The Last Pilot: A Novel (25 page)

Deke called a late pilots’ meeting to discuss launch preparations for Wally’s flight the next day.

Take the T-33s, Deke said. Get down there tonight. Each of you has a room at the Holiday Inn, Cocoa Beach. The manager, Henri Landwirth, is expecting you. I’ll see you down there.

The Astronaut Office kept a fleet of aircraft—T-33 Shooting Stars, mainly; a few F-102s—for when they were needed on short notice halfway across the country. The pilots also used the airplanes to keep up their proficiency and would take them into the sky as often as they could. Plus, there was extra pay. The men complained that the 102s, on loan from the air force, were barely capable of going supersonic, topping out on a good day at about Mach one point two five, like some beaten-up old hatchback. Deke reassured them he was working on procuring a few Delta Darts, the kind of airplane you could really fly balls-out.

Around the table, the men started to collect their things.

Hey, Jim, Conrad said as they stood. You spoke to Rathmann yet?

Sure have, Harrison said. When we were at the Cape for the prelaunch training. Fixed me up real good.

What color you go for?

Powder blue.

Nice.

You want to see it? It’s out back.

You can do that?

Do what?

Park there?

Yeah.

Aw, hell. I’ve been parking over at the—never mind. Listen, I can’t; I gotta run, but let’s take em out when we get back, go for a little rat-run, yeah?

Sounds good.

See you at the Cape, Conrad said, slipping out the door.

Jim, Deke said. You got a minute?

They were the only two men left in the room.

Listen, Deke said. Marge ran into Grace the other day, down by the lake. Why don’t you two come over for dinner one night after we get back?

Sure, Deke, that’d be swell, he said. I’ll tell her.

How’s she doing?

Fine. Good. Enjoying the house after all those years being fried like an egg out at Edwards.

Yeah, Deke said.

I don’t think she can get her head around how many rooms we got now, Harrison said.

I’m not sure any of us can.

Yeah.

You know, you’re one of the best pilots in this group, Jim, Deke said.

Sure appreciate that, Deke, he said.

Deke grunted.

Guess I better go home and pack, Harrison said.

Just take care of yourself. I’ll see you down there.

Thanks, Deke.

Harrison turned the key and gunned the Corvette’s big block V8 engine. Not bad for a buck a year, he thought. Conrad had put him on to a guy named James Rathmann, a General Motors auto dealer twenty miles south of Cocoa Beach. Grissom and Shepard had met him at a party, become friends. Ever since, any of the fellas could lease any Chevy they wanted from him at a dollar a year. Rathmann, an Indy 500 winner, was good pals with Ed Cole, who ran Chevrolet. They liked to cut loose and race the boys along A1A, tearing up the asphalt then shooting the breeze with the astronauts after. It made them feel pretty good.

The early fall rain fell hard as clouds murmured throaty rumbles above Houston’s low buildings. The tall ones were lost, slunk into the murky wet gray. Harrison drove home on dark roads slick with water that sprayed from his tires. He pulled up outside and silenced the engine. It shuddered and stopped. He looked at his watch. Almost four. He sighed. He’d be in the air soon, above all this. He sometimes wished he could stay up there. He got out of the car. It was gloomy outside. The house looked dark. He hoped Grace wasn’t caught out in the rain. He slid his key into the front door and stepped into the hall.

You look wet, Grace said.

Harrison frowned, and looked around.

Why are all the curtains shut? he said.

Guess I didn’t get round to opening them, she said. Not much point now, I suppose.

Busy day? he said.

She shrugged and sat back down on the sofa.

Looks like you didn’t get round to dressing either, he said.

Grace looked down at her pink gown.

Milo doesn’t mind, she said.

Jesus, he said. What if someone comes to the door?

No one comes to the door, she said.

What’s gotten into you?

Nothing.

You haven’t been out today?

It’s hardly dog-walking weather.

He looked at Milo, who looked miserable.

What’s going on? he said.

