The image suddenly explained a mystery from STS-41B. After that mission landed, engineers were puzzled to find damage to several heat tiles on the port-side OMS pod at the rear of the fuselage. The damage had certainly occurred during reentry because the same heat tiles had been visible from the back windows during the orbit phase of the mission and the crew didn't see any damage. A similar urine-sicle must have formed during the waste-water dumps on the STS-41B mission. During reentry, the ice had broken off and flown backward, hitting and damaging the OMS pod tile. MCC was now concernedDiscovery could suffer the same or worse damage. Theoretically it was possible the heat tiles could be so damaged by the ice, could suffer the same or worse damage. Theoretically it was possible the heat tiles could be so damaged by the ice,Discovery 's tail could burn off. I had imagined many scenarios in which my life could be threatened as an astronaut-engine failures, turbo-pump explosions, decompression-but I had never imagined a threat from a frozen block of urine. I had an image of Peter Jennings reporting, "The astronauts were killed by their own urine." It wasn't a heroic-sounding epitaph. 's tail could burn off. I had imagined many scenarios in which my life could be threatened as an astronaut-engine failures, turbo-pump explosions, decompression-but I had never imagined a threat from a frozen block of urine. I had an image of Peter Jennings reporting, "The astronauts were killed by their own urine." It wasn't a heroic-sounding epitaph.

Letting the Sun melt the ice wasn't an option. In the vacuum of s.p.a.ce, water doesn't exist in liquid form. It goes from ice to vapor in a very slow process called sublimation. We wouldn't be able to stay in s.p.a.ce long enough for sublimation to get rid of our hitchhiker. So MCC directed Hank to tap the ice away using the robot arm.

Then came the bad news. We were told we could not use the urinal for the rest of the mission for fear another ice ball could jeopardize us. We would have to urinate in "Apollo bags." These bags had beenthe toilet for the Apollo astronauts and were stowed aboard the shuttles for just this type of contingency. NASA wasn't going to prematurely end a billion-dollar s.p.a.ce mission because of a failed toilet. To our great relief we would still be able to use the solid waste collection feature of our commode. We wouldn't have to use the bags for our BMs as did the Apollo astronauts (they were toilet for the Apollo astronauts and were stowed aboard the shuttles for just this type of contingency. NASA wasn't going to prematurely end a billion-dollar s.p.a.ce mission because of a failed toilet. To our great relief we would still be able to use the solid waste collection feature of our commode. We wouldn't have to use the bags for our BMs as did the Apollo astronauts (they werereal men). men).

I looked at Judy. "I sure bet you have p.e.n.i.s envy now."

She tersely replied, "I'll manage."

The CAPCOM went on to explain there was enough remaining volume in the waste-water tank for about three man-days of urine. It was obvious to us what they were thinking: Judy would be able to use the urinal for the rest of the mission. We men could get by with the bags. All of us thought this was fair enough, but Judy saw a feminist trap. If she used the urinal while we men were stuck with the bags, word would eventually get around. It would be another d.a.m.ning sin against the feminist cause. In fact it would be a far more egregious sin than the hair-jam incident. Her use of the urinal would be a shout from the rooftops that a p.e.n.i.swas necessary to deal with certain shuttle emergencies. Judy wasn't going to fall into the trap. She elected to use the Apollo bags like the rest of us. necessary to deal with certain shuttle emergencies. Judy wasn't going to fall into the trap. She elected to use the Apollo bags like the rest of us.

I have no idea how Judy managed with the bags but I'm sure she paid a messy price for her feminist stand. It was a mess even for us males. On my first attempt, I just held the bag around myself and let fly. Bad idea. The urine splashed into the bottom of the bag and bounced right back, soaking my crotch. Not only that, some fluid escaped and I became the proverbial one-armed paperhanger, trying to hold the bag at my crotch and blot the little yellow planets out of the sky with a tissue in my free hand. Others made similar rookie mistakes. But we quickly came up with a solution. We stuffed washcloths in the bottom of the bags. In weightlessness the "wicking" action of cloth was still effective. We could aim our stream onto the cloth and the fluid would be wicked away instead of splashing around. There was just one catch: If we urinated too fast, the wicking action couldn't keep up with the stream and splashing would result. If we slowed our stream too much, the fluid wouldn't separate from us and a large ball of urine would grow on our p.e.n.i.ses. We learned it was necessary to very precisely regulate our urine flow to achieve a stream of perfect balance. Even then, there would always be a significant "last drop" that had to be wiped away with a tissue.

Our greatest challenge occurred when we had bowel movements. It was virtually impossible to regulate urine flow while bearing down for a BM. On the second day of our toilet purgatory, I heard another Hank Hartsfield cheer rise from the toilet. "I did it! I did it!"

Since Cuba wasn't at our nadir, I couldn't imagine the source of Hank's glee. "What did you do, Hank?"

"I took a s.h.i.t without p.i.s.sing!"

From the look on Hank's face you would have thought his earlier t.u.r.d had reentered the atmosphere and nailed Castro right between the eyes. But I could appreciate his joy. Turning off one's urine while having a BM was a real trick. The things they didn't teach us at astronaut school.

As our washcloths were consumed we turned to using our socks. When I had exhausted my extras, I began to use my towels. On one occasion with my bladder near rupture, I threw a covetous glance at the clean socks Judy was wearing. I flew straight at her and began to rip them from her feet. She knew exactly what I was doing and jokingly screamed, "Help! I'm being socked!"

By the final day of the mission our wet-trash container was becoming seriously overburdened. Under us floated a volume of vomit, urine, and decomposing food containers. My earlierStar Wars prank about alien creatures living in the trash container didn't seem so funny now. n.o.body wanted to put their hands in the mess. We would jam our urine bags past the grommet, jerk away, and quickly rip into an alcohol hand wipe. prank about alien creatures living in the trash container didn't seem so funny now. n.o.body wanted to put their hands in the mess. We would jam our urine bags past the grommet, jerk away, and quickly rip into an alcohol hand wipe.

As we configuredDiscovery for our last sleep period, I repeated my day-one routine. I moved my sleep restraint upstairs and tied it beneath the overhead windows. I intended to stay awake as long as possible to stuff my brain with s.p.a.ce memories. While I had every intention of making this trip again, I couldn't be sure there would ever be a second opportunity. for our last sleep period, I repeated my day-one routine. I moved my sleep restraint upstairs and tied it beneath the overhead windows. I intended to stay awake as long as possible to stuff my brain with s.p.a.ce memories. While I had every intention of making this trip again, I couldn't be sure there would ever be a second opportunity.Discovery 's engine problem had delayed the program by two months. What other problems were lurking? Could one result in a program delay of years, or even total program cancellation? Even if the shuttles continued to fly on schedule, office politics could end my career. It was impossible to know where you stood with Abbey. He might never a.s.sign me to another mission. I was going to a.s.sume these would be my last hours in s.p.a.ce and I wasn't going to waste them sleeping. 's engine problem had delayed the program by two months. What other problems were lurking? Could one result in a program delay of years, or even total program cancellation? Even if the shuttles continued to fly on schedule, office politics could end my career. It was impossible to know where you stood with Abbey. He might never a.s.sign me to another mission. I was going to a.s.sume these would be my last hours in s.p.a.ce and I wasn't going to waste them sleeping.

