Riding Rockets Part 3

How different was Rick's speech from John Glenn's "keep your p.e.c.k.e.rs stowed" speech of twenty-five years earlier. As doc.u.mented inThe Right Stuff, Glenn cautioned his six peers against adulterous activity because of the scandal that would result if they were discovered. Now, a quarter century later, Rick's comments were aimed at the spectators, not the perpetrators. Zip your mouth, not your pants. How the moral compa.s.s had swung. Adultery and divorce had lost their stigma. Neither was going to affect a TFNG's career. Glenn cautioned his six peers against adulterous activity because of the scandal that would result if they were discovered. Now, a quarter century later, Rick's comments were aimed at the spectators, not the perpetrators. Zip your mouth, not your pants. How the moral compa.s.s had swung. Adultery and divorce had lost their stigma. Neither was going to affect a TFNG's career.

Philandering wasn't the only thing shocking the post-docs on these trips. The art of alcohol abuse was another, and some military TFNGs were true Pica.s.sos.

"Who wants to try a flaming hooker?" was Hoot Gibson's question at a Cape Canaveral bar one night. The recipe for the drink included a prodigious quant.i.ty of high-proof alcohol served in a brandy snifter. The drink was servedon fire. I stuck around for this. Fire and intoxicated astronauts were material for David Letterman's stupid human tricks. I stuck around for this. Fire and intoxicated astronauts were material for David Letterman's stupid human tricks.

As always, there had to be compet.i.tion. Winners were those who could throw back the complete shot in one gulp without burning themselves, then slam down the gla.s.s with the residual alcohol still burning. Needless to say, it helped to be at the bulletproof level of intoxication before attempting this trick.

Like a circus barker, Hoot roped in a crowd of unsuspecting post-docs. None thought it was possible. Hoot smiled at the challenge, unstuck a cigar from his mouth, slicked his mustache into order, grabbed the flaming drink, and quaffed it back. He slammed down the gla.s.s. A blue flame hovered over it.

The gauntlet had been thrown down and several suckers readied themselves to duplicate the feat. The bartender served up more gla.s.ses and torched them. With fear-tightened faces the post-docs picked them up and hesitantly brought them to their lips. Soon a new smell mingled with the miasma of cigar smoke, perfume, and beer...burning facial hair. There were cries of pain as flaming alcohol scorched mustaches, lips, and chins. Through it all Hoot smiled and puffed his cigar with an expression saying, "Why do I do this?" Periodically he would down another drink to keep enticing the wounded scientists back to the flame. Each time he remained uninjured and the gla.s.s retained the blue flicker of success. Each time it emboldened another post-doc to attempt self-immolation. As the hour drew late, Hoot finally explained the trick. "You have to be fearless. Toss the entire gla.s.s. Don't sip. There isn't enough oxygen in your mouth to feed the flame so it'll go out. If you do it fast enough, the flame will stay with the gla.s.s."

The formula for success had come far too late. At breakfast the next morning a few embarra.s.sed, miserably hungover post-docs sat at the table nursing multiple blisters on their faces. Some of those victims, no doubt, were dreading having to explain to their spouses the source of their injuries. "Honey...you're not going to believe how this happened." Indeed, they wouldn't.

At every opportunity the military TFNGs also introduced the civilians to our lively, sometimes sick, sense of humor. During our tour of NASA's California facilities, Steve Hawley made the mistake of asking Loren Shriver, Brewster Shaw, and me to dinner with a former colleague of his. In the course of the meal Steve's friend, a male astrophysicist, became overawed with the Vietnam aspect of our past lives. Like me, Loren and Brewster were combat veterans of that conflict. The young scientist was relentless in probing for information on our experiences. "Mike, what did you do in Vietnam?"

I couldn't pa.s.s up the opportunity to play with his head, so I seamlessly replied, "I flew a candy bomber."

"A candy bomber? What was that?"

I had a fish on the line and began to reel it in. "In the villages the women and children would hide in their spider holes and trenches. You could never get them in the open. So I flew a plane loaded with canisters of candy and would swoop low over the villages and drop them nearby. This would bring the women and children out of their holes to scoop it up." At this point in my story I pointed to Loren and Brewster. "And these guys would be thirty seconds behind me loaded wall to wall with napalm and would lay it down on those villagers. It got them every time."

The scientist's eyes widened in shock and outrage. I could just imagine the scene playing out in his brain: images of women and children dipped in jellied gasoline running around on fire. He snapped his head to Loren and Brewster, antic.i.p.ating a denial. At this point I expected my twisted joke to come undone but Brewster and Loren picked up my lead. They a.s.sumed the steely eyes of professional killers and silently nodded in the affirmative. Every Vietnam atrocity this young scientist had ever heard of was now confirmed.

Hawley tried to calm him. "That's bulls.h.i.+t. They make up these stories all the time. Don't believe them. They didn't kill any women and children."

At that comment, Brewster shrugged. He didn't say a word but his body language did: "You can believe what you want." There was no doubt in any of our minds Steve's friend walked away from dinner believing he had just socialized with war criminals.

