Riding Rockets

Having been at an aircraft crash site, I suspected the condition of the remains was horrific. The cockpit had been sheared from the rest ofChallenger , and after a 60,000-foot fall had impacted the water at its terminal velocity of nearly 250 miles per hour. At that speed the Atlantic would have been as unyielding as solid earth. I couldn’t imagine the remains would allow the pathologists to learn anything. And I was equally certain nothing relevant to the tragedy would be discovered on the voice recorder, even if it was in good enough condition to be read. Dick Scobee’s “Go at throttle up” was uttered only a couple seconds prior to breakup and there was nothing out of the ordinary in his call. Obviously he and the rest of the crew were unaware of their problem. And nothing could have been recorded after breakup because the recorder lost electrical power and stopped at that instant. Not that there would have been anything to record. I remained convinced the crew had been killed outright or rendered unconscious whenChallenger fragmented.

After the remains were removed, TFNG Mike Coats and several other astronauts examined the wreckage. Mike returned to Houston with the comment, “The cockpit looks like aluminum foil that had been crushed into a ball.” It was largely unrecognizable as a cockpit, a fact that didn’t surprise me. He added, “I saw a few strands of Judy’s hair in the wreckage…and I found her necklace.” He didn’t have to say any more. I knew the necklace. Judy always wore it…a gold chain with a charm displaying the two-finger-and-thumb sign language symbol for “I love you.” She had a hearing-impaired family member and the necklace was a display of her support for those with similar handicaps. The image Mike’s words conjured would not leave me. Like the flash of a camera, I continued to see it no matter where I looked—the crushed cockpit, Judy’s hair, her necklace.

The remains were held at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station for pathologists to identify. A few weeks later I watched NASA’s TV broadcast as a procession of hearses drove onto the KSC runway and unloaded seven flag-draped caskets. Each was accompanied by an astronaut. A military honor guard reverently carried the remains into the belly of an air force C-141 transport aircraft. There was no dialogue to accompany the TV footage. The silence made the images even more heartrending. The camera followed the plane as it rolled down the runway and receded to just a dot in the sky. TheChallenger crew was finally returning to their families.

On May 19 a horse-drawn caisson slowly bore the remains of Dick Scobee toward his final resting place in Arlington National Cemetery. The day was sultry and the air tinted with the odor of horse dung and freshly mowed grass. A military band, playing a medley of patriotic arrangements, led our procession. A formation of skin-headed GI pallbearers, dressed in mirror-polished livery, marched with them. Another group of buzz-cut soldiers bore the American flag and other standards streaming blue and red battle ribbons. Rivulets of sweat poured into their eyes from under their headgear, but they did not break the precision of their march to wipe it away. The astronaut corps and a handful of our spouses trailed the entourage. Between music selections the drummer maintained a solo staccato. The clop of hooves on the cobblestone mingled with the tapping of the women’s heels to compete with the drummer’s cadence. A symphony of other mournful sounds tugged at the heart: the choking sobs of women, the creak of the caisson, the groan of the leather tack, the jingle of a bridle.

The chaplain conducted a brief graveside service. Then an honor guard fired a rapid three-shot rifle salute, each shot punctuated by the metallic tinkle of the ejected brass. The young children and some of the adults startled visibly at the loudness of the firings. Other soldiers lifted the flag from the casket and folded it with machinelike precision. It was handed to George Abbey, who, in turn, presented it to June Scobee. A flight of four NASA T-38s zoomed into view in fingertip formation. Over the grave the number-two pilot jerked his plane upward and disappeared into the clouds leaving the missing man gap. Then the play of “Taps” drew out a new wave of sobs.

My grief wasn’t refreshed in any way by the scene. It couldn’t be. I had reached my limits of that emotion. But as the notes of “Taps” floated in the air I was stirred anew in my anger at NASA management. This should have never happened. It was completely preventable. There had been four years of warnings.