So I watched the Kalahari Desert pa.s.s beneath me and rammed its beauty into my overflowing memory banks. The Atlantic blue contrasted sharply with the ocher colors of Saharan Africa. Enormous sand dunes shouldered the beach and rippled inland like tan water. I watched clouds of every imaginable shape and texture: circular swirls of low pressure areas, wispy mare's tails, c.u.mulonimbus monsters with anvil heads stretching across the sky like the headdresses of Indian chiefs. In sunset and sunrise terminators, thunderstorms cast hundreds of mile-long shadows. Fair-weather c.u.mulus clouds floated over oceans like popcorn scattered on blue carpet. Unseen jet streams rippled solid blankets of white like a stone dropped into heavy cream.

I crossed Africa in minutes and raced over Madagascar in seconds. The Indian Ocean was another vast, empty blue. The 3,000-mile brown continent of Australia came and went in ten minutes. ThenDiscovery was once again over Pacific skies. The view of that ocean always intimidated me-its blue seemed as infinite as s.p.a.ce. How much greater its immensity must have seemed from a Polynesian outrigger or from the decks of Magellan's ships. We astronauts are frequently characterized as heroes and heroines for sailing into a great unknown. In reality no astronaut has ever sailed into an unknown. We send robots and monkeys ahead to verify our safety. Magellan didn't put a monkey on a ship and wait for it to safely return before going himself. He and those Polynesians set sail without maps, without weather prediction, without a mission control, without any idea of the immense emptiness that lay beyond their meager three-mile horizons. It is laughable to compare astronauts with those explorers. The next humans who fly into a great unknown will be those souls who set sail to Mars and watch our planet dim to a blue-white morning star. was once again over Pacific skies. The view of that ocean always intimidated me-its blue seemed as infinite as s.p.a.ce. How much greater its immensity must have seemed from a Polynesian outrigger or from the decks of Magellan's ships. We astronauts are frequently characterized as heroes and heroines for sailing into a great unknown. In reality no astronaut has ever sailed into an unknown. We send robots and monkeys ahead to verify our safety. Magellan didn't put a monkey on a ship and wait for it to safely return before going himself. He and those Polynesians set sail without maps, without weather prediction, without a mission control, without any idea of the immense emptiness that lay beyond their meager three-mile horizons. It is laughable to compare astronauts with those explorers. The next humans who fly into a great unknown will be those souls who set sail to Mars and watch our planet dim to a blue-white morning star.

I watched as city lights took on the form of glowing spiderwebs with bright, sodium-yellow interiors and major roads radiating outward and ring roads completing the web effect. I watched lightning begin at one end of a weather front and ripple like a sputtering fuse for hundreds of miles to the other end and then start again. And every ninety minutes I would watch the incomparable beauty of an orbit sunrise. I would watch as a thin indigo arc would grow to separate the black of nighttime Earth from the black of s.p.a.ce. Quickly, concentric arcs of purple and blue would rise to push the black higher and higher. Then bands of orange and red would blossom from the horizon to complete the spectrum. But only for a moment. The Sun would finally breach the Earth's limb and blast the colors away with its star-white brilliance. I wanted to scream to G.o.d to stopDiscovery, to stop the Earth, to stop the Sun so I could more thoroughly enjoy the beauty of that color bow. to stop the Earth, to stop the Sun so I could more thoroughly enjoy the beauty of that color bow.

When sleep finally overtook me, I'm sure I slept with a grin.

Chapter 22.

Coming to America.

The next morning we prepared for reentry. We scrubbedDiscovery 's walls and windows clean. An earlier crew had turned over a dirty vehicle to their ground team. Small bits of vomit, food, and drink had been found dried to the walls. This pigpen crew quickly became a joke on the astronaut grapevine. We weren't about to let that happen to us. After nearly six days with six people locked inside, 's walls and windows clean. An earlier crew had turned over a dirty vehicle to their ground team. Small bits of vomit, food, and drink had been found dried to the walls. This pigpen crew quickly became a joke on the astronaut grapevine. We weren't about to let that happen to us. After nearly six days with six people locked inside,Discovery was soiled with the same flotsam but we polished her to a shine. was soiled with the same flotsam but we polished her to a shine.

We followed the flight surgeon's recommended protocol of consuming salt tablets and fluids. The excess liquid would increase our blood volume and help minimize the possibility of the reentry G-forces pulling blood from our brains and causing blackout. I also donned my anti-G suit as another defense against G-induced unconsciousness. The suit looked like cowboy chaps and was zipped over my legs and around my stomach. It contained air bladders that could be inflated to squeeze those body parts and restrict blood flow from the upper torso and head. I would later find out Judy did not put on her anti-G suit and suffered for the omission. After landing she was deathly pale, sweating profusely, and unable to stand from her seat for many minutes.

We closed our payload bay doors, strapped into our seats, and then flippedDiscovery backward so the thrust from the firing of her OMS engines would slow us down. The deorbit burn only braked us by several thousand miles per hour but that was enough to dip the low point of our orbit into the atmosphere. After the burn was complete, Hank maneuvered backward so the thrust from the firing of her OMS engines would slow us down. The deorbit burn only braked us by several thousand miles per hour but that was enough to dip the low point of our orbit into the atmosphere. After the burn was complete, Hank maneuveredDiscovery into a nose-forward 40-degree upward tilt so that her belly heat shield was presented to the atmosphere. into a nose-forward 40-degree upward tilt so that her belly heat shield was presented to the atmosphere.