On a trip to Los Angeles it was Jeff Hoffman who felt the sting. At breakfast he asked Brewster and me what we had done the night before. While we had actually been at a bar having a few beers, I immediately replied, "We visited that museum."

"What museum?"

I made up an incredible story about a museum of "cultural art." Loren Shriver picked up on my lead and added his own embellishments about famous paintings by Pica.s.so and sculptures by Michelangelo. d.i.c.k Scobee joined in with more bulls.h.i.+t. Through it all Jeff expressed his disappointment at missing such a rare and wonderful opportunity. Finally he asked, "Where's the museum?"

I replied, "It's right next to the Christian Science Reading Room. We did some studying there before going to it."

Even this over-the-top BS didn't immediately register in Jeff's brain. He continued to lament he had missed one of America's greatest museums. A minute later he jerked up from his coffee. "You guys made all that up, didn't you?" We laughed.

Jeff would prove to be the most enduring TFNG scientist. Over the years, many of the other civilians would become enamored with the military aviator mystique and would take on varying degrees of its form. But, to the very end, Jeff remained an unpolluted scientist-a fact that presented some great opportunities for us AD r.e.t.a.r.ds. I recall a Monday meeting in which he made an impa.s.sioned request for better attendance at an astronaut office science lecture series. Attendance was voluntary and few of the military TFNGs were showing up. Jeff begged, "Guys, we're going to have coffee and doughnuts and the visiting professor really has some fascinating stuff to tell us. You really should be there." He then expanded on the science that would be covered. I watched the pilots. Their faces were pictures of disinterest. The only thought running through their brains wasI wonder where happy hour will be?

Jeff finally finished. "Do you have any questions?" He looked so hopefully at his tuned-out audience, it about broke my heart. He was desperate for any indication that we had paid the slightest attention to his pleas. "Any questions? Any questions at all?" But the room remained as silent as an OMS burn.

I slowly raised my hand and Jeff's face lit up like a sunspot. "Yes, Mike."

"I was just wondering.... What type of doughnuts are you going to have?" The walls of the room nearly blew apart with laughter. It was one of Jeff's many lessons that the military aviator brain was a science wasteland.

Like Hoot with the flaming hookers, I wondered,Why do I do this? and smiled that I had. But I will ultimately pay the price. Besides Bible h.e.l.l and feminist h.e.l.l, I'll also burn in post-doc h.e.l.l. and smiled that I had. But I will ultimately pay the price. Besides Bible h.e.l.l and feminist h.e.l.l, I'll also burn in post-doc h.e.l.l.

Chapter 10.

Temples of History.

In our early TFNG months we were introduced to the Outpost Tavern, a temple of s.p.a.ce history. The Outpost was the astronaut after-work hangout located a few blocks from JSC's front gate. It was aptly named. To say the Outpost was "rustic" was like saying King Tut has a few wrinkles.

The building was a shack of weather-beaten boards, its parking lot as cratered as the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Some of these water-filled holes could have swallowed a small sedan. After stepping around a minefield of fire-ant mounds, patrons entered the Outpost through two saloon-style swinging doors cut out in the shape of curvaceous bikini-clad girls. The bar ran around two walls. A griddle and deep-fryer served up burgers and fries certain to deposit a couple millimeters of plaque in every artery of the body. The low ceiling trapped a cloud of atomized grease and cigarette smoke like pollution in a temperature inversion. A dartboard, a shuffleboard table game, and a pool table offered entertainment. The interior decor consisted of s.p.a.ce posters and astronaut photographs stapled to the walls and ceiling. The Outpost was the only bar in America where the pinups were smiling flight-suited women astronauts.

Why the Outpost was picked as the astronaut hangout has been lost to antiquity, but it is almost a tradition for flying units to have such a retreat. For Chuck Yeager and the rocket plane pilots of the '50s and '60s there was the Happy Bottom Riding Club near Edwards AFB; for the early astronauts, it was the Mouse Trap Lounge in Cocoa Beach, Florida. Most likely the Outpost became the unofficial watering hole for shuttle-era astronauts because of the sanctuary it offered. I never saw anybody approached for an autograph or interview in the Outpost. Perhaps outsiders were intimidated by the obstacle course of potholes or they a.s.sumed the building was condemned.

Every Friday happy hour, many TFNGs would be at the Outpost. The building would ultimately be the scene of our crew-selection parties, our landing parties, and our promotion parties. It would be the place where we traded gossip and b.i.t.c.hed about our management. We would meet with our payload contractors and refine checklist procedures on the backs of napkins. And the Outpost would ultimately serve as a refuge, where we would grieve for our lost friends. The Outpost has been a witness to so much of the astronaut experience it should be moved in its entirety to the National Air and s.p.a.ce Museum in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. It is as much a part of s.p.a.ce history as the rocket planes hanging from the museum ceiling.

Our TFNG apprentices.h.i.+p also introduced us to the loftiest temple of s.p.a.ce history, the Mission Control Center (MCC). As we stepped into the deserted, silent room, I imagined we experienced the same sense of awe a rookie baseball player experiences when he jogs onto the field for his first Major League game. We were in the "Show," stepping where legends had stepped before. Here was where cigars were smoked in celebration of theApollo 11 landing. Here was where the words, "Houston, we have a problem" were first received when an explosion shattered the landing. Here was where the words, "Houston, we have a problem" were first received when an explosion shattered theApollo 13 service module. service module.

