by Robert Stone
Despite the competitive situation at the Aerospace Research Pilot School and the way he had been treated there, Dwight remained focused and optimistic. He was confident and believed he would soon be in the elite club. He had been one of only eight men in his ARPS class recommended to NASA “without qualification.”
NASA announced that it would hold a news conference on October 18 to reveal the selection of this third group of American astronauts. Advance press accounts indicated that the final selection would number in a range from ten to fifteen and that, of the original 721 applications, two had been from women. However, when Slayton introduced NASA’s third group of astronauts, the press saw fourteen white male faces, with an average age of 30.9. Many in that group were to become famous in the years ahead: Edwin E. “Buzz” Aldrin, Alan Bean, Eugene Cernan, Michael Collins, and Dick Gordon. Bill Anders had received the news of his selection in a call from Slayton the day before, on his thirtieth birthday. At the press conference the next day, he remembered thinking, “Why are these people treating us like heroes? All we did was get on an airplane and fly to Houston.” He found the experience a little embarrassing. Years later, upon reflecting that many of his colleagues were flying missions over Southeast Asia at the same time he was preparing to go into space, Anders admitted, “Flying on Apollo was much safer than flying over Vietnam.”
The questions at the press conference contained few surprises, with reporters asking how the new astronauts’ wives felt about their decision (“proud,” “supportive,” “elated’), their religious preference, and how many had been Boy Scouts. As the press conference was winding down, a journalist directed a question to Slayton about the selection process.
“Was there a Negro boy in the last thirty or so that you brought here for consideration?” a voice from the floor asked.
Slayton leaned into the microphone and curtly stated, “No, there was not.”
His answer was followed by a tense silence that filled the room for the next few seconds. Slayton tapped his hand on the table and looked around the room. After a shrug, he glanced at NASA’s Houston public-affairs officer Paul Haney and said, “Okay, I guess we’re through, Paul.”
And with that, the press conference ended. From Dwight’s class at Edwards, two were selected: Ted Freeman and David Scott. One would die in a NASA T-38 jet crash within a year, the other would eventually walk on the Moon.
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THE KENNEDY ADMINISTRATION’S problems with Cuba and the Soviet Union reached a climax when American intelligence aircraft flying over the Caribbean island discovered photographic evidence of the deployment of medium- and intermediate-range ballistic nuclear missiles. For thirteen days during October 1962, the fate of the world hung in the balance as the United States and the Soviet Union engaged in a nerve-racking battle of wills, which subsided only when the Soviets announced they would dismantle and remove the missiles. The Cuban Missile Crisis brought the world closer to nuclear annihilation than any other moment in the history of the planet and served as a cautionary lesson to both superpowers.
For those who experienced those days in October of 1962, life would never be quite the same. As the crisis developed, the Pentagon distributed a list of likely missile targets in the United States. Upon learning that the Marshall Space Flight Center was on the list, Wernher von Braun, the man who more than any other person spearheaded the technological development of the ICBM, made a decision to construct a reinforced-concrete family bomb shelter behind his custom-built three-level house in Huntsville, Alabama.
Newton Minow hastily departed a New York meeting about communications satellites and rushed back to attend a gathering of the president’s Executive Committee of the National Security Council, where he was asked to circumvent Cuba’s jamming of the Voice of America radio broadcasts. He devised an emergency strategy with radio stations in southern Florida so that Cubans could listen to President Kennedy when he spoke to the American people about the nuclear standoff. As a ranking member of the administration, Minow was supposed to be evacuated by helicopter to a secure location with the president and the cabinet in the event of a nuclear war. But these plans allowed no accommodations for family members. After sitting through some of the White House strategy meetings, Minow had come to believe the Third World War was likely, and he confided to his wife that he’d already decided not to go if he received an order to evacuate; instead, he would return home to be with his family.
In Minow’s estimation, Kennedy’s handling of the Cuban Missile Crisis was his greatest legacy. He recalls attending meetings in which the president’s military advisers pushed Kennedy to bomb Cuba. Had it not been for the previous mistake of the Bay of Pigs, Minow believes, Kennedy wouldn’t have had the courage to overrule his military.
When he chose to address the General Assembly of the United Nations a year after the crisis, President Kennedy wondered if perhaps space might serve as the diplomatic bridge between the two superpowers. After reflecting that sovereignty was not a problem in space, Kennedy asked, “Why, therefore, should man’s first flight to the Moon be a matter of national competition? Why should the United States and the Soviet Union, in preparing for such expeditions, become involved in immense duplications of research, construction, and expenditure?” Once again he proposed the idea of a joint U.S.–Soviet cooperative venture to the Moon.
Much had happened since the June 1961 Vienna summit, particularly the missile crisis and the subsequent negotiation and signing of a Limited Nuclear Test Ban Treaty. Kennedy therefore wondered if Khrushchev might view such a joint lunar mission more favorably, in light of recent events. Indeed, there was an American intelligence report suggesting that, contrary to their public statements of the past two years, the Soviets had done nothing to advance development of their piloted lunar program. The presidential campaign of 1964 was looming, and Kennedy’s funding for space would likely come under attack. But if there was a way he could leverage the idealism of his cosmic quest to forge a strategic diplomatic partnership and reduce the expense of the undertaking at the same time, it seemed a gamble worth placing on the table.