Discoverywas now a 100-ton glider. She had no engines for atmospheric flight. We began the long fall toward Edwards AFB, California, twelve thousand miles distant. We were coming to America. On the way,Discovery would be enveloped in a 3,000-degree fireball and at the end of the glide Hank would get only one chance at landing. In spite of these daunting realities I didn't fear reentry as I had feared ascent. There were no SSMEs or turbo-pumps to fail and endanger us, and reentry lacked the rock-and-roll violence of ascent. I shouldn't have been so confident. There were still plenty of ways to die on reentry and landing. The STS-9 crew had almost found one with their hydrazine fire. In 1971, three cosmonauts were killed on reentry when their capsule sprang a leak. They had not been protected with pressure suits and their blood boiled inside their bodies. We were not wearing pressure suits, so a pressure leak would kill us in the same manner. Of course, none of us could see the future, but on February 1, 2003, the STS-107 crew would find death on reentry due to damage sustained to would be enveloped in a 3,000-degree fireball and at the end of the glide Hank would get only one chance at landing. In spite of these daunting realities I didn't fear reentry as I had feared ascent. There were no SSMEs or turbo-pumps to fail and endanger us, and reentry lacked the rock-and-roll violence of ascent. I shouldn't have been so confident. There were still plenty of ways to die on reentry and landing. The STS-9 crew had almost found one with their hydrazine fire. In 1971, three cosmonauts were killed on reentry when their capsule sprang a leak. They had not been protected with pressure suits and their blood boiled inside their bodies. We were not wearing pressure suits, so a pressure leak would kill us in the same manner. Of course, none of us could see the future, but on February 1, 2003, the STS-107 crew would find death on reentry due to damage sustained toColumbia 's left-wing heat shield. Foam had shed from the ET during launch and punched a hole in it. 's left-wing heat shield. Foam had shed from the ET during launch and punched a hole in it.Discovery was flying with the identical heat shield and Mike and Hank had seen foam shedding from the tank during our ascent. We could have been falling into the atmosphere with a hole in our wing and been blissfully unaware. No, I shouldn't have been so confident in a safe trip home. was flying with the identical heat shield and Mike and Hank had seen foam shedding from the tank during our ascent. We could have been falling into the atmosphere with a hole in our wing and been blissfully unaware. No, I shouldn't have been so confident in a safe trip home.

For the first half hour after the deorbit burn, there was no indication anything had changed. It felt as if we were still in orbit. We had fallen a hundred miles closer to the planet but the air was still so tenuous it had no observable effect. Then a lost M&M candy appeared from a corner and began a very slow fall. It was my first indication we were no longer weightless. The fringes of the atmosphere were finally slowing us.

At 400,000 feet above the Pacific Ocean, atmospheric friction began to heat the air. The glow in the c.o.c.kpit windows changed from orange to red to white hot. I twisted my head to look upward through the ceiling windows. A vortex of white-hot air streamed away, flickering like a ribbon in the wind. I was seeingDiscovery 's wake. The superheated air on the belly was wrapping around the vehicle and combining above her to form a wake of plasma. It streamed off into infinity. In spite of the incredible light show, the c.o.c.kpit was quiet. There was no wind noise, no vibration. 's wake. The superheated air on the belly was wrapping around the vehicle and combining above her to form a wake of plasma. It streamed off into infinity. In spite of the incredible light show, the c.o.c.kpit was quiet. There was no wind noise, no vibration.

Discoverycompleted several role-reversals to manage her energy. As thin as it was, there was still enough air to produce lift and the autopilot commanded the vehicle into alternating 75-degree banks to use this lift to pull her off centerline. She was standing on alternating wings, skidding into the Earth's atmosphere like a s...o...b..arder braking to a stop. She was flying a giantS across the Earth, lengthening the distance to the runway, to give her more time to lose alt.i.tude. If she had attempted to dive straight ahead we would have been incinerated. across the Earth, lengthening the distance to the runway, to give her more time to lose alt.i.tude. If she had attempted to dive straight ahead we would have been incinerated.

Our computer displays showedDiscovery as a bug tracking down the centerline of a fan of green energy lines. She was flying like a dream. In spite of the fire outside the windows and as a bug tracking down the centerline of a fan of green energy lines. She was flying like a dream. In spite of the fire outside the windows andDiscovery 's bizarre maneuvers on our instruments, I felt completely secure. The c.o.c.kpit was as comfortable as a womb. 's bizarre maneuvers on our instruments, I felt completely secure. The c.o.c.kpit was as comfortable as a womb.

The Reaction Control System (RCS) thruster lights flashed intermittently to indicate they were firing to hold our att.i.tude. Just a fraction of a degree in error and we would be tumbled out of control. If it happened, the Pacific would swallow our ashes. NASA wouldn't find a trace of us.

Deeper into the atmosphere the G-forces increased to the maximum of 2. In any other circ.u.mstance this would have been a trivial force. A modern fighter can subject its pilot to 9 Gs. But for an astronaut returning from days of weightlessness, the feel of the G-forces was significantly amplified. It seemed as if an elephant were on my shoulders. I was being crushed into my seat. The weight of the helmet made it difficult for me to hold up my head. My vision began to tunnel, as if I were looking through a straw. I knew from my fighter jet experiences tunnel vision was an indication of approaching blackout. The vision area of my brain wasn't getting enough oxygenated blood. I inflated my anti-G suit to the maximum setting and the air bladders squeezed my belly b.u.t.ton nearly to my spine. I simultaneously bore down with my gut muscles, all in an effort to tourniquet my waist. It worked. My vision cleared.

Pa.s.sing 200,000 feet we began to hear the faint rush of wind around the c.o.c.kpit.Discovery was transforming herself from a s.p.a.cecraft to an aircraft. Mike deployed the air data probes to give us better airspeed and alt.i.tude information. We flew into sunlight. It was still twilight below us but the Sun had dawned at 100,000 feet. As was transforming herself from a s.p.a.cecraft to an aircraft. Mike deployed the air data probes to give us better airspeed and alt.i.tude information. We flew into sunlight. It was still twilight below us but the Sun had dawned at 100,000 feet. AsDiscovery 's velocity fell below the speed of sound, her shock waves, which had been trailing her, now zoomed ahead. A buzzing vibration shook the vehicle at their pa.s.sage. 's velocity fell below the speed of sound, her shock waves, which had been trailing her, now zoomed ahead. A buzzing vibration shook the vehicle at their pa.s.sage.

At seventy thousand feet the steering rockets onDiscovery 's tail stopped controlling her att.i.tude. She was now fully an aircraft, a creature of the air. Hank took control from the autopilot. While he could have taken control at any point during the reentry, there had been no reason to do so. The runway wasn't visible until the final ten minutes of flight. 's tail stopped controlling her att.i.tude. She was now fully an aircraft, a creature of the air. Hank took control from the autopilot. While he could have taken control at any point during the reentry, there had been no reason to do so. The runway wasn't visible until the final ten minutes of flight.

The dry lakebed of Edwards AFB, which had welcomed countless machines from the edge of s.p.a.ce, now welcomedDiscovery. Hank guided her over the runway and then banked into a wide, sweeping left turn toward final approach. With her short, stubby wings she was a poor glider and he kept her in a kamikaze-like dive at nearly 350 miles per hour. From the c.o.c.kpit it appeared as if we were diving straight into Earth. At 1,800 feet above the ground he started his flare. At 300 feet Mike lowered the landing gear. Hank guided her over the runway and then banked into a wide, sweeping left turn toward final approach. With her short, stubby wings she was a poor glider and he kept her in a kamikaze-like dive at nearly 350 miles per hour. From the c.o.c.kpit it appeared as if we were diving straight into Earth. At 1,800 feet above the ground he started his flare. At 300 feet Mike lowered the landing gear.Discovery touched the sand in a perfect landing, just as the dawn was breaking. Hollywood couldn't have written a better ending. touched the sand in a perfect landing, just as the dawn was breaking. Hollywood couldn't have written a better ending.

