celebrated life. For the first time in what seemed an age, it occurred to me that I might live long enough to die a natural death.

We went to work on our mission activities, most of which I'm forbidden to describe. But the cla.s.sified nature of both my DOD missions produced a mighty temptation for me. Riches and fame beyond anything any astronaut has ever achieved could be mine if I just told the world thetruth ...that on these hush-hush missions we actually rendezvoused with aliens. Given the vast population of conspiracy theorists, my claims would not be questioned. "Of course the government is hiding contact with aliens under the guise of military s.p.a.ce shuttle operations," they would shout. I would be their hero for revealing what they have long suspected. Book and movie deals would net me millions. I would just need a convincing sperm-extraction and a.n.a.l-probe story for my Barbara Walters interview...and to be able to look pained and violated as I told it. ...that on these hush-hush missions we actually rendezvoused with aliens. Given the vast population of conspiracy theorists, my claims would not be questioned. "Of course the government is hiding contact with aliens under the guise of military s.p.a.ce shuttle operations," they would shout. I would be their hero for revealing what they have long suspected. Book and movie deals would net me millions. I would just need a convincing sperm-extraction and a.n.a.l-probe story for my Barbara Walters interview...and to be able to look pained and violated as I told it.

On one occasion since leaving NASA, I did publicly make the "alien rendezvous" claim. I did it at Pepe's retirement ceremony. "Yes, we linked up with aliens," I told that audience, "and then had s.e.x with them. It wasn't too bad after we got by the tentacles. Of course, Pepe, being a navy guy, picked the ugliest one."

One uncla.s.sified experiment aboardAtlantis proved immensely entertaining-a human skull loaded with radiation dosimeters. After returning to Earth those dosimeters would yield an exact measure of how much radiation was penetrating the brains of astronauts. proved immensely entertaining-a human skull loaded with radiation dosimeters. After returning to Earth those dosimeters would yield an exact measure of how much radiation was penetrating the brains of astronauts.

To reduce the creepiness factor of the experiment, the investigators had used a plastic filling to give the head an approximation of a face. The result was far more menacing than plain bone would have been. The face was narrow, cadaverous, with two bolts at the back of the skull looking like horns. Satan himself was riding with us. During a break in our payload work, I floated into a sleep restraint and extended my arms through the armholes, then ducked my head into the bag. Pepe and Dave taped the skull on top of the restraint so it appeared our friend had a body. (Your tax dollars at work.) They silently floated the bag to the flight deck and maneuvered me behind John Casper, who was engaged at an instrument panel. When he turned to find the creature in his face with arms waving, it scared the bejesus out of him. Later, we clamped Satan on the toilet. No doubt my desecration of the poor anonymous soul who had volunteered his body (and skull) to science has earned me a few more millennia in h.e.l.l's fires.

With STS-36 I dodged the SAS bullet for the third time. Maybe, I thought, G.o.d had given me a free pa.s.s in s.p.a.ce because I had vomited enough for ten men in the backseat of the F-4 during my early flying career. Whatever the reason, I was happy to stow my unused barf bag. John Casper looked as if he might need it, but maybe not for SAS. It could have been his meal of eggplant and tomatoes. Gag. The NASA dietician included it because John's other meal choices (heavy on b.u.t.ter cookies, M&Ms, and chocolate pudding) would leave him short of magnesium. I would have rather chewed on a magnesium flare. John hadn't eaten the entrails-looking dish, but just rehydrating it would have made me sick. Regardless of the cause, John was feeling poorly and called on Dave Hilmers to inject him with the antinausea drug Phenergan. NASA had all but given up on patches and pills to treat SAS and had converted to industrial-strength injectable drugs. I reminded John of the warning the potion carried, "Do not operate an automobile under the influence of this drug." He replied, "Lucky for me it doesn't say anything about operating a s.p.a.ce shuttle."

