As children, most of us learned about the “good guys versus the bad guys.” Those of us who grew up in the sixties amused ourselves for endless hours playing cowboys and Indians, Superman against Lex Luthor, Huskers versus Sooners. Today, while those games have largely been replaced by video games for the Xbox and Wii, they’re still typically based on the theme of good versus evil.
That good and evil might relate to the space shuttle and International Space Station programs would probably seem like a stretch to most. Yet it is possible for folks in those programs to be perceived as evildoers—persons that I, as a kid, would have done everything in my power to bring to justice and put behind bars. It is disappointing to admit to you that I became known as one of those evildoers, but here, within the pages of this book, I can proclaim my innocence for all time. Perhaps you’d like to hear of my crimes?
My slip to the dark side started early in my astronaut career. As newly decreed astronaut candidates (ASCANs), our Group 17 Penguins were headed to Washington DC to receive the standard ASCAN briefing from the leaders at NASA Headquarters.
Peggy Wilhide was the director of public affairs at NASA Headquarters. Her job was to explain everything associated with our role as NASA’s newest ambassadors and spokespersons. She covered science and payload experiments, visits to Capitol Hill, prelaunch and mission activities, and the public affairs office’s proclivity for hammering us with “talking points.” They didn’t trust us as far as they could throw us.
Following an enlightening discussion with the head of the NASA HQ Science Department centering on the quantity of methane gas produced by bovines of the world compared to that emanating from termites, self-appointed ASCAN Group 17 funnyman Garrett Reisman of Parsippany, New Jersey, provided sufficient comic relief on the subject to earn his call sign “Mite.”
That conversation segued into the question and answer period, highly anticipated by the thirty-one neophytes in the room.
Not at all bashful, and naive about the impression it might make on my colleagues, my hand shot up quickly. “Why is it that every time I turn on the television, I have to watch Kobe Bryant or David Schwimmer or some other talking head tell my children to stay in school or stay away from drugs? Why can’t astronauts do public service announcements? Why can’t it be me—astronaut Clayton Anderson—wearing my orange launch-and-entry suit telling the kids of Nebraska to stay in school, study math and science, dream big, and reach for the stars?”
My proposal was met with several seconds of total silence. The reply that I wanted but in all honesty was surprised to get was “You know, that’s a really good idea! We need to work on that. We’ll get back to you and we’ll keep you apprised of our progress.”
Barbara Zelon, also in attendance as our NASA Johnson Space Center public affairs director, nodded vigorously in agreement. I was smugly confident I had scored big points with my new friends from the public affairs office while also impressing my astronaut colleagues.
Six months passed in our ASCAN training flow without a word about how the astronaut PSAs might be progressing. Not being one to sit on my hands, I fired off an email to Ms. Wilhide—copied to Ms. Zelon—asking for a status report on how my idea was progressing. Peggy replied politely that the idea was still in the works. She thanked me for asking and let me know that the public affairs office would keep me apprised. Satisfied once again that the wheels were turning on my wonderful take-the-world-by-storm idea, I returned to my training confident that one day soon I might be on TV. (I had little experience dealing with bureaucracy, so a bit of naiveté on my part was normal.)
Six more months passed. No communication, no emails, nothing. My virgin status with NASA HQ was turning into full-fledged gigolo mode as I began to sense I might be getting it directly in the backside. Once again I got on my laptop and fired off a second email whose subject line was my self-perceived brilliant idea. This time my message was not quite so professional in its composition. It was laced with pent-up frustration.
Again the reply was cordial and timely. “We continue to work on it.” I sensed where this might be going: nowhere, fast!
I mostly forgot about my idea until I was working a shift in Mission Control as capsule communicator (CAPCOM) for the Expedition 4 crew (Yuri Onufrienko, Carl Walz, and Dan Bursch). During a period of slow activity on the space station and boredom in Mission Control, I decided it was time to check on my outside-the-box idea once again. After all, it had been almost two years. The only problem was that my contact person, Ms. Wilhide, was no longer director of public affairs at NASA HQ.
Undaunted by this minor setback, I changed tactics and turned to the JSC director of public affairs. Disappointed to learn that Ms. Zelon was no longer with that office either, I targeted my ire at the new head of public affairs at JSC, a gentleman named Dan Carpenter.