"Houston, wheel stop." Hank made the call.

"Roger,Discovery. Welcome home." Welcome home."

Our cheers had hardly died before all of us were wondering,When will I be able to do this again?

Chapter 23.

Astronaut Wings.

I was drunk on joy and beer. We were headed back to Houston on the NASA Gulfstream jet with our wives. A cooler of beer had been placed aboard and I was doing my best to ensure it was empty by the time we got to Ellington Field. I couldn't sit down. I couldn't stop talking. I was giddy and silly and, oh, so happy. I was the bride on her wedding day, the child on Christmas morning. Periodically I would sit with Donna and try to describe the things I had seen, but as soon as I would get started on one memory, another would pop up and I'd be off on its telling. I never finished a sentence. I would leap to my feet and pace the aisle. I was incoherent with joy. I was now areal astronaut. I was a astronaut. I was alive astronaut. The latter fact was something I had never really expected. Subconsciously, I don't think I ever believed I would survive this mission and now that I had, I was wild to celebrate life. I was the soldier back from combat. I had walked the narrow precipice of death and had not fallen. astronaut. The latter fact was something I had never really expected. Subconsciously, I don't think I ever believed I would survive this mission and now that I had, I was wild to celebrate life. I was the soldier back from combat. I had walked the narrow precipice of death and had not fallen.

The others stared at me like I was nuts, which of course I was. In one insane moment I bet everybody I could drop a can of beer and catch it before it hit the floor. I was past the bulletproof stage of intoxication and had entered the weightless stage. The results were predictable. I ended on my hands and knees chasing the foaming, rolling can while the others laughed at my floor show. I didn't care that I was making a fool of myself. There was nothing anybody could have done or said to diminish my celebration.

A crowd of family, friends, and NASA employees greeted us at Ellington Field. Some of the family members and office secretaries had fashioned welcome-home signs. I saw my three children in the front row wearing huge smiles of pride and relief. We wouldn't get any NYC ticker-tape parades but this was better. The people behind the ropes were NASA family. They had put me into s.p.a.ce. I loved them all and given a chance I would have kissed each and every one.

A microphone was provided so we could say a few words of thanks. Stepping forward for my turn, I tripped on my own feet. It wasn't because of my intoxication...or at least, not entirely. My sense of equilibrium had been affected by weightlessness. It was a common, short-term aftereffect of s.p.a.ceflight. I have no idea what I said, but it didn't generate any groans of embarra.s.sment from my compatriots behind me, so I guess I did okay.

The ceremony ended and we walked into the crowd. Someone shoved another beer into my hand. I hugged my kids. Amy, my sensitive child, was full of tears. Pat and Laura were smiling. Only my death would have pulled tears from them. I worried the press might find me. I could see their vans and knew they were somewhere in the crowd. The last thing I wanted was to have a camera in my face. That would have been sure to dampen my fun. But I need not have worried-n.o.body was interested in male astronauts when Judy was around. She looked stunning. We had all showered at Edwards and donned fresh flight suits, and Judy had applied lipstick and a little makeup. She was holding the spray of roses given to her at Edwards. Unlike her predecessor, she had graciously accepted them. At that moment she was everything to everybody, the feminine feminist. The press was all over her. Fortunately, her hair was so big the shank she had lost in orbit wasn't noticeable enough to generate questions.

Gradually the celebration dissolved and Donna and I drove home with the kids to get on with the rest of our lives. That night, as we lay in bed, I joked with Donna about the flight surgeon's warning to purge my sperm.

She laughed. "That's so romantic, Mike."

"But the doc says it's mutant, radioactive!" The doctors were serious about such purges for men still in the procreating mode, the fear being that some of our swimmers could have been damaged by s.p.a.ce radiation. In one of the Monday meetings, after hearing the warning repeated, one TFNG had shouted, "Give me a break. I'm purging as fast as I can!" Our baby-making days were over, so Donna knew the flight surgeon's comment didn't apply to me. Nevertheless, we followed the doctor's orders, celebrating as lovers do.

Afterward, we held each other and I was finally calm enough to describe some of the things I had seen. I told her of sunrises and sunsets that would make every future Earth rainbow I ever witnessed a disappointment. I told her of oceans that seemed infinite, of lightning and shooting stars, of a blue-and-white planet set in abysmal black. And I told her I wanted to do it all over again. There were other TFNGs already in line for a second flight. Some were doing s.p.a.cewalks. Some were operating the robot arm. Some were flying high-inclination orbits where they would get to see all of the United States and most of the inhabited earth. Vandenberg AFB in California was being modified to launch shuttles into polar orbits. Some lucky TFNGs would be on those flights. My just completed mission of whirring around the Earth in a near equatorial orbit and throwing a few toggle switches to release a couple communication satellites seemed ho-hum compared with what was on the horizon. I was discovering what every other TFNG was learning: There were gradations in the t.i.tle "astronaut" and we all wanted to be on top of the scale. As neophytes we had seen a flight into s.p.a.ce,any flight into s.p.a.ce, as total fulfillment of our life quests. But as we moved into the ranks of veterans, our hypercompet.i.tive personalities created a TFNG hierarchy. For pilots, the command of a rendezvous mission was the most desired prize. For MSes, the A-list astronauts were those who flew the Manned Maneuvering Unit (MMU) on tetherless s.p.a.cewalks. Very close behind were MSes who did traditional tethered s.p.a.cewalks. The next tier down were MSes who used the robot arm to grab free-flying satellites. At the bottom of the pile were those sorry souls doing actual science in the bowels of a s.p.a.celab. While many of the scientist MSes really enjoyed s.p.a.celab, most of the military MSes wanted nothing to do with it. Piloting an MMU or operating a robot arm had a lot more s.e.x appeal and generated a lot more personal fulfillment than watching a volt meter on some university professor's experiment. The Untouchables of our strange caste system were those MSes engaged in the s.p.a.celab missions dedicated to life sciences. They collected blood and urine and butchered mice and changed s.h.i.t filters for primates (and I don't mean the marines). I lit candles at Donna's home shrine to carry my prayer to heaven that I would never be a.s.signed to a s.p.a.celab mission. flight into s.p.a.ce, as total fulfillment of our life quests. But as we moved into the ranks of veterans, our hypercompet.i.tive personalities created a TFNG hierarchy. For pilots, the command of a rendezvous mission was the most desired prize. For MSes, the A-list astronauts were those who flew the Manned Maneuvering Unit (MMU) on tetherless s.p.a.cewalks. Very close behind were MSes who did traditional tethered s.p.a.cewalks. The next tier down were MSes who used the robot arm to grab free-flying satellites. At the bottom of the pile were those sorry souls doing actual science in the bowels of a s.p.a.celab. While many of the scientist MSes really enjoyed s.p.a.celab, most of the military MSes wanted nothing to do with it. Piloting an MMU or operating a robot arm had a lot more s.e.x appeal and generated a lot more personal fulfillment than watching a volt meter on some university professor's experiment. The Untouchables of our strange caste system were those MSes engaged in the s.p.a.celab missions dedicated to life sciences. They collected blood and urine and butchered mice and changed s.h.i.t filters for primates (and I don't mean the marines). I lit candles at Donna's home shrine to carry my prayer to heaven that I would never be a.s.signed to a s.p.a.celab mission.

