“Christ on a crutch, that was close, Mike.”
Dad christened that rocket the “Kamikaze,” which set him off on another story about how a damn Jap kamikaze had almost rammed his plane. “I emptied my twin 50s at the bastard and never landed a hit. But he missed us anyway, just like that rocket.”
As 1957 drew to a close, I was filled with anticipation. Not because of any party to celebrate the New Year, but rather because 1958 was to be the IGY, the International Geophysical Year. If there was ever a measure of how consumed I was by space, this was it…that I was as impatient for the IGY to arrive as most kids were for the end of school. I had read about it in several science magazines. A host of countries were to cooperatively investigate space with sounding rockets and instrumented balloons, and the United States was going to launch its own satellites. I couldn’t wait.
My greatest treasure of this epoch was the book
Conquest of Space
by Willy Ley. Forget Homer and Shakespeare and Hemingway. They were hacks. For me Willy Ley was the greatest writer of all time. His descriptions of spaceflight supplemented by Chesley Bonestell’s magnificent space paintings launched me into orbit decades before a NASA rocket.
“…there will be zero hour, zero minute, and zero second, and then the roaring bellow from the exhaust nozzles of the ship…the ship will ride up on the roaring flames, disappearing in the sky in less than a minute…
“The earth will be a monstrous ball somewhere behind the ship, and the pilot will find himself surrounded by space. Black space, strewn all over with the countless jewels of distant suns, the stars. Stretching across the great blackness the pilot will see the Milky Way.”
To my twelve-year-old brain there was no more wonderful prose written in any language anywhere. I could
see
that great ball of Earth. I could
see
those stars. I could
see
the deep blackness. I read the book again and again. I read it until the pages came unhinged. I consumed Bonestell’s paintings like other boys ogled the breasts of African natives in
National Geographic.
There were illustrations of astronauts watching a “canalled” Mars from one of its moons, Deimos. Other paintings showed spacesuited explorers walking among the mountains of our moon and on the gravel desert of Saturn’s moon, Mimas. The subtitle on Ley’s book said it all, “A preview of the greatest adventure awaiting mankind.”
As soon as there was a NASA, I became its number-one fan. I watched every launch on TV. I wrote for photos and stuck them on the walls of my bedroom. I knew at sight every missile in the U.S. arsenal…Redstone, Vanguard, Jupiter, Thor, Atlas, Titan. I could recite their height, thrust, and payload weight. I learned NASA’s vocabulary: apogee, perigee, payload, LOX, A-okay. I sent NASA drawings of my own rockets and gave them helpful suggestions on how they might build better missiles. I followed the trials and tribulations of NASA’s program with the same passion other kids followed their favorite ball team. When the
Mercury 7
astronauts were announced I memorized their biographies and pored over
Life
magazine’s photo-essays on them and their machines. I couldn’t wait to be one of them and constructed a fantasy in which I would actually
replace
them. One of the points continually raised in the news was the anemic thrust of NASA’s rockets. The United States launched grapefruit-size satellites while the Russian payloads were measured in tons. I was convinced, when all was said and done, Alan Shepard and John Glenn and the other astronauts would be too heavy to be blasted into orbit. In my dream NASA would be unable to find any adult test pilot light enough for one of their rockets to lift. They would then search among the skinny kids of America to staff the astronaut corps. I wrote to NASA with that very suggestion, making sure my name and address were prominent.
The rockets and posters and sky watching weren’t enough. Astronauts were pilots. I had to fly. At age sixteen I began flying lessons. After a dozen hours my instructor deemed me safe enough to solo. There are some memories so seared into our synapses we carry them to our graves—our first sexual experience, the birth of our children, combat, the death of a loved one. I can include my first solo flight in those memories that will play in full Technicolor in my age-addled brain. Four decades later I can still feel the adrenaline-boosted flutter of my heart as I taxied onto the runway and glanced at that empty right seat. My left hand gripped the yoke so tightly I’m surprised I didn’t liquefy the plastic. My right hand was welded to the ball of the throttle. I lifted my feet from the brakes, slid the throttle to the firewall, and the machine slipped down the runway. I had never experienced a sound more sweet than the roar of that 100-horsepower engine. I eased the yoke back and watched the Earth fall away. Even in my later space shuttle launches I doubt my heart was pounding as it was at this moment in my life. I was flying! Later I walked to the car with the three most wonderful words in the English language written in my logbook:
Cleared for solo
.