This time my email note was simple. It explained the history behind my forward-thinking idea and my disappointment in not hearing anything from anyone. I related how difficult it was for me to imagine that no one was working on this win-win NASA scenario with the gleeful fervor of a cat shredding a roll of toilet paper!
The response timeline was longer this time. When Dan did finally reply, it was clear he had done his homework. He was a fan of my idea. His reply stated that his office had thoroughly discussed the idea and in fact they had discussed it with the Astronaut Office. But at this time it wasn’t going to be implemented. He explained that he had very little control at his level.
He went on to say that the Astronaut Office told him that no astronauts had shown any interest in the idea whatsoever. This is the part that gave me heartburn. Excuse me, who the heck did they think I was—an astronaut impersonator? Here was an astronaut right in front of them—ready, willing, and able to take the plunge and do NASA’s first astronaut PSA. What was going on? It was entirely possible that the Astronaut Office didn’t have any flown astronauts who were interested. There are those at JSC firmly entrenched in the camp who think if you haven’t flown in space, you aren’t really an astronaut.
On my personal astronaut scorecard, I was nearing my first mistake. Totally missing the concept of “keep your head down and keep coloring,” I assumed that as a brand-new astronaut and longtime NASA employee, I was much worldlier in the ways of NASA than I actually was. Thinking that I might even have control over something, I felt like Luke Skywalker battling Darth Vader on the Death Star. I could hear Lord Vader’s raspy baritone saying, “Luke, join me and I will complete your training. Then your transformation to the dark side will be complete.”
I stood poised and ready to launch my first turd into the astronaut punchbowl, a skill that unfortunately I would perfect with time. Given an unsatisfactory local response, I was growing increasingly impatient. Once locked and loaded, this turd’s target would be at a much higher level.
At the time of the Columbia accident, the head of NASA was Sean O’Keefe. Having served as a family escort for the Columbia mission, I had attended funerals, gatherings, and numerous meetings during which Mr. O’Keefe and I had struck up a friendship. I felt comfortable taking my PSA idea to Sean.
Having absolutely no idea how to contact Mr. O’Keefe directly, I turned to the magic of NASA’s “X500” website (a virtual telephone and email address book). With the World Wide Web doing its high-speed electron thing, it took only seconds for Sean’s email address to appear, waiting to be copied and pasted in the “To” line of my opportunistic electronic correspondence.
Beginning with a standard greeting and a “How ya doin’?” I quickly got to the point of my now-stagnant PSA mantra. Composed in just minutes, my fully formed turd was on its way to Washington DC in seconds, ready to perform a splashdown worthy of the Apollo program.
The results were almost instantaneous. The next day I received a voicemail message from one of Mr. O’Keefe’s NASA representatives in Washington. “We love the idea,” he exclaimed. (Maybe it was just stated, but to me it felt like an exclamation.) “Please call me back.” I tried to call back multiple times that day, leaving messages each time, but my efforts were apparently in vain. Near the end of the day the “astronaut police” were sent to apprehend me—the criminal. I received a call from Andy Thomas.
Andy, a veteran astronaut and native of Adelaide, South Australia, was serving as the deputy chief of the Astronaut Office. During the short trip to his office, I felt as if handcuffs had already been slapped around my wrists
Entering his private room, I knew I was busted and that my sentence was forthcoming. “What’s going on with NASA HQ and Sean O’Keefe?” he asked. I passionately related my story, every single detail. I told him about my clever idea and all the promises I had received along the way. I explained how I was simply trying to do good for NASA, apologizing profusely for any errors in judgment I may have made.
Andy remained calm and appeared to take everything in stride. His first question seemed to be totally off the wall. “How’d you get O’Keefe’s email?” he asked.
When I told him about the X500 website, he seemed impressed that I would know how to find it. He didn’t seem too bent out of shape about what I’d done, but he did warn me of the perils of “doing an end run” on astronaut management. I apologized and said it wouldn’t happen again. I had no idea my career was to be laced with troubled episodes—some intentional, some accidental.