As I recounted for Donna the incredible experience of s.p.a.ceflight and expressed my intention to do it all over again, I was sure she was disappointed. I was sure she would have much preferred a "rest of our lives" scenario that had me returning to the air force for a staff position somewhere in s.p.a.ce command that might lead to a star on my shoulders. I was sure her preferred scenario did not include the selection of another potential escort into widowhood, another good-bye walk on the beach house sands, and another T-9 minute vigil on the roof of the LCC. But she would have died before she would have ever put her feelings first-it was the Catholic in her. In her high school marriage course lesson plan is this statement: "The happiness of the woman is found in dependence on her husband. She's happiest when she is making others happy. Selfishness is the greatest curse to a woman's nature." Through her childhood the nuns had browbeaten her to believe that her feelings didn't count, that her lot was to mourn and weep in the "vale of tears" called life. Personal happiness? Fuhgeddabout.i.t. Her existence was to be one of sacrifice; sacrifice for her husband and sacrifice for her children. Her reward would come in the next life. No, Donna would never ask me to leave NASA. Her Catholicism had given me a free pa.s.s to pursue my own fulfillment.

Before we had even gotten our Earth legs back the Zoo Crew was in the JSC photo lab editing our mission videos and compiling a movie to take on the road to show the world. No longer would I have to interpret what others had done before me. I had loathed that ritual-going to the luncheons of America and prefacing my comments with, "I haven't flown in s.p.a.ce yet, but those who have say..." It was like a minor league baseball player getting onstage and saying, "I've never played in theShow, but those who have say...." Now I had my own s.p.a.ce story and movie to support it. but those who have say...." Now I had my own s.p.a.ce story and movie to support it.

In the rented ballroom of a local country club, a few weeks after our landing, Mike, Judy, Steve, and I climbed onstage to accept the coin of the realm from Hank-a gold astronaut pin. None of us cared that we had previously handed over a check for $400 to pay for the pins.

We began our postflight appearances. One of my first was to Albuquerque, where I was given the keys to the city. My flight had not conferred any celebrity. There were no cheering throngs at city hall, just the mayor's staff, my mom and dad, and a handful of other family and friends. But at least I was introduced by my own name. I had attended an earlier event where Steve Hawley had been introduced by the NASA administrator as "Sally Ride's husband." Talk about living in a cold shadow. Hawley's marriage to Sally had put him on the far side of the moon. When officials in his hometown of Salina, Kansas, told Steve they were putting a sign on a nearby highway proclaiming his astronaut status, Steve had joked with us, "It'll probably say, 'Hometown-in-law of Sally Ride.'" Judy, too, had to walk in Sally's shadow. At several appearances she was referred to as Sally Ride. So I was happy to be "Mike Mullane" at my Albuquerque homecoming instead of "an astronaut who flew in s.p.a.ce with the husband of Sally Ride."

It was a few hours after the Albuquerque ceremony that my grandmother, who had flown from her Texas home to partic.i.p.ate in the festivities, died quietly while napping at my parents' house. Margaret Pettigrew had been born on a Minnesota farm in 1897, six years before the Wright brothers had flown an airplane. In her early childhood, the horse had been the primary mode of transportation. At age eighty-seven she had stood on a Florida beach and watched her grandson ride a rocket into s.p.a.ce. Incredible.

Accompanied by our wives, NASA flew us to Washington, D.C., for a glad-handing event with members of Congress. Our crew a.s.sembled in a reception line while congressmen and senators pa.s.sed by, shaking our hands and offering their congratulations. I wondered if Ted Kennedy would appear. If he did, I was certain Hank would blow a brain vein, but the senator from Ma.s.sachusetts was a no-show.

The reception provided another opportunity for me to observe the pull of Judy's flight-suited beauty. It was Jovian. During a break in the greetings Steve whispered in my ear, "Watch their eyes as they shake my hand." I was confused by his comment, but only until the next senator pa.s.sed. As the politician pumped Steve's hand, his head was turned and he was smiling directly at Judy. Steve was invisible. I watched several times and every man did the same thing; focused on Judy while handshaking with Steve. Steve could have greeted each of them with "Kiss my a.s.s, Senator," and they would not have heard. They had come into the gravitational pull of Judy's beauty and were deaf and blind to the males next to her. Judy handled it with her usual aplomb, being equally gracious to the old lechers as well as the young ones. Of course, every politician wanted a photo next to her. I watched as one deftly folded his cigarette and highball behind his palms and out of view while the photographer snapped a shot. As quick as the flash faded, the cigarette and drink reappeared. He could have gotten a job as a Vegas illusionist.

On this same trip, Mike and Diane Coats and Donna and I, along with Admiral d.i.c.k Truly and a handful of other senior NASA officials, traveled to the Pentagon for Mike's and my astronaut wings ceremonies. The gold astronaut pin was a NASA tradition. The military recognized their astronauts in a separate ceremony with the pinning of aviator wings bearing the astronaut shooting star on the center shield. Every military astronaut considered the award of astronaut wings to be the highlight of their careers. Mike and I were no exception. We had dreamed of this day as ensign and second lieutenant. For me, the ceremony would hold even greater significance. I would become the rarest of USAF weapon systems operators (guys in back of fighters). I would be the first WSO astronaut. It was a very small first, to be sure, but I was looking forward to hearing the USAF acknowledge it.

Diane and Donna were just as thrilled as Mike and I. It was their payday for a lifetime of sacrifice for their man's career, for the terror of the T-9 minute walk to the LCC roof. They would be recognized and toasted for their contributions and bravery. They wore new dresses and shoes and had perfect hair and makeup. I hadn't seen Donna look more radiant and more expectant since she had walked down the aisle in her wedding gown. She loved the pomp and circ.u.mstance of formal military events, as our astronaut wing pinnings promised to be.

Our first visit was to the chief of naval operations for Mike's ceremony. As we approached the CNO's office we were greeted by the CNO himself, Admiral James D. Watkins, beaming with almost fatherly pride and stepping forward to heartily shake Mike's hand and hug Diane. Behind him waited a gauntlet of lesser admirals. They were dressed in whites, their epaulets dripping in gold braid, their chests festooned with ribbons and gold wings. It was as if every flag officer in the U.S. Navy had come to congratulate Mike. Each of them smiled broadly and rendered Mike and Diane a deference becoming royalty. Donna and I and the rest of the NASA entourage greeted the CNO and then melted to the sides of the room to let the spotlight focus on Mike and Diane. We'd have our fifteen minutes of fame in a moment.

