by Marty Steere
“Nice job, Commander,” Gale said with an odd formality.
#
Though he was tired, sleep eluded Bob Cartwright. He’d been anxious to start their lunar exploration as soon as they landed, but the mission profile called for the two astronauts to rest first. They wouldn’t take their initial steps on the moon for another seven hours. In the meantime, they were expected to get some sleep.
Once they’d confirmed the lunar module was secure, he and Gale had climbed out of their bulky space suits, stripping down to their long-johns. The gravity on the moon was only one-sixth that on earth, but it was just enough to enable Cartwright to lie comfortably in the hammock strung in the confined space. After the disorientation of weightlessness that had plagued him over the past few days, he was grateful for the relief it offered. Still, he was too keyed up to nod off.
In the hammock below him, Gale apparently had no such problems. Cartwright could just hear the man’s rhythmic breathing over the whir of the cabin recirculation motor.
After all these months, Cartwright still did not know what to make of Mason Gale.
To say the man was an enigma was putting it mildly.
Cartwright remembered the day they met. How could he forget? It was one of the most extraordinary days of his life. It had been Cartwright’s thirty-sixth birthday, the first day of April, 1976. Cartwright had landed at Ellington Field in Houston a few minutes earlier after a cross-country flight from Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada, his thoughts dominated by the family gathering to which he was already late. After he descended from the cockpit of the T-38 he’d checked out the day before, a member of the ground crew approached and informed him that he was wanted immediately in the office of Stuart Overholdt, the Director of Flight Crew Operations. Still dressed in his flight suit, and wary, as always, of practical jokes - a residual effect of having been born on April Fool’s Day - he arrived a few minutes later at the office of his boss, the man in charge of the astronauts.
At one point in time, the office had been the center of a maelstrom. Much lobbying and intrigue had gone on in and around the place. There had been a tremendous controversy over who might serve as the commander on the first manned mission to the moon. And, though the stakes might have been, on balance, somewhat smaller, there were nevertheless huge consequences, not to mention egos, involved in the selection of the crews who would man the various moon missions that followed.
By 1976, however, the frenzy had died. Overholdt’s predecessor had retired. The U.S. space program was in a bit of a hiatus. Skylab had come and gone, and the Space Transportation System, which would become known as the space shuttle, was still in development. While there was a certain amount of jockeying going on for seats on the shuttle missions, all of which were still conceptual, the crown jewel, the Apollo program, had died a painful and premature death, and with it went the ultimate goal: A shot at landing on the moon.
In early 1970, just a month after Cartwright entered the astronaut program, the Apollo 20 mission was cancelled, the victim of budget cuts. Then, in September of that same year, the Apollo 15 and Apollo 19 missions were eliminated. The remaining missions were re-numbered, leaving Apollo 17 in December of 1972 the last hurrah for the U.S. manned lunar program.
In the years subsequent, many of the men, most of whose initial service predated Cartwright, had seen the writing on the wall and packed it in. The effect had been to elevate Cartwright quickly to a senior status among the remaining members of the program.
In the hallway outside Flight Crew Operations, he found Steve Dayton sitting in one of the padded chairs, reading a magazine. Dayton, who had the day off, was in casual clothes. They greeted one another warmly.
Dayton and Cartwright had served together on the second backup crew for the Apollo-Soyuz mission the year before, a joint U.S./Soviet venture that employed some of the unused Apollo program hardware. Cartwright had been the crew commander, and Dayton had served as command module pilot.
Shortly after Cartwright arrived, the door to Overholdt’s office opened, and he and Dayton were asked to come in. There were four men already in the room. Overholdt, whom Cartwright had known for years, made the introductions. To Cartwright’s surprise, one of the men waiting for them was a United States Senator, Harrison Burton. With him was Adam Huffman, the Deputy Administrator of NASA. Both men Cartwright recognized from photographs. The fourth man he’d never seen before.
“Bob, Steve,” Overholdt said, “I’d like you meet Mason Gale. You’ll be working closely together.”
Cartwright reached out a hand, and Gale practically crushed it with a powerful grip. Stifling a grimace, and still harboring lingering suspicions about practical jokes, Cartwright turned to the director. “And what, may I ask, sir, will we be working on?”
Overholdt smiled broadly. “That, Bob, is the proverbial sixty-four million dollar question, give or take a few million.”
It was apparently a private joke, as the senator and deputy administrator chuckled. Gale’s expression, Cartwright noticed, did not change.
Overholdt motioned them all to take seats at the long table that took up half of his office. “What you’re about to hear is not yet public. I don’t need to remind you of your security clearances and your obligations to maintain classified information.” With that, he turned matters over to Huffman.
The deputy administrator cleared his throat. “I’m pleased to announce that, thanks in large measure to the considerable assistance of Senator Burton here, additional funding has been put in place to enable the Agency to revive the Apollo program. There will now be at least one additional mission, Apollo 18. And,” he paused, fixing Cartwright, Dayton and Gale with level looks, “each of you has been selected to serve together as the primary crew for that mission. Gentlemen, you’re going to the moon.”