Like pennant flags hanging in a stadium, large renditions of patches of the missions controlled from the facility decorated the walls. The front of the room was dominated by a floor-to-ceiling rear projection screen. This was where the sinusoidal orbit traces, s.p.a.cecraft location, and other engineering data would be projected during an actual mission. From the floor in front of this screen to the back of the room were consecutive rows of computer consoles. Each row was terraced to be slightly higher than the one in front. On top of these consoles were signs with acronyms that labeled the function of the particular station. FDO referred to the Flight Dynamics Officer's station, where a handful of men and women would monitor the trajectory of a launching and reentering s.p.a.cecraft. INCO was the label for the Instrumentation and Communication Officer. PROP referred to the Propulsion systems controller. There were other labels: EVA, PAYLOADS, SURGEON, PAO, DPS, and more.

Our veteran astronaut escort had us take seats at the consoles and instructed us on how to wear the internal earpiece and microphone that were part of the MCC intercom system. He then began to explain the organization and function of each of the MCC stations. Every shuttle system, from the electrical system to the hydraulic system, from the environmental control system to the robot arm, had a controller who was an expert on that system and monitored its performance via the shuttle's data stream. These MCC controllers were supported by their respective "back rooms," which were filled with more specialists who had telephone access to the system contractors. In an emergency each controller had a wealth of brainpower to tap into.

Each MCC controller reported to the flight director, who occupied a console in the back of the room. "Flight" had overall responsibility for the conduct of the mission. They were the ones who faced the possibility of time-critical decisions carrying life-or- death consequences for the astronauts. It had been Flight Director Gene Kranz who had issued the famous edict "Failure is not an option," and had led his team in saving the lives of theApollo 13 crew. In my dozen years as an astronaut I would never meet a flight director I didn't think was cut from the same mold as Kranz. There are no superlatives too great to describe the MCC teams. crew. In my dozen years as an astronaut I would never meet a flight director I didn't think was cut from the same mold as Kranz. There are no superlatives too great to describe the MCC teams.

The escort s.h.i.+fted our focus to the CAPCOM position. This was the only MCC position that astronauts filled. CAPCOM was the "Capsule Communicator," the termcapsule a carryover from the days in which astronauts flew in capsules. Early in the s.p.a.ce program it was correctly determined that only one person should be in voice contact with flying astronauts. To have each of the MCC controllers talking to a crew would be chaos. The logical person to be the astronaut "communicator" was another astronaut. It had been this way since Alan Shepard's first flight when Deke Slayton had served as his CAPCOM. CAPCOMs, our leader explained, would work hand in glove with the flight director to make sure mission crews got the exact information they needed, nothing more and nothing less. As part of our training, we would all shadow a CAPCOM before filling that position ourselves. a carryover from the days in which astronauts flew in capsules. Early in the s.p.a.ce program it was correctly determined that only one person should be in voice contact with flying astronauts. To have each of the MCC controllers talking to a crew would be chaos. The logical person to be the astronaut "communicator" was another astronaut. It had been this way since Alan Shepard's first flight when Deke Slayton had served as his CAPCOM. CAPCOMs, our leader explained, would work hand in glove with the flight director to make sure mission crews got the exact information they needed, nothing more and nothing less. As part of our training, we would all shadow a CAPCOM before filling that position ourselves.

The TV cameras mounted on the MCC walls were next brought to our attention. During missions these were always aimed at the CAPCOM and flight director positions. An indiscrete nose pick or crotch scratch might end up as material for one of the late-night comedy shows.

After answering some questions, our escort asked us to remain on the MCC intercom. He then called for a technician to "roll the audio." What we heard were the voices of Gus Grissom, Ed White, and Roger Chaffee. The tape was from January 27, 1967. The three astronauts were in their Apollo capsule going through a dry countdown with Launch Control. For a minute the audio was mundane, just the acronym-laden techno-talk that is part of any s.p.a.cecraft checkout. Then one of the voices urgently cried, "There's a fire! Get us out of here!" NASA had designed the Apollo capsules to fly with pure oxygen atmospheres. Somewhere in Grissom's capsule a spark had set it ablaze. In seconds the c.o.c.kpit was transformed into a furnace. TheApollo I crew was being burned to death. "We're burning up! Get us out of here!" Screams were cut off as the fire destroyed the communication system. crew was being burned to death. "We're burning up! Get us out of here!" Screams were cut off as the fire destroyed the communication system.

