The Last Pilot: A Novel (17 page)

I guess the excitement. Maybe the danger? I don’t know; we’re about to put the first American in space, stick it to the Reds, show them they can’t just take over the world. I wish I was down there, at Cape Canaveral, see it for myself. You see the rocket tests on TV?

Harrison lied, said he hadn’t.

Oh, boy, the surgeon said. Last month, the one on the pad right now, the Redstone, was supposed to put a dummy into orbit. Forty seconds after launch, it went crazy. They had to blow it up by remote control. Next one, three days later; thirty-three seconds. And last summer? When it exploded midflight? Worst was when they flew all those VIPS down. When the countdown reached zero, nothing happened. The Redstone just gave out a little groan. Didn’t move. Then the escape tower popped off the top and floated down under this little white parachute and plopped into the Banana River. Boy oh boy, what a joke. I bet they wet their pants in Moscow over that. Remember
Kaputnik
? And that was only a satellite! I mean, you must have seen them?

Harrison shook his head.

That is one brave sonofabitch, the surgeon said.

The television showed a live feed from the pad: the Redstone rocket, the tiny Mercury capsule perched on top; behind it, an infinite blue, the odd seagull.

He’s sitting right on top of that thing, the surgeon said. Risking his life. For us. What the hell do you think goes through the mind of a man at a time like this?

It wasn’t
blowing up
, Harrison thought. It was
fucking up
.

Who the hell knows, he said.

In the chaos of the last week, he’d forgotten about the planned launch of Freedom 7, the first manned flight of NASA’s Mercury/Redstone program. He’d watched the ape, Ham, go up in January, flip his switches, splash down in the Pacific. A great crowd had gathered at Edwards to watch it on the small black-and-white television in Bob White’s office. The men were in good spirits, watching little Ham do his job. They cheered when his chutes opened and clapped at his splashdown. Little Ham; a monkey; the historic first flight. Project Mercury was a circus stunt, no two ways about it.

On the television, Cronkite was broadcasting at the Cape from the back of a station wagon. The countdown had been stopped several times already.

Four hours,
Cronkite said,
four hours since Shepard was inserted into the capsule. We have another hold at T minus six—that’s six minutes before the completion of the launch sequence; we have a hold.

Harrison watched with the surgeon as more people gathered around the television. They could hear, as Cronkite could, the clipped words of the engineers in the blockhouse; the radio static an electromagnetic conduit for their collective anxiety. No one wanted to be responsible for killing America’s first astronaut. The countdown began again. The Redstone, tall and slender and filled with liquid oxygen, rumbled and squealed on the pad.

Jesus, the surgeon said.

T minus two minutes and forty seconds; that’s another hold,
Cronkite said.

More chatter on the loop. Now the Redstone’s fuel pressure was running high.

They could be about to call an abort,
Cronkite said.
The pressure valve in the booster might need to be reset manually. That would delay the mission for at least another two days.

On the loop, the engineers chattered and fussed. Shepard lost patience. His voice cut in; the voice of the pilot.

All right, I’m cooler than you are. Why don’t you fix your little problem and
light this candle
!

Harrison smiled, the surgeon leaned in and the audience began to vibrate as the engineers each declared their systems GO and the candle was lit and the rumbling Redstone howled like a beaten animal until it cleared the tower and fired Alan B. Shepard Jr.—naval aviator, test pilot, husband, father of three—off the face of the Earth. Harrison looked at the surgeon; there were tears in his eyes. In the lounge, the audience cheered and the surgeon clapped and Harrison took out a cigarette and lit it and shook out the match.

Fifteen minutes later, it was over. Freedom 7 dropped into the cold Atlantic like a stone. Shortly after, Shepard was heaved aboard the aircraft carrier
Lake Champlain
. The audience applauded. Harrison chuckled, cigarette dangling from his lips, and clapped. Shepard stood on the deck and waved. The surgeon turned his head and said, where do we get such men?

Back in the room, Harrison sat, drinking his coffee.

I can’t believe I missed it! Grace said.

There wasn’t much to see, Harrison said.

Maybe not for you—

Or him.

But for the rest of us.

Honestly, you didn’t miss much.

Is he in space now? Florence said, from her bed.

No, honey, Harrison said. It was just a suborbital ballistic lob—a little ride, Duck—he’s home now.

Is he in space?

No, sweetheart. He isn’t.

I want to go to space.

You, my little Flo-Flo, Grace said, need to rest.

I don’t want to rest, Florence said.

It’s been a long week, Duck, Harrison said.

Can we go home? Florence said.

Yes, he said. In the morning.

Okay, she said.

Grace smiled and stroked her forehead until she fell asleep. That night, in the motel, Grace said, I’m scared, Jim, and Harrison said, everything will be okay.

They left Los Angeles early. It was Saturday.

Grace carried Florence up the stairs when they got home.

At around two, Pancho stopped by.

Aunt Pancho! Florence said when Harrison brought her down.

Hey, kiddo, good to see you, Pancho said. I heard you done real good at the hospital.

I was at the hospital, said Florence. There was a doctor and Daddy bought me an ice cream.

I’ll bet he did, Pancho said. I’m gonna cook you up some sausages. You still like sausages, don’t you?