Unfortunately, there was one major impediment to continuing my flying lessons. Money. I had a little saved from summer jobs but flying lessons were expensive. It has been said that necessity is the mother of invention. For teenage boys, necessity is the mother of idiocy. At the time I had a teen friend who had also achieved solo status in his flying lessons and, like me, was struggling to find the funds to continue. We put our heads together and came up with a way to make our money go further. He would rent a plane from one of the Albuquerque airports and fly it to another city field. There, I would meet him and we would fly together, sharing expenses and flying time. There was just one small problem with our plan: It was felonious. As student pilots we could only fly solo or with our instructors. On every flight we would be violating FAA rules. But we quickly concluded that getting caught would be the only crime, and with him flying to a secondary airport to pick me up, we had reduced the chances of discovery.
We decided to see how high we could climb and nursed the Cessna to 13,000 feet, violating yet another FAA requirement that supplemental oxygen be used above 12,000 feet. On another day we wanted to feel the thrill of speed and skimmed just yards above the cholla cactus of the Albuquerque deserts. The spires of the nearby Sandia Mountains were a lure and we weaved through those, all the while buffeted by severe downdrafts.
And on every flight I dreamed of someday flying higher and faster, of doing what Willy Ley had described. I dreamed of feeling the crush of a rocket’s G-forces on my body and of seeing the great globe of Earth behind my ship. I dreamed of the day I would fly a rocket as part of the “Conquest of Space.”
“Mike, at the most fundamental level we’re all motivated by things that occurred in our youth. Tell me about your childhood, your family.” A smiling Dr. McGuire awaited my answer. But I kept the shields up. I said nothing about Washing Machine Charlie or polio or near-death experiences in the wilds of the west or exploding rockets or violating FAA rules. What would those stories have said about Mike Mullane? That I had been emotionally scarred by my dad’s struggle with polio? That I was an out-of-control risk taker? That I scorned rules? There was no way I was going to reveal that history. So I lied.
“I was raised in a Beaver Cleaver family,” I said. “No divorces. No anxieties. No emotional baggage. My dad was an air force flyer and his influence excited me about flight. I was a child of the space race and that exposure excited me about spaceflight. As soon as there were astronauts, I wanted to be one.” End of story.
It was probably the same story he heard from every military flyer. No doubt some of the civilians, unaccustomed to the reality that doctors of any stripe can only hurt your flying career, broke down in tears as they revealed they were breast-fed by their mothers until they were six or were abandoned or beaten or molested or sucked their thumbs or wet their beds. But military flyers knew better. We would have lied about a wooden leg or a glass eye.
You find it
would have been our attitude. I had a one-in-seven chance of making the astronaut cut. I didn’t want anything to stand out in any report coming out of my medical exams. I wanted to be so normal that when somebody looked up that word in the dictionary, they would see my picture. So I lied. I didn’t mention pissing in radiators or exploding car engines or dodging mountains in a Cessna 150. I lied even when the truth might have helped my cause.
Chapter 5
Selection
On February 1, 1978, the first space shuttle–era astronauts, thirty-five in number, stood on the stage in the auditorium of Building 2 at Johnson Space Center (JSC) to be formally introduced to the world. I was one of them.
The actual press announcement had come two weeks earlier. At that time I had been on temporary duty from my Florida base to Mt. Home AFB, Idaho, testing the new EF-111 aircraft. Like the other 208 people who had gone through the astronaut selection process, I had had an ear tuned to the telephone for several months. Not that I expected to be picked. Far from it. I felt it had been a fluke I had made the interview cut in the first place. In their more studied deliberations the NASA committee would finally realize what they had in Mike Mullane: an above-average type of guy; nothing spectacular; a twelve-hundredand-something SAT guy; a 181st-in-his-West Point-class type of guy; a guy incapable of counting backward by 7s. There was no way I was going to twice fool an organization that had put men on the moon. But, like a lottery player who knows he is going to lose, I was still going to check the numbers.