(As a matter of record, almost ten years after my initial idea was sprung on NASA HQ, the first astronaut PSAs were filmed and released. The first was released in Wisconsin with “cheesehead” astronaut Jeff Williams. The second was aired in Nebraska with yours truly.)
My first report from the Astronaut Evaluation Board reflected my standing within the Astronaut Office and contained a gentle warning to tread carefully.
Rated “eligible (for a flight assignment),” the board stated:
Clayton is a very, very strong performer. He was a great expedition crew support astronaut, was well regarded by the flight director, and is a good Mission Specialist (MS) 2 candidate. He did well in the ASCAN Extra-Vehicular Activity (EVA) skills programs, and his T-38 skills are very strong. Clayton is motivated, shows initiative, and does not need to be told what to do.
The board also signaled clearly, however, the following under the heading of “Special Issues or Considerations”:
As Clayton progresses in his career as an astronaut, which is expected to be highly successful, he should continue to promote organizational values and work through the FCOD [Flight Crew Operations Directorate] management chain.
I should have heeded those words of advice more carefully.
Apparently, the NASA Astronaut Office has a parole board. I say that because after my mission performance on Expedition 15 it was decided that I “had difficulty working and playing well with others.”
As the sole U.S. crewmember during my time with Expedition 15, I was completely responsible for operations in the space station’s U.S. segment. My Russian crewmates, Fyodor and Oleg, were more highly trained than most Russians in the operations of the U.S. systems, due in part to the long length of their training template. They had ample time to prepare. This was a distinct resource for the U.S. Mission Control Center team of which they took full advantage.
It was a normal day of station operations. I was headed for the Unity node to remove one of the module’s panels and perform a straightforward task behind its wall. Removing the panel had to wait while I moved numerous bags of equipment and supplies that were bungeed to its outer surface. (In a place desperate for storage space, Unity’s other role was as an “open-air” closet.)
I quickly moved the bags one by one away from the panel and secured them within an empty space, or “hole,” on the deck of the node where a rack had once been. Once the bags were secure, I began the tedious but simple process of removing each and every one of the forty-four captive fasteners that held the panel firmly in place.
With the work area completely exposed, it was easy to move in and execute the task. The node was full of environmental control equipment ranging from fans to valves, but the job was easy and quickly performed. I spent most of my time exposing the parts to be worked on and then covering them up once again.
Two days later I was knee-deep in spacesuits, cleaning and organizing the airlock for spacewalks to come. As I merrily worked my way through some of my favorite activities, Fyodor floated into Node 1, tools in hand.
“What’s up?” I queried my Russian commander.
“I have task,” he replied in understandable but grammatically incorrect English.
I thought nothing of it, expecting his usual perfect execution. But as he began to remove the very same stowage bags I had so carefully returned to their place two days earlier, my focus turned to his timeline. “Fyodor, what are you doing there?” I asked.
“Task behind panel here,” he informed me.
“Show me,” I ordered, flying to a station laptop displaying the daily timeline.
He showed me the task and its location. As always, he was correct. He needed to be behind the exact same panel I had opened just days ago, but the task he was to perform was totally different. I was making a premature assessment, but at that point my gut was beginning to boil as my frustration grew with the ground control team’s poor attention to detail. Fyodor successfully navigated the stowage, and the panel and hardware behind it, and all returned to normal.
As the end of the workweek approached, I was once again staged in the airlock. I had nearly completed preparing the space suits for the STS-120 crew’s upcoming walks when I glanced up to see Oleg performing the Russian version of a Superman impersonation as he flew through Node 1.
“What’s up with you today, Oleg?” I offered.
“I have a task here in Node 1,” he replied, with English as good as most Americans’.
“What is the task?” I inquired further.
“I will be working on the electrical patch panel, behind this wall here,” he replied as he pointed to the now infamous panel covered with stowage bags hiding the fingerprints left previously by Fyodor and me.
Now I was pissed! Exhibiting a level of anal-retentiveness not part of my character on Earth, I fumed at the inefficiency infecting our timeline. Why didn’t the ground have us do all three tasks the very first time we pulled down the stowage and removed the damned panel? What the hell were they thinking?
Frustration peaking, I grabbed the handheld microphone of the auxiliary terminal unit, hit the button for space-to-ground line 2, and keyed the microphone.
