“Houston,
With no instrument response and an apparently dead stick, Scobee and Smith mashed down on their stick “pickle buttons” to engage the backup flight system. It was the emergency procedure for an out-of-control situation. If the problem was due to a primary flight system computer failure or software error, the BFS computer would jump online and bring life back to the cockpit. Again and again their right thumbs jammed downward on the spring-loaded red buttons. Again and again they searched the instruments hoping to see life in them, hoping to have something, anything, to work with. But
Very quickly the crew realized the futility of their actions. The upstairs crewmembers—Dick, Mike, El, and Judy—had window views of the disaster in which they were immersed. As the tumbling cockpit moved ever higher those views became more synoptic. They looked downward to see the white-orange cloud marking the place of
The downstairs crewmembers—Ron McNair, Christa McAuliffe, and Greg Jarvis—were locked in the most horrifying of circumstances. They had no windows, no instruments. They were totally dependent upon the upstairs crewmembers to keep them informed on the progress of the flight. But no words came. At the instant of breakup the intercom went dead and the mid-deck lights went out. They were trapped in a tumbling, darkened, silent room.
As the cockpit arced across its apogee, the upstairs crew saw the sky turn space-black,
Chapter 29
Change
On January 9, 1987, Abbey made a rare and impromptu appearance before the astronaut office. Since his prior visits had almost always included flight assignment announcements, there was a buzz on the walk to the conference room. I couldn’t believe my name would be on any press release. I had significant doubts I would ever see my name on a crew list again. But hope springs eternal in the souls of astronauts. The fact that the meeting was unscheduled, on a Friday afternoon, no less, suggested something unusual was in the offing.
As always, Abbey spoke at low volume and everybody craned forward to listen. For ten minutes he discussed some changes in the management structure of HQ, a topic none of us believed was the reason for the meeting. We were right. He concluded his HQ remarks and then, almost offhandedly, mumbled, “The crew for STS-26 will be Rick Hauck as commander, Dick Covey as pilot, and Dave Hilmers, Pinky Nelson, and Mike Lounge as MSes.”
For a long moment the room was gripped in a stillness that rivaled deep space. We were hoping Abbey would continue with more crew assignments, or at least tell us when those might happen. But there was nothing. Except for the lucky five, who wore embarrassed smiles, the rest of us slumped in crushing disappointment. Why didn’t Abbey get it? If he was the power monger that many believed him to be, couldn’t he see the power to be gained with one hundred faithful-unto-death astronauts? With a little communication, that’s exactly what he would have had. But he didn’t offer a single hint regarding the timetable for other assignments. In the enduring silence, I noticed some of the faces around me hardening into glares of something beyond anger. If I were Abbey I would hire a food taster.