Within NASA offices, Kennedy’s surprise UN proposal wasn’t met with enthusiasm, but no public dissent was heard. Before addressing the General Assembly, Kennedy had approached James Webb about his suggestion for a joint mission. “I think that’s good; I think that’s good,” NASA’s administrator had responded.
Somewhat surprised, Kennedy asked, “That’s all right?”
Webb said, “Yes, sir.”
Kennedy wanted to make sure that no NASA officials would undercut him by leaking critical comments to the press, and Webb assured him no agency officials would do so. Keeping his word, Webb ordered the NASA centers not to cause any controversy following the UN speech.
With no one from NASA allowed to speak on the record about Kennedy’s proposal, Life magazine was forced to engage an independent aerospace consultant to explore how such a joint mission might play out. Illustrating the article was a series of commissioned artist’s renderings showing a three-person Soviet spacecraft—which looked suspiciously like an Apollo prototype—linking up with an American lunar-landing craft in earth orbit.
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ARIZONA SENATOR BARRY Goldwater, who was emerging as one of Kennedy’s strongest possible Republican opponents, declared that the United States would need more signs of honesty from the Soviets before signing on to any possible cooperation between the two nations. He added that, if America were to partner with the Russians, those funds would be far better spent on the study of the oceans or increasing agricultural yields than on space.
But from the Soviet Union there was only diplomatic silence. Privately, Nikita Khrushchev discussed Kennedy’s proposal with his son Sergei and mentioned that he was leaning toward accepting the idea of a cooperative mission this time. Confused, Sergei couldn’t understand why hi
s father had changed his mind. Khrushchev explained that the situation had changed in the last two years, especially after the missile crisis and the test ban treaty. Cooperation in space would give the United States a better understanding of the Soviets’ existing nuclear arsenal, which, Khrushchev believed, would naturally lead to reduced tensions and improved relations.
While awaiting Khrushchev’s response, Kennedy made a second tour of Cape Canaveral, where he was joined by Webb, von Braun, and two Mercury astronauts. It was during this visit that he witnessed his first and only rocket launch: a Polaris missile breaking through the Atlantic Ocean and into the sky after being fired from the nuclear-powered submarine USS Andrew Jackson. Accounts of his mood on that day indicate the visit erased any lingering doubts he may have been harboring about the space program. From the Cape, the president helicoptered to Palm Beach, where he stayed at his father’s estate and excitedly described all that he had seen, including a prototype of the new two-man Gemini capsule and the first fully operational Saturn C-1 rocket designed for the Apollo program, scheduled to have an unpiloted test in a few weeks.
The following week, Kennedy spoke under a hot afternoon sun at the dedication of the Aerospace Medical Health Center in San Antonio, Texas. During what was to be his last speech about the space program, Kennedy mentioned what he had seen the previous week.
“Last Saturday at Cape Canaveral I saw our new Saturn C-1 rocket booster, which, with its payload, when it rises in December of this year, will be, for the first time, the largest booster in the world, carrying into space the largest payload that any country in the world has ever sent into space.”
The Soviet Union’s superior capability to lift heavy payloads into space had been a major concern of the president’s ever since his assertions of a “missile gap” in the 1960 election. Looking forward, Kennedy warned against complacency. “We have a long way to go. Many weeks and months and years of long, tedious work lie ahead. There will be setbacks and frustrations and disappointments….But this research here must go on. This space effort must go on. The conquest of space must and will go ahead. That much we know. That much we can say with confidence and conviction.”
Recalling a story from a memoir by Irish author Frank O’Connor, Kennedy metaphorically likened the exploration of space to a dauntingly high orchard wall that O’Connor and his childhood friends confronted while venturing into unfamiliar territory. Rather than turn back, the boys took off their hats and threw them over the wall. “They had no choice but to follow them. This nation has tossed its cap over the wall of space, and we have no choice but to follow it,” Kennedy said. “Whatever the difficulties, they will be overcome. Whatever the hazards, they must be guarded against.
“We will climb this wall with safety and with speed—and we shall then explore the wonders on the other side.”
It was November 21, 1963, and with him at Brooks Air Force Base in San Antonio were Jackie Kennedy, Vice President Lyndon Johnson, and Texas governor John Connally. The next day they would travel to Dallas.
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LATE WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON the following week, in his fifth day as president of the United States and his first day in the Oval Office, Lyndon Johnson juggled multiple phone calls. He caught Florida senator Spessard Holland on an airport telephone and then ten minutes later spoke to Florida governor C. Farris Bryant.
Johnson came right to the point with Bryant. “We’re getting ready to have the geographical board that controls these park sites rename Cape Canaveral [to] Cape Kennedy.”
Bryant’s voice was barely a whisper on the other end of the line. “Oh, my word…”
Johnson pushed on, giving Bryant a clear indication of why he thought it was important to do this: “So that all the launchings that go around the world will be from Cape Kennedy.”