We sat in silence, listening to the echo of the tape playing in our consciousness."We're burning up!" The motive of our teacher was clear. He was attempting to open our eyes to the reality of our new profession. It could kill us. It had killed in the past and held every potential to do so again. It was a lesson the civilian TFNGs in particular needed to be given. The military astronauts were well acquainted with the dangers of high-performance flight, but the post-docs and others were not. The instruments of their past careers, telescopes and microscopes, didn't kill people. I wondered if the other TFNGs would have an MCC tour guide who would play the tape for them. I hoped so. But, even if he did, it was too late. It should have been part of the astronaut interview process. Every interviewee should have had the opportunity to hear that tape so they could have made a fully informed decision as to whether or not they wanted to a.s.sume the risks of the business. No TFNG was going to quit now. How would they explain it... The motive of our teacher was clear. He was attempting to open our eyes to the reality of our new profession. It could kill us. It had killed in the past and held every potential to do so again. It was a lesson the civilian TFNGs in particular needed to be given. The military astronauts were well acquainted with the dangers of high-performance flight, but the post-docs and others were not. The instruments of their past careers, telescopes and microscopes, didn't kill people. I wondered if the other TFNGs would have an MCC tour guide who would play the tape for them. I hoped so. But, even if he did, it was too late. It should have been part of the astronaut interview process. Every interviewee should have had the opportunity to hear that tape so they could have made a fully informed decision as to whether or not they wanted to a.s.sume the risks of the business. No TFNG was going to quit now. How would they explain it...I'm afraid? We would all just have to pray that it wouldn't someday be our voices crying in terror as a s.p.a.ce shuttle killed us.

Chapter 11.

The F***ing New Guys.

In spite of the sobering wake-up call delivered by theApollo I tape, the first year of our TFNG indoctrination was one of euphoria. We didn't walk. We floated along the hallways in a weightless glory. You couldn't have beaten the smile from our faces with a stick. We slept with smiles. If we had been served s.h.i.+t sandwiches we would have gobbled them down through smiles. To the tourists who strolled the byways of Johnson s.p.a.ce Center we must have looked like village idiots. If any of us had been struck dead during those months, the mortician would never have been able to remove the smile from our face. It would have been part of our rigor mortis. tape, the first year of our TFNG indoctrination was one of euphoria. We didn't walk. We floated along the hallways in a weightless glory. You couldn't have beaten the smile from our faces with a stick. We slept with smiles. If we had been served s.h.i.+t sandwiches we would have gobbled them down through smiles. To the tourists who strolled the byways of Johnson s.p.a.ce Center we must have looked like village idiots. If any of us had been struck dead during those months, the mortician would never have been able to remove the smile from our face. It would have been part of our rigor mortis.

At summer's end the cla.s.s hosted a party for the entire astronaut corps. The centerpiece of the entertainment was a skit that poked fun of the astronaut selection process, specifically the selection of the female and minority astronauts. The program starred Judy Resnik, Ron McNair, and some forgotten white guy. A bedsheet was hung from the ceiling in front of a chair. Judy was seated with just her face protruding through a hole cut in the sheet. Behind the sheet Ron stood at her right and extended his arm through another hole. The effect was that Ron's black arm appeared to be Judy's. Through a left-side hole, the white TFNG extended his excessively hairy arm as if it were also Judy's. Clothing was pinned to the sheet to give the appearance the mutation was dressed. And what a mutation-a woman with one black and one white arm, an affirmative action wet dream. The skit continued as an "astronaut selection board"-fellow TFNGs, of course-interviewed this androgynous creature. All this time, the arm and hand movements, comically uncoordinated, brought howls of laughter. The final question posed was "What makes you qualified to be an astronaut?" With ebony-and-ivory arms waving, Judy replied, "I have some ratherunique qualifications." At that, the laughter hit max-q. qualifications." At that, the laughter hit max-q.

The skit obviously predated political correctness. For astronauts to perform such satire in today's America would have Jesse Jackson sprinting to the NASA administrator's office with a gaggle of lawyers in tow.

In fall 1978 we experienced our Astrodome welcome. Houston's professional soccer team, the Hurricanes, invited us and our spouses to be their guests for a game in the famed Houston landmark. We would be introduced to the crowd during a halftime ceremony. As Donna and I drove to the event, I couldn't help but imagine it would be like something out ofThe Right Stuff. When the seven Mercury astronauts had arrived in town they were welcomed with a Houston Coliseum BBQ. Thousands of cheering Texans filled the seats to catch a glimpse of their heroes. Battalions of Texas Rangers prevented them from being mobbed by the wors.h.i.+pers. When the seven Mercury astronauts had arrived in town they were welcomed with a Houston Coliseum BBQ. Thousands of cheering Texans filled the seats to catch a glimpse of their heroes. Battalions of Texas Rangers prevented them from being mobbed by the wors.h.i.+pers.

My first hint that TFNGs wouldn't have quite as many wors.h.i.+pers came as I pulled into the Dome's expansive parking lot. It was as empty as the Mojave. Had they canceled the game? Only after circling the lot did I finally see a clutch of cars, at least enough to have brought two soccer teams.

Donna and I rendezvoused with the other astronauts and spouses in our skybox. Skybox was an appropriate designation. We were in the stratosphere, perhaps even in the mesophere. Watching the game was like watching an ant farm from a block away. Most of us gravitated to the buffet at the back of the box and watched the match on TV.

Halftime arrived and we were escorted onto the field, where we formed a single line facing the crowd...if it could be called that. There weretens of Houstonians to greet us, most of whom were engaged with the beer or hotdog man. Obviously some things had changed since the days of the Mercury Seven. of Houstonians to greet us, most of whom were engaged with the beer or hotdog man. Obviously some things had changed since the days of the Mercury Seven.

