The Last Pilot: A Novel

by Benjamin Johncock

  They talked some more, then hung up. The house was silent. He couldn’t go back. He packed a large bag, threw the bag in the Corvette, fired the engine and drove out of Timber Cove, out of Houston, and to the Cape.

  CAPE CANAVERAL

  COCOA BEACH,

  FLORIDA, 1962

  He was three days reaching the Cape. The roads were long and hot and empty. He drove through the southwest prairies of Louisiana, skirted the lowlands of Mississippi and Alabama and crossed into Florida at Pensacola. He stayed in hot motels and ate late in all-night diners with hard-bitten loners, wastrels and drunks sitting alone drinking cold coffee and smoking around him. He’d sit up at the counter, order meatballs and french fries and feel like he belonged. On occasion, a couple of cops on night patrol would roll up and eat with him, radios crackling quietly beneath the table. He felt a strange peace. During the long drives, he’d developed a system to help him cope with his troubled mind. He applied engineering principles to the problem, which was, he established, terrifying thoughts. Rather than spending time thinking through these thoughts, reviewing their content, seeking to reassure himself of their falsity, he came up with a system, a shortcut; bullet points. There were five in total. The points could be applied to any troubling thought he had. The real genius lay in their automation. He realized he didn’t actually have to consciously recite each of the points. He could simply count them out on his fingers. Or tap them out with his foot. He would be reassured, the thought would go, and he could move on. It was simple.

  From a pay phone out the back of Joe Mac’s he called Pancho. The line connected, but he hung up after the third ring. It was his last stop before hitting Florida.

  He arrived at the Cape, drove down to Cocoa Beach and parked up at the Holiday Inn. Henri was pleased to see him. He gave Harrison a room for as long as he needed it. He unpacked, then went down to the bar. Later that night, he called Grace Walker from his room.

  Jesus, Jim, she said. What happened?

  I don’t know, he said.

  How are you?

  I’m okay.

  Look, I’m not taking sides on this—nobody needs that—but I feel very protective toward Grace; you understand that, right?

  I do, he said.

  She’s been through so much.

  We both have.

  Yes, but she’s been dealing with it.

  And I haven’t?

  Honestly, Jim? No, I don’t think you have. Look, so much has happened, and so fast … You both need some time. All I’m saying is, don’t be too hard on yourself. I know you’re under a lot of pressure at work, but maybe you could take a week or so off? Or even just a few days? I really think it would do you good. I could make up Robbie’s old room; you could stay with us.

  How’s Pancho?

  She’s the same. Where are you?

  The Cape. Need to be here most of the time anyway.

  What about the house?

  Figured we’d sell it … Grace can keep whatever we get.

  Why don’t you come back, Jim? It would be good to see you. Joe would get a kick out of having you stay.

  Harrison didn’t say anything.

  He told me he ran into you at the Cape, she said.

  It was real good to see him, Harrison said.

  Joe said the same, she said.

  There was a pause.

  Is she okay? he said.

  Yes, she said.

  It’s good to hear your voice.

  And yours, Jim. You call me anytime you want, okay?

  Say hi to Joe for me.

  I will. Take care of yourself.

  Bye, Grace.

  Bye, Jim.

  The next day was Monday. That meant pilots’ meeting, first thing. They convened in the small room next to Deke’s office up at the complex. The light was a white strip with a rectangular table sat beneath it. Deke stood at its head like a father at dinner. Behind him, on the wall, was a blackboard. Blinds were lowered across a wide window that overlooked the parking lot outside.

  Gentlemen, he said when they were all seated and silent. Nineteen sixty-two is almost over. The years are gonna pass fast from now on. If you think you’ve been busy so far … We have a deadline, and we’re gonna make it, with time to spare. We’ve got some stuff to figure out, but we will figure it out and move on. You all look pretty relaxed there in your Ban-Lon shirts. That’s gonna change.

