Altered America

by Ingham, Martin T.

  “That’s what dads do,” replied Collins, as he gently placed the dollar coin onto the table with a soft clink sound. David—slowly, reluctantly, and with great reverence—reached out and grasped it.

  David stared at the coin, examining it from every angle, feeling every ridge and mark on it. So engrossed was he in his task that he glazed over a question from Collins.

  “Pardon?” David asked. “I’m sorry—I didn’t catch that.”

  “I asked, have you decided on the words?”

  David, slowly, hesitantly, shook his head. “May I ask—do you know what words... Armstrong... was going to...?”

  Collins harrumphed and shook his head. “Neil always played his cards close to his chest. You should have seen how annoyed he got whenever people offered him suggestions.”

  “May I ask, what did you suggest?”

  Collins stared at David for a very long moment before he spoke. “I said to him if he had any balls, he’ll say ‘Oh, my God, what is that thing?’ then scream and cut his mike.”

  David stared at Collins for a very long moment in silence. And then—“I think, if it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll come up with my own words.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Collins offered his hand to David. “Good luck to you David; make us proud.”

  “I will, sir. I will.”

  (6)

  Mortal as I am, I know that I am born for a day.

  But when I follow at my pleasure the serried multitude of the stars

  in their circular course, my feet no longer touch the earth.

  —Ptolemy

  August 7, 1968 –John F. Kennedy Space Center, Florida

  “Thanks for coming in, guys,” Slayton said as David, Gordon, and Bean walked into his office. The three astronauts shuffled around a bit in the cramped office as Deke perched himself on the edge of the desk. “You’re probably wondering why I called you in here.”

  “Damn straight!” said Richard Gordon. This got an “Uh-huh!” from Alan Bean. David, for his part, just nodded his head in silence.

  Slayton let out a loud sigh and ran his hand through his hair. “We’re having a few problems with the LEM.”

  The three astronauts exchanged a glance.

  “What kind of problems?” David asked.

  “It’s not going to be ready in time for Apollo 8.”

  The three astronauts exchanged another glance. The three men were the back-up crew for Apollo 8.

  “So... what happens now?” asked David.

  Deke let out another sigh. “You have to understand, we didn’t want to do this. But we can’t afford to have another delay. And everyone—from James Webb himself on down—all agree that the solution we came up with is the best solution.” Deke paused. “It is, in fact, the only solution.” He stared at the three men for a very long moment. “Apollo 8 has now been officially changed from a D mission to a lunar orbital mission using just the Command Module—what we’re calling a C-Prime mission. Apollo 9 will be the new D-mission.”

  “What?” screamed Gordon, standing up so fast that his chair got knocked down behind him. Bean just swore a string of obscenities softly under his breath.

  David fixed Deke’s gaze with his own.

  NASA had decided almost exactly one year earlier that the best path to a successful Moon landing was the creation of different mission types. Seven mission types had been outlined, each testing a specific set of components and tasks, and each previous step would need to be completed successfully before the next mission type could be undertaken. Each member of the crew—and the back-up crew—had trained for each specific type of mission.

  This switch meant that David’s crew was now going to be back-up to Apollo 9, instead of 8.

  “I’m sorry,” Deke said.

  The three astronauts stared at Deke in quiet resignation. All three men knew what was unspoken in Deke’s apology.

  Deke had been using a rotation system of assigning a crew as backup and then, three missions later, as the prime crew. There had been exceptions and last-minute shuffling to this system, of course—often due to unexpected illnesses or equipment glitches or any number of other factors. Nevertheless, while it wasn’t quite written in stone, it had been used—and was still used enough—that a betting man might still be confident in making his prediction.

  As back-up crew of Apollo 8, the three astronauts had an almost certain chance of being the prime crew for Apollo 11, designated as mission G, assuming all the other missions were a success.

  The three men had just been denied the chance of being the first men on the Moon.

  * * *

  “Hi,” said a voice behind David.

  It was two hours after Slayton’s bad news and David had been spending the time sitting at a quiet table under a tree.

  David turned at the sound of the voice.

  “Neil!”

  “Hi,” repeated Armstrong, as he took a seat next to David.

  The two men sat in silence for a long moment. And then...

  “Slayton told me the news as well,” Neil said. “I’m sorry.”

  David literally did a double-take at that. “Why the hell are you sorry for, Neil?” David clasped Neil’s shoulder with his hand. “This has never been about just one man. This has always been all about all of us. Together. The team.”

  There was just the slightest hint of a smile on Armstrong’s lips. “Be that as it may, it’s still a horrible way to start off a morning, huh?”

  David sighed and nodded his head in agreement. “That it is.”

  Neil clamped his hand onto David’s shoulder. “Hey, for all we know, something else may go wrong and Apollo 12 ends up as the G-mission instead.”

  “Don’t even think that, Neil!”

  “No—guess you’re right, David.” Neil looked up at the early morning sky and shrugged his shoulders. “Damn, now I have to start thinking about what words to say if I get the command.”