A ridiculously enthusiastic commentator boomed our individual introductions.

"Please welcome astronaut James Buchli from Fargo, North Dakota!"

"Please welcome astronaut Michael Coats from Riverside, California!"

"Please welcome astronaut d.i.c.k Covey from Ft. Walton Beach, Florida!"

On it went. With each introduction I could barely hear a handful of claps over loud cries of "Beer here!" The applause reminded me of the clapping heard during the credit roll for the television showLaugh-In.

As each of us was introduced, we would step forward, wave to the empty seats, and receive a Houston Hurricanes T-s.h.i.+rt from one of the silicone-enhanced cheerleaders. At least she was clapping. Regardless of the vacant seats I still felt nervous to hear my name booming from those speakers. I couldn't wait for the voice of G.o.d to pa.s.s over me and go to the next in line. I noticed the other TFNGs appeared equally self-conscious and anxious to receive their s.h.i.+rts and melt back into the anonymity of the group, with one exception-Big Jon McBride from West by-G.o.d Virginia. Jon was a heavyset navy fighter pilot with sandy hair and a ruddy complexion. As his name was announced, he stepped forward just as the rest of us had. But here, all conformity ceased. Instead of a nervous wave and a quick step backward, Jon seized the startled cheerleader, swept her backward off her feet, and planted a kiss on her. Then he pulled on the Hurricanes T-s.h.i.+rt and waved a greeting to the crowd. Now there was applause. Even the Beer Man was cheering. Jon was a man for the ma.s.ses. The rest of us exchanged wondering looks. Clearly Big Jon was cut from a different mold.

It came as no surprise to any TFNG when, in his retirement, Jon ran for governor of West Virginia. Unfortunately he lost in the Republican primary. If only his campaign had shown the video of him accepting the T-s.h.i.+rt from that cheerleader, he would have carried every county. After such a display of leaders.h.i.+p, every good ol' boy in West Virginia would have voted for him.

For our one-year anniversary some of the cla.s.s organized a celebration over July Fourth weekend. About a dozen of us went together to rent some stone cabins near Canyon Lake in the Texas hill country. We brought our wives and children and barbecue grills for fun in the sun. My daughters immediately fell in love with John "J. O." Creighton, a bachelor navy fighter pilot with a midnight blue Corvette and an awesome ski boat namedSin s.h.i.+p. After rides in both, the kids ran to me shouting, "Dad, why can't you be like J.O.?" Apparently they were unimpressed by my choice of family car, an un-air-conditioned 1972 VW station wagon, powder blue in color except where the rust had rotted out a door panel. I silently prayed for the day J.O. would have six kids and be driving a Dodge. After rides in both, the kids ran to me shouting, "Dad, why can't you be like J.O.?" Apparently they were unimpressed by my choice of family car, an un-air-conditioned 1972 VW station wagon, powder blue in color except where the rust had rotted out a door panel. I silently prayed for the day J.O. would have six kids and be driving a Dodge.

After a day of swimming and waterskiing we adjourned to the cabin compound and fired up the grills and campfires. One of the physician TFNGs used a hypodermic syringe to inject vodka into an "adults only" watermelon. This fruit c.o.c.ktail and an array of alcoholic drinks soon reduced mothering to an occasional, halfhearted warning to their broods: "Somebody is going to get hurt." A few of the kids were in a tree trying to remove Fisher's aluminum canoe that had previously been installed there by a group of intoxicated TFNGs.

Inside one of the kitchens the wives drank wine and chopped vegetables for a communal salad while outside the men flipped burgers and drank beer. We were just about to declare victory with the burgers when a loud pounding on the kitchen window caught our attention. We turned to see three pairs of naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed against the gla.s.s. Three of the wives had pulled up their swimsuit tops and served us an hors d'oeuvre of six nipples under gla.s.s. We shouted and whistled our approval and lofted our bottles in a toast of their daring. The women dropped their tops into place and went back to the salad preparations. The TFNG wives were thoroughly enjoying their new roles as astronaut spouses. Ultimately they would pay for the t.i.tle in crus.h.i.+ng terror. But for now that was too distant to spoil the fun.

After dinner a load of illegal fireworks materialized from somebody's trunk. My kids suspected J.O. since he was so cool. Whatever the source, the astronauts were all over them like the eighth graders the alcohol had rendered us. Even "flaming hookers" didn't hold the promise of entertainment like drunken astronauts playing with fireworks. Soon the night was alight with sparklers, fountains, and a.s.sorted illegal devices normally seen only in combat firefights. Aerial bombs exploded over the campsite. Rockets swished into the black. If it hadn't been for the dampness left by an earlier thunderstorm, we would have burned down the surrounding forest. A couple of the wives were sober enough to shout at us, "For guys who depend on their eyes and hands for a living, you're sure taking chances," but we laughed away the warnings.

It was great fun until a particularly wicked aerial mortar fell off its stand. b.a.l.l.s of fire spewed into the crowd. There were shrieks of panic as mothers swept up children and hustled them behind the cabin walls. I flattened myself behind Fisher's canoe (finally extracted from the tree) as one ball whistled by my head. I was quickly joined by my son, Pat. With fear swimming in his eyes, he exclaimed, "Dad, don't you think this is kind of dangerous?" Even a ten-year-old could sense the idiocy of our play. We had become the kids. We were bulletproof. We were immortal. We were astronauts.

