The Last Pilot: A Novel (22 page)

Milo ran around the room then disappeared into the kitchen.

Let me just get changed, she said.

Houston was humid. He wanted a cold shower as soon as he arrived. He dropped his bag in front of the reception desk at the Rice Hotel and looked around. Nice place. Can I help you? a girl said.

Sure, he said. I’m Max Peck. I’ve got a room booked for two nights.

I’m sorry? she said.

I’m—uh—Max Peck, he said. I have a reservation?

I don’t think you are, she said.

He didn’t know what to do. What should he do? A man appeared behind the desk. His nametag said
GEORGE SWARTZ
. Ah, George Swartz said, yes; I’ll take care of this, Paula, thank you. Mr. Peck?

Paula looked as confused as Harrison.

Uh, yes, Harrison said.

Welcome to the Rice Hotel, George Swartz said. We’re very glad you could make it. He reached beneath the counter for a brown envelope. Here’s your key. Please let us know if anything isn’t to your satisfaction.

Thank you, Harrison said, looking around.

The elevators are right through there, George Swartz said, pointing toward a set of glazed double doors. You’re on the fifth floor.

Thanks, Harrison said. He picked up his bag and, envelope in hand, went to find his room. In the elevator he loosened his collar and hit five. There was a sign above the panel that said,
WELCOME TO YOUR HOST IN HOUSTON! WE HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR STAY! MAX PECK, MANAGER
.

What the hell? Harrison said.

His room was dark and cool. He sat down on the bed. Was all this really necessary? The phone rang.

Hello? he said. The line was silent. Hello?

Who’s this? a voice said.

You phoned me! Harrison said. Who is this?

I’m Max Peck.

Are you the manager of this hotel? Harrison said.

I’m a guest and I think you have my room.

Look, son, Harrison said. I don’t know who you are but I can assure you this is
my
room and
my
name is Max Peck and if you’ve got a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with the manager. I believe his name is Max Peck!

He slammed the receiver back in its cradle.

I need a drink, he said to the empty room. He showered, changed, and headed down to the bar. As soon as he saw Pete Conrad with a tumbler in his hand he knew who he’d been speaking to on the telephone.

Pete Conrad, Harrison said. The Lovelace washout.

Mr. Peck, I presume? Conrad said, turning and smiling. The men shook hands.

I thought I recognized the voice, Harrison said.

Conrad laughed. How the hell are you?

Good.

What’ll it be?

Scotch, thanks. So are we all Max Peck today?

Yup, Conrad said.

Well, I can’t wait to meet the others, Harrison said. How many are we, anyway?

Nine, Conrad said. And here comes another one now.

John Young, a navy pilot and Pax River alumni, walked over, drink in one hand, fat cigar in the other.

Mr. Peck, Conrad said. We’ve been waiting for you.

Shit, Young said. You too? What the hell’s Deke playing at?

John, Conrad said, this here’s Jim Harrison.

Young stuck his cigar between his teeth and shook Harrison’s hand.

Real pleasure, Young said.

Likewise, Harrison said. Hell, am I the only air force?

Nope, Conrad said. The same loophole you snuck through let in a couple more.

Well that’s a damn shame, Harrison said, smiling.

The bartender approached them.

What’ll it be, gentlemen?

Same again for me, Conrad said. Plus a scotch and—John?

Make that two.

Coming up, the bartender said.

And here comes Shaky! Conrad said, spotting Lovell wander into the bar, looking apprehensive.

Damn, Lovell said, seeing the men. It’s like the fleet has landed.

Drink? Conrad said.

Well, if you insist, Pete, Lovell said, then, turning to the others, Jim, John; pleasure to see you gentlemen here.

Likewise.

When the bartender returned with their drinks, Harrison said, say, let’s take these through to the lobby; see if we can’t spot a few more Max Pecks coming in.

Great idea, Conrad said.

