The Last Pilot: A Novel

by Benjamin Johncock

  It was Lovell who first noticed that something was wrong. The men sat at a long table drinking beer and eating sandwiches. Wolfie’s had a radio, usually tuned to WXBR. But the music had stopped.

  Listen, he said to Harrison, holding up a finger. That’s Kennedy, isn’t it?

  Harrison stopped eating and listened.

  Yeah, John Young said. Hang on.

  He called over to Stan, the owner, standing behind the counter.

  What’s goin on? Young said.

  You haven’t heard? Stan said.

  Heard what?

  Stan came over. Cuba, he said. Last night.

  What about Cuba? Harrison said.

  Come out back, Stan said. I got a television. You’d better see for yourselves.

  The men left their lunch and followed Stan through a set of doors near the back, through a minuscule kitchen into a small office with no window where a woman sat hunched over thick scarlet accounting books, smoking and sighing to herself. He turned on the set and changed it to NBC.

  Hold on, he said. They’ve been playing it all morning.

  They just had it, the woman said. I turned it off. Try ABC.

  Stan turned the dial round and the president appeared on the screen.

  … policy of this nation to regard any nuclear missile launched from Cuba against any nation in the Western Hemisphere as an attempt by the Soviet Union on the United States, requiring a full retaliatory response upon the Soviet Union.

  Jesus Christ, Harrison said. What happened?

  Soviets installed nuclear missiles in Cuba, the woman said. In secret. Weren’t you listening? A U-2 spy plane snapped pictures of the damn things.

  Cuba’s only ninety miles away, Harrison said.

  Oh, that’s where Cuba is? the woman said. I’d been wondering.

  Holy shit, Borman said.

  You see? Stan said.

  How the hell did no one call us, Deke said. Gilruth must have known. We must be at DEFCON 3, at least.

  To halt this offensive buildup, a strict quarantine—

  What the hell’s a quarantine? Borman said.

  —on all offensive military equipment—

  Fancy way of saying blockade, Conrad said.

  Legal way of saying blockade, Lovell said.

  —under shipment to Cuba is being initiated.

  When did this go out? Harrison said.

  Seven last night, Stan said.

  All ships bound for Cuba will, if found to contain cargoes of offensive weapons, be turned back.

  Something tells me these ships ain’t gonna stop for some blockade line, Conrad said.

  Damn right, Young said.

  Why the hell aren’t we launching a strike against them? Borman said. Christ, did that kid not learn anything from his father?

  Jack Kennedy’s got a cool head on him, Harrison said. And his brother’s a smart guy. I need to make a phone call.

  Yeah, me too, Conrad said. The others nodded.

  Thanks, Stan, Young said.

  Don’t mention it, fellas.

  They shuffled out.

  Finally, said the woman as Stan pulled the door shut behind him.

  Back at the Holiday Inn, Harrison tried calling Grace, but she wasn’t in. It was hot. He stunk. He sat for a moment, then stood and changed his shirt. Then he went down to the bar. He called again early evening.

  Hello? Grace said.

  Hey, he said. It’s me.

  Jim, she said.

  I called earlier but you weren’t in.

  Where the hell have you been?

  Where have I been? Where have you been?

  I’ve been trying to get ahold of you since last night!

  What? I’ve been right here. Who did you speak to?

  I don’t know—some woman.

  Well that makes things easier.

  She didn’t say and why would I ask? She told me you weren’t staying there.

  Harrison sighed.

  Henri’s given us our own rooms; we’re off the guest booking sheets. What time did you call?

  Right after the broadcast, she said. About seven-thirty.

  We were downstairs, he said. I’m sorry. I’ll sort this. We only just found out. I called as soon as I got back.

  I’m scared half to death, Jim, she said.

  I’m coming home, he said.

  Really? she said. When?

  We all are. First thing.

  Thank God. Jim, she said. I haven’t been doing too good.

  Are you sick?

  I don’t know.

  Well, you’re either sick or you’re not.

  Jim—I—can we not do this now?

  Grace—

  Please. Just come home.

  I already said I’m coming home.

  Please, Jim.

  What?

  Nothing. I miss you.

  I miss you too. Sorry it’s been a couple of days.

  Are you okay? she said.

  Yeah, we’ve just been so busy. And we just got our crew assignments.

  That’s good, she said. Do you want to tell me now?

  I’ll tell you when I get home, he said.

  Okay.

  I’d better get packed, he said. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?

  Jim? she said.

  Yeah?

  I love you.

  I love you too, he said. Everything is going to be okay.

  Okay, she said.

  Stay in the house. Don’t go out unless you have to. Keep the radio on. I’ll be home real soon.