After the last bomb had exploded and the kids were asleep, the adults settled around a fire. We were growing close. Our compet.i.tiveness and the differences in personality (militant feminists to s.e.xist pigs; propeller-headed scientists to Chuck Yeager clones) would ultimately strain relations.h.i.+ps. It was impossible to throw thirty-five people together and not have some acrimony. But, like the fear the wives couldn't yet see, it was still too early for the enmity to get in the way of our fun.

As a sign of our closeness, we now had our cla.s.s name: TFNGs. There was no official requirement that a new cla.s.s of astronauts name themselves. It just happened. TheMercury 7 astronauts had become the "Original Seven." The cla.s.s of 1984 would later become known as "Maggots," a play on the derogatory term that marine drill instructors used in reference to their new recruits. None of these names were ever formally put to a vote. Only through constant usage were they legitimized. For us, TFNG stuck. In polite company it translated to Thirty-Five New Guys. Not very creative, it would seem. However, it was actually a twist on an obscene military term. In every military unit a new person was a FNG, a "f.u.c.king new guy." You remained a FNG until someone newer showed up, then they became the FNG. While the public knew us as the Thirty-Five New Guys, we knew ourselves as The f.u.c.king New Guys. astronauts had become the "Original Seven." The cla.s.s of 1984 would later become known as "Maggots," a play on the derogatory term that marine drill instructors used in reference to their new recruits. None of these names were ever formally put to a vote. Only through constant usage were they legitimized. For us, TFNG stuck. In polite company it translated to Thirty-Five New Guys. Not very creative, it would seem. However, it was actually a twist on an obscene military term. In every military unit a new person was a FNG, a "f.u.c.king new guy." You remained a FNG until someone newer showed up, then they became the FNG. While the public knew us as the Thirty-Five New Guys, we knew ourselves as The f.u.c.king New Guys.

Deep in the heart of Texas, the fire crackled and glowing embers swirled skyward. More beers were popped. Brewster Shaw strummed his guitar to an Eagles tune as our talk turned, as it always did, to when we might fly in s.p.a.ce. Like teenagers wis.h.i.+ng for Sat.u.r.day night to arrive, we wished for miracles to speed us to our launches. Our dreams were of the incredible things we would do. We would fly missions into polar orbits and fly jet packs on tetherless s.p.a.cewalks. We would carry every science satellite, every military satellite, every communication satellite. We would use a robot arm to grapple satellites and repair them in orbit. We were going to do it all...The f.u.c.king New Guys.

With the dream talk circling the fire I looked into the star-spangled night and felt supremely happy...but only for a moment. I was too seasoned not to know there would be tears on this journey. Some at this very campfire would die as astronauts. Perhaps I would, I thought. Perhaps in one of NASA's training jets. Perhaps on a s.p.a.ce shuttle. It wasn't hearing theApollo I voice tapes those many months ago that now brought on this melancholy. It was a much more intimate experience with death in the sky. voice tapes those many months ago that now brought on this melancholy. It was a much more intimate experience with death in the sky.

Christmas season, 1972. I was twenty-seven years old, stationed in England and flying in the backseat of RF-4Cs as part of the Allied Forces staring down the Russian threat. Jim Humphrey and Tom Carr were in the squadron planning area. We were kibitzing over coffee as they put the finis.h.i.+ng touches on their training maps. I handed Jim my BX cigarette ration cards. I didn't smoke and he did. He thanked me. Then he and Tom headed for their plane. It was the last time I would see them alive. Shortly after takeoff their Phantom inexplicably nosedived into the earth at 400 miles per hour. There had been no distress call. The squadron commander came into the ready room and told us of the crash. "Stay off the phones," he ordered, then departed to pick up the chaplain and drive to inform the wives.

I worried for Donna. In a couple minutes she was going to see a staff car drive up to the apartment with the squadron commander and chaplain. Every apartment in the complex housed a flyer's family. Donna and I shared a wall with the Humphreys. Our entry sidewalks were fifteen feet apart. I could just imagine the two uniformed officers hesitating between those concrete ribbons, checking the address before choosing one. I could see Donna and Eurlene Humphrey watching in horror from their windows, wondering which one of them was the new widow.

Screw the commander's order,I thought. I grabbed a phone and called Donna. "There's been a crash. Jim Humphrey and Tom Carr are dead. The chaplain will be there soon. I wanted you to know it wasn't me. Go visit Eurlene as soon as they leave. Don't call anybody else." She was sobbing as I hung up the phone. Eurlene had two small children.

When the squadron commander returned, he appointed me as the casualty a.s.sistance officer for Jim's family and told me to visit the crash site. It was a muddy mora.s.s reeking of kerosene jet fuel. The vertical impact of the plane had left a crater about twenty feet deep. Shards of camouflage-painted aluminum littered the area. About thirty feet from the edge of the plane's crater was a smaller crater made by Tom Carr's body and ejection seat. Tom had ejected, but it had been far too late. His body, still strapped to the seat, had impacted the earth at the speed of the plane.