They sat and drank and watched five other men experience the same confusion they had at the reception desk. As each man left with his key, the group would holler and cheer and the new arrival would look up, smile, shake his head and walk over. Harrison knew Frank Borman, Tom Stafford and Jim McDivitt; all flight test instructors at Edwards. He shook their hands and introduced them to the others. Ed White came over. He was tall, athletic; a West Pointer with a generous grin. He’d been doing all-weather testing at Wright-Patterson. Harrison only knew him by name.

Eight down, one to go, Lovell said.

The men ordered another round of drinks and then Harrison stood up as a short man with a wry smile approached the group.

Neil, you sly dog, Harrison said, shaking his hand and laughing.

Damn, Neil said. I was a week in San Antonio for those tests and a week here at Ellington for assessment and I didn’t see you once!

They must’ve staggered us, Harrison said.

Two X-15 pilots? Conrad said. We are truly blessed.

I guess this is us, then, huh? Borman said, looking round.

Guess so, Harrison said.

Not bad, Conrad said. Not bad at all.

The next morning they traveled to Ellington Air Force Base, close to where the vast Manned Spacecraft Center was rapidly being constructed on the thousand acres of murky scrubland at the edge of Clear Lake. Deke wanted them to meet the NASA brass. The men made their way to the large hall where the meeting was supposed to take place.

Jim, Deke said as the men entered.

Deke, he said, shaking his hand.

The hall had no windows and the light was poor. There were two suited men standing and talking together on the far side who looked up and began to walk toward them.

Glad you could make it down, Deke said.

Well, it’s good to be here, Deke, Harrison said. How’s Marge?

She’s good thanks, good. Gentlemen, welcome, Deke said to the others. I’ll be with you in just a minute. He turned back to Harrison.

Listen, I’m sorry we didn’t get the chance to chat more, you know, back in December.

Oh, sure, Deke, Harrison said. Thanks.

Deke slapped his shoulder. Sure good to have you here, he said.

Harrison nodded.

Okay, gentlemen, Deke said, as the two suited men joined him, good morning. We’ve got a lot to cover today so I’m just gonna get straight on with it. You know me and I sure as hell know more than I’d like to about you after all them tests.

The men laughed.

First I’ll introduce you to Walt Williams, head of Flight Operations, who some of you may already know, and Bob Gilruth, director of the Manned Spacecraft Center, who headed up the original Space Task Group for Mercury. They’ll be plenty of missions for you all. We got eleven manned Gemini flights on the schedules, followed by at
least
four Block I Apollos, which will lead to a number of Block II Apollo missions—one of which will attempt the first lunar landing. You’re no doubt aware, from observing the boys who have already gone up—

And those that haven’t, Gilruth chipped in.

Yeah, Deke said, yeah; them too—that you’ll receive a great deal more attention than, uh, you’ve been used to in the flight test business. I know you don’t like it, I know you don’t want it, but I also know by the fact you’re here today that you’re willing to put up with it in order to achieve our goals. Now there’ll be plenty of pressure and temptation, no doubt about that. Be careful about accepting gifts, freebies, that kinda thing, especially from companies competing for contracts. And with regard to gratuities, if you have any doubt, just follow the old test pilot’s creed: anything you can eat, drink or screw within twenty-four hours is perfectly acceptable.

The men laughed and Gilruth shook his head and Williams said, within reason, within reason!

I’m gonna hand you over to Shorty Powers now, our public affairs officer, Deke said. He’s gonna brief you on the press conference later. And you’ll remember from mine how much I hate press conferences. This time we got the University of Houston’s Cullen Auditorium. There’ll be reporters, crews from all the television networks, radio, the wire, plus national and international newspapers and magazines. There’s eighteen hundred seats in that auditorium and every one of em will be taken. The world is waiting to see who America’s new astronauts are. Keep your answers brief, obvious, and impersonal, like good pilots. We already have, he said with a smile, one John Glenn, and God knows that’s enough. You’ll meet Chris Kraft and George Low later but, for now, here’s Shorty.

Deke looked around.

Shorty? he said again.