  The following night they sat together on the sofa and watched news reports of the blockade and of the ships turning around and of the Marucla, which didn’t, and were frightened. They went to bed and didn’t talk. When he was sure she was asleep he turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling which was white from where the curtain cracked in the middle and let pale moonlight in. He lay awake for a long time. It felt to him as though the world had paused. The only sound was that of his wife sleeping alongside him. He realized with acute clarity that the past was nothing, it did not exist; it could not be lost, and the future was merely an abstract concept. He lay very still. Then he turned over and slept till morning and in the morning he rose early and dressed quietly and went for a run in the rain. When he got home she had fixed a pot of coffee, and eggs, and they sat together and listened to the radio in silence. Then he left for work. In the evening he took her out to the pool and said sorry for how things had been and they held each other. Then they went inside and Harrison called a few friends he had higher in the air force who told him the country was now at DEFCON 2. He told her what it meant and she sat down at the table with her head in her hands.

  I’m going for a walk, she said. I need to get some air.

  Don’t go far, okay? he said.

  I won’t.

  Want me to come?

  No.

  Do you want to take Milo?

  No.

  When she got back he said, where did you go, and she didn’t answer so he asked again and she said Clear Lake. They sat up and watched the news on CBS and Grace asked him what DEFCON 1 was and he said nuclear war imminent and she said I wish I hadn’t asked.

  What can we do? she said. We must be able to do something.

  Nothing. There’s nothing we can do. Except wait it out.

  And pray. We can pray.

  He thought for a second then said, yes, we could pray. So they sat closer together and shut their eyes and Grace said a prayer which lasted no longer than a minute.

  Let’s go to bed, he said, afterward. No sense staying up waiting for something to happen.

  They went to bed and lay together in silence and he found himself thinking on his daughter’s grave and he didn’t know why. He thought of something else, of McNamara, of Sorensen, of Bobby; men like him, no different, all breathing the same air as him, dressing in the mornings as he did, all lying in dark rooms wondering what tomorrow would bring. He felt uneasy and hot and he couldn’t get comf
ortable. He shut his eyes. He saw the cemetery, the grass, the stone angel on the tomb near the gate. He felt short of breath. He tried to think of something else, but he couldn’t get the image out of his mind. He sat up and turned the light on. His back and legs were wet from where he was sweating. He smoked a cigarette and tapped the ash into a tray he balanced on his chest. When he’d finished, he moved the tray back to his bedside table, turned out the light and pulled Grace closer to him. She slid her feet between his and he fell asleep.

  First light was cool and gray.

  Do you want some coffee? Grace said, getting out of bed.

  That’d be good, he said. Guess the world’s still here.

  She let out a little laugh.

  Maybe it’s just us? he said.

  If it is, she said, I’m taking you to Hawaii.

  How would we get there?

  You could fly us.

  They went downstairs and read the morning paper together over breakfast.

  Anything new? Grace said.

  Yeah, he said. Emergency meeting of the Security Council last night. I always thought Stevenson was a sorry sonofabitch but it turns out he’s got some balls after all. Asked Zorin about the missiles straight out. Zorin refused to answer. Then Stevenson said he was prepared to wait til hell froze over for an answer! Told Zorin he’d present the evidence himself if he continued to ignore the question.

  What happened? Grace said.

  They set up an easel at the back of the room and showed everyone the photographs—look.

  He showed her the picture in the paper.

  Three photos, he said. One twenty-four-hour period.

  The Cubans built all that in a day? she said.

  Well, they had plenty of help from their Red friends, he said.

  Jesus.

  There’s more, Harrison said. Lots more. Read the rest of it, right there. Those goddamn lying Soviet bastards.

  And this was yesterday? she said, reading.

  Yeah, he said, pouring himself another coffee.

  She folded the paper and sighed.

  Listen, Jim, she said. I need to talk to you.

  Can it wait? he said, glancing up at the clock.

  You’re not going in again are you?

  Damn right I’m going in.

  Jim, please; I need you here. Who the hell knows what’ll happen?

  I have to, he said.

  I’m your wife and I’m asking you to stay.

  I have to go in.

  The program’s more important than me?

  Jesus, Grace.

  Is the program more important than me?

  Come on.

  Answer the goddamn question!

  Yes, he said. The program’s more important than you.

  You son of a bitch, she said.

  Grace—

  No. Screw you.

  Listen a minute, would you. This isn’t about you or flyin anymore. This is about them and us. Look at this, he said, picking up the newspaper and tossing it down. Look at it. We can’t afford to lose. This—all this—we’re at war. And we have to beat the Soviets. We have to dominate. We have to win. And I have to work.

  Harrison sat at his desk and read through his memos. Rain hammered against the mottled glass window behind him. Deke had assigned each of the Nine an area of specialization. Harrison got Guidance and Navigation, which was better than Boosters or Recovery. McDonnell was falling behind building the Gemini spacecraft. Grissom had been directed to oversee the work full-time up at the McDonnell plant in St. Louis. The first unmanned flight was just thirteen months away, in December, sixty-three. Harrison doubted they could deliver on time. He sighed, lit a cigarette, sat back. He was tired. He’d slept badly. He thought back to the craziness of the previous day and then an unrelated thought, generated by some foreign part of his mind, appeared, and the thought was of Florence’s frail body in the ground.