If that, Cartwright thought, was a practical joke, it was the best one anyone had ever played on him.
But it had become quickly clear that it was no joke. Though the mission was not announced to the public until over three months later, the men were immediately plunged into an intense regimen of training. With less than six months to liftoff, the normal schedule that attended preparation for such a mission was dramatically compressed. For Cartwright and Dayton, much of the training was familiar. For Gale, it was all new.
When the opportunity first presented itself, Cartwright privately questioned Overholdt regarding the selection of a man who had previously not been attached to the astronaut program, particularly given the fact that he was taking the seat Cartwright believed should have rightfully gone to his friend, Rick Delahousse.
“Believe me, Bob,” Overholdt said, “it wasn’t my call. This came down from the administrator’s office. Apparently, to sell this additional mission, we’ve got to show it has an overwhelmingly scientific focus. That means taking a qualified specialist in lunar geology. On the one hand, I know you and Rick have attended the trainings and done the field work, and I have every confidence that you two would do a fine job.”
Over the years, Cartwright and Delahousse, like most of the Apollo astronauts before them, had undergone extensive instruction, both in the classroom and in the field, learning how to recognize and describe geological features and how to select the samples that would be brought back to earth with them. Delahousse, in particular, had become something of a standout among the current group of astronauts.
“On the other hand, though,” Overholdt continued, “we have to convince a skeptical public that, with all the other demands on the federal budget, this is a worthy expenditure. If the choice is that you go with Mason Gale or you don’t go at all, you go with Gale.
“But,” he added, “if Gale doesn’t cut it in training, then I won’t hesitate to ground him, the consequences be damned.”
It had been a reasonable arrangement. And, to ameliorate things, Delahousse had been given command of the mission’s backup crew. Furthermore, Delahousse would have first shot at Apollo 19 if that mission ever got the
green light.
In fairness, Gale gave them no reason to question his selection. The man was certainly competent, and he tackled the training with a vigor. He wasn’t the friendliest of crewmates. In fact, he was, on his best days, remarkably brusque and could at times be downright rude. But he’d earned Cartwright’s grudging respect, and, as Cartwright now lay in his hammock struggling unsuccessfully to find sleep, he had no doubt that Gale would perform his duties well.
Cartwright’s thoughts turned, as they frequently did, to the boys. Once again, he questioned whether it was fair for them that he take the risks associated with what he was doing. What if, God forbid, something did go wrong and he didn’t return? It was a possibility he freely accepted. But the boys were given no say in it. And if he didn’t come back, they would be all alone.
It would be so much better, he reflected, if Barbara were still around.
For Cartwright, even after seven years, the pain of Barbara’s death was fresh. And bitter. The autopsy on the driver of the tractor-trailer had confirmed that the man was hopped up on amphetamines at the time of the accident. According to the trucking company records, he’d been on the road for over twenty hours when he allowed his vehicle to drift across the center lane of the highway, where it slammed headfirst into the little Volkswagen Barbara was driving back from a luncheon at the naval station. The doctors told Cartwright that Barbara had died instantly, and he took some slight comfort in that. The truck driver had not been so lucky. He’d been pinned in the cab by the collision while gas from his ruptured tank had spread around him. The gas ignited about a minute after the crash, but before anyone could get to him. According to onlookers, the man screamed for at least three minutes, first in terror, then in agony. His official cause of death was searing of the lungs, as he breathed in the fire that was in the process of consuming his body.
Despite himself, Cartwright also took some comfort in that.
Fortunately, Cartwright’s mother had not hesitated when she’d learned of her daughter-in-law’s tragic death. Widowed five years earlier, she immediately uprooted herself from the small Indiana town where she’d lived her entire life, and she moved in with Cartwright and the boys.
Cartwright had realized quickly that the nomadic life of a naval aviator would, without Barbara there to provide stability, be too much to ask his boys to continue to endure. He’d heard there was to be another round of selections for the space program and that priority was being given to qualified pilots. A month after Barbara’s death, he applied for a spot in the new group, and two months after that, he was accepted. The five of them were able to settle down in one place, and, over the past seven years, Cartwright had done his best to fill the role of single parent to the boys.
He was very proud of his sons. All three of them were extraordinarily smart, Nate, perhaps, even more so than the twins, which was saying a lot. His eldest was remarkably steady and capable. When Cartwright looked at Nate, he saw himself as a young man, for all that implied, good and bad. He worried, though, that, as serious and hard working as Nate was, he’d burn himself out if he wasn’t careful. The one thing Cartwright knew with certainty, and it helped ease his concerns, was that, if anything were to happen to him, Nate would be there for his brothers.
Peter was the sensitive one. He reminded Cartwright so much of Barbara. The boy was at once inquisitive and insightful. He could be serious, but he could also be hilarious. Most importantly, he possessed an inner strength that would serve him well should he have to face life on his own.
And then there was Matt. The wild one. What would become of Matt? There was really no question in Cartwright’s mind that the boy would be able to fend for himself. He was as independent as any kid his age could ever be. But there was no getting around the fact that he was impulsive, inclined to leap before thinking. And that, Cartwright feared, could be his undoing. And, if it happened, it would be a terrible shame. Because, he knew, deep inside of Matt, well down below where most of the world could see, was a truly marvelous soul.
