The Last Pilot: A Novel (29 page)

It was almost six. He called down, ordered a hamburger. It came at seven, he ate it at eight-thirty, cold. It tasted good. He tried to leave, for the bar, several times. Parts of the suite were now acutely familiar to him, having sat staring at them as he tried to rationalize the distressing thoughts that erupted in his mind with increasing severity. Now, those areas of the room waited, like booby traps, to trigger the original thoughts themselves. At several points he was surprised again by how much time had passed and he’d go over exactly where the time had gone, which meant recalling the original thoughts, which caused him great distress. Sometimes, if this process took time, at the end, he would be surprised by just how much of it had passed, and would go over exactly where
that
time had gone too. He was trapped, by his mind, by the room, by his desperate attempts to feel in control. At times, he would be lost to frustration, then despair, then dealing with thoughts of suicide, and, always, intruding into his conscience, was Florence, and he would hate himself for desecrating her memory.

It was Saturday. He had the room until nine the next morning. He set his alarm and tried to sleep. He was exhausted. He wanted the nightmare to end. He craved unconsciousness. He was now in such a state that images automatically appeared every time he shut his eyes and ridges in the bedsheet reminded him of the weak limbs of a dying child and he cried into his pillow until, at last, he fell asleep, and ten minutes later, at half past seven, he was awoken by his alarm.

He flew commercial back to Houston. His body was a wreck, but he felt a little better. Something about sleep—even ten minutes of it—had erased the loop he’d got stuck in. He didn’t think about it. That much he was able to do now. He focused on the program. On his work. He slept in the cab from the airport to the house. Later that night, he picked up the telephone and dialed the Happy Bottom Riding Club. He had no cigarettes so girded his fingers around the green cord of the telephone.

What? Pancho said.

It’s me, he said.

Figured.

Guess you know.

Yeah.

She okay?

Are
you
okay?

Christ.

Come home, Jim.

Yeah, he said, maybe.

They talked some more, then hung up. The house was silent. He couldn’t go back. He packed a large bag, threw the bag in the Corvette, fired the engine and drove out of Timber Cove, out of Houston, and to the Cape.

CAPE CANAVERAL
COCOA BEACH,
FLORIDA, 1962

He was three days reaching the Cape. The roads were long and hot and empty. He drove through the southwest prairies of Louisiana, skirted the lowlands of Mississippi and Alabama and crossed into Florida at Pensacola. He stayed in hot motels and ate late in all-night diners with hard-bitten loners, wastrels and drunks sitting alone drinking cold coffee and smoking around him. He’d sit up at the counter, order meatballs and french fries and feel like he belonged. On occasion, a couple of cops on night patrol would roll up and eat with him, radios crackling quietly beneath the table. He felt a strange peace. During the long drives, he’d developed a system to help him cope with his troubled mind. He applied engineering principles to the problem, which was, he established, terrifying thoughts. Rather than spending time thinking through these thoughts, reviewing their content, seeking to reassure himself of their falsity, he came up with a system, a shortcut; bullet points. There were five in total. The points could be applied to any troubling thought he had. The real genius lay in their automation. He realized he didn’t actually have to
consciously recite
each of the points. He could simply count them out on his fingers. Or tap them out with his foot. He would be reassured, the thought would go, and he could move on. It was simple.

From a pay phone out the back of Joe Mac’s he called Pancho. The line connected, but he hung up after the third ring. It was his last stop before hitting Florida.

He arrived at the Cape, drove down to Cocoa Beach and parked up at the Holiday Inn. Henri was pleased to see him. He gave Harrison a room for as long as he needed it. He unpacked, then went down to the bar. Later that night, he called Grace Walker from his room.

Jesus, Jim, she said. What happened?

I don’t know, he said.

How are you?

I’m okay.

Look, I’m not taking sides on this—nobody needs that—but I feel very protective toward Grace; you understand that, right?

I do, he said.

She’s been through so much.

We both have.

Yes, but she’s been dealing with it.

And I haven’t?

Honestly, Jim? No, I don’t think you have. Look, so much has happened, and so fast … You both need some time. All I’m saying is, don’t be too hard on yourself. I know you’re under a lot of pressure at work, but maybe you could take a week or so off? Or even just a few days? I really think it would do you good. I could make up Robbie’s old room; you could stay with us.

How’s Pancho?

She’s the same. Where are you?

The Cape. Need to be here most of the time anyway.

What about the house?

Figured we’d sell it … Grace can keep whatever we get.

Why don’t you come back, Jim? It would be good to see you. Joe would get a kick out of having you stay.

Harrison didn’t say anything.

He told me he ran into you at the Cape, she said.

It was real good to see him, Harrison said.

Joe said the same, she said.

There was a pause.

Is she okay? he said.

Yes, she said.

It’s good to hear your voice.

And yours, Jim. You call me anytime you want, okay?

Say hi to Joe for me.

I will. Take care of yourself.

Bye, Grace.

Bye, Jim.

The next day was Monday. That meant pilots’ meeting, first thing. They convened in the small room next to Deke’s office up at the complex. The light was a white strip with a rectangular table sat beneath it. Deke stood at its head like a father at dinner. Behind him, on the wall, was a blackboard. Blinds were lowered across a wide window that overlooked the parking lot outside.

