Hawley tried to calm him. “That’s bullshit. 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 Picasso and sculptures by Michelangelo. Dick Scobee joined in with more bullshit. 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 retards. I recall a Monday meeting in which he made an impassioned 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 was
I 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 hell and feminist hell, I’ll also burn in post-doc hell.
Chapter 10
Temples of History
In our early TFNG months we were introduced to the Outpost Tavern, a temple of space 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 décor consisted of space 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 assumed 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 bitched 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 Space Museum in Washington, D.C. It is as much a part of space history as the rocket planes hanging from the museum ceiling.
Our TFNG apprenticeship also introduced us to the loftiest temple of space 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 the
Apollo 11
landing. Here was where the words, “Houston, we have a problem” were first received when an explosion shattered the
Apollo 13
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, spacecraft 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 spacecraft. 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 the
Apollo 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.
The escort shifted our focus to the CAPCOM position. This was the only MCC position that astronauts filled. CAPCOM was the “Capsule Communicator,” the term
capsule
a carryover from the days in which astronauts flew in capsules. Early in the space 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 spacecraft 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 cockpit was transformed into a furnace. The
Apollo 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.
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 assume 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 space shuttle killed us.
Chapter 11
The F***ing New Guys
In spite of the sobering wake-up call delivered by the
Apollo 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 shit sandwiches we would have gobbled them down through smiles. To the tourists who strolled the byways of Johnson Space 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 class 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 rather
unique
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 of
The 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 worshipers.