He’s on his way, Williams said.

Okay, Deke said. Any problems, talk to me. I got your backs. And we’ll need you down at the Cape October third for Wally’s launch, so mark it off in your schedules.

The doors banged and a small balding man appeared in the gloom.

Shorty, Deke said. Jesus Christ. Come on, or we’ll never get to the goddamn moon.

Harrison flew back to Edwards that night. He’d hated every minute of the press conference. So had the others. But they answered the questions, posed for photographs. Then they got the hell out.

He landed on the main runway. He felt good. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt good. After he got changed, he drove home. Grace was asleep on the sofa when he walked through the door. She stirred when she heard him.

Hey, you’re back, she said, half asleep.

He dropped his bag on the floor.

I didn’t mean to wake you, he said.

No, it’s okay, she said. She stretched. I was waiting up. I must have fallen asleep.

She sat up and yawned.

Where’s Milo? he said.

Upstairs, she said. At least, he was. How was it?

He smiled.

What’s the matter? she said.

Nothing. How was your day?

Dull, she said. Cleaned the house all morning, then took Milo to Rosamond for groceries. Hey, I ran into Megan Blackman; she was really odd with me.

What’d she do? he said, walking around the sofa to see her.

Nothing really, Grace said. She was just … she just made a big fuss over me, and said something like, eight years was plenty enough and to give you her best. And she had this weird smile the whole time. How many times have you spoken to her before? Twice? Maybe three times? And Milo was tugging at the damn leash the whole time, she said.

He sat down next to her. Listen, he said. I got some news.

What? she said.

Pack your bags, he said.

What? Why?

We’re moving.

Moving?
she said. What? Where to?

Houston, he said.

HOUSTON,
TEXAS
1962

Clear Lake was not a lake. Or clear. It looked murky, but Grace figured Murky Lake didn’t have the same appeal. Still. It looked pretty. From a distance. Lots of green. So much green. Trees, too. Trees and green and the murky clear lake. The air was a different kind of hot. It didn’t dry out the back of your throat. It had weight behind it. Moisture. The Texan sun was more forgiving; a kind aunt instead of a stern mother. And who could argue with the house? After so many years in their tiny timber ranch house, with its clanky, spurting taps and shit-brown water and splitting wooden walls, and the
dust
, this was like … she didn’t know what it was like. She’d never seen anything like it.

The house was in Timber Cove, a new development close to Murky Lake and the Manned Spacecraft Center that was emerging in gray cubes from the ground. The Original Seven astronauts, as people were now calling them—the
fellas
—settled here first, picking out lots, their wives choosing their own kitchens. The streets were tidy. Pine and oak trees shaded the sidewalks from the hot sun.

The week following the press conference, members of the New Nine—as
they
were now being called—flew down to Houston to pick out lots of their own. Grace had known all about the deal that the Original Seven cut with
Life
; she’d read the personal pieces (ghosted, naturally) by the astronauts and their wives. Exclusive rights to their stories; half a million bucks between them. And Leo DeOrsey, the lawyer that NASA had turned to for advice, refused to take a fee, or even be reimbursed for his expenses! It was a new kind of crazy. After she’d settled down and taken in the news that Jim had hit her with, after that, her mind had found itself thinking about such things—compensations—the
goodies
—but she simply couldn’t believe that this particularly fat goose,
Life
magazine, would ever lay another egg, even a silver one. She was wrong. An agent was immediately found for them, the Nine, an ad exec from Philly called Harry Batten. Grace liked Harry from their first meeting. He was thin and tall and dressed in a variety of gray suits cut so precisely she could hardly believe he could move. He laughed loud, and he laughed a lot. And he got them their own
Life
deal. Split nine ways this time, sure, but she wasn’t about to complain. After years on the pay of an air force captain, it was hard to take in. It hadn’t stopped there, either. The Timber Cove developers, so eager to have
astronauts
living in their homes, offered large mortgages with practically no interest and proposed they custom-build the houses to whatever specifications they wanted.