  He pointed at the blackboard behind him. Environmental Training—exposure to acceleration, vibration, noise, weightlessness; simulated lunar gravity, wearing a bulkier pressure suit. Some of you will have more experience at this stuff than others. Doesn’t matter. Contingency Training. We’re gonna run survival schools in the desert and the jungle. In an emergency, who knows where you’ll come down. Also, ejection seats—in case there’s any of you who haven’t punched out of an airplane—and parachutes. Indoctrination Program, where we’ll practice moving and working in zero-g. And we’ll all ride parabolic trajectories in the zero-g airplane; a modified KC-135. What else? We’ll have engineering briefings and reviews, make sure you’re all up to speed on vehicle design and development. Some of you navy boys will find the next part old hat: Water Safety and Survival at the navy’s preflight school in Pensacola. And you’ll ride the wheel at Johnsonville, you lucky sons-of-bitches. Anyone who stays conscious at twenty-g’s will have a free steak dinner on Max Faget. Glenn did sixteen. So that’s the one to beat. It will be a special kind of torture. We’re gonna build our own centrifuge at MSC too. And we’ll be doing a lot of simulator work, of course.

  What about flyin, Deke? Conrad said.

  Yes. After the hell the Mercury fellas raised, we’ve decided to formalize it. You’ll all go through an Aircraft Flight Training program. So. Sixty-three through sixty-four will be dominated by training and developing your areas of specialization as Gemini progresses. We got a lot of ground to cover and not much time.

  John Young, sitting on Harrison’s right, leaned back and sucked on his pipe. Harrison pulled out his cigarettes and gestured for a light.

  I’ll have one of them if they’re going round, Borman said.

  Harrison slid the pack across the table to him.

  And you might want to cut back on those too, Deke said. None of you are gonna be smoking in a hundred percent oxygen environment so you better get used to it. All right. There’s gonna be a lot of memos floatin around. Make sure you read them. Being on a flight crew means your time will be dominated by your upcoming mission but you’ll need to stay on top of your paperwork. Now. Get the hell out of here.

  They thanked Deke and picked up their pads and pens and got up.

  Jim, you got a sec? Deke said, as the others filed out.

  Sure, Harrison said.

  Deke waited until they were alone and shut the door.

  We’ve had a few calls, he said.

  Press?

  Yeah, Deke said. You okay with me sayin she’s sick?

  Yeah, Harrison said.

  Okay, Deke said, listen. If you get asked about it, either ignore it or confirm it; don’t deny it, even if it’s your first instinct. We need to be tellin the same story.

  Harrison nodded. Sure thing, he said.

  Right, Deke said. Let’s get back to work.

  Out in the lot, Harrison slipped into his Corvette. The leather seats were hot. He should have parked in the shade. He put the key in the ignition switch and checked his mirror. He felt too far forward, so adjusted his seat back, then forward, then back again. He adjusted his mirror. Was the door shut properly? He wasn’t sure. He opened the door and shut it again. He readjusted the mirror. The seat was too far back. He moved it forward and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Christ, it was hot. He reached over to turn the key but stopped and retracted his hand. No. He wasn’t ready. He reached for it again, held it between his finger and his thumb, then withdrew again. Shit. Shit shit shit. He hit the wheel with his fist. He wound the window down. He moved about in his seat. He touched the mirror. He tappe
d the brake pedal with his foot five times. He reached for the key, started the engine, and drove off.

  He spent Christmas at the Cape studying. His flight manual was already two inches thick. Orbital mechanics, principles of rocket flight, reentry mechanics, rendezvous mechanics. It was a hell of a holiday. He spoke to Grace once, on Christmas eve, in the early evening. It was only the second time they’d spoken since she left.

  How you doing? she said.

  Okay, he said.

  How’s work? she said.

  Same old, he said. I miss you.

  Are you eating? she said.

  He told her that he was.

  He wanted to ask her about selling the house but couldn’t bring himself to churn up the conversation.

  Some of the stuff I said before I left … she said. I’m sorry. I was in a pretty bad place.

  I’m sorry too, he said, trying not to think about it.

  I’ve been going along to church, she said, in Rosamond. It’s helping.

  I’m glad.

  Merry Christmas, Jim, she said.

  Merry Christmas, he said.

  The line was silent, then it was dead. He tapped on his leg once, twice, three, four, five times, then went down to the bar and felt sorry for himself.

  Sixty-three started in the centrifuge at Johnsonville, riding the wheel, using all his strength to keep conscious as it spun. He managed sixteen g’s. He came off, felt like hell, walked slowly toward the men’s room.