Dave Hilmers was no doctor. He just played one in s.p.a.ce. His premission training with needles had consisted of jabbing one into a piece of fruit. I would have to have been near death before I would have let a marine come near me with a needle. I expected to see blood and I wasn't disappointed. Dave accidentally moved the needle while it was embedded in John's a.s.s and blood followed. A line of ruby planets shot from the wound like soap bubbles being blown out of a ring (giving new meaning to the term "airborne pathogen"). We chased the spheres with tissues. (Dave Hilmers must have been inspired by his needle work. After retirement from NASA he completed medical school and is now a pediatrician with a practice in Houston.) While I had no nausea, I did experience the same painful backache from spine lengthening that I had encountered on STS-41D and 27. I also noticed the same v.i.a.g.r.a effect. Every morning I would find myself painfully afflicted with a diamond-cutter erection, just like the geezers in the movieCoc.o.o.n. And I wasn't the only one dealing with this problem. On one reveille, as we all floated in our sleep restraints, Pepe looked at me and said, "I must have had a great dream about Cheryl [his "snort" cute wife]. I've got a terrific b.o.n.e.r." And I wasn't the only one dealing with this problem. On one reveille, as we all floated in our sleep restraints, Pepe looked at me and said, "I must have had a great dream about Cheryl [his "snort" cute wife]. I've got a terrific b.o.n.e.r."

I smiled and replied, "I must have had a great dream about Cheryl, too."

Pepe laughed. "d.a.m.n you, Mullane! Keep my wife out of that filthy brain of yours."

Someday the blood s.h.i.+ft of weightless flight will make for some very happy s.p.a.ce colonists.

During the last sleep period of the mission, I stayed awake in the upper c.o.c.kpit to soak up the s.p.a.ce sights that would have to last the rest of my terrestrial life. I wanted to listen to music as I did so and searched for my NASA-supplied Walkman. It took me a moment to find it. The inside of the c.o.c.kpit was covered with Velcro pads, and everything we carried, from pencils to cameras to food containers to flashlights, had Velcro "hooks" glued to them so they could be anch.o.r.ed to a pad. The only problem was remembering where you anch.o.r.ed everything. On Earth, n.o.body ever had to look on a wall or ceiling for a misplaced item. In s.p.a.ce you did.

I put on headphones and inserted one of my personal-mix music tapes in the player (NASA allowed us six), then switched off the c.o.c.kpit lights. Floating horizontally, I rolled belly up and pulled forward until my head was nearly touching a forward c.o.c.kpit window. It was a trick Hank Hartsfield had taught me on STS-41D. WithAtlantis in a ceiling-to-Earth att.i.tude, my orientation had me lying facedown toward Earth. Though this att.i.tude caused my body to brush against the ceiling instrument panels, which contained some of the most critical shuttle switches, I wasn't worried about b.u.mping one out of position. All the switches were set between two wire wickets so they could only be accessed by a thumb and forefinger inserted between those hoops. in a ceiling-to-Earth att.i.tude, my orientation had me lying facedown toward Earth. Though this att.i.tude caused my body to brush against the ceiling instrument panels, which contained some of the most critical shuttle switches, I wasn't worried about b.u.mping one out of position. All the switches were set between two wire wickets so they could only be accessed by a thumb and forefinger inserted between those hoops.

The real joy of my new position was the illusion it created. I could put my head so far forward that the shuttle's structure disappeared behind me. My view of Earth was completely un.o.bstructed. It brought back memories of snorkeling in the Aegean Sea and watching the undersea life through my face mask. As I had then, I now had a powerful sense of being part of the element in which I was immersed, not a foreign visitor. When I steadied myself with my fingertips and then pulled those away, I would momentarily float free of any contact withAtlantis, enhancing the sensation of being a creature of s.p.a.ce, not an astronaut locked in a machine. enhancing the sensation of being a creature of s.p.a.ce, not an astronaut locked in a machine.

To the strings of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" I watched my planet silently move under me. But this time I was seeing it as never before. Not only was our orbit steeply tilted to the equator, we were also in one of the lowest orbits ever flown by a s.p.a.ce shuttle. We were scarcely 130 statute miles above the Earth, approximately the distance from New York City to the eastern tip of Long Island, or Los Angeles to San Deigo. At this alt.i.tude the planet was hugely close and there were new details of its earth, sea, and sky to thrill me.

