Mike Mullane - Riding Rockets

While it appeared we would remain invisible to the civilian world, we did have a “black world” postflight tour around the country. We visited the classified control center for our payload. We showed films of the satellite release and thanked everyone who contributed to the mission. It was all very staid and professional until Hoot presented a Swine Flight autographed photo to the unit commander. It was of the free-flying payload bearing Shep’s inscription, Suck on this, you commie dogs! The group crowded around to see the photo. They couldn’t wait to get it on their wall. Shep had made them feel like the warriors they were.

In a visit to Washington, D.C., we were invited to the Pentagon to brief the Joint Chiefs of Staff on our mission. My heartrate was as high walking into that office as it had been walking across the shuttle cockpit access arm. There was a veritable constellation of stars in the room, including five four-star generals and admirals. When a cute female lieutenant walked in, Hoot delivered a sotto voce “snort” in my ear. Jesus, I thought, does he ever NOT live on the edge? Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral William J. Crowe, Jr., was taking a seat not more than fifteen feet away and Hoot was snorting an aide-de-camp! Depending on your perspective it was either a new low or new high for Swine Flight. I discreetly elbowed him. If I got the giggles from his antics now, that urinal-scrubbing assignment in Thule would be back in play.

In a mark of his leadership style, Hoot asked each member of the crew to say a few words about our mission tasks. I knew there were plenty of other egocentric commanders who would have hogged the stage for themselves. Not Hoot. After we all made our remarks and had taken our seats, Admiral Crowe asked his staff to rise and said, “I think we owe this crew a round of applause for their outstanding work,” and five flag officers heartily responded. I was numb. The joint chiefs of staff of the United States military, led by their chairman—a total of twenty stars—were standing to applaud Mike Mullane. I could not have been more shocked if Hoot had stood up and announced he and Shep were gay lovers.

The day only got more unusual. We were driven to a classified location for an awards ceremony. As we followed our escort through multiple layers of security, I whispered to Hoot, “Maybe we’ll meet Pussy Galore.” He replied with a snort.

We were finally led into a walk-in vault where we were greeted by a senior government official. He offered his thanks for our work, then pinned the National Intelligence Medal of Achievement on each of our chests. Inwardly I laughed at the title. It sounded like an award for the brainless scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. But it was a pride-filled moment for me, even exceeding what I had experienced in Admiral Crowe’s office. I felt directly connected to America’s defense in a way I had never felt in Vietnam or in my NATO forces tour. On STS-27 with the RMS controls in my hand, I had been at the tip of the spear.

The citation accompanying the medal reads

…in recognition of his superior performance of duty of high value to the United States as Mission Specialist, Space Shuttle

Atlantis,

from 2 December 1988 to 5 December 1988. During this period, Colonel Mullane performed in a superior manner in deploying a critical national satellite to space. Colonel Mullane expertly operated the Remote Maneuvering System (RMS) to lift the satellite out of its cradle and position it for deployment of subsystems. The release of the system was performed so expertly that the spacecraft was left in a remarkably precise and totally stable condition. This allowed the activation sequence to continue expeditiously. Colonel Mullane’s superior operation of the Shuttle Remote Arm, as well as his initiative and devotion to duty, led to the safe unberthing and deployment of a critical new satellite system crucial to our national defense and treaty verification. The singularly superior performance of Colonel Mullane reflects great credit upon himself, the United States Air Force, and the Intelligence Community.

As the meeting broke up, I was looking forward to telling Donna about the award. It was as much hers as it was mine. She had earned it on that LCC roof. But my anticipation ended at the vault door. We were asked to hand back the medal. “Sorry, but this award is classified. You can’t wear it publicly or talk about it. It won’t appear on your official records. But if you are ever in town and want to come over and wear it in this vault, be our guests.” Amazing, I thought. We had received a medal we could only wear in a vault. James Bond might have been able to tell Dr. Goodhead (snort) about his daring adventures, but we couldn’t tell anybody about ours, not even our wives. (The award was declassified several years after the mission.)

No call ever came from the White House, but Swine Flight did score one gem of a PR trip into the civilian world. Dan Brandenstein decided that the STS-26 crew had overstayed their welcome in the “Return to Flight” spotlight and redlined them from the Super Bowl event. Our crew would make the trip to Miami and represent NASA during the Super Bowl XXIII halftime show.

Accompanied by our wives, we flew to Miami the day before the big game. That evening we were the guests of NFL Commissioner Pete Rozelle at a party…along with three thousand of his closest friends. The event was held in a convention facility and around its entryway balcony sat a clutch of harp-playing women dressed as cowgirl saloon hookers. The choreographer of that act had to have been on LSD. Later I noticed the ladies were faking their “plucks.” When they took a break, the harp music continued. And their music wasn’t the only thing being faked. Squadrons of silicone-stretched zeppelin breasts, mounted on Pamela Anderson look-alikes, cruised the room. Every escort service in the state must have sold out and then called Vegas for backup.

Mountains of food, rivers of booze, and live bands in every corner occupied the crowd. Donna and I loaded up our plates and searched for seats. I had the great misfortune to find two at a table with a fat, lavishly bejeweled gasbag of a woman who saw our arrival as an excuse to recount how rich and well-traveled she was. There was nothing on my guest badge to identify me as an astronaut and her glances at my cheap suit and Donna’s middle-class wardrobe must have given her the impression I was some NFL groupie she could lord over. Her husband looked up from his food and communicated a “sucker” look to me. He never said a word, just ate, maintaining a grin on his face the entire time as if to say, “Good, now you’ve got her and I don’t have to listen to that runaway pie hole of hers.” I finally wearied of her nonstop travelogue and interrupted to say, “I’m an astronaut, so I’ve seen a little of the world, too.” With that Donna and I rose from the table and departed, leaving her speechless, no doubt for the first time in her life.

The next day, January 22, 1989, found us in a skybox at Joe Robbie Stadium preparing to watch the San Francisco 49ers battle the Cincinnati Bengals. There was just one significant distraction: Billy Joel, who was to sing the national anthem, brought along his wife, Christie Brinkley, and they were ensconced in an adjoining skybox. Just a glass wall separated us. This arrangement created the greatest dilemma in the history of maledom. In front of me was the sports spectacle of the year. Joe Montana and Boomer Esiason were calling the signals for their teams. Seventy-five thousand fans were screaming. Even the STS-26 crew didn’t create a moment like this. But a few yards to our right was Christie Brinkley, arguably one of the most beautiful women on the planet. What was a man to do?