The Last Pilot: A Novel (31 page)

Depends on the question.

Well, Eb and me, we been wonderin. Why we spendin American dollars puttin men up to do a monkey’s job?

Harrison glanced at his glass, turned it with his hand, looked up at him.

Well, he said, those early flights, yeah, they were designed to be automated, sure. It was quick and dirty, but Eisenhower was in a fix; the press were goin nuts, remember?

Sure we do, Eb said.

All the engineers wanted the occupant to do was flick a few damn switches, Harrison said. But you know what? The Mercury boys, they said, no, we want to fly the thing, like a pilot, case we need to. Good job, too, or ol Gordo would have fried.

Gordo Cooper? Bill said.

Yeah, Harrison said. His flight, the last one; designed to be the longest of em all. Twenty-two orbits.

How many’d Glenn do?

Three.

Jesus.

Harrison continued. Gordo’s first eighteen orbits, everything goes swell, then, on the nineteenth, the electrical system shorts. Next orbit, he loses all attitude reading. Then the whole automatic control system goes off. Temperature in the capsule hits a hundred and, because of the electrical problem, carbon dioxide starts building up in his suit. Mission Control, well, they’re getting themselves in quite a twist. Gordo figures he’s in a tight spot, so takes over. He’s gotta line up the angle of reentry manually, with his eyeballs, holding the capsule steady with the stick. On his final orbit, he approaches daylight over the Pacific, checks his orientation with some lines he’s drawn on the window with a pencil. Then, using his wristwatch for time, manually fires the retro-rockets at exactly the right moment, and splashes down alongside the carrier. Hell, they were so close, you could toss a ball between them. Ol Gordo, yeah; that’s how you do it.

Hey, Walt, three more, Bill said.

Coming up.

Have to say, Eb said, glad we ran into you.

Harrison nodded.

These Gemini flights, he said, they take real piloting. Besides, you can’t put a monkey on the moon. What’s the poor sonofabitch gonna say?

Reds’ll blow us all to hell before we get to the moon, Eb said.

Could be worse, Bill said.

Eb looked at him. How could it be worse?

In your guts, you
know
he’s nuts!

The men laughed. Harrison smiled, his face creasing along old lines, eyes narrowing into half-moons.

Oh, boy, Eb said, Goldwater; that crazy sonofabitch. Christ, though, what about Johnson’s daisy girl?

The way her eye filled the screen during the countdown? Bill said. Then,
kaboom!
Honest to God, I wet my goddamn pants first time it ran.

Say what you want about Johnson, Harrison said, but that broadcast was genius.

Love each other or die
, Eb said. What an asshole.

Was a hell of a slogan, Harrison said.

Vote for me or the other guy will kill you?

Whatever works, I guess.

Thank God it did.

The Reds ain’t stupid, Bill said. It’s a suicide button; they know that, everyone does. Something’s changed. Don’t know what, all I know is we now got men on top of missiles, not bombs.

Still plenty of bombs, Eb said.

All I want to do is fly, Harrison said.

An hour later it was half past midnight and the bar was quiet.

Jim? Walt said. You okay?

He looked at the light, it hurt his eyes.

What happened?

Fellas left a while ago.

Harrison’s mouth was dry.

Sorry, Walt.

You’re always welcome here, Jim.

He stood, his legs were weak.

You okay?

Sure.

You don’t look too good.

I’m okay.

He dropped some bills on the bar.

No need, Walt said. Bill took care of it.

But after they left—

That too.

Guess I’ll have another, then.

He ordered a scotch and stared at the bar and sat there for a long time.

When he left, it was very dark. He stood on the sidewalk. The alcohol was messing with his processes; his reasoning. He couldn’t think straight. He didn’t feel good. C’mon, he thought,
c’mon
. He pushed his hand hard against the wall. He lived by one rule:
don’t fuck up
. If someone saw him struggling, if it got back to Deke, he’d be out. It was the only thing that mattered. He’d gotten good at hiding it, but all it took was one
fuckup
. He walked back to the Holiday Inn.

Gemini V splashed down at twelve fifty-five on August twenty-ninth, nineteen sixty-five.
Eight days in a garbage can,
Conrad said.
Wish I’d taken a book.

Three weeks after Harrison’s backup duties on Gemini V ended, Deke assigned him and Neil to the prime crew of Gemini VIII. Fifty-five orbits, the world’s second rendezvous, followed by the first docking of two spacecraft in space. Rendezvous in Earth orbit was a dark art, requiring the pilot to
slow down
, rather than accelerate toward his target, in order to drop into a lower orbit, increase his centrifugal force, and
speed up
. Orbits in different planes, of varying shapes, complicated matters. The whole enterprise took exceptional piloting skills. In addition, there was an ambitious EVA in the flight plan; much longer and more complex than Ed White’s spacewalk on Gemini IV. It was set to be a hell of a mission. As commander, Harrison relished the challenge, immersing himself in the details. Gemini VIII would launch in March. He and Neil worked long and hard; eight, nine, ten hours in the simulator, straight, almost daily. The technical detail kept his mind calm, his attention focused.
Don’t fuck up
.

He tried to be careful.

Then in late February one of the new fellas from the third group was flying from Houston to the McDonnell plant in St. Louis in heavy rain and came in too low and too slow—bad news in a T-38 that often stalled below two hundred and seventy knots—so gunned the afterburner for another pass and turned and crunched into the McDonnell hangar and was decapitated in the parking lot.