  “If? You will, Neil, you will. I know you will.” David let out a laugh. “Thank God I’m not going to be the idiot that’s going to have to say the most important words in human history. I’m going to feel so sad for the poor bastard who’s going to be stuck with that responsibility!”

  That got a laugh from both men and, still laughing, the two of them wandered back into the building.

  (7)

  If you go far enough out you can see the Universe itself, all the billion light years summed up time only as a flash, just as lonely, as distant as a star on a June night if you go far enough out. And still, my friend, if you go far enough out you are only at the beginning—of yourself.

  —Rolf Jacobsen

  August 31, 1970 –John F. Kennedy Space Center, Florida

  “James Burke, BBC! Mr. Patton, you have mentioned that your flight, as we know all too well, contains many risks. What, in view of that, would your plans be in the unlikely event that the lunar module does not come off the Moon’s surface?”

  The three astronauts exchanged a quick glance. David, clearing his throat, took a deep breath.

  “We’ve chosen not to think about that situation at the present time. As you are all aware, numerous upgrades and modifications have been made to all the systems in the last year and we are confident that that situation, while a possibility, is one that’s not at all likely. But, to answer your question, at the present time, we are left without recourse should that happen.”

  As one, the small army of reporters and newsmen in the auditorium quickly scribbled down that last sentence.

  David glanced over at his two comrades, who gave him a glance in return.

  Well, at least we got that question out of the way, right guys?

  “Jay Barbree, NBC! You were speaking a few moments ago about naming the spacecraft the Odyssey and the lunar module the Phoenix. Do you have any plans to name the site on which you will land? That is to say, the immediate area where you land. Will you give it any particular name?”

  “As in previous fligh
ts, in the absence of official names for the various locations and landmarks on the lunar surface, we have chosen to use some unofficial names for our recognition purposes. And we will continue to do that. As we will be landing in the Ocean of Storms, the unofficial name for the landing area will be known as Phoenix’s Repose. Yes—next question.”

  “Tim Ralfe, Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. On a lighter note, you are now taking the trip of all trips of all mankind. Can I ask each one of you, which place you would like to go to on vacation when you return to Earth?”

  David, Richard, and Alan smirked. Finally, a real question!

  “Well,” said David, still smiling, “I think the place I would really like to go to immediately afterwards would be the Lunar Receiving Laboratory.”

  That got a ripple of laughter from reporters and technicians alike.

  A nearby technician glanced at his watch and nodded to the NASA spokesperson who had organized the press conference. The spokesman nodded in response and turned to the audience. “One last question,” he shouted. “Yes—you in the first row. The young man in the blue jacket. Your question?”

  “David Chatham. Michigan Daily. Mr. Patton, you have no doubt been inundated with suggestions of what words to say as you step on the Moon for the very first time. My question is very simple—have you chosen the words?”

  David stared at the young man for a long moment before speaking. “Not as yet,” he replied, then nodded his head. “Thank you all for coming here. Good day.”

  * * *

  “’Not as yet,’” repeated Gordon an hour later as the three men walked through the corridors of the complex. “You know that they’re going to run that quote first thing tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Let’s see now,” continued Gordon, clasping his hands behind his back and staring wistfully up in the air. “I do believe we still haven’t heard a suggestion from Outer Mongolia. Isn’t that right, Alan?”

  “I’m afraid that I must disagree with my colleague,” said Bean, clearly relishing this teasing of David. “I believe that we just received a telegram from their prime minister with a suggestion for David.”

  “Oh, how nice!” replied Gordon, clapping his hands in mock glee. “That leaves, uh, leaves, uh—help me out here Alan—who does that leave?”

  “Nobody!” shouted Bean, grinning. “Our friend here has now officially received a suggestion from every country on Earth!”

  “Gosh,” said Gordon, “with so many suggestions he should have no problems whatsoever picking a few words, right?”

  “You would think so, Alan but, alas, our friend here needs a wee bit more time.”

  “We don’t lift-off for two more days,” David said, somewhat defensively. “I still have plenty of time.”

  “Yeah. Plenty of time,” said Bean.

  “And I’m sure they will be great,” said Gordon.

  David nodded his head. “Yeah. They’ll be great.” He nodded his head once more. “Perfect,” he said, in a quiet voice no one else could hear.

  (8)

  Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

  and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

  Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

  of sun-split clouds and done a hundred things

  you have not dreamed of wheeled and soared and swung

  high in the sunlit silence. Hovering there,

  I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

  my eager craft through footless halls of air.

  Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

  I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace

  where never lark, or even eagle flew

  and, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod

  the high untrespassed sanctity of space,

  put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

  —John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

  July 21, 1969 –Cocoa Beach, Florida

  Just after 4pm EST

  By pure dumb luck, David’s house was located within easy travelling distance of three other Apollo astronaut’s homes. As a result, it had been decreed (alas, with minimal input from David) that David’s home shall be the ‘official’ gathering spot to watch the Moon landing, with the first ‘guest’–James Lovell, who had been backup for Apollo 11 commander—showing up at noon at David’s doorstep.