“Houston, Station on Space-to-Ground 2 for inefficiency,” I called.
“Station, this is Houston. Go ahead on two,” came the friendly callback of veteran astronaut, fighter pilot, retired air force colonel, and now CAPCOM Jim “Vegas” Kelly.
“Yeah, Vegas. Clay here. Just wanted to let you know that the three of us all did separate and distinct tasks this week in Node 1. Each task was behind the exact same panel. They all required removal and temporary stowage of the exact same set of bags; they all had us remove the same forty-four fasteners and then we had to put it all back in place. Three separate times. I just wanted to let the ground know that we did it, but we are not happy about it.”
A pause in the conversation, lasting nearly thirty seconds, was broken as Vegas’s voice came back on the line: “Clay, we copy and concur.”
The line went silent as I floated weightlessly above the airlock floor, trying to calm the frustration that had undoubtedly raised my blood pressure. I had launched another turd, this time a weightless one, but it would have the exact same impact on its target.
The total number of weightless turds I launched from ISS escapes me, but no doubt it was substantial. Safely back on the ground after a sometimes combative five months, I was sentenced to what I would call the astronaut version of “community service,” otherwise known as the astronaut penalty box.
The words used by the Astronaut Evaluation Board to describe my 152 days of service on board the ISS were, in part: “Although Clayton is thoughtful with his peers, he needs to improve his communication skills and attitude towards other teams with which he interfaces. . . . He tended to be a bit too casual with Mission Control, and sometimes too frank, and he could have been more patient during stressful times.” They went on to say that “Clay will need to rebuild his relationship with Mission Control if he is to fly again.” The recommendation for my flight status, as developed by my office peers, was listed as “conditionally eligible.”
It’s tough to admit, but on some of this they were right. While my intentions were always aimed at making things better for those who would follow me into space, I had not heeded the advice I’d been given and I let the frustration build to a point where it affected my work and my interactions with the ground.
Yet I wasn’t totally at fault. The situation on ISS where we were all assigned work behind the same panel in the same week was ridiculous. As a crew support astronaut for the Expedition 4 crew, I participated in the weekly planning meetings where these types of situations were discussed. On numerous occasions I was the “elephant in the room” who complained when the technical team failed even then to grasp the concept of “proper planning prevents poor performance.” To direct a crew to waste that amount of identical (and expensive) crew time on orbit was the highest form of government waste. It was inexcusable.
Even though my family and I had some legitimate grievances, I could have handled myself better. I did not follow the unspoken rule that no matter what, the ground is always right and they should be treated with kid gloves.
I took to heart the “community service” recommended by the Astronaut Evaluation Board “that Clay would benefit from leadership/followership and teamwork training,” that “he be put in a leadership role, perhaps as a branch chief, to satisfy this development in part,” and that “he consult with his Human Resources representative for additional development classes.”
Still, it was tough getting dressed down like that.
To help repair the supposed damaged relationships, I would need to rely on the management within the Astronaut Office. Unfortunately, they continued to rely on my being a self-starter and didn’t provide any guidance. While they did task me with the role of lead CAPCOM for the Expedition 18 crew (Mike Fincke, Greg Chamitoff, and Sandy Magnus), it was not really a true leadership or management position. I would have no employees to supervise and lead, no budget to manage. It would, however, provide me with an excellent opportunity to restore my image. Working as a cog in a solid technical mission machine would allow me to showcase my integration, communication, and people skills, along with my ability to truly be a team player. In addition, there would be ample exposure to key players and well-placed leaders who might one day help me return myself to good standing.
My efforts were totally sincere. I worked hard to be the best lead CAPCOM on the planet. No details were left undone. Communication was considered paramount. Assistance was offered at every turn. Like a Boy Scout helping a lady cross the street, I tried to be everything for everyone. I maintained my sense of humor, exhibiting it when appropriate and throttling it back when necessary. In short, I felt like I was performing exactly as I always performed—I was doing nothing differently than I had done in my previous twenty-five years with NASA.
When I got the opportunity to return to space as part of the STS-131 crew, it appeared my astronaut management team agreed with me. But old habits die hard.
It started with a simple and caring thought. Rick Mastracchio and I were just trying to help.