In his call to Senator Holland a few minutes earlier, Johnson had told him the suggestions for renaming the Cape originated in Florida. However, Holland warned Johnson that the Canaveral name went back many hundreds of years and that a study would need to be undertaken before making any changes. Holland said he was sure the local residents would want to feel as if they had a part in making such a change. Johnson assured him he would check this out before taking any action. Johnson’s call to Governor Bryant less than ten minutes later clearly indicates he had no such intention.
The next day—Thanksgiving—Johnson addressed the nation from the White House, speaking about President Kennedy and announcing the decision to rename Cape Canaveral, a decision that Holland had correctly predicted was not well received by residents on Florida’s northeast coast.
While Johnson told Holland that the renaming idea originated in his state, a White House source the next day told the press that it actually came from Jackie Kennedy, a story she never denied, though she later said the events of that week had been so traumatic she remembered little. She met with Lyndon Johnson in the Oval Office for a half hour the day before Thanksgiving, at which time she mentioned that a fitting tribute to her husband might be something connected to the space program. Before calling the Florida politicians, Johnson also mentioned to journalist Joseph Alsop that he’d discussed renaming the Cape with the former First Lady. In any case, whether Jacqueline Kennedy originated the idea or was talked into it by Johnson during their meeting, she later came to regret it. Johnson, however, realized that branding Kennedy’s name on the Florida launch site would indelibly link emotions surrounding the martyred president with support for the space program. For the next seven years, fulfilling the decade-end goal set forth by the thirty-fifth president of the United States seldom went unmentioned when space appropriations and the rationale for going to the Moon came under discussion.
As to Kennedy’s proposal for a joint mission with the Soviets, no such reverence toward Kennedy’s wishes was heard in Washington. Khrushchev had been preparing a considered response when Kennedy was killed. As a result, the joint mission to the Moon became one of the great “what ifs” of the Cold War era. The day after Kennedy’s funeral, UN ambassador Adlai Stevenson alluded optimistically to the possibility of a joint lunar mission in a public speech, and Johnson and Webb briefly discussed the matter during a phone call that week. But the idea went no further. Congress made sure it did not. A month after Kennedy’s death, a clause was inserted in an appropriations bill, ensuring that no NASA money “shall be used for expenses of participating in a manned lunar landing to be carried out jointly by the United States and any other country without consent of the Congress.”
CHAPTER FOUR
WELCOME TO THE SPACE AGE
(1964–1966)
F. SCOTT FITZGERALD had named the desolate Queens, New York, marshland “the valley of ashes.” Beginning in 1910, the tract of land next to the Flushing River had been a dumping ground for ash refuse produced by metropolitan coal-burning furnaces. Within a decade, the Corona Ash Dump, located between Manhattan and the moneyed estates of Long Island, was so large and unsightly that it served as a stark and disturbing reminder of the consequences of unchecked industrial growth and, for Fitzgerald when writing The Great Gatsby, a grotesque biblical metaphor.
A quarter century after Fitzgerald’s death, the Corona Ash Dump was a fading memory. On that ground in 1964, a ceremony was held to dedicate a very different man-made construction, a towering edifice that rose more than eighty feet above the former dumping ground. Its curvy and cornerless exterior was a single concrete wall broken by a repetitive honeycomb pattern; inside, sunlight filtering through hundreds of stained-glass panels cast the towering interior in an eerie cobalt blue. Visitors described the environment as futuristic or otherworldly. But more often it was described as “cathedral-like.”
The Hall of Science at the 1964 New York World’s Fair celebrated knowledge of the natural world, the scientific method, and their applications as the nation moved into a highly technological future. It was a secular c
athedral dedicated to disciplines many in government, business, and academia believed would define the nation during the decades to come. Unlike the many corporate pavilions, which promoted Coca-Cola, General Motors, Ford, IBM, and other firms, the Hall of Science was one of the few structures to remain after the fair closed in 1965. City officials hoped it would join the new Lincoln Center, the American Museum of Natural History, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art as one of New York City’s must-see cultural landmarks.
On the day the Hall of Science was dedicated, present in the minds of many was the belief that science and technology were transforming human beings into a species that would travel to other worlds and find a home in the cosmos. As the nation’s foremost government representative of that vision, NASA administrator James E. Webb appeared as the dedication’s featured speaker. He was also a vocal proponent for science education as a national imperative. Webb was now overseeing a massive government initiative that was receiving 4.3 percent of the national budget. Most of that money was directed toward fulfilling President Kennedy’s geopolitical lunar mandate, but, more quietly, Webb was also attempting to ensure the foundation of the country’s scientific, technological, and aerospace manufacturing infrastructure.
In his brief speech, Webb contrasted the emerging new age of applied science with the more mystically informed past: “The world of science is a world of accumulated knowledge, not a world of magic or mystery.” Webb asserted that the country’s future depended upon the nation’s universities and schools ensuring that scientific literacy was an integral part of every education “in the American conviction that public knowledge is public strength.” And should his words be misinterpreted as those of a hardcore technocrat, Webb emphasized that science was not separated by some mystique from the humanities but, rather, part of the search for truth, along with philosophy, history, and poetry.