I like sausages, she said.

Good, cause I invited a few people over.

Grace decided not to stress. An hour later, the garden was full and Pancho stood in a cloud of hot smoke and put raw meat on the grill and piled it onto a plate when it was cooked. Joe Walker, who couldn’t make the party, buzzed the house in a F-104, flying so low and so fast that it shook the glass in the windows and caused a plate to fall off the sideboard and smash on the kitchen floor. Harrison carried his daughter around on one arm and held a bottle of beer in his spare hand. Florence still wasn’t able to walk. She wore the head scarf that Lapitus had given her. Grace stood outside and looked at the salad she’d made and considered making more.

Hello, Grace, a voice behind her said. She turned around.

Reverend Irving, she said. You—I wasn’t expecting you.

He smiled. I’m sorry, he said, I should have called ahead. Pancho told me what was going on when I visited the base last week. I’ve been praying for you all.

He was dressed in black and holding a bottle of beer.

No, no it’s fine, Grace said. I’m sorry, I was just—

Surprised to find me in your garden?

She smiled and nodded.

Have you had any salad? she said.

I have. It was good, he said.

Good.

It looks like she’s doing well, he said, looking over to where Florence was playing in the grass.

Who knows, she said.

And how are you? he said.

She looked at the sky curling overhead, a weak blue. It’s good to be home.

I’m sure, he said.

We’ve got another six weeks to go, she said. As an outpatient.

In Los Angeles?

She nodded. I’ll take her back during the week, stay down there, bring her home on weekends.

You have somewhere to stay?

A friend of Jim’s moved to Long Beach not too long ago. Said we could stay. Jim’s got to work.

How have things been?

She looked down at the salad bowl she was carrying.

I didn’t mean to—

No, it’s okay, she said, looking up. Better, thank you. Much better. Having Florence really turned things around. I don’t know why, but there you go.

Well, nothing never happens when we pray, he said.

I like that, she said.

He smiled.

Me too, he said.

Thank you, Reverend, she said. Really.

It was my pleasure, he said.

I’m going to—she held up the bowl.

Of course, of course!

She smiled and walked back to the house. The wind picked up. Irving finished his beer. He spotted Mel Apt’s wife, Faye, and her two children, and went over to speak to them.

Grace stood in the empty kitchen. The house was cool and quiet. She could hear Jim, outside, talking to someone about the X-15. She walked into the living room and sat down on the edge of the sofa, her arms around the salad bowl, and cried. She looked at the wall. Then she looked into the empty bowl. Then she stood and returned to the kitchen, fixed more salad and went back outside.

Harrison poured himself a black coffee and sat down. His body ached from the flight. He’d flown the X-15 just shy of Mach five. He wanted out of his pressure suit, but first he wanted a coffee. Ridley stepped in from the hangar.

Good flight, he said.

Sounded like someone was banging on the side of it with a goddamn hammer, Harrison said.

That’s the slots expanding, Ridley said.

Felt like I was flyin an oilcan.

One of the pleasures of flying at hypersonic speeds. Metal expands. Not much else we can do about it.

I need to get this goddamn suit off.

Ridley sat down on the bench next to him. Can you believe Jack Kennedy? he said.

Hell, after that stunt he tried in April, think the man must have been dropped as a child, Harrison said.

You hear the budget?

No.

One point seven
billion
. And that’s just the first year.

Jesus.

They’re gonna need a lot more than that to get to the moon. And they’ll get it.

He really serious about this nineteen-seventy deadline?

Yup.

That’s nine years.

Yup.

And all they’ve done so far is lob Shepard through the sky like a stone. Suborbital. Hell, I just done pretty much exactly that. Hundred and sixty-seven thousand feet. There’s no air, no aerodynamic controls—that’s why we got the damn hydrogen peroxide thrusters!—I hit five g’s on the way up; Shepard did six. He was weightless for five minutes; I was off the seat for two.

I know, Ridley said.

Landed it myself, too—I didn’t need the whole goddamn navy to fish me out of the ocean. Christ. One point seven billion?

Seems catching up is all that matters.

The man’s obsessed, Harrison said.

The world’s judging him—judging this country—on how we do in space.

Talk about takin a longer stride.

You thinking about it?

Hell, no. Got everything I need right here.

Attaboy, Ridley said.

Two hundred a week and the Blue Suit, Harrison said. Everything a man could ask for.

Amen, Ridley said. He looked at the lockers. How’s Florence?

Doing good, Harrison said.

Yeah?

No sickness at all.

That’s great.

Yeah. And they’re giving her the maximum dose of X-rays too, Harrison said. Twenty-three hundred roentgens.

I’ll be damned, Ridley said. She’s a tough little cookie. Gets that from her mother, mind you.

She started crawling again pretty soon after they started. And she learned to walk again last weekend.

That’s good news, Jim.

Yeah.

Her eyes still crooked?

Nope. Straightened right out. The doctors are doing a great job down there. And she gets to come home on weekends.

You been cookin?

Nah. Pancho’s.

I gotta get out of this suit, Harrison said, standing.

Ridley pulled out a pack of Pall Malls and said, I’ll see you at the debrief.