We had just found out that there would be an opportunity to see some of the hardware we would be working with during a spacewalk on the STS-131 mission. The hardware was being prepped at Kennedy Space Center for its installation into the space shuttle Discovery’s payload bay. The next time we would be able to see it would be through the visor of a spacesuit helmet in the unforgiving vacuum of outer space.
Our crew secretary, Suzanne Singleton, was preparing our travel orders. As veteran astronauts, we preferred one of the sleek white-and-blue NASA T-38 jets and a pilot to fly us to the launch site. No hassle with the Transportation Security Administration, no one frisking us and grabbing our junk—just a quick jaunt at seven hundred miles an hour, then a rental car, and within twenty minutes we’d be looking at hardware. Since ghastly weather and/or lack of a pilot would leave us grounded, it was paramount that we have an alternate form of transportation, known in astronaut-speak as “backup commercial air.”
Using Fed Traveler, a new agencywide travel booking system, Suzanne intended to book two round-trip seats on Southwest Airlines from Houston to Orlando and reserve a rental car for Rick and me. It should have been a simple matter. Yet, as with most government programs, though the intent of the Fed Traveler system was good, the implementation left something to be desired. In fact, I think our secretaries, if pumped full of sodium pentothal, would say that Fed Traveler sucked!
Rick and I are not known for our patience, tact, and diplomacy; we just look for the most efficient way to do things. While Suzanne was in the midst of her bureaucratic struggle, Rick and I decided to help speed up the process of securing our backup travel accommodations
We pounced on our government-issue laptops and with a few simple clicks found ourselves in a virtual world of hell and damnation, full of nonintuitive user-interface traps.
Our goal was as simple as Suzanne’s: we wanted to secure seats on a jet from Houston to Orlando. We didn’t care which airline. Navigating the website was not for the faint of heart. Nothing was straightforward or clear; dead ends and confusion reigned.
As I struggled to get somewhere, I kept running across a dialog box that wanted my PNR. As a NASA aerospace engineer and a steely-eyed astronaut raised on a steady diet of NASA acronyms for nearly thirty years, I thought I knew them all. But my cerebral cortex couldn’t cough up the meaning of PNR.
Stated as a mathematical equation, the function of Fed Traveler difficulty to use was directly proportional to my temperature and inversely proportional to my patience! I searched every inch of their web page for some kind of clue. I tried “Frequently Asked Questions.” I clicked on anything that moved.
It didn’t come.
We dialed the special Fed Traveler phone number. We got elevator music. Five minutes into our serenade, the line went dead. We redialed that same phone number four more times, each time receiving the same result. Our patience (or at least my patience) was running out.
Finally, all other options exhausted, ignorantly thinking I had nothing to lose, I slid my mouse over to “Contact us.” A single click and a blank email screen appeared, offering a catapult from which I could launch yet another enormously smelly (as it would turn out) turd, this time destined for the punchbowl of Fed Traveler.
The “To” line contained a readymade address, a cryptic conglomeration of letters and numbers that gives you no clue where your note is headed. I assumed whoever was on the other end was some schmo, perhaps a college student trying to earn a few bucks on the side.
With little thought, I typed quickly into the subject line: “What the F*** is a PNR???”
You would think I’d be smarter than that.
Beautiful, I thought. Short, clear, concise, and to the point, it went right to the heart of the matter with a tiny bit of flair thrown in. Cleverly, the subject line gave my sentiments just the right emphasis, clearly conveyed in my graphic representation of that classic vulgarity, “Fuck.”
I leaped to the composition area, “To Whom It May Concern,” and typed a description of our ongoing dilemma, thinking all the while just how professional I was being. The words flowed from my charged brain through my fingers to the keyboard: “Whoever invented Fed Traveler should be fired. It is the worst use of federal funding in the history of our government!”
Oh, baby, I was on a roll! I was so proud of myself that it took only seconds for me to review my classic composition, smile in reverent acknowledgment of a job well done, and hit the “enter” button, sending a thousand electrons flying through the wires of the Internet.
My turd was zeroing in on its punchbowl target at the speed of light. Where and upon whom it would splash were only moments from revelation. Impact was eminent.