The flight surgeon was directing a group of hospital orderlies in the recovery of remains. Of Jim's there were none aboveground. The F-4 ejection sequence put the pilot out last. The twin craters made it obvious Tom, the backseater, had just cleared the rails when the plane hit, meaning Jim had to have still been in the front c.o.c.kpit. Fifty thousand pounds of plane had been behind him at impact and had compressed his body deep into the Earth. Of Tom Carr there was nothing recognizable as human. Each orderly had a plastic bag and was picking up shards of his flesh-bright pink and red strings of it.

The saddest thing I yet had to do in my young life was to give Eurlene her husband's wedding band. I found it in his locker. Like most of us, he removed the ring prior to a flight to prevent it from snagging on a piece of aircraft equipment and causing injury.

Weeks later the squadron commander ordered me to have a bra.s.s plaque etched with an appropriate inscription memorializing Jim and Tom. The twin craters in the rolling hills of East Anglia, England, were truly their graves and the commander wanted the plaque on a nearby tree. I went to the site and screwed a bra.s.s plate into a majestic two-hundred-year-old oak.

Five months later Eurlene returned to England to visit her air force friends. The squadron commander invited her to attend a Memorial Day remembrance at the crash location. The day prior to the service he asked me to drive to the site and polish the plaque. I gathered Donna and our three children. The day was a rare one for England, sunny and warm. I wanted them to enjoy it. There was nothing at the crash site to identify it as such. A crop of wheat now covered the area. The scene was a postcard painting of English springtime tranquillity.

I began work on the plaque while Donna and the kids played with a farmer's dog that had followed them into the field. Moments later Donna screamed, "Mike, the dog has a hand in its mouth!"

I was sure I had misheard. "What?"

As she struggled to pry open the dog's jaws she screamed more urgently, "Oh G.o.d! It has a hand!"

I rushed to her, certain she was imagining things. She wasn't. Donna held a decomposed human hand. The presence of fingernails left no doubt about that. I was sure it was Tom Carr's remains. When his body hit the earth, it had exploded into countless pieces. The hand had been thrown into some nearby hedges and not discovered until that very moment by the wandering dog.

We wrapped the remains in the cloth I had been using on the plaque and drove to the base to give it to the flight surgeon. On the drive I thought of the many times I had clasped that hand in life. Tom and I had been cla.s.smates together in navigator training in 1968. When Donna gave birth to twins, he and several others in the cla.s.s had gone together to buy two strollers for us. He had been a close friend. Now Donna cradled a piece of him in her lap.

At the Texas campfire I pulled Donna closer and prayed G.o.d would watch over all of us.

Chapter 12.

Speed.

Our TFNG freshman year also included an introduction to the ultimate astronaut perk-flying the NASA T-38 jets. Even fireworks, flaming hookers, and t.i.ts under gla.s.s couldn't put a smile on our faces like the ones we wore while flying the '38, a two-place, twin-engine, after-burning supersonic jet. Even its t.i.tle, "'38," was the stuff of testosterone. It conjured up images of b.r.e.a.s.t.s and caliber. Originally designed in the late '50s by the USAF to serve as an advanced pilot training aircraft, NASA had acquired a squadron of them as proficiency trainers for the astronauts.

The years had been kind to the '38. Its sleek needle nose and exquisitely thin, card-table-size wings were timeless hallmarks of speed. In one hundred years people will look at the '38 in museums and still say, "What a sweet jet!" It was a crotch rocket that looked as if it had been especially built for astronauts. NASA's '38s were painted a brilliant white with a streak of blue, like a racing stripe, running the length of the fuselage. The agency's logo, a stylized script spelling "NASA," was emblazoned in red on the tail. It was an airplane and a paint scheme certain to turn heads on any airport tarmac.

The '38 served two functions: transportation to various meetings and proficiency training. NASA's simulators were great at preparing astronauts to fly the s.p.a.ce shuttle, but they had one critical shortcoming. They lacked a fear factor. No matter how badly you screwed up, simulators couldn't kill you. But high-performance jet aircraft could. Flying the T-38s kept the pilots razor sharp in dealing with potentially deadly time-critical situations, something s.p.a.ceflight had in abundance.

Before being cleared to fly the '38 we first had to complete water-survival training at Eglin AFB in the panhandle of Florida. We parasailed to several hundred feet alt.i.tude and then were released from the towboat to float into the water in a simulation of an aircraft ejection. Once in the water we had to release the parachute, climb into a one-man raft, signal a helicopter, then don a harness to be winched aboard in a simulated rescue. We were also towed behind fast-moving boats in a simulation of landing in a gale. We were dumped into the water and covered with the canopy of a parachute and taught how to escape before the nylon sank and became an anchor to pull us to our deaths. For the military flyers this training was a review. We had all been through it several times in our careers. But it was a first for the civilians. I carefully watched them, wondering if any would balk at some of the scarier training or need remedial instruction. In particular I watched the women for displays of fear or for a cry for help during the more physically demanding activities. But they performed as well as me or any of the other vets. I began to rea.s.sess my feeling of superiority over the post-docs and women. It would take several more years for the full transition of respect to occur, but this was my start.