  Jesus! He sat up, coughing on the smoke in his lungs. His forehead pimpled with sweat. He shook his head, as if to physically dislodge the thought from his consciousness, but it wouldn’t shift. How could he think that? Jesus Christ. What the hell kind of person was he? He tried to think of something else, but couldn’t; it snapped back. It moved from thought to image; vague to detailed. Christ! He rubbed his face and cried out in horror. He stood up and walked around the room. His hands trembled. He sweated harder. There was a knock on his door.

  Shit.

  It was Lovell.

  Yeah, Harrison said.

  Hey, Jim, Lovell said. Do you—are you all right?

  Huh?

  You look awful.

  Oh, yeah, thanks, I’m fine; just tired.

  Listen, can I show you something? Lovell said.

  Yeah, Jim, sure, Harrison said. Just—could you give me a minute?

  Sure thing. Come find me.

  Lovell left. Harrison wiped his brow. His gut felt liquid. He walked fast to the men’s room, locked himself in a cubicle, tried to focus on what Lovell might want with him.

  When he got home that night he went straight upstairs and sat on the bed and loosened his tie. The rest of his day had passed without incident. Lovell’s interruption had been enough to knock him back to reality. His mind kept drifting back to what had happened, but he sensed danger in dwelling on the specifics, so he hauled it in and focused on the present. He went down to the kitchen.

  Honey? he said.

  Outside, she said from the patio.

  What you doing out here? he said, joining her. It’s miserable.

  Thinking, she said.

  He took off his tie and sat down.

  How you been? he said. Good day?

  I went over to Sue Borman’s for coffee.

  All the wives?

  She nodded.

  What’s the matter?

  Ugh, it’s terrible, Jim, just … awful.

  Awful?

  It’s all so … phony. I hate it. I guess the relief of leaving flight test has worn off for everyone and been replaced with the holy terror of the launch. And the subsequent thought of three dead husbands circling the moon forever. No one will talk about it though. Not even with each other. I want to shake them and say, my God, who else are you gonna talk to? They do this stupid skit—Rene came up with it—she calls it the Squarely Stable routine. I guess it was meant to be funny, keep everyone’s spirits up from dealing with the press—and maybe it was the first time—but they do it every time and it’s driving me crazy.

  Grace stood up and held her fist to her mouth, as though holding a microphone, and started acting out Rene Carpenter impersonating a television correspondent they called Nancy Whoever.

  We’re here in front of the trim, modest suburban home of Squarely Stable, the famous astronaut, who has just completed his historic mission, and we have here with us his attractive wife, Primly Stable. Primly Stable, you must be happy and proud, and thankful at this moment.

  Grace’s tone shifted slightly.

  Yes, Nancy, that’s true. I’m happy, proud, and thankful at this moment.

  Grace continued.

  Tell us, Primly Stable—may I call you Primly?

  Why, certainly, Nancy.

  Tell us, Primly, tell us what you felt during the blastoff, at the very moment when your husband’s rocket began to rise from the Earth and take him on this historic journey.

  Honey, Harrison said.

  To tell you the truth, Nancy, I missed that part of it. I sort of dozed off, because I got up so early this morning and I’ve been rushing around taping the shades shut so the TV people wouldn’t come in the windows.

  Okay, Harrison said. I get it.

  Well, would you say you had a lump in your throat as big as a tennis ball?

  That’s about the size of it, Nancy, I had a lump in my throat as big as a tennis ball.

  And finally, Primly, I know that the most important prayer of your life has already been answered: Squarely has returned safely from outer space. But if you could have one other wish at this
moment and have it come true, what would it be?

  Well, Nancy, I’d wish for an Electrolux vacuum cleaner with all the attachments.

  Grace lowered her fist.

  And then they roll about laughing for the next ten minutes, she said.

  Harrison grunted. Grace sat down and said, all I want to say to the press when they ask me how I feel is, nobody cared before, so why the hell bother now? I wish Pancho was here. I wish she was at Sue Borman’s goddamn coffee mornings.

  She’d sure put them in their place, he said.

  Grace sighed. Her heart sunk low in her chest.

  I miss her, she said.

  They shot down a U-2 over Cuba today, he said.

  I don’t care, she said.

  He noticed the envelope on the table for the first time.

  What’s that? he said.

  It came this morning, she said.

  Can we go in? It’s freezing out here, he said.

  Sure.

  They went inside.

  What is it? he said.

  She handed him the envelope. He opened it.

  I don’t get it? he said.

  It’s a thousand-dollar gift certificate to Neiman-Marcus, she said. It’s a fashion store downtown.

  Who sent you this?

  She gave a little laugh that was sad and ironic and bitter all at the same time.

  It’s a gift from an anonymous priest, she said. We all got one. The nine of us.

  Why the hell would a priest—