Mike Mullane - Riding Rockets

Astronaut office politics were also a significant cause for worry. There wasn’t an air force astronaut who didn’t think George Abbey was navy-biased in his flight assignments. Nine of the first eleven shuttle missions had been commanded by active duty or retired navy astronauts. Hank Hartsfield was only the second astronaut with air force roots to command a mission. And a glance downstream showed crews commanded by Crippen, Hauck, and Mattingly—all navy. If anybody was going to get screwed because of Discovery ’s delay, it wasn’t going to be them. They had Godfather Abbey’s protection. I felt as if the entire STS-41D crew were walking around with a sign pinned to our backs: “Cancel This Mission.”

But it didn’t happen. Instead, the ax fell on STS-41F, Bo Bobko’s mission. His payload would be added to ours, while he and his crew would be cut adrift to find something else downstream. Bo was retired air force. The USAF astronaut contingent cursed Abbey…again. I felt bad for Bo and company, but not for long. We were Lazarus back from the dead or, in this case, back in the front of the line.

Our major payloads would now include three communication satellites and Judy’s solar panel experiment. We would also have a new center engine. Ground tests had been unable to duplicate the problem with the original SSME. Engineers could only assume there had been some minute contamination in the hydraulic system, which had caused a fuel value to malfunction. As a precaution, the engine was replaced.

August 29, 1984, found us once again in the cockpit of Discovery. By now we were old hands at strapping in and waiting. But it didn’t get any easier. My bladder continued to torture me. My heart continued to race away in fear. And it didn’t get any easier for Discovery. At T-9 minutes our third launch attempt was scrubbed for a Master Events Controller (MEC) malfunction. I was going to vomit before I got into space.

August 30. Another day. Another launch attempt. While awaiting our turns to enter the cockpit Judy and I slapped mosquitoes off each other’s back. The little bastards could drill right through our flight suits. Judy observed that the insects seemed worse than yesterday. I told her it was because our launch scrubs had trained them. “They knew we’d be standing here this morning. And they know we’ll be standing here at this exact time tomorrow, the next day, and every day afterward. We’re on their menu every day.”

Judy brushed away my pessimism. “We’ll do it today, Tarzan. I’ve got good vibes.”

I didn’t share her enthusiasm. I was emotionally exhausted. Clinical depression was on the horizon, suicide to follow.

A call came from the white room that it was my turn to be harnessed up. For the fourth time I embraced Judy. “This is the only thing fun about these scrubs. I get to hug you every morning.”

Judy smiled. “That’s sexual harassment, Tarzan.”

“I hope so.”

I wished her good luck and walked toward the cockpit.

She called after me. “See you in space, Tarzan.”

As the hours ticked by, I began to believe Judy’s vibes were right. The count proceeded smoothly. Milestone after milestone came and went without a negative word being spoken. The weather was great in Florida and at our abort sites. A little sunshine began to melt my black pessimism.

Then it happened again. We were notified the T-9 minute hold would be extended. This time the problem was with the Ground Launch Sequencer (GLS). I guessed we’d never get off the ground until everything broke at least one time. I ached for Donna and the kids, back on the LCC roof. It had to be killing them.

Just as the discussions on the GLS began to sound promising we were slapped with another problem. Some bozo in a light airplane had entered the closed airspace around the pad. We would have to hold until that plane was out of the area. The intercom seethed in our rage. We all simultaneously developed Tourette’s syndrome. Even Judy swore like a convict. Shoot the fucker down, was the general consensus. Previous shuttles had been delayed for the same reason, as well as for pleasure boats violating the offshore danger areas. Every astronaut thought these violators should be shot from the sky and sunk in the sea. Even astronauts enjoying a smooth countdown had no tolerance for idiots getting in the way of their launch, much less a crew as abused as ours.

As we waited, the LCC cleared the GLS problem. Now it was a matter of waiting until the light airplane exited the area. After nearly a seven-minute delay, its pilot pulled his head out of his ass and flew off. We all wished him engine failure. The count resumed.

Mike started the APUs at T-5 minutes. They all looked good. The sweep of the flight control system followed. It was also error-free.

At T-2 minutes we closed our helmet visors. Bob Sieck, the launch director, wished us good luck. Hank acknowledged, thanking him and his team for their efforts. I was glad I didn’t have to say anything at this point. My mouth was a desert.

T-1 minute. Hank reminded us, “Eyes on the instruments.”

T-31 seconds. “Go for auto-sequence start.” I made one last prayer for Donna and the kids…and again to God, “If you’re going to kill me, please do it above fifty miles altitude.”

T-10 seconds. “Go for main engine start.” The engine manifold pressures shot up.

T-6 seconds. For the second time in my life I felt the violence of SSME start. Two months earlier I had thought these vibrations were a guarantee for liftoff. No longer. Until there were goose eggs on the clock I would remain skeptical.

5…4…3…We finally entered new countdown territory.

2…1…At zero there was no doubt we had finally slipped the surly bonds of earth. As the hold-down bolts were blown, we were slapped with a combined thrust of more than 7 million pounds. A new wave of intense vibrations roared over us.

“Houston, Discovery is in the roll.”

“Roger, roll, Discovery. ” Discovery ’s autopilot was in control. Hank and Mike reached to their Attitude Director Indicator (ADI) switches and flipped them to change the mode of the ball. I watched Hank’s ADI reflect Discovery ’s tilt toward the risen sun. If our ascent was nominal, the ADI switch would be the only switch touched until MECO…8½ minutes, 4 million pounds of propellant, and 17,300 miles per hour away. Please, God, that it be so. Having to use other switches could only mean one thing: something wasn’t nominal. My eyes fell on the contingency abort cue card Velcroed to Hank’s window frame. It detailed procedures for ditching the shuttle, which all of us knew would be death. NASA called all the other abort modes “intact aborts”—the orbiter and crew would be recovered “intact” either in the United States, Europe, or Africa. But they couldn’t bring themselves to call a ditching abort a “not intact abort.” Like sailors of old painting the decks red so the blood of battle wouldn’t shock a crew, NASA camouflaged the ditching procedures with the title “contingency abort.” One of the card’s helpful suggestions was to ditch parallel to the waves. Astronauts joked that the contingency abort procedures were just something to read while we were dying. For some reason the joke seemed funnier while standing at the office coffee bar.

Except for the noise, vibrations, and G-forces, the ride was just like the simulator, which is akin to the circus Human Cannonball saying, “Except for the earsplitting explosion, the G-forces, and the wind up your nose, it’s just like sitting on a case of unlit dynamite.” NASA would never duplicate this ride in any ground simulator.

“Throttle down.” We were forty seconds up and the vibrations intensified as the vehicle punched through the sound barrier. Everything was shocking the air…the giant, bulbous nose of the ET, the pointed cones of the SRBs, the orbiter’s nose, wings, and tail, the struts holding everything together. The interplaying shock waves were an aerodynamic cacophony and the engines throttled back to keep the vehicle from tearing itself apart.