On the heels of clicking “send,” my mind began racing. Oh my God . . . what have I done? Can I call it back? No . . . it’s too late now. I rationalized internally that it just went to some weird in-box address. No one will think anything of it, just an email from another satisfied customer.
In forty-eight hours I was swimming among the turds, treading water like my life depended on it. I was in deep shit!
What started as an ordinary day was changed in an instant by an office visit from an excited Suzanne. “We heard about your email,” she gushed.
“Uh-oh,” I thought. “This can’t be good.” If Suzanne had heard something, it had permeated through the entire astronaut support staff. Apparently this time I had gone and really done it; I had returned to the darkness of my criminal past. As I sat at my desk digesting the implications of Suzanne’s words, I could only think that this could be really bad. So bad, in fact, that my wife and I would become concerned for our careers. It was obvious the word was out when our STS-131 mission commander, Alan “Dex” Poindexter, cornered me in the office and said, “You need to go to the principal’s office, take your lumps, and forget about it.”
Forgetting about it was going to be tough to do. I knew what was coming. The only question was when and how it would manifest.
This time it would not come from the deputy chief. It would come from the head of the Astronaut Office, four-time shuttle veteran Steve Lindsey.
The punishment phase for my second offense began at the Kennedy Space Center during the launch countdown for shuttle mission STS-127, the travel plans to which had started this whole episode. As well as reviewing hardware, Rick and I had volunteered to assist the JSC public affairs office by serving as interview subjects for the various media outlets that miraculously appear in droves for each shuttle mission.
Our travel plans to the Cape would be altered when the mission, with minimal pizzazz, gained increased media attention when the first launch attempt was scrubbed. A dangerous hydrogen leak had been observed during prelaunch tanking operations.
To accommodate the rising interest, more astronauts would be needed at the Cape to meet with the press, further enhancing our justification for being there. T-38 seats were immediately authorized for Rick and me to fly to Florida.
When technical problems postponed further launch attempts (it would be delayed five times, launching on its sixth attempt), Rick and I were unable to remain. We were placed in the unenviable position of having to find rides for the return to Houston. It was our responsibility to check the NASA flight manifest to determine whether there were any open T-38 back seats or, better still (because you can sleep!), slots with the bigwigs on the shuttle business jets.
Because we were not on the official mission manifest, we were not the highest priority of those who had to fly back. Every single seat was taken on the two NASA Gulfstream business jets; I was going to have to fly back in the back seat of Commander Steve Lindsey’s T-38. I was not looking forward to the ride.
During our preflight preparations, Commander Lindsey made no mention of the email, but I was sure he was aware of it.
Our flight time on the first leg was an hour and a half. We were flying one of the T-38s outfitted with new avionics, the high-tech electronic flight instrumentation system (EFIS). I didn’t have much experience using EFIS (I had just a few flights under my belt), but it turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
Feigning that I knew less about EFIS than was actually true, I encouraged Steve to fully brief me on the various nuances of the system for the entire flight.
There were no worries regarding any email to Fed Traveler.
As we landed at our first stop on the Gulf Coast not far from Biloxi, Steve informed me I would be at the controls flying the final leg back into Ellington Field.
Apprehension leaped to the fore again. This could give him the perfect opportunity to dress me down. He would be free of most responsibilities while I piloted the jet; he could take me to task at thirty thousand feet.
Again my fears were unwarranted. Lindsey apparently decided he wasn’t going to do much talking on the forty-minute zip into Ellington.
I focused hard on my flying duties. A neophyte with all the jet’s new bells and whistles, I still wanted to fly well. I figured that if I could dazzle him with my flying prowess—staying on altitude and speed to within a few feet and a couple of knots, navigating concisely and with no errors, balancing fuel flow and the like—I might be able to impress Steve enough that he might forget all about that damned email.
Yet deep in my heart I knew it was a futile effort. We would have to have the conversation eventually. I could do it now and get it over with or just keep nursing the hopeless dream that it would all just go away. I opted for the former, taking my sweet time when we landed at Ellington, piddling at every opportunity, giving Steve every chance to bring it up.
I loitered near the parachute room for what seemed like an eternity.
Nothing.