I could see the patina of the Earth's oceans. The wind-rumpled water gave them the texture of an orange rind, but in colors that varied with the angle at which the Sun stuck them. At high sun, the open seas were Crayola blue. At grazing angles, they reflected tones of gray and silver and copper. In places of exceptional water clarity, like the Caribbean, the dunelike humps and valleys of the seafloor were clearly visible, their white sand diluting the ocean blue to yield a striking turquoise. In the sheen of the Sun I could see evidence of the dynamics of the sea. There were circular eddies similar to the low-pressure-cloud swirls in the atmosphere. Boundaries between currents appeared as dark lines. Currents past headlands would create noticeably different downstream wave patterns, exactly like the ones I could see in clouds downstream from mountain ranges. In Persian Gulf anchorages I could make out the "dots" of supertankers and occasionally, in the glint of the Sun, I would catch sight of the V-shaped wake of one of these monsters under way. Later, asAtlantis was on the descending portion of an orbit deep into the southern hemisphere, I watched the miles-long bluish-green ribbon of a bloom of plankton. We had been told to expect to see these in the fertile waters approaching Antarctica. Farther south, a flotilla of icebergs sailed on currents like so many s.h.i.+ps of the line. was on the descending portion of an orbit deep into the southern hemisphere, I watched the miles-long bluish-green ribbon of a bloom of plankton. We had been told to expect to see these in the fertile waters approaching Antarctica. Farther south, a flotilla of icebergs sailed on currents like so many s.h.i.+ps of the line.

At the southern limit of her orbit,Atlantis 's nadir came within three hundred miles of the coast of the Antarctic continent, now in late summer. I pulled a pair of gyroscopically stabilized binoculars from their Velcro anchor and peered southward. The pole was nearly 1,800 miles distant, so I had no view of it. Instead, I focused on the rugged coastal mountain chains. The occasional black of a windswept cliff was the only color in an otherwise sheet-white topography. 's nadir came within three hundred miles of the coast of the Antarctic continent, now in late summer. I pulled a pair of gyroscopically stabilized binoculars from their Velcro anchor and peered southward. The pole was nearly 1,800 miles distant, so I had no view of it. Instead, I focused on the rugged coastal mountain chains. The occasional black of a windswept cliff was the only color in an otherwise sheet-white topography.

Atlantiscurved northward and began her 12,000-mile fall toward the opposite end of the Earth. It was a remarkable physics that kept me on this G.o.dly merry-go-round. We were literally falling. Just as a thrown ball falls in a curve,Atlantis was on a curving trajectory to impact Earth. But impact never came because the Earth's horizon was continually bending out of the way. was on a curving trajectory to impact Earth. But impact never came because the Earth's horizon was continually bending out of the way.Atlantis 's engines had thrown her onto a falling curve that matched the curvature of the Earth. In my upper-c.o.c.kpit perch, I had no sense of that fall but in the windowless mid-deck I had experienced brief moments in which the sensation had been overwhelmingly powerful. The day before, I had been seized with an illusion that the mid-deck c.o.c.kpit floor was steeply tilted and if I didn't grasp something I would slide down it. Try as I might I could not convince myself that I would not fall. I actually seized the canvas loop of a foot restraint to keep from sliding off my imaginary cliff. The sensation was so distracting I finally abandoned the mid-deck and floated upstairs. The view of the Earth's horizon immediately eradicated any sense of the fall. 's engines had thrown her onto a falling curve that matched the curvature of the Earth. In my upper-c.o.c.kpit perch, I had no sense of that fall but in the windowless mid-deck I had experienced brief moments in which the sensation had been overwhelmingly powerful. The day before, I had been seized with an illusion that the mid-deck c.o.c.kpit floor was steeply tilted and if I didn't grasp something I would slide down it. Try as I might I could not convince myself that I would not fall. I actually seized the canvas loop of a foot restraint to keep from sliding off my imaginary cliff. The sensation was so distracting I finally abandoned the mid-deck and floated upstairs. The view of the Earth's horizon immediately eradicated any sense of the fall.

The ocean underAtlantis was now the Pacific. The sun dropped and its terminator light painted a scattering of c.u.mulus clouds in coral pink. In the darkness that followed I looked s.p.a.ceward to the unfamiliar stars of the southern hemisphere. The Magellanic Clouds were visible as hazy smudges. A quarter moon rose. Seen through the thick part of the atmosphere, the orb was severely distorted, appearing boomerang in shape, an effect of the light-bending qualities of the air. The crescent tips were squeezed inward and the greater surface bulged outward. Only after rising above the atmosphere did the crescent appear normal. Then, it cast a spotlight of silver across the water. Except for its grand scale, the sight was identical to watching the moon rise over the sea from a Cape Canaveral beach. was now the Pacific. The sun dropped and its terminator light painted a scattering of c.u.mulus clouds in coral pink. In the darkness that followed I looked s.p.a.ceward to the unfamiliar stars of the southern hemisphere. The Magellanic Clouds were visible as hazy smudges. A quarter moon rose. Seen through the thick part of the atmosphere, the orb was severely distorted, appearing boomerang in shape, an effect of the light-bending qualities of the air. The crescent tips were squeezed inward and the greater surface bulged outward. Only after rising above the atmosphere did the crescent appear normal. Then, it cast a spotlight of silver across the water. Except for its grand scale, the sight was identical to watching the moon rise over the sea from a Cape Canaveral beach.

