The Last Pilot: A Novel (9 page)

North American’s already working on the follow-up, Harrison said. Two pilots will fly it into orbit, take a few little turns around the Earth, land on that glorious ol lakebed out there.

Hold on, Cardenas said, binoculars pressed against his eyes. I think I see it.

They watched the white grain glide across the silent dark sky as the country slumbered below.

Feels strange, Grace said. Creepy. Like we’ve invaded the heavens or something.

Harrison looked at her and frowned.

What I mean is, she said, no one’s been up there—
out
there—before, ever; now here we are.

We’re not, the Reds are, Cardenas said.

Makes you wonder what else they got up their sleeves, don’t it? Pancho said.

You don’t feel it? Grace said to Jim.

Feel what?

Like something’s shifted.

No one’s going to remember this in a year’s time, Harrison said.

Hey, Ridley said. I can see it without the bins.

On the radio, the announcer said,
listen now for the sound that forevermore separates the old from the new.

That next morning
,
Grace went to Rosamond and bought as many newspapers as she could carry. When she got home, she spread them out on the kitchen table in front of Jim.

SOVIETS FIRE EARTH SATELLITE INTO SPACE

RUSSIAN MOON CIRCLING THE EARTH

SPACE AGE IS HERE
!

COMMUNISTS WIN RACE INTO OUTER SPACE

TRACK RED MOON BY RADIO

He put down his coffee.

What the hell? he said and started to read.

You think the press is going to give a damn about the X-15? she said.

The Sputnik in its flight across the world may be a courier of such dire portent to national security that considerations of partisan politics have no place in the discussion of how this happened and what to do about it
, he read.

He looked up at Grace, who was reading the
Washington Post.

Says here that Johnson has opened a subcommittee of the Senate Armed Services to look at American defense and space programs
in light of the Sputnik crisis
, she said.

What crisis?

Listen to this, she said.
The Roman Empire controlled the world because it could build roads. Later, when men moved to sea, the British Empire was dominant because it had ships. Now the Communists have established a foothold in outer space.

That Johnson? he said.

Yup.

Johnson is an asshole.

I’m just telling you what they’re saying, she said. The Soviets are masters of the universe, according to Bill Kreagor at the
New York Times
. Christ, Soapy Williams has written a poem about it.

Why’s he written a poem?

Oh little Sputnik flying high

With made-in-Moscow beep,

You tell the world it’s a Commie sky

And Uncle Sam’s asleep.

How the hell are we asleep? he said. We flew a rocket faster than Mach one
ten years
ago! The rocket program at Edwards is the most advanced in the world! Ike’s the only one talking sense.

He sounds old-fashioned.

He sounds measured.

He’s out of touch.

Because he’s not hysterical?

Because he doesn’t get that everyone’s terrified! Terrified that the Soviets can and probably will drop atom bombs on any American city they want, whenever they want, with no warning.

You really worried? he said.

I’m concerned; sure I am. When the
New York Times
says we’re in a
race for survival
and the Senate majority leader says the Reds will soon be dropping bombs on us from space like kids dropping rocks onto cars from freeway overpasses then, yeah, I get a little jittery.

This country’s gone nuts, he said.

Grace stopped reminiscing; she was nearly home. Milo’s tongue lolled from his mouth, head stuck out the open window. Armageddon felt far away. She had enough to worry about. When she got in, Harrison was upstairs, packing a bag.

Honey? he said.

Hey, she said, walking into the bedroom.

Where you been? he said.

Out, she said. Shopping.

Shopping?

Milo needed food. What’s going on?

I’ve got to go away for a few days.

Away?

I’m real sorry, hon.

What? Why?

Sealed orders. Top secret. I’ve got to report to Washington, D.C. for a classified briefing first thing tomorrow.

He stepped out of the taxi onto the corner of H Street and East Executive Avenue. The Washington air was so cold he thought the day might snap in two. He turned up his collar; drew himself together. He felt uncomfortable. The strict geometry of his suit made him feel like a patsy. It was the only one he owned. He pulled at the knot of his tie. He was standing in front of an unremarkable townhouse in downtown D.C. He checked his orders again.
Dolley Madison House
. He was in the right place. It didn’t make any sense. Why was the briefing here and not at the Pentagon? He’d been ordered to dress as a civilian too. The whole deal was odd.

The receptionist told him to wait in the auditorium, where he found thirty or so men, milling around, also wearing unfamiliar suits. They were, he could tell, all air force and navy pilots; the odd Marine flyer. He recognized Jim Lovell and Pete Conrad from the navy’s Test Pilot School at Pax River, their prime test center. Wally Schirra too. Harrison looked around for anyone else from Edwards. There was Howard Lane. And there was Deke Slayton. Deke was a prime pilot in Fighter Ops; a good guy, doing solid line-testing work.

Deke, Harrison said, approaching him.

Jim!

The men shook hands.

Fancy running into you here, Harrison said.

Fancy that, Deke said.

Any idea what this is all about?

Beats the hell outta me. Plenty Blue Suiters though.

Plenty navy too.

Uh-huh.

What’s his name? Harrison said.

Who?

Over there.

John Glenn. Flew the first supersonic coast-to-coast. Set a speed record.

That’s the one, Harrison said. Marine, isn’t he?

Yeah.

Jim Lovell approached them, smiling, and shook hands with Harrison.

Jim, Harrison said, this here is Deke Slayton. Jim finished top of his class at Pax River.

Pleasure, Deke said, shaking Lovell’s hand.

Edwards?

Deke nodded.

Harrison turned to Lovell. They still call you Shaky? he said.