I continued to drag my feet heading to the locker room. It took me more time to change out of my flight suit than it takes Susan to do her hair. Still nothing. I sat on the bench in front of my locker, making noises to signal I was still there. I stayed for as long as I could stand it. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided the time was now. But I was too late; he was already gone, heading home for the weekend with his family.
I would hear absolutely nothing from him until the following week.
I arrived at work on Monday to find an email sitting in my in-box. A meeting had been scheduled between me and Steve Lindsey. I buoyed myself for the confrontation, knowing full well I was in the soup. Having punched the “send” button that fateful day, I was pretty much caught red-handed. I could do nothing but plead my case and await my sentence.
The meeting was short and to the point. He began by praising my work in the T-38 jet the previous weekend, elaborating on how sharp and smart I was and how quickly I grasped the intricacies of the EFIS. Then came the but.
It was time to be dressed down.
He explained that my behavior was unacceptable and how pretty much the entire JSC senior staff was pissed off about my email. Several people had said that he should remove me from the STS-131 crew. He then let me know how he stood up for me, how he had decided I would remain on the crew, with one condition.
Yeah, there’s always a condition.
I was to call each and every person who was offended by what I did; I was to apologize to them and profess my wrongdoing.
The hell with that, I told him. I said that if he told me who each and every one of those people were, I would personally set up a one-on-one meeting with them and apologize to them in person!
Those names never came. Though he promised they would show up in my email in-box, the names never came. Hmm. Was he the only person who was truly pissed off at all? Was he the one who wanted me removed from the flight but couldn’t justify it within his own soul?
While I will never know the answers, I do know that a couple of weeks later, when I ran into Natalie Saiz—the head of human resources at JSC and one of those who was supposedly upset—I said, “I heard some of you on senior staff were upset about my Fed Traveler email.”
“Oh no,” she replied. “Nobody cared at all.”
A letter would be placed in my astronaut file. Authored by Commander Lindsey and fully documenting the email incident, it would remain there until June 2011, assuming there were no further incidents. When June 2011 arrived, I asked for it to be removed. Lindsey, no longer the head of the astronauts but preparing for his final shuttle flight, agreed.
The summation of my criminal endeavors would ultimately end my astronaut flying career. Allowed to fly with the crew of STS-131, I would be called into the office of the chief astronaut again in November 2010. This time the person seated behind the mahogany desk would be Peggy Whitson, my former crewmate and NEEMO 5 and Expedition 16 station increment commander.
As I seated myself in one of the chairs at her circular conference table, she initiated the conversation with a simple question. She asked my intentions regarding my future within the office. I replied that with the current ages of my children, I was not yet ready to reenter the flight line (take a flight assignment to ISS). She responded with a proposal for making me a management astronaut. I would no longer be considered active. It would mean the loss of T-38 privileges; I would no longer receive health-care benefits from the onsite flight medicine clinic—for myself or my family—and no more formal Russian language or robotic arm training. I could work shifts in Mission Control as CAPCOM; I could serve as a crewmember in simulations for the control center team. I would be expected to provide meeting support, participate in a spacewalk runs in the Neutral Buoyancy Lab, and—oh yes, provide meeting support.
Giving her an emphatic response of “No, being a management astronaut sucks,” I asked, “What are my flight opportunities?”
“There are not many,” she said, nervously twisting the end of the scarf she wore around her neck. Noticeably uncomfortable, she pulled out the hard copy of her crew assignment template so we could review the potential flight openings. After a few seconds, she began to stumble and stutter as she tried to come up with the proper words.
“Does the office want me to fly again?” I asked.
Her reply, while not unexpected, stabbed me to my heart. “Honestly?” she said. “I have much better choices to fly in space than you.”
I sat there dumbfounded, as if I had just been told that I had terminal cancer.
“You don’t have the temperament for long-duration spaceflight,” she added.
Having no idea how to respond, I just sat there. It seemed as if time had stopped. Finally, in an effort to minimize the sting of her words, I tried for lightness, asking, “Do you like your job?” She replied that most of the time she did but not when she had to have meetings like the one we were having.
Fighting back tears, I stood and moved toward the door. Turning to address her one final time, I said quietly, “I’m sorry I let you and the office down.”
Punishment received.