The Last Pilot: A Novel (32 page)

Sure appreciate this, Lou, he said to the engineer as he finished up.

No sweat, Jim, Lou said.

Harrison headed downtown and bought cigarettes, bags of potato chips, Budweiser.

The Agena target vehicle—that Neil and Dave would rendezvous with—launched on an Atlas booster at three seconds past three. When he heard the rocket boom and roar, he stepped onto the walkway outside his room and looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. It shrieked into the sky and the Agena popped itself into a one hundred and eighty five-mile circular orbit without blowing up. Gemini VIII was scheduled for an hour and thirty-four minutes later. He went back inside and lit a cigarette and sat down and smoked it. Twenty minutes later he turned on the squawk box.

This is Gemini launch control coming up on T minus seventy-four minutes and counting; mark; T minus seventy-four minutes and counting on the Gemini VIII mission.

The technicians, under Gemini Pad Leader Guenter Wendt, were busy in the white room during the final phases leading up to hatch closure. Finally, at four forty-one and two seconds, Gemini VIII left the pad for orbit. Harrison’s heart stuck in his throat and he opened a Budweiser that foamed onto the floor.

Over the squawk box he heard Dave Scott say,
Guenter Wendt? I vonder vere Guenter Vendt?

Harrison finished his beer and opened another.

You’re looking good, VIII.

How about that view?

Coming up on five minutes.

Boy! Here we go!

Harrison got up to find the potato chips. He took another beer from the fridge and added more. He sat back down and felt a deep misery. The mission proceeded right on the book. He knew every stage, every task, every burn. They rendezvoused with the Agena.

Outstanding job, coach!

Way to go, partner!

Boy, that was really
slick
.

The two spacecraft, a hundred and fifty feet apart, flew around the Earth at seventeen and a half thousand miles an hour, passing in and out of contact with NASA’s global tracking stations that relayed communication and data between the spacecraft and Houston. Harrison listened as Armstrong flew the spacecraft around the Agena, inspecting the vehicle for launch damage.

Man, it flies easy.

Really?

Nothing to it.

Harrison lit a cigarette and cracked open another can. The crew were given the go-ahead to dock with the Agena before they passed into the darkness of the next night. Harrison sat forward, ear cocked toward the squawk box, sweating the taxing maneuver. The spacecraft eased closer to the Agena. Jim Lovell, the CAPCOM for the mission, gave the final go to dock.

Flight, we are docked. It really is a smoothie.

Roger. Congratulations. That is real good.

The spacecraft, now coupled with the Agena, moved out of range of the Tananarive tracking station and into another communications dead zone. Harrison found half a bottle of scotch on the side table. He held the neck to his lips and drank. The squawk box spat static and Harrison fell asleep.

Scott’s urgent voice jarred him awake.

We have serious problems here. We’re […] we’re tumbling end over end.

Holy shit.

He sat up, groggy.

We’re […] disengaged from the Agena.

Harrison grabbed the box and listened. What the hell was—

We’re rolling up and we can’t turn anything off.

The spacecraft was spinning wildly out of control.

Continuously increasing in a left roll.

Armstrong’s voice, clipped, calm.

Shut down the main thrusters! Harrison said.

We have a violent left roll and […] can’t […]

[…] can’t fire […] we have a roll […] stuck hand control.

Shut them down! Harrison said.

The spacecraft spun faster until the motions began to couple. Holy shit, Harrison thought: pitch and yaw and roll! It’s inertia coupling; inertia coupling carried into space.
I gotta cage my eyeballs
, he heard Armstrong say, as Gemini VIII tumbled like a gyro at three hundred and sixty degrees a second, and he wrestled with the stick.

Stand by.

C’mon! Harrison said. If it went on much longer, they’d lose consciousness and the ship would break apart. In the spacecraft, Armstrong and Scott were beginning to gray-out. Their vision blurred and distorted. Armstrong reached above his head, trying to focus on the switch that shut down the thrusters. The panel stretched and contorted as the blood pressure in his brain fell rapidly. Holding his head at a certain angle, he managed to get a clear visual fix. He hit the switch. The thrusters shut down.