Just twenty-two minutes after leaving Antarctica's seas,Atlantis pa.s.sed over the equator and I was treated to the never-ending light show of the intertropical convergence zone. Here, the trade winds of the northern and southern hemispheres mixed in equatorial heat and humidity to produce perpetual thunderstorms. The nimbus clouds took on the appearance of sputtering fluorescent lightbulbs, so continuous was the lightning within them. pa.s.sed over the equator and I was treated to the never-ending light show of the intertropical convergence zone. Here, the trade winds of the northern and southern hemispheres mixed in equatorial heat and humidity to produce perpetual thunderstorms. The nimbus clouds took on the appearance of sputtering fluorescent lightbulbs, so continuous was the lightning within them.

Atlantiscrossed Central America in less than a minute and I looked ahead to America's East Coast. In a six-minute pa.s.sage, the city lights of the entire seaboard pa.s.sed by my window: Key West, Miami, Jacksonville, the cities of the mid-Atlantic, then Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., Philadelphia, New York, Boston, and Portland. The lights sprawled over the darkened continent like so many yellow galaxies.

Twenty-two minutes north of the equator,Atlantis brushed the Arctic Circle. The deep night of winter in the northern hemisphere made it ideal for viewing the lights of the aurora borealis. I watched them grow and collapse in their ephemeral, spiritlike dance. Streamers of emerald green and fuchsia waved as if rippled by the wind. The lower end of one curtain took on an intense glow, like the head of a comet, its attached streamer trailing away like a sun-blown tail. The lights were so captivating I watched them until they were just a haze on the receding horizon, and I was happy to know I had tickets for the next show starting in ninety minutes. brushed the Arctic Circle. The deep night of winter in the northern hemisphere made it ideal for viewing the lights of the aurora borealis. I watched them grow and collapse in their ephemeral, spiritlike dance. Streamers of emerald green and fuchsia waved as if rippled by the wind. The lower end of one curtain took on an intense glow, like the head of a comet, its attached streamer trailing away like a sun-blown tail. The lights were so captivating I watched them until they were just a haze on the receding horizon, and I was happy to know I had tickets for the next show starting in ninety minutes.

I moved to the back c.o.c.kpit to enjoy a different light show...the atomic oxygen glow engulfingAtlantis 's payload bay. The low-orbit s.p.a.ce through which 's payload bay. The low-orbit s.p.a.ce through whichAtlantis plunged was not empty. We were in the outer reaches of the Earth's atmosphere, which contained billions of atoms of UV-altered molecular oxygen known as atomic oxygen. The wind they produced was vanis.h.i.+ngly thin, but it was enough to react with the shuttle's windward surfaces to cause a Saint Elmo'slike fire. The glow was so intense it appeared we had flown into a hazy alien fog. Every affected surface was covered to a depth of several feet. If we had not been warned of the phenomenon, I would have worried we had pa.s.sed into the Twilight Zone and our s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p had been transformed into a ghost s.h.i.+p. We had been d.a.m.ned by the curse of the skull man. plunged was not empty. We were in the outer reaches of the Earth's atmosphere, which contained billions of atoms of UV-altered molecular oxygen known as atomic oxygen. The wind they produced was vanis.h.i.+ngly thin, but it was enough to react with the shuttle's windward surfaces to cause a Saint Elmo'slike fire. The glow was so intense it appeared we had flown into a hazy alien fog. Every affected surface was covered to a depth of several feet. If we had not been warned of the phenomenon, I would have worried we had pa.s.sed into the Twilight Zone and our s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p had been transformed into a ghost s.h.i.+p. We had been d.a.m.ned by the curse of the skull man.

Atlantiscurved over northern Europe toward another forty-five minute day. If ever there was a music composition perfect for watching the beauty of an orbit sunrise, that composition would be Pachelbel's Canon. As the violin melody played on my Walkman, the rising sun painted the horizon in twenty shades of indigo, blue, orange, and red. G.o.d, how I wanted to stop and just hover.