I appealed for help from the JSC office pursuing the OMS burn change, the office of Flight Director Jay Greene. Jay had cut his teeth as a young MCC flight controller during the Apollo program. I held him in great esteem. He was heart-and-soul dedicated to crew safety. If he and FDO were saying that an uphill OMS burn was going to make things safer for the crews during some aborts, then it would. I asked him to come to Young’s office with the supporting engineers to make their case to Young. He would be happy to was his reply. I felt good about what I had arranged. Jay was a well-regarded flight director. John wouldhave to listen to him.
At the appointed hour I rendezvoused with Jay and his entourage of engineers and we walked to Young’s office. It was empty. When I asked where he was, his secretary sheepishly replied, “He went to get a haircut.” I wanted to scream. He had stiff-armed me. His mind was made up. He didn’t want to hear any contrary arguments from anybody.
In an attempt to gain the support of other astronauts, I presented some data on the RSS situation at the September 15, 1986, Monday morning meeting. I was hardly able to finish a sentence. Young heckled me at every turn. I was humiliated. Over a beer I mentioned my travails to Hoot Gibson. Hoot exploded, “I’ve had the same problem with him on the issues I’m working and I’ve just quit listening and talking to him.”
As the weeks passed I fell further into the depression that had started withChallenger ’s loss. I had lost friends. I had lost a mission into polar orbit. Now the core of my professional life, my work ethic, was slipping away. All my life I had been intent on getting the job done. When the first psychiatrist of my TFNG interview had asked me what my personal strength was, I had truthfully replied, “I always do my best.” It was my hallmark. I knew I wasn’t the smartest astronaut. But I was solid, reliable. I always got the job done…until now. I hated my job. I hated my boss. When I slept, which wasn’t much, I had dreams of Judy’s necklace and exploding shuttles and writhing SRBs and walking through the gore of a crash site.
My distress had long been known to Donna. Every evening I would recount my stories of abuse to her. As always, she listened and lent her support…and lit more bonfires of votive candles to send her prayers heavenward for my delivery from Young. We talked about leaving NASA. I could return to the air force, but I knew I wouldn’t be happy there. The only thing awaiting me in the USAF was a desk. I would never see the inside of a cockpit again. I was too old and too senior in rank. I would end up buried in the bowels of the Pentagon. I didn’t want to leave NASA. I wanted to fly again. MyDiscovery flight couldn’t compare with what some of my peers had done on their missions. Pinky Nelson, “Ox” van Hoften, Dale Gardner, and Bob Stewart had all done tetherless spacewalks. They had donned MMUs and, like real-life Buck Rogerses, had jetted away from their shuttles into the abyss of space. Kathy Sullivan, Dale Gardner, Dave Griggs, and Jeff Hoffman had done traditional tethered spacewalks. Sally Ride had used the robot arm to deploy and retrieve a satellite. Rhea Seddon had used the robot arm in an attempt to activate a malfunctioning satellite. I wanted to do similar things that challenged my skills as a mission specialist. I wanted a spacewalk flight. I wanted to fly a mission with an RMS task. I wanted a high-inclination orbit so I could see my Albuquerque home from space. And there was only one place on Earth I could do these things…at NASA. As much as I wanted to walk into Young’s office and tell him, “Take this job and shove it!” I couldn’t. There was no place else to go and ride a rocket into space. I would have to endure.
On September 19, astronauts celebrated for the first time sinceChallenger with a party at a local club. I had been looking forward to it. After nine brutal months, it would be good to erase my brain with a few drinks and have some fun with my fellow TFNGs. Donna and I sat at a table with the Brandensteins, Coveys, and Boldens (class of 1980). After dinner, Bob Cabana, the class leader of the latest group of astronauts to arrive at JSC (class of 1985), walked to the stage and invited George Abbey to step forward and receive an autographed photo of their class. The image immediately brought to mind our TFNG efforts to brownnose Abbey back in 1978. Kathy Covey let out a “woo, woo, woo” catcall. We all understood her sarcasm. Every astronaut class prostituted itself to Abbey thinking it was going to help them. The class of 1985 would soon learn what we had all learned—shoving your nose up Abbey’s behind didn’t get you anywhere. In a year they would all be cursing him and Young like everybody else.
