Riding Rockets - Mike Mullane [167]
No, the problem wasn’t mine. But, still, I didn’t like the way I felt. I had wanted to love this man unconditionally. Like Donna, he had been integral to my dream fulfillment. If somebody else had been leading astronaut interviews in October 1977, would I have made the cut? I doubted it. Just as a different wife would have meant a different life, I suspect a different chief of FCOD would have had a different criterion for astronaut selection, most likely one I wouldn’t have met. I had wanted to render Abbey a lifetime of fealty. At our welcome to JSC in 1978 there had been no more loyal TFNG on that stage. But over the years, his Stalinist-like secrecy, his indifference to the fear that dominated the astronaut office, his unfairness to the air force pilots, his gross inequities in flight assignments, and his abysmal lack of communication had drained my allegiance completely.
As the office celebration continued, one astronaut commented, “Until someone drives a wooden stake through his heart, I won’t believe he’s really gone.” The comment proved prophetic. Abbey’s JSC days weren’t over by a long shot. He used his time at HQ to ally himself with Dan Goldin, who, in 1992, would become NASA administrator. In 1996 Goldin appointed George director of Johnson Space Center, arguably the most powerful position within NASA. Ultimately, George got it all, proving what every TFNG had believed for so many years, that Abbey was unsurpassed in his ability to manipulate a byzantine organization like NASA’s. It was a talent the CIA could have employed. If, during the darkest days of the Cold War, they had parachuted Abbey into Moscow’s Red Square, naked, not knowing a word of Russian, and without a single kopeck in his hand, George still would have become a member of the Politburo within a year and Soviet premier within two. We could have ended the Cold War decades earlier.
On December 5, 1987, the astronaut office held a going-away party for Abbey at Pete’s Cajun BBQ. It was billed “George Abbey Appreciation Night.” About a third of the office were no-shows. Two astronauts told me they were boycotting the event. I suspected some of the other absentees were of a mind that they would rather fly a night TAL into Timbuktu than show any appreciation for George. I attended merely to celebrate the fact he was gone from our lives. There would be no weepy singing of “Auld Lang Syne”at this party. Mark Lee, class of 1984, was the MC and did a terrific job, donning a buzz-cut wig to mimic Abbey. It was obvious Mark was of the opinion that George was forever powerless over astronauts, because his humor was “I’ll-neversee-this-man-again” acidic. He made reference to Abbey’s preferential treatment of the navy astronauts, of Dick Truly’s suspected role in removing