Riding Rockets - Mike Mullane [29]
Also seated around the table were other spaceflight veterans, the big men on campus, who every freshman longed to be. Besides John Young, there was Alan Bean, the only other moonwalker remaining in the office. There were also some astronauts from the Skylab program: Owen Garriott, Jack Lousma, Ed Gibson, Paul Weitz, and Joe Kerwin. One astronaut remained from the Apollo-Soyuz program, Vance Brand. One of theApollo 13 crew was still aboard, Fred Haise. Ken Mattingly, the originalApollo 13 astronaut who was exposed to German measles and replaced at the last moment, was still with NASA and at the table. He had later earned his wings onApollo 16.
The rest of the office included seventeen astronauts who were still waiting for their first spaceflight. Seven had been dumped on NASA in 1969 by the USAF after their Manned Orbiting Laboratory program was canceled. The others had been selected in the late years of the moon program and had been in line to fly onApollo 18 through20. But Congress had pulled the plug afterApollo 17. Most of these unlucky seventeen had been at NASA for more than seven years and hadn’t been any closer to space than I had. And they were still many years away from earning their wings.Please, God, spare me that fate, was my prayer.
Though we were brand-new, TFNGs understood the coin of the realm. Spaceflight. Those who had ridden rockets were rich beyond measure. Those who hadn’t were paupers. There was no astronaut “middle class.” We had assumed a job in which rank, wealth, awards, degrees, and all other measures of success were absolutely meaningless. In that regard the unflown older astronauts in the room were as proletariat as us wet-behind-the-ears Ascans. Forget their near decade of service at NASA. It didn’t count. A lifetime of flying a desk, even a NASA astronaut desk, couldn’t put a gold astronaut pin on your lapel. Every one of us rookies in that room, regardless of age or title, were classless peons and we would remain so until that glorious day when the hold-down bolts were blown and our ride began. In that split second we would become kings.
As I looked at the crowded table, I knew every TFNG was thinking the same thing:Why don’t these old farts just leave or die or something? We were the brash teenagers in the company of seniors who were slowing us down. We couldn’t fly until they did. How many missions would they consume? How many years would I have to wait before they were up and out? Though we would soon form tight friendships with these vets, no rookie astronaut ever shed a tear when a member of the older generation decided to move on. At their retirement parties we were the happiest ones there, knowing that one more cockpit seat had just opened up. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass, was our attitude.
Later, I would learn how these seniors feared us. We had been selected by George Abbey, director of Flight Crew Operations (FCOD), John Young’s boss. They hadn’t been. They were astronauts long before George assumed his position. If rumor was true, George would be making shuttle flight assignments. The older astronauts wondered if they would ever fly. George might just skip right to us, his protégés, and flush those also-rans onto the street. There was no astronaut contract guaranteeing a spaceflight. So the seniors in that room saw us as threats