On Monday morning, January 16, 1978, the numbers came up and I was a loser. I was certain of it. While dressing for work, I turned on the TV. I wasn’t on it. But Sally Ride and five other women were. NASA had announced the newest group of astronauts, including the first women astronauts. There was video of newshounds jostling for position in front of their homes. Vans with brightly colored TV call letters crowded the streets. Curious neighbors circled the houses. And these smiling, radiant, joyful young women answered questions shouted by the press, “What’s it like to know you are one of the first women astronauts? When did you want to be an astronaut? Did you cry when you heard the news? Will you be scared when you ride the shuttle?”
I went to my living room and drew back the curtain to see if there was a squadron of news vans parked in my driveway. Nope. No vans. No frothing press. No neighbors. Nothing. I was alone to dwell on my rejection. I tried to rationalize my loss:
It wasn’t meant to be.
I had given it my best shot.
Maybe I’ll get selected next time.
You never know unless you try.
I sought comfort in these and a hundred other motivational platitudes. But none helped. The winners were on TV. The losers were watching them. I thought of calling my wife, Donna, in Florida and telling her the bad news, but decided it could wait. I just didn’t feel like talking about it.
I drove to my Mt. Home AFB office to find Donna had tried to reach me there. She had left a message, “Mr. Abbey at NASA called this morning and wants you to call him back.” George Abbey was chief of Flight Crew Operations Directorate (FCOD), the NASA JSC division that included the astronaut office. He had chaired the astronaut candidate interview boards. I was certain this would be his “thanks for the effort” call.
I dialed the number and got Abbey’s secretary. After a moment of holding (more proof of rejection) he came on the line. “Mike, are you still interested in coming to JSC as an astronaut?”
In the moments that followed I proved it is possible to live with a stopped heart. Over the previous hour I had built a precise rejection scenario. The women on TV were proof NASA had notified the lucky winners. (Actually, the women had been notified first so there would be thorough news coverage of their novelty.) Now, NASA was just following up with courtesy calls to the rest of us. But George’s lead-in question certainly didn’t sound like a prelude to a rejection.
There wasn’t enough spit in my mouth to wet a stamp but somehow I managed to croak a reply, “Yes, sir. I would definitely be interested in coming to JSC.”
Interested?!
What the hell was I saying?! I was
interested
in having Hugh Hefner’s job. I would
kill
to be an astronaut.
Abbey continued, “Well, we’d like you to report here in July as a new astronaut candidate.”
I don’t recall anything else from that conversation. I was blind, deaf, and dumb with joy. NASA had selected Mike Mullane as an astronaut.
I immediately called Donna with the news. “I told you! I told you, Mike! Didn’t I always say everything would work out for the best? I told you!” And she had. Again and again she had. She had never lost faith. I wanted so much to be with her to share in the thrill, but it wasn’t to be. I wouldn’t be home for another couple days.
I called my mom and dad and they were as stunned as I. My dad and I laughed as we reminisced about launching my homemade rockets. I could sense that my mom, ever the pragmatic parent, was already anticipating the danger this new job would bring. No doubt her rosary was going to get a workout over the next couple years.
I called my commander in Florida. After offering his congratulations, he said Brewster Shaw and Dick Covey, both test pilots in the squadron, had also gotten Abbey calls. They were in. But other pilots were receiving rejection calls. I hurt for them. But not for long. My boundless, intoxicating joy roared back.
That night I bought beer for the rest of my Mt. Home AFB office and included them in my celebration. At that particular moment I was glad I was away from my home squadron. Most of the Idaho EF-111 flyers were from the USAF Tactical Air Command and none had applied for the astronaut program. My celebration with them was unalloyed. That was not going to be the case at my Eglin AFB flight-test squadron, which was filled with test pilots and test engineers. Virtually everyone had applied. The losers’ disappointment was going to be as crushing as my joy was over-the-top. Shaw and Covey would have their celebration tempered by the presence of people who were dying inside.