Only Conrad.

Shaky? Deke said. Bad name for a pilot.

That’s pretty much what he had in mind when he came up with it, Lovell said. And here he is now.

Jim! Conrad said to Harrison. Good to see you.

Hey, Pete, Lovell said.

Shaky! Say, that was weird this morning, weren’t it?

Lovell laughed.

It sure was, he said.

What happened? Harrison said.

We ran into each other at dawn, Lovell said, in the parking lot, sneaking off base to come here.

We had strict orders not to tell anyone—including each other, Conrad said.

And we followed our orders to the letter, Lovell said.

My money’s on this being about space, Conrad said.

Smart money’s on a new type of rocket plane, Lovell said.

Here? Deke said.

Maybe, Lovell said.

X-15B is already being designed by North American, Harrison said. Then the X-20 will follow it.

That the one they’re calling the Dyna-Soar? Deke said.

Dynamic Soarer, yeah, Harrison said.

They’re space-planes, sure, Deke said, but they’re a way off.

Too far off, Conrad said. My guess is, they’re in a funk after the Vanguard fuckup.

That was bad, Deke said. Real bad.

Why the hell did they televise it? Harrison said. It made us look stupid.

Stupidest thing I ever seen, Conrad said. Two months after the Sputnik, Khrushchev laughing at us already; here’s our chance and the thing doesn’t make it six inches off the goddamn pad! Just does this little fart then collapses and—

Boom, Harrison said.

Boom, Conrad said. What a joke.

What was it they called it? Deke said.
Kaputnik?

Something like that, Harrison said.

So I’m sticking with space, Conrad said.

The men fell silent and scanned the room.

No Yeager? Lovell said.

No college degree, Harrison said.

Damn shame, Deke said. I thought they wanted the best?

Well, they’ve only called in test pilots under thirty-nine, under five-eleven with at least fifteen hundred hours of jet experience—and a college degree, Lovell said. Which must rule out a bunch of fellas.

Crossfield? Walker? Conrad said.

Too old? Deke said.

Civilians, Harrison said.

Right.

A man shut the door at the back.

Here we go, Harrison said.

The men took their seats and stared at the podium. A short man walked onto the stage. He looked as comfortable on it as the men felt in their suits.

Gentlemen, good morning, he said. My name is Doctor Robert Gilruth; you may call me Doctor Gilruth. We’ve asked you here today to discuss Project Mercury.

He had their attention.

As you are probably aware, Gilruth continued, in October, the president expanded the role of the National Advisory Committee on Aeronautics to include vehicles able to extend beyond the confines of the atmosphere. The highest priority of this new National Aeronautics and Space Administration is to put an American into Earth orbit within three years. The program, headed by myself, is called Project Mercury. We’re looking for the best pilots for these missions. The hazards will be considerable. As such, the first men in space will be chosen on a volunteer basis. Should any man decide not to volunteer, it will not be entered onto his record, nor will it be held against him in any way. The NASA will be a civilian agency, so every man would keep the same military status and rank.

Deke turned to Harrison.

Civilian? he said. That don’t sound good.

Gilruth, gently perspiring under the hot lights, explained that the space vehicle was to be a funnel-shaped capsule, just six feet across and nine high. The volunteer would be strapped to a form-fitted couch, sealed inside, and placed atop a ballistic missile capable of three hundred and fifty thousand pounds of thrust. A man on the ground would light the missile and fire it into space.

That is the stupidest thing I ever heard, Harrison said to Deke.

Any questions? Gilruth said.

The men murmured a mixture of amusement and incredulity. A few raised their hands.

The missions will be controlled automatically from the ground, Gilruth said, in response to the first question. The pilot will have no control over the capsule during the flight.

No landing, he said. The capsule will splash-down in the ocean.

No prototype of the capsule has been built yet, he said. We’re putting together some first-rate blueprints.

Well, I see your point, he said. A
reputation for blowing up
is perhaps a little strong … but, yes, there have been a few incidents with the Atlas in the past and it’s being worked on.

Harrison sat back in his seat. No flying? It wasn’t even a ship or a craft, it was a goddamn tin can. They sealed you in, shot you into the sky like a cannonball and prized you out in some remote and turbulent part of the Atlantic. Assuming you survived the ride, of course. The only prerequisite skill seemed to be the ability to take it. Sure, if the thing malfunctioned up there, the pilot could take over, push a button, fire the retro-rockets to pop it out of orbit and splash-down prematurely, but that was about it. No, a real pilot would take her up, fly the thing himself, grease it in like a man and make it to Pancho’s in time for beercall. That’s how it was done. Harrison looked up to Gilruth on the stage. The man was good; Harrison gave him that.

The first men in space, Gilruth said, will be known as
astro-nauts
, meaning
star voyagers
.

That night, the men were put up in hotels around town. Harrison was in the Marriott on Fortieth Street with Lovell, Conrad and a few others from Pax River. They dumped their bags as soon as they arrived and met in Schirra’s room, pulling chairs into a circle like it was a s
é
ance. They wanted to chew over this Project Mercury business together, in private; Schirra even locked the door.

There were six of them, sat in a circle, filling their glasses from a bottle of scotch being passed around. Lovell, Conrad and Schirra, he knew pretty well. There was another navy guy, Al Shepard, an experienced test pilot who’d previously been an instructor at Pax River. Harrison knew him by reputation. The other man was from Edwards, Gordon “Gordo” Cooper, but wasn’t involved in either the X-series or Fighter Ops, so Harrison didn’t know him. Deke, along with Howard Lane and a few others from Edwards, were staying in another hotel across town.