Nothing’s going on, she said. What’s the difference anyway? You only ever see me in bed these days.

The program—

Yeah, I know about the goddamn program, she said.

The program, he said, is just getting started. Honey, we’ve all just got here. There’s a hell of a lot to learn. It means I might not be around as much as I was before.

Because you were around a lot then, right?

I have a job to do.

No, you have a job you want to do.

You enjoying the house? The food?

I enjoyed it when we had nothing.

You enjoyed living out in the middle of the goddamn desert with only the Joshua trees for company? You enjoyed the sandstorms and the porch steps you had to stretch over in case they snapped?

I miss our home.

This is our home.

This is not our home. I want to go back.

You want to go back? You can’t go back. You want me to tell Deke, sorry Deke, I’ve changed my mind? You want me to tell the president? Sorry, Jack, my wife misses the goddamn Joshua trees! You want me to be the astronaut that never flew? And what do you suppose the guys back at Edwards would say about that? Oh, they’d have some fun with that, let me tell you. No. My career would be
finished
. And I’d be a national joke. This is our life now.

This is our life? she said. No, Jim, this is
your
life. Your choice. You didn’t even talk to me about—

Because you would have said no!

You’re goddamned right I would have said no! But I would have gone with you. I would have come. But you lied. Didn’t you? You lied to me about where you were when they interviewed you, when they did their tests. You said you were in Seattle. You lied. To me.

Honey, I—

Did you even say good-bye to her?

What?

Did you even go and see her?

Harrison stared at Grace.

Did you? she said.

She’s not there, Grace, all right? When are you gonna realize that? She’s
not there
!

Jim—

Grace started to cry.

She’s gone, okay, Grace? She’s
gone
!

Can you not even say her name? Grace said through her tears.

Just get the hell away from me, he said, backing up.

Jim—

I need to pack a bag.

Where you going?

It’s Wally’s flight tomorrow, he said. I’m going to the Cape.

He went upstairs and she fell into the sofa and sobbed. When he came down, she was sitting up at the breakfast bar with a glass of milk.

Jim, she said.

He looked at her from the hallway. Then he turned and left.

The men met in Henri’s, in the basement of the Holiday Inn. It was dark and cool. Small lights lit bottles of brown, deep red and yellow on the shelves behind the bar. Harrison sat down and ordered a whiskey sour and pulled his cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

Got a match? he said to Cooper, who sat next to him.

I got a lighter? Gordo said.

That’ll do.

Gordo flipped the lid and struck a flame that spat and flickered in the low light.

Thanks.

The two men heard a boisterous laugh somewhere behind them. It was Wally, maintaining an even strain.

At this rate, Gordo said, they might as well wheel him straight out to the tower and strap him in.

Harrison laughed.

He’d still do a better job than Carpenter did on the last flight.

Jesus, that was like the Bay of Pigs in space, Harrison said.

Tell me about it, Gordo said. What the hell happened to the holy notion of
operational
?

Beats me, Harrison said. Guess that’s what happens when you put up a deep-sea diver.

You shoulda heard Kraft in the Control Center. He was
in-can-descent
. Actually stood up and yelled,
that sonofabitch will never fly for me again!
I thought his goddamn eyeballs were gonna pop.

Well, there you go, Harrison said.

Yeah.

Jeez.

The bartender brought over his whiskey sour and Harrison thanked him and took a mouthful.

Say, Gordo said. Fancy comin water-skiing after the launch tomorrow?

Sure.

Great, Gordo said. We can do a little trout fishin after. Cocoa Beach is the goddamn saltwater trout capital of the world.

Sounds good.

Harrison pulled at the end of his cigarette then pushed it into a nearby ashtray.

I gotta split, Gordo said. Got me a little date later.

Later? Harrison said. It’s almost midnight.

It sure is, Jimmy, he said, smiling. It sure is.

