Riding Rockets (49 page)

Many of us placed the slide-pole bailout procedures in the same category as the pre-
Challenger
contingency-abort procedures—busywork while dying. But we all completed the training. A mock-up of the side hatch and pole were installed on a platform over the WETF pool, and we practiced sliding down the pole to smack into the water.

While most of my time was spent in STS-27 classified training, I was occasionally required to perform other short-term duties. One proved enlightening. Pinky Nelson and I were given the task of polling the spouses for suggestions regarding the family escort policy. One wife responded that she wanted to sleep with her husband on the night before launch. Pinky and I short-stopped that recommendation. We could not imagine any astronaut wanting to be with their spouse in those hours. I certainly didn’t want Donna in my bed. The beach house good-bye was agony enough—I couldn’t imagine enduring an all-night good-bye. If the wife making the recommendation was alluding to having prelaunch sex, then her husband was a better man than me. Even a doughnut-size Viagra pill wouldn’t help me at T-12 hours.

Many of the wives were extremely critical of what had happened to the
Challenger
spouses after the disaster. June Scobee and the other widows had been held at KSC so Vice President Bush could fly down and meet them. The wives were of one voice—in the event of a disaster they wanted to immediately return to Houston with their children. Screw the politicians. Pinky and I couldn’t have agreed more and said so in our recommendations.

The spouses also complained that the part-timer politicians and Abbey’s “buddies” were exempt from the rules; for example, the number of family guests allowed on the NASA buses. One wife wrote, “Senator Garn had no problem getting anybody he wanted to attend any of the dinners, ride on the family buses, etc.” It was just another example of how NASA management had allowed the politicians to have their way with us. We recommended there be no exceptions to family escort policy for any crewmembers regardless of their pedigree. Theoretically this recommendation was irrelevant since
Challenger
had ended the passenger program. But neither Pinky nor I believed NASA HQ would ever say no to any politician who still wanted to fly (and we were proven right when, years later, Senator Glenn asked for a flight).

Another major source of irritation was the fact that wives could fly to the launch aboard NASA’s Gulfstream jets at government expense, but their children could not. Since NASA required the spouses
and
children to be on the LCC roof for the launch, many of the wives felt Uncle Sam should pick up the transportation tab for the children, too. They also wanted their lodging needs handled by NASA. In prime tourist seasons and around holidays—where no-vacancy signs were the rule—a mission slip could make reservation extensions problematic and a terrible additional strain on the family. The spouses wanted NASA to take on that burden. Pinky and I agreed and added that to the recommendations.

These modifications to the family escort policy were adopted and, beginning with STS-26, NASA transported crew children to KSC via its Gulfstream jets. The agency also assumed control over all lodging issues. As for any wife who wanted to have KSC sex with her husband, she would just have to be satisfied with a quickie at the beach house or behind closed doors during a visit to the crew quarters. And she better not be a screamer—the rooms weren’t that soundproof.

As the summer of 1988 was drawing to a close, John Denver came to the astronaut office to brief us on his plans to fly with the Soviets. Before
Challenger,
we had frequently heard Denver’s name mentioned as a potential participant in NASA’s passenger program. That program had been terminated by the disaster, so now the singer was pursuing a trip into space via a Russian rocket. On a visit to Houston, he made contact with JSC and was invited to the astronaut office to discuss his mission plans. He received a chilly reception. Most military astronauts harbored a severe dislike for all things associated with the commies. Russian bullets had been aimed at our planes in Vietnam. Our friends had been killed or imprisoned by their surrogates, the North Vietnamese. The idea that anybody would cozy up with those assholes for any purpose was an outrage to many of us. Denver was peppered with criticism. One Vietnam vet told him that his Russian plans “sucked.” Denver argued that he wasn’t being any more cooperative with the Russians than others in the past had been. “Like Jane Fonda” came a rejoinder from the back. Several astronauts applauded at that. Denver continued to defend himself, explaining that he had always been a big supporter of the space program and it had been a lifetime dream to fly in space. In fact, he said, “I was the one who first suggested to NASA they have a passenger program on the shuttle.” That comment didn’t win him any friends—many in the office were still silver-pinned astronauts because of the passenger program and the seats into space it had consumed. New tracers of criticism shot his way. One astronaut made the observation that when Denver returned from his mission, the press and public would elevate him to the status of “expert” on the space program just because of his celebrity. He would end up on every blue ribbon panel and space policy committee for the next decade, while the real experts, astronauts and others at NASA, would be forgotten. The meeting definitely didn’t give Denver a Rocky Mountain High. He later dropped his Russian flight plans because of the cost, rumored to be $20 million…or maybe he was afraid of what an astronaut would do to him if he made the trip.