  How was it? Conrad said, passing him, up next.

  Easy, he said. Nothin to it.

  Then he went into the john and vomited.

  It was the end of January. Harrison waited in the lobby of the Holiday Inn for Lovell. The two men were due to meet George Smathers, ex-Marine officer, former assistant attorney and now senator for Florida, at a cocktail reception at six. Smathers was close to John Kennedy and Harrison admired him. The man had fought hard with LBJ on his decision to site the Manned Spacecraft Center in Texas instead of at the Cape. Harrison brushed dust from his suit and looked around.

  You’re early, Lovell said, walking in from the stairwell.

  You know how I love time in the barrel, Harrison said.

  Best advice—and this is from Gordo—arrive late, leave early.

  That’s some good advice.

  All they want is a handshake, photograph with an astronaut, and a smile. That’s all. Then we get the hell out.

  Getting the hell out sounds good, Harrison said.

  We should go someplace tonight, eat something half-decent for a change, Lovell said.

  Harrison agreed.

  You ready? Lovell said.

  Sure.

  Let’s walk, Lovell said. It’ll take longer.

  The Cape Canaveral Hilton was on North Atlantic Avenue, right on the beach. It looked like a white brick, an icebox coated in lumpy stucco render. Outside, the men finished their cigarettes in the cool air.

  I heard Connie Hilton’s coming tonight, Lovell said as they walked inside.

  No shit, Harrison said.

  The receptionist directed them toward the lobby.

  Jesus, Harrison said, as they stepped through the door. Gilruth’s here.

  So’s Webb, Lovell said.

  Well, he ain’t exactly one to miss an opportunity, Harrison said.

  Come on, Lovell said. Let’s get ourselves some liquid propellant.

  Harrison and Lovell found a waitress carrying champagne and helped themselves to a glass each.

  There’s Deke, Harrison said.

  They walked over to him. The lobby, with its fake Baccarat crystal chandeliers and replica Versailles paneling, was crowded. Women laughed and swung glasses around themselves while serious-looking men stood close by and smiled. The carpet was deep crimson, snagged and fraying in parts, cigarette burns scattered like black seeds.

  Jeez, Lovell said. Even the Hilton looks low-rent here.

  Cocoa’s finest, Harrison said.

  Fellas, Deke said when they reached him.

  Looks like a busy night for you, Harrison said.

  Up to my ears in bullshit already, Deke said. I’m gonna need a shovel to get out of here.

  Harrison sipped his drink and tapped his leg five times, the sharp edge of a shovel triggering a thought that immediately arrested his mind. Stay calm, he thought.

  Is Hilton still here? Lovell said.

  Connie?

  Yeah.

  No. Left half an hour ago, Deke said.

  Smart guy, Harrison said.

  Do I detect resentment at barrel-duties, Harrison? Deke said.

  You’re goddamn right you do, Harrison said.

  Well suck it up, Captain, Deke said. Everyone’s gotta do their time, unless they’re on the next flight, and even then, I guarantee you, some sonofabitch who needs reelecting will want to come on the loop to shoot the goddamn breeze while you’re up there. Hell, I hear the president himself wants to speak to whoever makes the first landing by telephone.

  From the carrier? Lovell said.

  From the surface, Deke said.

  The surface? Harrison said. Because they’ve got nothing better to do after traveling a quarter of a million—

  I know, Deke said, I know.

  For the love of God.

  We were thinking, For All Mankind, actually, Deke said. Got a nice ring to it, hasn’t it?

  Sums it all up, Lovell said.

  I thought so, Deke said.

  All right, all right, Harrison said.

  Who’s been bitin your ass? Deke said.

  Just can’t stand these sorta things, Harrison said, flexing his fingers five at a time.

  Well try to enjoy your drink at least, Deke said.

  Harrison felt his back prickle with sweat.

  You know fellas, Harrison said, I’m just gonna step outside, get some air—be back in a—

  Heads up, Lovell said. Here comes Smathers.

  Senator! Deke said. Well it’s good to see you too. I’ve got a coupla people I know you’re gonna want to meet. Jim, Jim—this is George Smathers; George, this is Jim Harrison and Jim Lovell, two of our finest astronauts.