Harrison was on his feet. He had to get to the Cape Control Center. No one knew the ship or mission like he did. One of the Gemini’s OAMS thrusters must have stuck open; there must have been a short. Only one thing could bring the ship under control now: the Reentry Control System—small thrusters on the nose, reserved for reentry. But Armstrong would have to leave enough propellant in the tanks for reentry, otherwise they’d be stuck in orbit; quickly dead. He had to get up to the Control Center. Harrison’s blood turned fast. He began to sweat, from his face, from his back, from his legs. He looked around the room. He turned off the box, found his car keys and grabbed at the door. Wait. Had he turned the bathroom light off? He didn’t know. He had to check. In case it caused a fire. He went back to the bathroom, lit in yellow, and flipped the switch. He turned the AC off too. Then he unplugged the fridge. He went back to the door. The pants press! He went back and unplugged it. He looked around the room. The squawk box was plugged in. He got down on his knees and looked under the bedside table. A thin black wire trailed out of the back of the box, curled in a bundle on the floor and disappeared behind the bed. He looked under the bed. It had been hardwired into the socket. Shit! He yanked it out of the wall. Sweat fell from his face. Then he realized his mistake: what if there were residual electrical discharge in the wire? He couldn’t just leave it on the floor, under the bed, with all the dust. It could spark and ignite. He began to pull it out, quickly, but the wire was tangled under the bed with the telephone cord. He lay on his front and tried to untangle them. His arms were wet, his pulse rate high. It took him half an hour. He wound the wire around the squawk box and stood it on the bedside table, making sure the exposed end didn’t touch anything. He looked around. Everything was fine. He switched off the main light and held the door handle but froze. He removed his hand. He looked around in the gloom. He reached out for the handle again but stopped before he got to it. He looked round again. He turned the light on. He turned the light off. He went for the handle. He stopped midway. He tried again; his hand barely left his side. He tried again and held the handle and gripped it tight and pushed it down then stopped and let go. He cried out in frustration. He tried again and again. Blood throbbed in his ears. He stopped, stumbled back into the room, fell on the bed and wept. It was too late. He was too slow. The crew were dead and it was his fault. His head felt heavy, lilting with guilt and scotch. He staggered into the dark bathroom, pissed on the floor, then found a bottle of gin in the cupboard and began to drink.

He came round several hours later. He was on his side, on the floor. His keys lay by his face. He looked at them for a long time. Then he picked them up, stood, and walked out of the room.

He drove fast up the stretch, slipping behind other cars before pulling hard past them; past the Starlite, the Satellite, the Polaris. Past Wolfie’s, past Walt’s. The steely blue eyes watched him speed toward the hard beach. His tires squealed on the oily road as he swerved onto the flat sand. A solitary runner pounded the coast. Harrison roared past him. The low sun sprang off powerful breakers as he gunned forward pushing the needle high and waves hit the shore and he turned and spun and tumbled, flipping violently across the iron sand, the car landing silently on its hood.

Jesus. Okay. Thanks. Do you have any cigarettes? Where can I then? Fine. Thanks. No, let me handle that. I’ll handle that too. That won’t be necessary. And he’s stable? We can move him? Now, if possible. Okay when? Tonight? Okay. I’ll sign them. No. No immediate family. Separated. California. Yeah. I’ll take care of that. Uh-huh. No. We’d appreciate that. I’m sorry this is more complicated than—I’m sure you do. I appreciate that. The program. Yeah. Leave that with me. Yes, please. That won’t be necessary. No, that won’t be necessary. Okay. And who do I speak to there? Right. We’ll do that. Okay. Fine. Thanks.