The biggest surprise of our introduction to NASA's T-38 flight operations was the rules. There were none, or at least there were very few. In military flight operations, every phase, from engine start to engine shutdown, was usually part of a training program and closely monitored by superior officers. The ready rooms of military squadrons had credenzas filled with volumes of rules and regulations for operating the aircraft. NASA management, on the other hand, had the misguided belief that astronauts were professionals and didn't need big brother watching or a thick manual of rules to safely operate one of their jets. Sure...and a teenager being handed the keys to a 160-mile-per-hour Ferrari doesn't need any rules or supervision either.

We were the teenagers, and the skies over the nearby Gulf of Mexico were our back roads. After a radar-controlled exit from the Houston airs.p.a.ce, we would make that glorious call to Air Traffic Control (ATC), "Houston Center, NASA 904. Please cancel my IFR." Translation: "Houston, I'm off to play. Don't bother me. I'll call when I'm done."

On many occasions a cooperative TFNG pilot would say, "You've got it, Mike," and I would take control of the aircraft. (Since the '38 was designed as a trainer it had a full set of controls in the backseat.) When there were thunderstorms in the area I would send the plane twisting among their cauliflowered blossoms like a skier darting through the gates of a downhill slalom. Wisps of vapor would pa.s.s inches from the canopy, enhancing the sensation of speed. If there is o.r.g.a.s.m outside of s.e.x, this was it-speed and the unbound freedom of the sky.

We would flat-hat across the water, pa.s.sing alongside container s.h.i.+ps and super-tankers. That a seabird might come cras.h.i.+ng through the windscreen like a cannon shot and kill us was a fear...but not much of one. We were intoxicated on velocity.

For thrills it didn't get much better than being in Fred Gregory's backseat. Fred, a USAF helicopter pilot, was one of the three African-American TFNGs. Apparently helicopter pilots believed they would get nosebleeds if they ever flew above a few feet alt.i.tude, or at least I got that impression from flying with Fred. We would depart Houston's Ellington Field and fly ATC control to the Amarillo City airfield in the panhandle of Texas. There we would refuel and then fly VFR (under our own control) at b.u.t.t cheektightening low alt.i.tude to Kirtland AFB in Albuquerque, New Mexico. We would pa.s.s over the tops of windmills with just yards of clearance. The only thing that protected us from running into buzzards and hawks was that they had sense enough to cruise at higher alt.i.tudes. We streaked across the tips of 13,000-foot mountains and dove into canyons. The 600-foot-deep Rio Grande River Gorge in northern New Mexico was a favorite. I would lookup to see the rim of that canyon. As power lines appeared, Fred would hop the jet across them and dive back on the other side. In what is truly a remarkable irony, many years later Fred was appointed NASA's a.s.sociate administrator for safety. I guess we all eventually grow brains. to see the rim of that canyon. As power lines appeared, Fred would hop the jet across them and dive back on the other side. In what is truly a remarkable irony, many years later Fred was appointed NASA's a.s.sociate administrator for safety. I guess we all eventually grow brains.

The most dangerous aerial play was "one-vee-one," or one-versus-one dogfighting. In a flight of two '38s we'd cruise a few miles over the water, then switch to company frequency, an unused frequency n.o.body would be monitoring. At least wehoped n.o.body would be monitoring it. Then each aircraft, flying in formation at the same speed and alt.i.tude, would simultaneously break 45 degrees in opposite directions. After flying for a minute on the new headings, we would turn into each other on a collision course. This maneuver ensured a neutral setup, one in which neither pilot had an advantage when the dogfighting started. There were obvious dangers in this arrangement. First, it put two virtually invisible objects on a head-on course at a combined speed in excess of 1,000 miles per hour. The other danger was more subtle. Pretending air-to-air combat with identical aircraft makes it difficult for either pilot to gain an advantage. Pilots are more tempted to push their vehicles to the edge of their performance envelopes to gain a simulated "kill." In my air force career there had been numerous incidents of dogfighting pilots crossing that edge, losing control, and having to eject-or dying when they didn't. It happened in my squadron in England. In fact, it happened so often worldwide the air force ultimately banned the practice of identical jets simulating a dogfight. n.o.body would be monitoring it. Then each aircraft, flying in formation at the same speed and alt.i.tude, would simultaneously break 45 degrees in opposite directions. After flying for a minute on the new headings, we would turn into each other on a collision course. This maneuver ensured a neutral setup, one in which neither pilot had an advantage when the dogfighting started. There were obvious dangers in this arrangement. First, it put two virtually invisible objects on a head-on course at a combined speed in excess of 1,000 miles per hour. The other danger was more subtle. Pretending air-to-air combat with identical aircraft makes it difficult for either pilot to gain an advantage. Pilots are more tempted to push their vehicles to the edge of their performance envelopes to gain a simulated "kill." In my air force career there had been numerous incidents of dogfighting pilots crossing that edge, losing control, and having to eject-or dying when they didn't. It happened in my squadron in England. In fact, it happened so often worldwide the air force ultimately banned the practice of identical jets simulating a dogfight.