On September 29, 1988, STS-26 put America back in space. Four days later
Discovery
streaked out of the Pacific sky to touch down at Edwards AFB. The mission was virtually flawless. At Rick Hauck’s call, “Wheel stop,” I was once again part of a Prime Crew. With the title came a reserved parking place, euphoric joy, and intestine-knotting fear.

*Some astronauts believe even the backpack parachute arrangement might have enabled
Challenger
’s downstairs crewmembers to escape. However, there probably wouldn’t have been enough time for the upstairs crewmembers to make it out.

Chapter 33

Classified Work

December 2, 1988, found me and the rest of the STS-27 crew strapped into
Atlantis
waiting out a weather delay at T-31 seconds. We had already scrubbed the day before due to out-of-limits high-altitude winds. With the potential of a second scrub hanging over us, the mood in the cockpit was gloomy. I was beginning to think I was cursed. This was my sixth launchpad wait for only a second mission. The problem today was the weather at our transatlantic abort sites in Africa. They were below minimums. The launch director was on the phone with the astronaut observer in Morocco. With the APUs running, a decision had to be made quickly.

I heard the range safety officer speaking on the LCC voice net and used the opportunity to joke, “The RSO’s mother goes down like a Muslim at noon.” (The term
going down
was from Planet AD and referred to an act of oral sex.) I didn’t worry about the RSO hearing me. He didn’t have access to our intercom.

The crew cringed…and laughed. I was slandering the mother of the man who was just two switches away from killing us. Hoot shouted, “Mullane, don’t joke about the RSO’s mother! Pick on the pope’s mother. Hell, pick on
Christ’s
mother. Anybody but the RSO’s mother!”

The laughter faded and the intercom fell quiet. I thought of Donna on the roof of the LCC. I knew the delay was killing her. Every wife-mother said the same thing:
Watching a husband being launched into space is like being in a never-ending difficult childbirth…without any pain medication.
My mom certainly thought so. She greeted me after my first mission with a sign reading, “September 10, 1945 was easier.”

My fear was “off-scale high,” an astronaut expression meaning the needle of a cockpit instrument had soared past the highest reading and had pegged itself against a physical stop. The fear wasn’t any greater than it had been on my first launch.
Challenger
had changed nothing in that regard—I had known before STS-51L that flying the shuttle could kill me, and I knew this flight could kill me. On the drive to the pad I had passed the same rescue vehicles I had passed on my way to
Discovery
and had, again, thought of the body bags they certainly contained. I thought of the full-mouth dental photos and clip of hair and the footprint the flight surgeon had archived in Houston. In another ten minutes would somebody be pulling those from my medical file to send to a Florida pathologist? If it was to be so, I prayed I would be brave in whatever form of death
Atlantis
might serve me.
Challenger
had convinced me there would be no merciful, instantaneous deaths granted to any shuttle crews. The cockpit was a fortress; at least it was a fortress until it slammed into Earth. If it had kept the crew alive through
Challenger
’s destruction, it would keep me alive through any breakup of
Atlantis.
The shuttle engineers had done what engineers always do…built their machine to spec and then added their own margins. The seat I was strapped to would survive twice the number of Gs my body could withstand. The windows (each
triple
-paned) and the walls around me would remain intact until the Earth crushed them. I was strapped into a fortress that would keep me alive long enough to watch Death’s approach. If fire was to kill me, I would have time to watch the flames. If a multimile fall was to kill me, I would watch the Earth rushing into my face. Even a cockpit decompression would no longer mercifully grant us unconsciousness, as it might have spared the
Challenger
crew. We now wore full-pressure suits that would keep us alive and conscious through any cockpit rupture.