Gordo slid off his stool and went up to his room to shower. Harrison ordered another whiskey sour and walked over to where Deke and Gus were talking under a painting of a Polaris missile surrounded by green palms. Before he reached them, he heard a voice call out behind him.

Well, shit. If it ain’t Jim Harrison, former pilot.

I know that voice, Harrison said, turning around. Joseph Walker, cowboy of the west. What brings you out here to the future?

Ho ho, Walker said as the men shook hands. Hell, I just wanted to be in the same room as an astronaut.

Harrison smiled.

Naw, Walker said, NASA just gave me a coupla days off to see the launch. Gonna be quite a show, by all accounts.

You wanna drink?

Still workin my way through this one, Walker said, holding up a bottle of beer.

You call that a drink? Harrison said. Come with me. He walked back to the bar.

Two old-fashioneds, he said to the bartender,

Nice, Walker said.

Seemed appropriate, Harrison said. It’s good to see you, Joe.

Place ain’t the same without you, Walker said.

That so.

Damn sight safer, for one.

Thought I’d give some of the other fellas a chance to do some proper test work.

Real generous of you, Jim.

Well I’m a generous guy.

How’s Grace? Walker said.

She’s good. How’s Pancho?

Still pissed at you.

Well, I’m not gonna change that anytime soon. Maybe they’ll let me name a crater after her or something.

This really happening, ain’t it?

Yeah.

First lunar landing, Walker said. That’s the ultimate flight test. Y’know, if I was younger, I might have applied myself.

A girl approached them from a tight circle of friends who watched from the end of the bar.

Walker looked at Harrison, then laughed.

Howdy fellas, she said.

Howdy, Harrison said.

My name’s Lucy, she said.

Pleasure, Harrison said.

Nice to meet you, Walker said.

Are you an astronaut too? Lucy said.

Joe’s the best test pilot you’ll ever meet, Harrison said.

When you going up? Lucy said to Harrison. He glanced at Walker.

Soon, he said.

Yeah? she said.

You live round here? he said.

For now, she said. Wanna come to a party?

Maybe later.

Well, all right then.

Okay.

Okay.

She smiled and slipped back to her friends who looked over at him and bowed their heads and giggled and he sighed and turned back to his drink.

Holy moly, Walker said. Maybe I should’ve signed up after all.

Let’s go get some air, Harrison said.

The next morning, the nine rookies were up before dawn. Henri always made sure his kitchen was well stocked with steak and eggs and coffee—a pilot’s breakfast. Wally had left at midnight for the crew quarters up at Hangar S. Deke had gone with him. The tradition, formed after only four flights, saw Deke wake the slumbering astronaut on the morning of the flight and take him to breakfast with Walt Williams, Bob Gilruth and Marvin Hoffman, the flight surgeon. Then the astronaut would get suited up, taken out to the pad and inserted into the spacecraft.

Jolly Wally had been laughing and joking and lollygagging it up all morning. He gave off the aura of a man about to go on a fishing trip, not into space. Even after they sealed him into the capsule, he was still Wallying around. Then they lit the fuse and blasted him into space.

Schirra stayed in beercall buddy mode all the way up. He’d named his spacecraft
Sigma 7
and would make six orbits to Carpenter’s three; the objective to use half as much fuel and land on target. Carpenter, distracted by experiments, had gotten behind on his checklist, wasted fuel, almost fried on reentry and landed two hundred and fifty miles off-target. It was a near-fatal fuckup; some were even saying he’d
panicked
. Schirra was determined to show the world that a real pilot could still hang his hide on the line the old-fashioned way and coolly bring it home; a real operational flight test. And he did exactly that. Everyone from the flight director down celebrated that night in downtown Cocoa Beach, then poolside at the Holiday Inn. There were so many of them, with contractors, support staff, the contractors’ support staff and NASA personnel, it felt like they were an occupying force celebrating a victorious invasion. Even Von Braun’s German rocket team were out, knocking back pilsner and
Glühwein
and singing
Oh du lieber Augustin
long into the hot night.