  It’s a pleasure, sir, Lovell said, extending his hand.

  The pleasure is all mine, I assure you! Smathers said.

  Senator, Harrison said, shaking his hand after Lovell.

  The two Jims! Smathers said. Thank you for all your hard work and dedication.

  It’s a pleasure to serve, sir, Lovell said.

  This here’s my good friend, Herb White, Smathers said.

  Pleasure, Harrison said, shaking White’s hand.

  Very, very pleased to meet you both, White said, gripping Lovell’s hand and grinning.

  We were just talking about the possibility of getting Kennedy down for a tour sometime, Smathers said. You know, the launch facilities, see the rockets up close, show him firsthand the nuts and bolts of his vision, that kind of thing.

  Give him a warm Florida welcome, Herb said.

  Sounds good, Deke said.

  Indeed, Smathers said. I’m going to bring it up when I’m back in Washington.

  How long are you here for, Senator? Deke said.

  Just a few days, sadly. I’d like it to be longer, but there’s a lot going on right now.

  Have you talked to Gilruth or Webb yet?

  I’m meeting with them later, Smathers said. Let’s just enjoy ourselves for now, shall we? I don’t get out much these days.

  The men laughed.

  Say, Smathers said. Do you gentlemen like my new suit? I was in London last month and had it cut at Savile Row.

  He held it open at the waist.

  What do you think? Cobalt blue.

  Harrison’s heart exploded; his gut turned liquid, his face gushed sweat. He felt unreal. Blood pumped hard behind his eyes.

  Oh, Jim, Smathers said. Are you feeling all right? You look a little, ah, off-color.

  Uh, yes, sir, I feel fine, he said, tapping and tapping his leg. A num
ber of violent thoughts filled his mind. He began to blink in sets of five, hiding his actions by pretending to scratch his forehead. When that didn’t work, he rubbed his eyebrows, shielding his face, trying to go over his thoughts manually, but it was impossible, standing there, in front of them. He needed to be alone. He needed time. His anxiety grew. His heart rate bordered on apoplectic. He needed time. He needed to be alone. He rubbed his forehead.

  Uh, he said. Uh.

  Jim? Deke said.

  I’m fine, he said.

  So, I was saying, Smathers said, picking up the conversation. Do—

  Hang on a minute, Harrison said.

  Jim, Deke said.

  Hang on, he said.

  For what, exactly, Captain? Smathers said.

  Just, uh—

  Thoughts begat thoughts. They stacked up on top of him. The more his stress rose, the more they came, too powerful to ignore.

  Jesus, Jim, Deke said. What the hell?

  Senator, I don’t think Jim is feeling too well, Lovell said.

  Harrison grimaced as his gut cramped. Jesus. He couldn’t hold it in. He needed the men’s room, right away. It lurched and gurgled inside him. The force was unbearable! He fought hard against it. Then his mind connected cause and effect together like a powerful magnet and presented the newspaper headline: ASTRONAUT SOILS SELF AT HILTON COCKTAIL PARTY. It was too late. He felt something run down the back of his left leg. Christ, he thought. Keep it in!

  Uh, I don’t feel too good, he said.

  Maybe you should get some air? Lovell said.

  Sorry, Senator, Deke said.

  Not at all! Smathers said. I just hope you’re all right?

  We need you in tip-top shape to beat the Russians! Herb said.

  Harrison turned to leave. Think I ate something bad, he said to Deke.

  Take my room, Deke said, pushing a key into his hand. Gilruth gave it to me for tonight. I’ll head back with Lovell.

  Harrison turned quickly and left.

  Poor man, he heard Smathers lament behind him.

  The lobby was crowded. He walked carefully, as fast as he could without making the situation worse. He didn’t know where the john was so headed for the elevator ahead. Please, God, help me, he said, over and over in his head. The porter saw him approach and opened the elevator doors. Harrison stumbled in, the porter smiled, Harrison nodded, and the box swallowed him up. He fell into the room, locked the door and stumbled to the can. He tapped and tapped his leg and said I’m sorry, I’m sorry, over and over. Afterward, he stripped off his clothes and lay down, exhausted, humiliated, ashamed, in the bath, and cried out for his wife.