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.
The line went dead. He sunk back into his pillows and exhaled slowly. Jesus. Outside, the light was fading. He just wanted to go home. He reached his hand across to the sleeping pills. The pain in his chest was dull. He swallowed one with water and shut his eyes and waited for the darkness to come.
The wind flicked the curtain and banged the window. It was the middle of the night. He stirred. Another bang, louder. Maybe there was another tropical storm about to hit the Cape? There hadn’t been any concerns for the launch, but those things could move pretty fast. He sat up. His head felt groggy. He tried to get out of bed. His feet fumbled in the gloom for the cold floor. He looked up. There was a figure standing in the window.
Jesus, Harrison said.
What’s a pudknocker like you doing in a place like this?
Pancho?
The shadow dropped into the room.
Guess you can drive about as well as you can fly, huh?
What the hell are you doing here? Visiting hours ended at six.
Well I didn’t fly two and a half thousand goddamn miles in ten hours to bring a weenie like you grapes. So grab your stuff and let’s get the hell out of here.
She stepped forward to see him.
Christ, she said. You look awful.
He tried to get up and cried out in pain. Pancho steadied him.
You’re gonna have to quit screaming like a girl if this is gonna work, she said. Leave the light off. We gotta move quick. It’s not gonna be long before some goddamn junior crewman on six hundred a year takes a nighttime walk and spots the scarlet marvel on his ground.
Harrison looked at her.
You got the plane here? he said.
You bet your sweet ass I do, Pancho said. It’s a goddamn air force base, ain’t it?
How did you even know I was here?
Got a call from an old friend, she said, pulling his arm over her shoulder. Was told to come pick you up. Jeez, you got any pants? Forget it, we ain’t got time.
Harrison hadn’t realized he was only dressed in a hospital gown.
Steady! he said as Pancho dragged him across the room. Jesus! I broke my goddamn ribs.
Quit your whining, she said. We don’t have long. Deke said he’d only be able to give us ten, fifteen minutes tops.
Deke?
Stand here, Pancho said. Don’t move.
She pulled his bedside table across the floor and shoved it under the window.
Think you can manage that? she said.
Maybe, he said. My side hurts pretty bad though.
C’mere, she said. Look.
She made a stirrup with her hands and hoisted him onto the table. He looked out the window.
Pancho, we’re two floors up.
There’s a ladder on your left, she said. You’d better be able to manage that.
He swung himself around, out, onto the ladder. He held his left side and lowered himself down. Pancho followed, giggling. At the bottom, she pulled the ladder down and laid it flat on the grass.
Where’s the Mystery Ship? he said.
C’mon! she said.
Pancho led him along the side of the hospital, over the road, between two buildings and against the wall of a hangar.
Damn, he said when he saw it. I’d forgotten what a beauty she is.
The Travel Air Type R Mystery Ship was a low-wing racing airplane, one of only five. Pancho had broken Earhart’s airspeed record in it, years before. The wings were thin, braced with wires, the fuselage sleek and streamlined.
Took me three years to fix it up after I won it back, she said. Felt good to get her up again. Now get in.
He got in.
Pancho looked at him and laughed hard.
What? he said from the front cockpit.
If it ain’t the funniest goddamn thing I ever seen! One of NASA’s world-famous astronauts sitting in his underwear in the back of a monoplane. I sure wish the boys could see this.
Hurry up, would you, before we get busted, he said. Plus I’m cold.
Pancho climbed in.
Fastest damn airplane in the world when I bought it, she said. Cost me a goddamn fortune.
Can we go?
All right, all right, keep your peckerwood on; we’re goin.
She started the engine. It stuttered and stalled.
Would it help if I got out and pushed? he said.
Quit bitchin, she said.
She fired the engine again and it rumbled and roared and she taxied toward the runway and took off.
Attagirl! she said, as it howled into the air.
The wind whipped through the thin wires and through his hair. He felt the pressure on his face as they rushed into it. He smiled. The engine hacked and spat and Pancho yelled, we got a problem, and Harrison yelled, what?
Outta gas, Pancho said.
Sweet Jesus, Harrison said. Some rescue.
The Mystery Ship dipped and bucked.
Didn’t figure on not being able to refuel at the base like normal, she said. Hang on, I know a few places round here.
They made it to a corn farm near Ocala and landed. Pancho said she and Telly, the farmer, went way back.
Far enough to have you bangin on his door in the middle of the night askin for gas? Harrison said.
Least the sonofabitch can do, Pancho said.
Telly appeared in the doorway in his underwear.
Telly, Jim; Jim, Telly, Pancho said. Jesus, am I the only one not standing around in my goddamn underwear tonight?
Telly kept his fuel by his barn. He had an old Stearman 17 he’d converted for crop-dusting.
You need food, water? Telly said as he refueled the Mystery Ship.
We’re good, Pancho said. Thanks.
Real pleasur
e, Telly said.
Come out to the desert sometime, Pancho said. Do some proper flyin.
Hell, I might just do that, he said. He laughed and waved them off.
They hopscotched cross-country, back to California. Pancho flew by dead reckoning, using a compass and Rand McNally road maps, stopping only to refuel at private airfields; nothing more than dirt strips with tin hangars. She gave Harrison a gallon of water and a bag of beef jerky and told him to be grateful. After the third stop, Harrison fell asleep. After the fourth stop the fuselage caught fire and Pancho brought the Mystery Ship down into the mesquite and jumped out to throw sand on the flames and took off again. Harrison stirred and said, what happened? and Pancho said, don’t worry your head about it, sleeping beauty.
They got back to Pancho’s in the middle of the afternoon, landing on her strip by the back barn.
Upstairs, Pancho said to Harrison.
Exhausted, with a blanket he’d found on the cockpit floor wrapped around him, he traipsed into the house and climbed the stairs. Pancho followed.
That’s your room, she said, pointing to a green door at the end of the landing. It’s all made up for you. Go to sleep. And no funny business. I don’t want you banging on my door in the middle of the night looking for hot sex. Tomorrow we’re making a goddamn plan.
You done being pissed at me?
I’m never gonna be done being pissed at you. But I just flew a solid day to bring your sorry ass home.
How’d you stay awake?
Who said I did?
Tuck me in?
Get the hell out of my sight.
MOJAVE DESERT
MUROC, CALIFORNIA
MARCH 1966
The next morning Pancho banged on his door early and fixed eggs and coffee for breakfast. After they’d eaten, she took out a pack of Pall Malls and lit one. She offered the pack to Harrison who took one and lit it with Pancho’s lighter and sat back and sipped his coffee. Pancho leaned forward and looked at him.
The Last Pilot: A Novel Page 23