  By the time three p.m. had rolled around, it was standing room only in the living room, several of the astronauts had rigged up a second TV in the backyard, a couch had been unceremoniously flipped over and now served as an impromptu liquor bar, and several enterprising young teenagers in the neighbourhood were making impressive amounts of money acting as ‘parking valets’ for everyone showing up at the house.

  Indeed, there were so many astronauts in the place that someone had quipped ‘if a bomb were to drop on this house, NASA’s next Moon mission won’t be until Nixon’s second term!’ which had gotten an immense round of laughter.

  “Okay, Okay—shut up everyone!” David yelled above the noise. “It’s almost time!”

  As if a switch had been flipped, the entire house went quiet and the entire crowd sat silently and watched the TVs. Over an animation of a cartoon-like spaceship making its descent onto the Moon, the voices of the Apollo 11 crew could be heard.

  “3 1/2 down, 220 feet, 13 forward.”

  “11 forward. Coming down nicely.”

  “Gonna be right over that crater.”

  “200 feet, 4 1/2 down.”

  “5 1/2 down.”

  “I got a good spot.”

  “160 feet, 6 1/2 down.”

  “5 1/2 down, 9 forward. You're looking good.”

  “120 feet.”

  “100 feet, 3 1/2 down, 9 forward. Five percent. Quantity light.”

  David and several of the other astronauts exchanged a quick glance of concern. ‘Quantity light’ meant that the Eagle had low amounts of fuel left—five percent, to be precise. This event automatically started a 94-second countdown to a 'Bingo' fuel call, which meant ‘land in 20 seconds or abort.’ If the count got down to zero, Neil would have 20 seconds to land. Otherwise, he would have to abort immediately. David knew that if you're 50 feet up at ‘bingo fuel’ with all of your horizontal rates nulled and coming down to a good spot, you could certainly continue to land. With your horizontal rates nulled at 70 to 100 feet, it would be risky to land—perhaps giving you a landing just at the limiting load of the landing gear. At anything over 100 feet, you'd have to punch the abort button and say goodbye to the Moon.

  The Eagle was at 100 feet.

  Beneath their breaths, David and the others began to silently countdown as well.

  “Okay. 75 feet. And it's looking good. Down a half, 6 forward.”

  “60 seconds.”

  “Light's on.”

  “60 feet, down 2 1/2. 2 forward. 2 forward. That's good.”

  “40 feet, down 2 1/2. Picking up some dust.”

  “30 feet, 2 1/2 down. Shadow.”

  “4 forward. 4 forward. Drifting to the right a little. 20 feet, down a half.”

  “30 seconds.”

  “Drifting forward just a little bit; that's good.”

  “Contact—”

  And then there was what sounded like a faint scream, an explosion of static, and then—

  Nothing.

  * * *

  Silence descended on the world.

  Walter Cronkite looked exhausted. It had been a very long day of reporting—and he wasn’t finished. Not yet anyway.

  There was one last piece of news that he had to report.

  Cronkite looked up at the camera.

  “From NASA Headquarters, an official bulletin. Apollo 11 has been confirmed to have crashed on impact, some 47 minutes ago.” For a moment—just a moment—the reporter’s impassionate mask fell off and Cronkite looked like he was about to break down. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and pulled off his glasses.

 
; “Astronauts Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin did not survive the crash.” Cronkite paused to take another deep breath.

  “They’re gone.”

  (9)

  Quietly, like a night bird, floating, soaring, wingless.

  We glide from shore to shore, curving and falling

  but not quite touching;

  Earth: a distant memory seen in an instant of repose,

  crescent shaped, ethereal, beautiful,

  I wonder which part is home, but I know it doesn't matter...

  the bond is there in my mind and memory;

  Earth: a small, bubbly balloon hanging delicately

  in the nothingness of space.

  —Alfred M. Worden

  September 2, 1970 —John F. Kennedy Space Center, Florida

  “—and, as the camera stationed at the Space Center shows, a crowd estimated to be over half a million in size is awaiting lift-off of Apollo 12, scheduled to launch at precisely 10:18 a.m., some fourteen minutes from now. Those three brave souls, waiting patiently in their rocket for several hours now, awaiting lift-off, know all too well that the eyes and ears of the whole world are upon them.”

  Walter Cronkite looked at the camera and removed his eyeglasses.

  “We can only imagine what thoughts are going through those men’s minds right now...”

  * * *

  “Hey Dave,” said Alan Bean, “Want to hear something funny?”

  David sighed. He knew what Alan’s sense of humour was like when he was stressed, Given the present circumstances, he really didn’t relish hearing what kind of joke Alan had in mind at the moment. But he also knew that Alan wasn’t going to be quiet until he said it, so with great reluctance on his part, David took a deep breath and replied to Alan.

  “Okay—lay it on me.”

  “Well, first of all, we’re sitting up here on top of a rocket seventeen stories high.”

  “Yeah. And?”

  “Well, the rocket has 80,000 separate parts, and every one of them was made by the lowest bidder,” Alan said, grinning like a Cheshire cat.