As I stared at the countdown clock, still frozen at T-31 seconds, my prayers covered a spectrum of needs.
Please, God, let the TAL weather clear so we can launch…Please, God, let us have a safe flight…Please, God, don’t let me screw up…Please, God, if I’m to die, let me die fighting, joking, helping the CDR and PLT with a checklist, reaching for a switch. Please, God, let me die as Judy and the others died…as working, functioning astronauts to the very end.

Since I had first heard Jim Bagian and Sonny Carter reveal that Mike Smith’s PEAP had been turned on by Judy or El, I wondered if I would have had the presence of mind to do the same thing had I been in
Challenger
’s cockpit. Or would I have been locked in a catatonic paralysis of fear? There had been nothing in our training concerning the activation of a PEAP in the event of an in-flight emergency. The fact that Judy or El had done so for Mike Smith made them heroic in my mind. They had been able to block out the terrifying sights and sounds and motions of
Challenger
’s destruction and had reached for that switch. It was the type of thing a true astronaut would do—maintain their cool in the direst of circumstances. “Better dead than look bad.” My greatest fear was that I would fail if I was ever faced with a similar disaster, that I would die as a blubbering, whimpering, useless coward, an embarrassment to my fellow crewmembers and, worst of all, it would all be captured on the voice recorder to be played in a Monday morning meeting.

The launch director’s voice put a stop to my depressing thoughts and pleading prayers. “
Atlantis,
the TAL weather is acceptable. We’ll be picking up the count.” There were audible sighs of relief on the intercom. Now…if only
Atlantis
would cooperate and keep humming along without a problem.

There was a short count by the LCC and the clock was released.

“Thirty seconds.”

Hoot reminded everybody to stay on the instruments. An unnecessary order. If a naked Wonder Woman had suddenly appeared in our midst, nobody would have been able to pull their eyes from the displays. Well…maybe I would have taken a quick peek.

“Ten seconds. Go for main engine start.” I wondered how many times I would have to do this before I could do it with a heart rate below 350 beats per minute.

The engine manifold pressures shot up. Fuel was on the way to the pumps.

Engine start. The now familiar vibrations of more than a million pounds of tethered thrust rattled me. I watched shadows move across the cockpit as
Atlantis
rebounded from the start impulse. When she was once again vertical, the SRB and hold-down bolt fire commands were issued. Seven million pounds of thrust rammed me into my seat. I was on my way into space for a second time.

“Passing 8,500 feet, Mach 1.5.”

We came out of the other side of max-q and the vibrations noticeably lessened.

“
Atlantis,
you are go at throttle up.”

“Roger, Houston, go at throttle up.” At Hoot’s call, I knew everybody was thinking the same thought. Those had been the last words heard from
Challenger.

“Ninety thousand feet, Mach 3.2.” Hoot gave the markers.

“P-C less than 50.” The SRBs were done. A flash-bang signaled their separation and we all cheered. Someone added, “Good riddance.” We wouldn’t know it until we were in space but the right SRB had already placed us in mortal danger…not because of an O-ring failure but because the very tip of its nose cone had broken off and hit
Atlantis.
The number-three SSME was also running sick, a fact we wouldn’t learn until after the mission. The inner-bearing race on its oxidizer turbo-pump had cracked. We were blissfully unaware of these two threats to our lives. The cockpit instruments were all in the green.

The rest of the ride continued smoothly. The sky faded to black while the flare of the sun painted the cockpit. We listened to the cadence of the abort boundary calls. With each call, we breathed a little easier.

“Here it comes, rookies…40…45…50 miles. Congratulations, Guy and Shep. You’re now astronauts.” They cheered and the rest of us added our own congratulations. I thought again of the ridiculousness of the fifty-mile altitude requirement. Guy and Shep had earned their wings as we all had…at the instant the hold-down bolts had blown.