Riding Rockets - Mike Mullane [151]
I reached a new nadir of depression. It was never clear how Young influenced flight assignments. Most of us believed he had nothing to do with them, which, if true, was absolutely amazing given the title on his office door: Chief of Astronauts. But none of us knew for sure. Maybe Abbey did listen to his input. I couldn’t just dismiss Grabe’s warning. I did need to watch my six.
The following week I made an appointment to see Abbey. I had been at NASA for eight years and had only met with George on a handful of occasions and always in the company of others. I had never had any real one-on-one time with him. I approached his desk with the same trepidation I imagine a departed soul experiences while being escorted by the seraphim to the judgment seat of God.
He motioned for me to take a seat and I began to explain my problems with Young. Abbey wouldn’t look me in the eye. As I spoke he continued to shuffle through papers on his desk as if my problem were the merest of trivia. I was only a couple sentences into my rehearsed speech when he saw where it was going and mumbled, “Don’t worry about that,” to his ink blotter. “John is just frustrated he can’t do more.” I kept talking. I needed resolution. I was still working the RSS and OMS burn issues and being savaged by Young in the process. I couldn’t go on like this. Abbey interrupted me with a dismissive wave. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll be getting too busy with DOD affairs in the next six months.” I was silenced by that comment. What was he suggesting? Was he hinting I was in line for a Department of Defense shuttle mission? There were several DOD payloads ready to go on the shuttle—satellites so optimized for the shuttle cargo bay they could not be easily switched back to the air force’s unmanned boosters. Or was Abbey implying I would soon switch jobs from Range Safety to review the safety of DOD payloads? Or was this a polite warning that my career at NASA was being terminated and I would be going back to the USAF? There was no divining what George Abbey meant.
I came away from George’s office only slightly unburdened. His manner suggested my career was intact. But in the same breath he also told me to basically ignore John Young—his chief deputy. That command was more proof NASA’s leadership structure was a joke. How could I do that? Young was my immediate boss. He signed my air force performance reports. If any generals ever called to discuss my promotion potential, they would be talking to Young. Besides, there were some serious range safety issues that needed to be addressed. Was I supposed to “not worry about those”? There was also the possibility that perhaps John hadn’t been talking to Abbey when Grabe overheard him. Maybe he had been bad-mouthing me to one of his champions, a champion far above Abbey’s level who held veto power over Abbey’s crew selections and was ready to redline me from any list based on Young’s input. I hated the position I was in. I couldn’t just ignore Young. My prayer was that Abbey would discuss the situation with Young and he would become rational on the OMS burn issue. But all hope in that regard was dashed a couple months later when I was warned a second time that there was somebody at my six o’clock. This time the messenger was Hank Hartsfield. “Mike, John has a real hard-on against you about the way the pre-MECO OMS burn issue has played out. I heard him mumbling that maybe you should be replaced. I hope your career hasn’t been damaged.”
I was blind with fury. At every meeting on the topic I had dutifully represented Young’s position that he disapproved of burning OMS fuel during powered flight. But Young never personally attended these meetings to defend his position. He never used his bully pulpit as a six-time astronaut, moon-walking hero, and chief of astronauts to formally make his case. When I suggested to him in writing that