Riding Rockets - Mike Mullane [214]
Our postflight travel was similar to that of STS-27. I journeyed to places I can’t mention to be congratulated by people whose office titles are similarly unmentionable. I received another National Intelligence Medal of Achievement from another “black world” Wizard of Oz that I could only wear in a vault. This citation (declassified years later) reads:
…Colonel Mullane’s superior performance led to the safe deployment and successful activation of a system vital to our national security. The singularly superior performance of Colonel Mullane reflects great credit upon himself, the United States Air Force, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, and the Intelligence Community.
At one of our stops some spooks hosted us to a candlelit dinner in their black-world building. The office secretaries acted as servers since no caterers could enter. We showed our mission movie and, lubricated by wine, I added my own editorial comments. As space video of the Boston–Cape Cod area was shown, I injected, “Moscow doesn’t have as many communists as are living in this picture.” There was a peal of laughter. Hank Hartsfield would have been proud.
The highlight of our meager postflight PR tour was a visit to George Bush, Senior’s White House. We were shocked by the invitation. STS-36 had been virtually ignored in the press. There were no women on the crew, no minorities, no firsts of any kind that might have turned out the press to cover a presidential handshake. Whatever the reason, the invitation was sincerely appreciated.
We met the president in the Oval Office, taking seats in sofas set around a coffee table. Mr. Bush sat in a nearby chair. The questions he asked indicated that he was well briefed on our mission. But it was hard to carry on a conversation. A steady stream of aides and secretaries were constantly coming to his side to get answers to questions and his signature on documents. I wondered if the man was ever alone, even on the toilet.
I knew my air force master sergeant dad was watching from heaven, his chest puffed up with button-busting pride. It was a proud moment for me, too. What my crewmates and I had done on STS-27 and STS-36 would probably remain classified for decades. We were the most invisible of astronauts. Nobody would sing “I’m Proud to Be an American” while we were raised on a platform before the cheering masses. Our names would never be in the lyrics of a Billy Joel song. But this was infinitely better. I was standing in the Oval Office of the White House while the president of the United States shook my hand and thanked me for my contribution to America’s security.
Later, we gathered behind the president’s desk to have a crew photo taken. The desktop was littered with documents bearing red-striped “Top Secret” covers. John Casper whispered, “Mike, look at his notepad.” I did. On it was written “Gorb dinner?”—obviously the president’s self-reminder about something associated with the upcoming visit to Washington by the Gorbachevs. I whispered back to John, “Maybe he’s looking for a joke to loosen up things at a state dinner. Why don’t you suggest a golfing joke with a cow’s ass in the punch line?”
“No” was John’s terse reply.
After we finished the classified discussions, Mrs. Bush ushered in our wives to meet her husband. We all posed for photos with the First Family. The president gave each of the crew a pair of cuff links embossed with the presidential seal and the wives received a stick pin with the same logo.
It was a beautiful May day and the doors to the Rose Garden were open. At one point during the photo session a bumblebee joined us and hovered around the president’s brightly colored tie. An aide shooed it away, and it found another target…a secretary who obviously had a phobia of buzzing insects. She screamed, threw