Riding Rockets

I wanted him back to tell how much it had mattered that he had kept me home from school to watch Alan Shepard ride his candle into space. I wanted to tell him thanks for driving me to Kirtland AFB, where I watched the weather officer launch his radiosondes. Dad would then hurry me home so I could follow the helium balloon with my Sears telescope. I would hope against hope the instrument package hanging beneath it would parachute into my yard. Just the thought of touching something that had been in the stratosphere would turbo-boost my heart.

I remembered him buying me my first rocket—a plastic device powered by vinegar and baking soda. And then there were his gifts of Tinkertoys, chemistry sets, Erector Sets, a Heathkit crystal radio, and myConquest of Space book. I ached to tell him how all of those had empowered my dream.

Dad’s death unleashed long-dormant memories of the minutiae of my childhood. By itself each memory seemed inconsequential but connected together they revealed my pathway into space. George Abbey may have selected me as an astronaut but my dad made me one.

Dressed in military uniform, with his medals and wings on his chest, Dad was laid to rest in the Veterans Cemetery in Santa Fe, New Mexico. A rifle salute was fired and the honor guard lifted the American flag from the casket, folded it, and presented it to my mother. “Taps” sounded as I came to attention and rendered a salute to the greatest man I have ever known. Tears finally came to my eyes. There are some things that will make even a Pettigrew cry.

Later, I would return to his grave and place the mission decals of STS-41D, STS-27, and STS-36 on the marker. Each patch had the name “Mullane” on it. They were Dad’s missions, too.

Chapter 32

Swine Flight

STS-27 was a classified DOD mission. I wouldn’t be able to share much with Donna. I had entered the “black” world of the Cold War, where I would be taking trips to locations I couldn’t discuss. I would study checklists in an underground vault. At parties Donna wouldn’t be able to ask our contractors and support team about their work. She wouldn’t even be able to ask in what city they worked. To complicate the spying efforts of Russian ships, the launch date wouldn’t be announced until twenty-four hours prior to the planned liftoff. That little detail would seriously complicate family travel arrangements. As Donna would later say, “It’s like making plans for a wedding where the date is kept secret.” The mission photography would be classified. There would be no photos of me with my payload. When asked what the mission was about, I would have to borrow a line fromTop Gun : “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” (Four years after the mission some aspects of it were declassified. I can now say I used the robot arm to deploy a classified satellite into space. I am forbidden to describe the satellite or its intended function.)

I was thrilled with my crew. Hoot Gibson was a natural-born leader. He didn’t micromanage as some commanders did. (One was known to reach completely across the cockpit to make a switch change rather than allow the crewmember at that position to do it.) Hoot gave each of us our duties and set us free to be creative to get the job done. He was also a blood brother from Planet AD. The office secretaries quickly named STS-27 “Swine Flight,” and gave each of us strap-on novelty pig snouts because of our animal “snorting” sounds whenever an attractive woman came within eyeshot (as in, “I’d like to snort her flanks”).

Guy Gardner, Jerry Ross, and I had trained together on the canceled STS-62A mission so we were already teamed. Rookie Bill “Shep” Shepherd was a soft-spoken, powerfully built Navy SEAL who specialized in underwater demolition. Like Hoot and I, Bill was from Planet AD. He was also a bachelor astronaut, which meant he had achieved a higher state of earthly rapture than the Dalai Lama.