That evening, after the news broke, Harrison sat on his bed, smoking, reviewing his black notebook. It was divided into six sections:
SCHEDULE, SYSTEMS BRIEFINGS, EXPERIMENTS, FLIGHT PLAN, MISCELLANEOUS, OPEN ITEMS
. He sighed, rubbed his face. There were a hundred and eighty-four open items, each numbered in his tight black hand. He stopped reading, dropped the book on the bed. It was late, almost eleven, the telephone rang.

Jim Harrison, he said into the receiver.

Jim, it’s Deke. We need to see you here urgently.

Where are you?

MSC.

I’m at the Cape.

I know.

What’s it about, Deke?

Tomorrow, eleven-thirty, my office. We’ll talk then.

The line went dead. He didn’t have time for a round-trip to Houston. Four weeks before the flight? What did Deke want to see him about? Jesus—had he been found out? No, he’d been careful, discreet, trained harder than anyone; no one could deny that. Maybe Deke wanted to talk Apollo crew selection? That was more likely. Or the new fella’s funeral. He went to bed, rose early, flew down to Houston in a T-38. He landed, taxied, popped the canopy. It was a sunny day.

Thanks for coming on such short notice, Jim, Deke said, from behind his desk. Have a seat.

Uh, no problem, Deke, Harrison said, and sat down.

There was a knock at the door.

Yup, Deke said, and Marvin Hoffman, the flight surgeon, came in and sat down. As soon as Harrison saw him, he knew.

Jim, it’s come to my attention, Deke said, that you’re not doing too good.

I’m fine, Deke.

Come on, Jim, Hoffman said.

Does Marvin have to be here?

Yes, Deke said. Look, I know the last few years have been pretty tough on you—

Deke—

And you’ve been through shit that—God forbid—none of us will ever have to experience—

I don’t want to talk about that, Harrison said.

I know you don’t, Jim, but I do, Deke said. And if this goes on much longer the whole world will be talking about it, and I’m pretty sure neither you, or Grace, want that.

Harrison didn’t say anything. He began to feel
not good
. He’d stopped using stupid techniques a while ago. He’d realized that he was a
test pilot
and, if he treated every instance as
a test pilot in a tight spot
, he could easily maneuver out of trouble. He didn’t realize that this was simply another technique.

Harrison stood.

I got a flight to prepare for, he said.

Jim, you’re mentally unwell, Hoffman said, rising.

Marv, Deke said.

Are you grounding me? Harrison said to Deke.

Deke got to his feet.

Yeah, he said.

This is flight surgeon
horseshit
, Deke! Harrison said, pointing at Hoffman.

You need to look after yourself, Jim, Deke said. You need to get some help. Marvin can help you with that. We’ve got people you can talk to now. Hell, you’ve been doing a pretty damn good job of keepin on; you’ve done good work, you should be proud of that. But now’s the time to stop, before you do something stupid and auger in. We sure as hell don’t need another astronaut clobbered before he’s even been into space. Or, worse, what if we send you up, and something happens, and NASA’s got two dead men orbiting the Earth? There’d be no damn program
left
.

He’s right, Jim, Hoffman said.

A month before the flight, Harrison said. You’re taking me off a month before the flight.

That’s why we have backup crews, Deke said.

Look, Harrison said, Dave Scott’s a fine pilot but—

Dave will do just fine, Deke said. And no one came to me. It’s important you know that. It was just, a little thing here, a little thing there; Marv and I spoke.

Deke—

I’m sorry Jim, Deke said.

I’m sorry too, Harrison said.

Conrad’s downstairs, Deke said. He’ll fly you back to the Cape, if that’s where you want to go.

He stared at Deke, then nodded.

Marv will make you an appointment to see one of our people right away.

Where can I reach you? Hoffman said.

Holiday Inn, Harrison said.

I’ll need a permanent address.

That is my address.

Deke waved his hand at Hoffman.

Right, Hoffman said. Deke, I gotta run.

Sure. Thanks, Marv.

Jim, Hoffman said. I’ll be in touch.

Harrison nodded and Hoffman left, leaving the two men in the room together.

No reason why you can’t get back in the rotation for Apollo if things go well, Deke said.

Guess I’d better find Conrad, Harrison said.

The heat hit him hard outside. He felt sick. He was sick.

You’d better not do that in the cockpit, Conrad said, stepping out of his Corvette.

Pete, Harrison said.

Or my car. Tough break?

Something like that.

C’mon, Conrad said. Let’s get back, sit by the pool, have a beer.

Harrison said, a beer sounds good, and Conrad drove them to Ellington and they flew back to the Cape.

He didn’t go to the launch. The night before, he drove up to pad nineteen, parked the Corvette and looked across at the vast Titan II rocket. The small Gemini capsule sat on top of the fat booster, black and silver and white. He looked at it for a long time. Then he drove back to the motel. That old pilot’s saying:
only two ways out of a doctor’s office.
He went down to the bar and drank and smoked. He thought about all the work Neil and Dave were now having to do before the launch. He looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. They were probably still in the simulator. He felt bad. He was falling into a funk. It started as soon as he and Conrad landed at the Cape and had gotten progressively worse. He wasn’t going up. Something else was slipping away too, but he didn’t know what. He took a bottle back to his room.

The next morning, he got one of the engineers to install a squawk box by his bed. He might not be attending the launch, but he sure as hell wanted to listen in.