Deke? Harrison said. It was dark. He didn’t know if he was asleep or awake. The voice had come from someplace else. He slipped into his own black place and thought no more.

The sound of fluttering curtains drew him back to the world. He felt cool. And peaceful. There was a purity, a simplicity, in his consciousness. He lay still. There was some pain, but it was distant, like old heartache. He sensed the room around him. It was small. He was alone. It was very dark.

Voices woke him. He felt vexed. The voices were loud. Not shouts, but not whispers either. Normal talk. People were talking normally around him. Two people. They woke him. He moved around in his bed. The breeze had gone. There were other sounds now. Mechanical sounds. One of the voices spoke to him. He was a doctor. Asking how he felt.

Terrible, he said. He opened his eyes. His throat was dry and his head hurt like hell. He groaned.

You’re pretty lucky, the other voice, another doctor, said.

Memories returned to him the way memories did.
Neil and Dave
. He shut his eyes again. The doctors sat him up, gave him water, he drank it through a straw.

A fella jogging on the beach saw the whole thing, one of them said. Good job too.

What hospital…? Harrison said.

They took you to the 6550th USAF Hospital down at Patrick Air Force Base. The runner’s a captain down there. Deke Slayton got you transferred up here. You’re in NASA’s medical facility here at Cape Canaveral.

Deke … Harrison said.

The second doctor left.

You came in pretty beat up, the first doctor said. Amazingly, you only have two broken ribs and a severe concussion. No damage to your brain, your head, or your spine. Can’t say the same for your Corvette.

When can I leave? Harrison said.

Not anytime soon, the doctor said. I want to monitor you for possible intracranial hemorrhaging and both NASA and the air force want to conduct a full psychiatric assessment, which, of course, will have to go on your record. To the outside world, you’re being treated for a neck injury as well as the aforementioned ailments, following a little overexuberant rat-racing to blow off steam. Perfectly understandable for an astronaut putting his hide on the line for his country. There’s water, if you’re thirsty—he motioned to the bedside table—and sleeping pills if you need them.

What’s your name? Harrison said.

I’m Doctor Merry.

You don’t look so thrilled.

And you look like a fool, Captain.

I just want to get out of here, Harrison said.

I’m afraid that’s impossible, Merry said. And my staff will make sure that’s the way things stay. Don’t forget that you’re still a captain in this air force. Orders are orders. And no amount of so-called
astro-power
is going to help you here.

I don’t need a goddamn shrink, Harrison said.

We’ll let the goddamn shrinks be the judge of that, Merry said.

Harrison tried to move. His whole body ached. His ribs were sore. He felt drowsy.

Deke, he said. I need to talk to Deke.

You need to rest. Colonel John Winterbourne, chief of Psychiatry, will see you tomorrow. A nurse will be in at four. Enjoy the food.

Merry left. Harrison shut his eyes. Armstrong was dead and it was his fault. The air was very still. He opened his eyes and stared out the window. He turned his head. The bottle of sleeping pills stood on the bedside table. It was a large bottle. He stared at it for a long time.

Deke, he said, turning away. He had to speak to Deke.

At ten to four, the nurse came in. You got a phone call, she said. I’ll bring it in.

A telephone was wheeled to his bed on a small trolley. The receiver sat on its side. He picked it up.

How you feeling, kid?

Deke.

Sorry I can’t get up there.

It’s my fault, Deke. The crew. They’re dead because of me.

Dead? What the hell are they givin you up there? Armstrong activated the RCS, brought the ship under control; kept enough in the tank for reentry. But, as you know, mission rules state an immediate abort once the RCS is activated. So we brought em down right away, in the middle of the damn Pacific, five hundred miles east of Okinawa. Poor bastards had to wait two hours in heavy seas before the
Leonard Mason
could get to them. Gemini VIII; one for the books. I won’t lie; it was close. Hell of a job. Hell of a pilot. Glad you’re all in one piece. Hope the view is good. Oh, and Merry is an asshole.