While waiting I looked at the CNO's wall art. There were gold-gilded paintings of Old Ironsides firing a broadside into an enemy ship, of dogfighting j.a.panese Zeros and Corsairs, of battleships pounding an enemy atoll. The art complemented the statement the CNO was making with the party, that the U.S. Navy was a service of unmatched history and glory, and new astronaut Mike Coats was the latest addition to that history.

White-gloved stewards...o...b..ted the gathering and served finger sandwiches and pastries from silver platters. I looked at Donna. She was in heaven. This was pomp and circ.u.mstance beyond anything she had expected and she knew she was up next.

The CNO began the pinning ceremony with comments on the importance of s.p.a.ce to U.S. Navy operations. He highlighted the fact that one of our STS-41D communication satellites was a navy fleet UHF relay. He thanked Mike for laying his life on the line for the navy and thanked Diane for her years of wifely support. He then invited Diane to do the astronaut wing-pinning. In word and deed he made her feel that Mike's new wings were as much her award as they were his. The CNO then led his throng of admirals in loud applause. The entire program had been first-cla.s.s from start to finish.

We all bid our thanks and departed for the office of the vice chief of staff of the air force, General Larry D. Welch. For some reason the chief himself was unavailable but we didn't care; we were certain the number-two man in the U.S. Air Force would take good care of us. Donna was biting at the bit to get there. The gleam in her eye said it all. She was antic.i.p.ating the identical "Queen for a Day" treatment she had just seen rendered to Diane. So were we all.

Our first indication that things were to be a little different on the air force side of the Pentagon occurred as we neared the office. No generals awaited us. Instead, a lowly captain rose from his desk, welcomed us, and then said, "Please wait here. I'll see if the general can see you." I felt Donna tense at my side. If there was any pomp and circ.u.mstance around, it was well hidden. I whispered, "Maybe the party is set up in a different room."

She replied tersely, "I hope so." I was beginning to have a very bad feeling.

The captain emerged from the vice chief's office. "The general is now ready to see you."

Jesus,I thought,this has more the air of a court-martial than an awards celebration. I could hear Donna's molars grinding in her rising anger. The rest of our entourage exchanged wondering looks. The contrast to the manner of welcome given Mike and Diane at the CNO's office could not have been greater. I could hear Donna's molars grinding in her rising anger. The rest of our entourage exchanged wondering looks. The contrast to the manner of welcome given Mike and Diane at the CNO's office could not have been greater.

Our group entered the vice chief's office and my worst fears were realized. It was just him, General Larry Welch, and his aide. There was no celebratory cake-no celebratory anything. Even the room seemed cheap compared with the CNO's office.

I presented the general with a framed photo of the launch of STS-41D and tried to inject some levity into what was unfolding as a severe embarra.s.sment for our group. I joked, "General, the only way the s.p.a.ce shuttle could look better was if it hadUSAF emblazoned on the wings." emblazoned on the wings."

The general didn't find the comment the least bit amusing. Instead, he launched into a discussion on the air force budget and how important it was for money to be spent on the development of a new cargo airlifter, not on a new air forcemanned s.p.a.ce program. I wanted to scream, "It was a joke, general!"

The rest of the ceremony-if it could be called that-was quick. The general pinned the wings on my uniform, shook my hand, and posed for a photo. He made no comment about the fact I was the first nonpilot air force officer ever to fly in s.p.a.ce. Then the aide hustled us out of the office so the general could get back to work on those airlifters. I had never been more embarra.s.sed for my service. USN Admiral Truly had seen the debacle. Mike and Diane had seen it all. The NASA officials with us had seen it. The navy treated theirs like royalty; the air force treated Donna and me like an interruption. I wanted to crawl under a rock.

I held Donna's arm as we walked from the office, and I could feel her trembling in rage. She had received no acknowledgment from General Welch. This was supposed to have been the highlight of my career, and, by proxy, her life. She had put me in that rocket. To do it, she had buried friends, and consoled widows, and kissed her husband off to war, and endured four shuttle countdowns including one engine-start abort. As we exited the office, Donna cursed under her breath. It was a mark of her extreme outrage: I was the foul mouth of the family-Donna never swore. The aide was close enough to hear the word, but I doubted he had any idea as to the reason for the outburst. I knew the general was clueless about how close he had come to feeling the wrath of a woman scorned. His obliviousness reminded me of something an air force pilot had once said in Vietnam, "We've all seen tracers coming at us and think that's the closest we've come to death. In reality, some gomer in a rice paddy has probably fired an old single-shot rifle at us and the bullet pa.s.sed within a foot of our heads and we never knew." As a combat veteran, I'm sure General Welch had his "I was this close to death" stories, but in reality the closest he ever came to death was by the hands of my wife in his Pentagon office, not in the skies of Vietnam.

The manner in which I had been treated cleared up one source of wonder for me. Over the years, I could not understand why the air force hadn't done something about Abbey's preferential treatment of the navy astronauts. The next three missions to follow STS-41D were all to be commanded by navy pilots. On one of those, navy captain Bob Crippen would be flying his third mission as a shuttle commander before his peer, USAF colonel Karol Bobko, would fly his first. Why didn't the USAF see this as I and the other air force astronauts did-a slap in the face of the air force? Now I had my answer. The shuttle program and its air force astronaut corps were invisible to the top leadership in the U.S. Air Force. We were interruptions to more pressing business. When I got back to JSC, I spread the depressing word to others within the air force community. "Don't expect help from the Pentagon. We're on our own," was my message. Abbey could do whatever he wanted with us and there would be no outrage from our leaders. We were a forgotten squadron.

Chapter 24.

Part-time Astronauts.

The shuttle program introduced several new crewmember positions, besides mission specialists, to the business of s.p.a.ceflight. There were payload specialists (PSes) like Charlie Walker, who operated his McDonnell Douglas Corporation experiment on STS-41D. There were also military s.p.a.ce engineers (MSEs), officers the Department of Defense wanted to fly on some secret missions. There were European scientists a.s.signed by the European s.p.a.ce Agency (ESA) to fly as PSes on s.p.a.celab missions. The Canadian s.p.a.ce Agency was supplying the shuttle robot arm, so some of that agency's astronauts were put aboard the shuttle. NASA was also promising seats to other nations as a marketing tool.Launch your satellite on the shuttle and we'll throw in a ride for one of your citizens . An example of this program was when Prince Sultan Salman Al-Saud of Saudi Arabia flew as a pa.s.senger on a mission carrying a Saudi communication satellite. Another category included U.S. pa.s.sengers, for example schoolteacher Christa McAuliffe. And, finally, there were a handful of politicians who used their lawmaking positions to a.s.sign themselves to shuttle missions. What all of these people had in common was that they were not career NASA astronauts and usually flew only a single mission. They were part-time astronauts. . An example of this program was when Prince Sultan Salman Al-Saud of Saudi Arabia flew as a pa.s.senger on a mission carrying a Saudi communication satellite. Another category included U.S. pa.s.sengers, for example schoolteacher Christa McAuliffe. And, finally, there were a handful of politicians who used their lawmaking positions to a.s.sign themselves to shuttle missions. What all of these people had in common was that they were not career NASA astronauts and usually flew only a single mission. They were part-time astronauts.*

Training for part-timers was limited to their experiments, shuttle emergency escape procedures, and habitability practices: how to eat, sleep, and use the toilet. Mission commanders provided their own additional training in the form of the admonishment "Don't touch any shuttle switches!"