Gentlemen, he said when they were all seated and silent. Nineteen sixty-two is almost over. The years are gonna pass fast from now on. If you think you’ve been busy so far … We have a deadline, and we’re gonna make it, with time to spare. We’ve got some stuff to figure out, but we will figure it out and move on. You all look pretty relaxed there in your Ban-Lon shirts. That’s gonna change.

He pointed at the blackboard behind him.
Environmental Training
—exposure to acceleration, vibration, noise, weightlessness; simulated lunar gravity, wearing a bulkier pressure suit. Some of you will have more experience at this stuff than others. Doesn’t matter.
Contingency Training
. We’re gonna run survival schools in the desert and the jungle. In an emergency, who knows where you’ll come down. Also, ejection seats—in case there’s any of you who haven’t punched out of an airplane—and parachutes.
Indoctrination Program
, where we’ll practice moving and working in zero-g. And we’ll all ride parabolic trajectories in the zero-g airplane; a modified KC-135. What else? We’ll have engineering briefings and reviews, make sure you’re all up to speed on vehicle design and development. Some of you navy boys will find the next part old hat:
Water Safety and Survival
at the navy’s preflight school in Pensacola. And you’ll ride the wheel at Johnsonville, you lucky sons-of-bitches. Anyone who stays conscious at twenty-g’s will have a free steak dinner on Max Faget. Glenn did sixteen. So that’s the one to beat. It will be a special kind of torture. We’re gonna build our own centrifuge at MSC too. And we’ll be doing a lot of simulator work, of course.

What about flyin, Deke? Conrad said.

Yes. After the hell the Mercury fellas raised, we’ve decided to formalize it. You’ll all go through an
Aircraft Flight Training
program. So. Sixty-three through sixty-four will be dominated by training and developing your areas of specialization as Gemini progresses. We got a lot of ground to cover and not much time.

John Young, sitting on Harrison’s right, leaned back and sucked on his pipe. Harrison pulled out his cigarettes and gestured for a light.

I’ll have one of them if they’re going round, Borman said.

Harrison slid the pack across the table to him.

And you might want to cut back on those too, Deke said. None of you are gonna be smoking in a hundred percent oxygen environment so you better get used to it. All right. There’s gonna be a lot of memos floatin around. Make sure you read them. Being on a flight crew means your time will be dominated by your upcoming mission but you’ll need to stay on top of your paperwork. Now. Get the hell out of here.

They thanked Deke and picked up their pads and pens and got up.

Jim, you got a sec? Deke said, as the others filed out.

Sure, Harrison said.

Deke waited until they were alone and shut the door.

We’ve had a few calls, he said.

Press?

Yeah, Deke said. You okay with me sayin she’s sick?

Yeah, Harrison said.

Okay, Deke said, listen. If you get asked about it, either ignore it or confirm it; don’t deny it, even if it’s your first instinct. We need to be tellin the same story.

Harrison nodded. Sure thing, he said.

Right, Deke said. Let’s get back to work.

Out in the lot, Harrison slipped into his Corvette. The leather seats were hot. He should have parked in the shade. He put the key in the ignition switch and checked his mirror. He felt too far forward, so adjusted his seat back, then forward, then back again. He adjusted his mirror. Was the door shut properly? He wasn’t sure. He opened the door and shut it again. He readjusted the mirror. The seat was too far back. He moved it forward and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Christ, it was hot. He reached over to turn the key but stopped and retracted his hand. No. He wasn’t ready. He reached for it again, held it between his finger and his thumb, then withdrew again. Shit.
Shit shit shit
. He hit the wheel with his fist. He wound the window down. He moved about in his seat. He touched the mirror. He tapped the brake pedal with his foot five times. He reached for the key, started the engine, and drove off.

He spent Christmas at the Cape studying. His flight manual was already two inches thick. Orbital mechanics, principles of rocket flight, reentry mechanics, rendezvous mechanics. It was a hell of a holiday. He spoke to Grace once, on Christmas eve, in the early evening. It was only the second time they’d spoken since she left.

How you doing? she said.

Okay, he said.

How’s work? she said.

Same old, he said. I miss you.

Are you eating? she said.

He told her that he was.

He wanted to ask her about selling the house but couldn’t bring himself to churn up the conversation.

Some of the stuff I said before I left … she said. I’m sorry. I was in a pretty bad place.

I’m sorry too, he said, trying not to think about it.

I’ve been going along to church, she said, in Rosamond. It’s helping.

I’m glad.

Merry Christmas, Jim, she said.

Merry Christmas, he said.

The line was silent, then it was dead. He tapped on his leg once, twice, three, four, five times, then went down to the bar and felt sorry for himself.

Sixty-three started in the centrifuge at Johnsonville, riding the wheel, using all his strength to keep conscious as it spun. He managed sixteen g’s. He came off, felt like hell, walked slowly toward the men’s room.

How was it? Conrad said, passing him, up next.

Easy, he said. Nothin to it.

Then he went into the john and vomited.