Bob Cartwright wasn’t a particularly religious man, but, lying there in his hammock, on the floor of the Mare Crisium, a quarter of a million miles from home, he said a silent prayer, asking God that he be allowed to see his boys again.
#
Apparently, Cartwright had finally found sleep, because he was startled to wakefulness by a harsh sound that he didn’t immediately recognize. After a moment, he realized that, through the earphone on the cap he wore, the one the astronauts referred to as the “Snoopy cap,” Houston was pumping a rousing rendition of Anchors Aweigh. It dawned on him after a moment, that it was in his honor. A few seconds later, it abruptly stopped and was replaced by the chipper voice of Rick Delahousse.
“Rise and shine, sleepy heads. Thought you might want to take a walk this morning.”
Stifling a chuckle, Cartwright said, “Aw, come on, Mom. Five more minutes?”
“What,” Delahousse replied, “and let all the good spots on the moon get taken by everyone else?”
“All right,” Cartwright said, pulling himself up by gripping the handle on the overhead docking hatch and swinging his body out of the hammock. “If you insist.” Suspended for a moment in the fractional gravity, he twisted his torso, keeping his legs curled, looked down, and identified a clear spot on the module floor. Then he extended his legs, making contact with the deck a couple of seconds later.
Gale, he saw, was already up. The man had stowed his hammock and taken a seat on the ascent engine cover. He was in the process of eating from one of the clear plastic bags in which their meals were stored. He nodded at Cartwright, but said nothing. Knowing there was no point in trying to engage Gale in chit-chat, Cartwright busied himself putting away his own hammock and grabbing a quick bite to eat. Then, the two of them assisted one another putting on their space suits.
When they were ready, they depressurized the cabin and opened the forward hatch, and Cartwright worked his body out onto the short landing that sat above one of the four legs of the module. In part because of their training and in part because of the concentration required to deal with the bulky suit and the small opening, it wasn’t until Cartwright was beginning his descent down the ladder that it dawned on him that he was actually outside the craft, truly a man on the moon.
On the last rung of the ladder, Cartwright paused, appreciating the moment. When Neil Armstrong had taken this step, his words had become famous. Subsequent first steps on the moon had been accorded much less significance. Still, it was a moment to remember, and one that Cartwright certainly would never forget. Not wanting to let it pass without some acknowledgement, he’d worked up what he hoped would be a reasonably appropriate statement.
He pushed himself off the ladder and, when his boots made contact with the surface, he said, “With humble respect for those who came before, I’m proud to announce that man has returned to the moon. We come in the name of exploration, science and peace.”
A few minutes later, when Gale stepped off the pad, his was a much shorter pronouncement. “I’m down.”
Their first order of business was retrieval of the lunar rover from the LRV storage compartment, located in the descent stage of the module, just to the side of the leg that they’d climbed down. Gripping a pair of lanyards, Cartwright and Gale pulled down, and the vehicle slowly lowered, like a drawbridge, unfolding as it did. When they had it on the surface, they removed the pins, cabling and tripods that had held the vehicle in its storage position, and they raised the seats and footrests. After switching on the electronics, Cartwright went through a quick diagnostic check. Everything appeared to be functioning.
Because of the tight quarters in which they’d landed, there was some uncertainty about which direction they would take to get themselves out of the clearing. The two men separated. Taking bounding steps that made Cartwright feel slightly superhuman, but being careful not to allow the weight of his backpack to push him over the balance point and cause him to pratfall, he explored a po
rtion of the area to the north of the module, while Gale investigated another.
“Over here,” Gale announced after a couple of minutes. “It looks clear.”
Cartwright joined him at the northeast corner of their landing site. There did, indeed, appear to be sufficient clearance for the rover through the boulder field. How far they’d be able to go, however, he couldn’t say. Distances in the moonscape, Cartwright was beginning to appreciate, were almost impossible to gauge. But it looked like a reasonable starting place.
They returned to the module and mounted the rover, which had the odd appearance of a dune buggy, and, with Cartwright at the controls, they started out. The rover was capable of moving at speeds of up to seven miles per hour. For the first several minutes of their trek, however, Cartwright maintained more of a walking pace. Gale was quiet, but Cartwright and Delahousse kept up a running dialogue. The field of rocks in which they’d landed was, they discovered, quite vast. Cartwright worked the rover through a serpentine course, endeavoring as best he could to keep them moving in the direction that their first traverse called for. As they picked their way through the broken landscape, it became apparent fairly quickly that Cartwright had, indeed, found the one spot where they could land. Put simply, had he not set them down where he had, they would not have made it onto the surface of the moon.
Finally, the terrain began to clear, but, though they were able to get the rover up to speed, they still found themselves working their way through a landscape dotted with boulders, some quite large. It was not the terrain that Cartwright had been led to believe they’d encounter, and he did his best to describe what he was seeing for the men gathered back at Mission Control, his comments supplementing what they were already seeing through the video camera mounted on the front of the rover.