Another thing these people had in common was that, to a large degree, they were not welcomed by NASA astronauts, particularly by mission specialists. BeforeChallenger, twenty-two out of a total of seventy-five MS-available seats were filled by personnel who were not career NASA astronauts. That hurt. The line into s.p.a.ce was long and these part-timers made it longer. No, they were not welcome. twenty-two out of a total of seventy-five MS-available seats were filled by personnel who were not career NASA astronauts. That hurt. The line into s.p.a.ce was long and these part-timers made it longer. No, they were not welcome.*

While it would be easy to discount MS complaints about stolen seats as nothing more than union-esque protectionism, there was a legitimate reason for us to want the part-timer programs to be canceled. There was potential for these astronauts to imperil us. Imagine being in an airliner and hearing this comment over the intercom: "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. We are cruising at 35,000 feet so sit back and enjoy the flight. Oh, by the way, we have Mr. Jones up here in the c.o.c.kpit. He doesn't have a clue what all these switches are for but I've told him not to touch any. I a.s.sume he won't. And I don't really know how this guy would respond in stressful situations since I've only known him for a short time. But my airline headquarters says he'll be fine. Of course, they know him even less than I do, but what the heck, he seems like a nice guy. So don't worry when you see me step out of the c.o.c.kpit to use the toilet. Mr. Jones should be fine sitting up here by himself."

Beginning in 1984, NASA HQ began putting a lot of Mr. Joneses in the shuttle in the form of part-time astronauts and we didn't really know who they were. I meanreally know. I doubt many of them really knew themselves, at least in the sense of how they might react in stressful, even life-threatening, situations. know. I doubt many of them really knew themselves, at least in the sense of how they might react in stressful, even life-threatening, situations.

Military aviation, the background of many astronauts, is a dangerous and stress-filled occupation, frequently complicated by long separations from spouse and family. It is quick to eliminate the slow and the weak, either through an early death or administrative action. It is for this reason most aviators have an intrinsic trust of other aviators who have survived this winnowing process and a deep suspicion of pa.s.sengers who, for whatever reason, are given c.o.c.kpit access. This was the reason most of the military TFNGs had harbored doubts about the post-docs and other civilians when we had first come together in 1978. Who were these people? What stress-filtering processes had they been through? How were they going to react in dangerous situations? They had a lot to prove, and they did. NASA's astronaut training program made sure they had continuing chances to prove themselves in environments where mistakes could kill. They regularly flew in the backseat of T-38 jet trainers. They experienced sphincter contractions like the rest of us during various in-flight emergencies and bad weather instrument approaches. They went through sea-survival training. They dressed in s.p.a.cesuits and trained in vacuum chambers where one mistake would give them a few seconds to feel their blood boil inside their body before death came. After several years of this stress exposure, the military TFNGs had come to trust our civilian counterparts. They hadearned that trust. But the part-time-astronaut training program was measured in months and didn't provide the sustained and comprehensive stress-testing needed to truly evaluate a person's mettle. Part-timers got a ride or two in the Vomit Comet, a couple rides in the backseat of the T-38, and some sea-survival training. These were helpful evaluation venues, but hardly sufficient. So, it didn't surprise any TFNG when disturbing stories about the behavior of some of these part-timers began to make their way to the Monday meetings. that trust. But the part-time-astronaut training program was measured in months and didn't provide the sustained and comprehensive stress-testing needed to truly evaluate a person's mettle. Part-timers got a ride or two in the Vomit Comet, a couple rides in the backseat of the T-38, and some sea-survival training. These were helpful evaluation venues, but hardly sufficient. So, it didn't surprise any TFNG when disturbing stories about the behavior of some of these part-timers began to make their way to the Monday meetings.

One shuttle commander told of being very concerned about his part-timer's interest in the side hatch opening mechanism. The shuttle side hatch is very easy to open, intentionally designed so because of theApollo I tragedy. The initial Apollo capsules had a complex opening mechanism that is believed to have hindered that crew's escape from their burning c.o.c.kpit. Determined not to repeat that mistake with the shuttle, engineers designed its hatch to open with just one turn of a handle. And the hatch opens tragedy. The initial Apollo capsules had a complex opening mechanism that is believed to have hindered that crew's escape from their burning c.o.c.kpit. Determined not to repeat that mistake with the shuttle, engineers designed its hatch to open with just one turn of a handle. And the hatch opensoutward. Since the shuttle flies in the vacuum of s.p.a.ce with the c.o.c.kpit pressurized at 14.7 pounds per square inch, there are thousands of pounds of force acting to push the hatch open. If the handle was ever turned to the open position in s.p.a.ce, the hatch would explode outward, immediately decompressing the c.o.c.kpit and killing everybody aboard. Knowing this, how would you feel if a person Since the shuttle flies in the vacuum of s.p.a.ce with the c.o.c.kpit pressurized at 14.7 pounds per square inch, there are thousands of pounds of force acting to push the hatch open. If the handle was ever turned to the open position in s.p.a.ce, the hatch would explode outward, immediately decompressing the c.o.c.kpit and killing everybody aboard. Knowing this, how would you feel if a personyou really didn't know took an unusual interest in the hatch opening system? I daresay you would feel as that commander had...very concerned. It was after this mission that a padlock arrangement was placed on the hatch handle and only commanders were given the key. took an unusual interest in the hatch opening system? I daresay you would feel as that commander had...very concerned. It was after this mission that a padlock arrangement was placed on the hatch handle and only commanders were given the key.

Another part-timer story involved a PS on a mission from h.e.l.l. First, he fell victim to s.p.a.ce sickness. Then, his experiment failed. After years of peer reviews and shuttle delays, he was finally getting his one and only chance to operate the device in s.p.a.ce. Its failure severely depressed him and he surrendered to episodes of crying. But this was just the beginning of his torture. He turned out to be a cleanliness freak. What he imagined life would be like aboard the s.p.a.ce shuttle for two weeks with possible vomiting, no running water, and few changes of clothes was anybody's guess. Living aboard the shuttle doesn't leave its occupants feeling springtime fresh. If the toilet had functioned normally, the part-timer in question might have had a chance. But as luck would have it, the commode suffered a low-airflow malfunction. In his debriefing the commander had explained the situation: "We had to use our glove-wrapped fingers to separate the feces from our bodies." The already stressed-out PS now faced another significant challenge. His solution was to refuse to allow himself a BM. Over several days he miserably constipated himself, which aggravated his depression. A doctor aboard eventually convinced him to take a laxative, but afterward he refused to eat any solid foods to avoid more BMs. This lack of nutrition further compromised his mental and physical health. In debriefing, the mission CDR summarized the situation he had faced: "I had a depressed, crying, constipated PS on my hands. I thought I was going to have to place him under a suicide watch." It was only by the grace of G.o.d that some of these part-timers didn't cause problems that would have jeopardized mission success or worse.

STS-51G, which included the Saudi prince and a Frenchman, provided another part-timer story. (Among TFNGs, STS-51G was known as the "Frog and the Prince" mission.) Prince Al-Saud brought a handful of experiments from Saudi universities to fly into s.p.a.ce along with a request to observe the new moon, which would be visible at the end of the flight. NASA approved this request and included it in the Crew Activity Plan (CAP), giving it the label LCO, or Lunar Crescent Observation. The LCO was actually religious in nature. The mission was going to occur in the ninth month of the Muslim calendar, the fast of Ramadan. This period of fasting and spiritual contemplation ended at the sighting of the new crescent moon. Prince Al-Saud just wanted to be a s.p.a.ce observer to the end of the fast of Ramadan. The new moon.o.bservation request was apparently approved by HQ without knowledge of its religious importance. When the mission commander, Dan Brandenstein, later learned of its significance, he was concerned the prince might be planning to use the shuttle as a 200-mile-high minaret to make a religious announcement over the radio. If that happened, the American press would fillet NASA for allowing a U.S. s.p.a.cecraft to be employed by a foreign national for religious purposes. Knowing he would be at the center of that s.h.i.t-storm, Brandenstein confronted the prince and made him agree on the exact wording he would use if he discussed the moon observation on the air-to-ground link, wording devoid of anything religious. While this issue was merely a distraction for Brandenstein, it was one he didn't need. Shuttle commanders had enough on their plate getting ready for a flight. They didn't need to be worrying about what pa.s.sengers might say over the radios.

It wasn't just mission commanders who were bothered with part-timer issues. While I was a CAPCOM for the Frog and the Prince mission, Shannon Lucid's bare legs were an issue that came to my desk. (Shannon was an MS on the crew.) Like most crews, the STS-51G astronauts had changed into shorts and golf shirts for their orbit operations. There had been several TV downlinks in which Shannon had been seen working in her shorts. Prior to the orbit news conference, the public affairs officer sent the flight director a note requesting that the crew "dress in pants for the press conference." When the note came to me I understood its intent. Public affairs was concerned the Arab world might find it offensive for one of their princes to be seen hovering in midair with a woman's naked legs prominently displayed next to him. I tossed the note in the garbage. HQ could fire me but I wasn't going to tell an American woman to modify her dress to accommodate the values of a medieval, repressive society where women couldn't drive cars, much less fly s.p.a.ce shuttles. I wanted to call Shannon and tell her to wear a thong for the press conference. The irony wasn't lost on me. I was taking a stand for women's rights! Feminist America owes Mike Mullane one. As it was, the framing of the camera for the press conference only captured the crew's upper bodies. Shannon's legs, covered or not, were not visible.

Other cultural issues with foreign nationals surfaced. One guest crewmember told his CAPCOM he wanted the national anthem of his country played every morning as the wake-up music...and he wasn't joking. The request was denied. Another foreigner provided the name of the immediate family member he wanted on the LCC roof to watch his launch. NASA a.s.sumed the woman was his wife but it turned out to be his mistress. He had left his wife at home.

Another example of the negative impact of the part-timer program on mission operations occurred with the fatalChallenger flight. The primary objective of that mission was actually to launch a several-hundred-million-dollar communication satellite that was critical to NASA's and the U.S. Air Force's s.p.a.ce operations. But an outsider would never have known that from the way HQ acted. In their eyes the mission was to put a teacher in s.p.a.ce. If the satellite was deployed, well, that would be nice, too. But as long as Christa McAuliffe's s.p.a.ce lesson got beamed into every elementary school in America, the mission would be successful. Unfortunately, as the mission moved toward launch, a weather delay pushed the flight twenty-four hours to the right-and Christa's s.p.a.ce lesson to a Sat.u.r.day. For NASA's PR team this was a disaster. The s.p.a.ce lesson would not be live. It would have to be recorded and rebroadcast. To the surprise of no astronauts, NASA went to work to revise the flight plan and move the s.p.a.ce lesson to a school day. All who were aware of what was going on were outraged. Astronauts and MCC live by the motto "Plan the flight and fly the plan." Tens of millions of dollars are spent in simulations to prepare crews for their missions. The Crew Activity Plan, the mission bible, is fixed early in the training flow for the very purpose of ensuring the crew and MCC are thoroughly prepared. Major CAP modifications, even months from a launch, are rarely done and then only when essential to the success of the primary mission objective. Significant flight plan changes close to a launch merely to accommodate a secondary mission objective were unheard of. For any other mission, if someone suggested a flight plan rewrite flight. The primary objective of that mission was actually to launch a several-hundred-million-dollar communication satellite that was critical to NASA's and the U.S. Air Force's s.p.a.ce operations. But an outsider would never have known that from the way HQ acted. In their eyes the mission was to put a teacher in s.p.a.ce. If the satellite was deployed, well, that would be nice, too. But as long as Christa McAuliffe's s.p.a.ce lesson got beamed into every elementary school in America, the mission would be successful. Unfortunately, as the mission moved toward launch, a weather delay pushed the flight twenty-four hours to the right-and Christa's s.p.a.ce lesson to a Sat.u.r.day. For NASA's PR team this was a disaster. The s.p.a.ce lesson would not be live. It would have to be recorded and rebroadcast. To the surprise of no astronauts, NASA went to work to revise the flight plan and move the s.p.a.ce lesson to a school day. All who were aware of what was going on were outraged. Astronauts and MCC live by the motto "Plan the flight and fly the plan." Tens of millions of dollars are spent in simulations to prepare crews for their missions. The Crew Activity Plan, the mission bible, is fixed early in the training flow for the very purpose of ensuring the crew and MCC are thoroughly prepared. Major CAP modifications, even months from a launch, are rarely done and then only when essential to the success of the primary mission objective. Significant flight plan changes close to a launch merely to accommodate a secondary mission objective were unheard of. For any other mission, if someone suggested a flight plan rewritetwenty-four hours prior to launch to facilitate a secondary objective they would have been staked out in the launchpad flame bucket. But STS-51L wasn't any other mission: It was the "Teacher-in-s.p.a.ce" mission. The flight plan was rewritten. to facilitate a secondary objective they would have been staked out in the launchpad flame bucket. But STS-51L wasn't any other mission: It was the "Teacher-in-s.p.a.ce" mission. The flight plan was rewritten.

AfterChallenger 's loss, Commander d.i.c.k Scobee's effects were cleaned from his desk. Among those was a list of notes he had been keeping for his postmission debriefing. One of those note