The Last Pilot: A Novel

by Benjamin Johncock

  They sold the house the following summer. It went for a decent sum. Timber Cove was a desirable area. Astroville, the real estate agent called it. Grace insisted he keep half the money. You need to get a place of your own, she said. You can’t live in a motel forever.

  He had no time to think about it. He was on the backup crew for Conrad and Gordo’s Gemini V and training hard. It was a complex, challenging mission. Harrison found the extreme focus of training helped him live with, what he now termed, to himself, his affliction. He could live with it. His coping techniques had evolved. Over time, their effectiveness would diminish, but a new one would always present itself. After the incident at the Hilton, he considered going to Deke, telling him everything, but how could he? He was unable to tolerate the thoughts himself, let alone tell another. What would Deke think of him? No. And Deke would make him leave the program; that much he was sure of. And he had nothing else now. More than that, though, he wanted to go up; he had to go up. He yearned for it.

  It was late, quarter gone eleven, Harrison stood alone outside Walt’s. The air was cool. He could smell the sea; the salt and the sky. Across the street, a man and a woman stood sharing a cigarette, their thin shadows falling across the sidewalk, the warm sun long sunk beneath the sea. He imagined them eating together across the tight vinyl check of a restaurant tablecloth; how each reflected back the best of the other. Harrison fingered the box of matches in his pocket. His arms glowed neon indigo from the sign above the door. Cars drove downtown, taillights casting red trails inside his eyes. The man parted from the woman and crossed the street toward him.

  You got a light? Harrison said as he approached.

  The man looked up, said, sure pal.

  Harrison pushed a Lucky Strike between his lips. The man pulled a lighter from his pocket, struck it, Harrison leaned in.

  Thanks, he said.

  Pleasure.

  Busy here, huh.

  I guess.

  You got something to do with this damn program they’re runnin? Harrison said.

  Hell, no, the man said. Take it easy, pal.

  He walked away, leaving Harrison smoking alone in the neon glow. He drew himself together, dropped the cigarette on the sidewalk, pushed open the door.

  Evening, Jim, the bartender said. Usual?

  He nodded.

  Coming up.

  In the corner, a television set showed the news at low volume. Harrison sat down at the bar.

  Here you go, Walt said, setting the glass down on a paper napkin.

  Thanks, Walt.

  Jesus, have you seen this? a voice said.

  There were two men, older, at the bar next to him. They were watching the news.

  They’ve gone at them with tear gas and goddamn billy clubs.

  Harrison looked up at the television set.

  Six hundred blacks, marching in Alabama? I can believe it.

  This ain’t America.

  This the news?

  They interrupted Judgment at Nuremberg. Walt, turn it off, would you, I don’t want to watch any more.

  Can I get another? Harrison said.

  Sure thing, Jim, Walt said, clicking the set off.

  You’re Jim Harrison, right? the first man said.

  He nodded.

  Bill. This here is Eb.

  Pleasure, Harrison said.

  Mind if I ask you a question?

  Depends on the question.

  Well, Eb and me, we been wonderin. Why we spendin American dollars puttin men up to do a monkey’s job?

  Harrison glanced at his glass, turned it with his hand, looked up at him.

  Well, he said, those early flights, yeah, they were designed to be automated, sure. It was quick and dirty, but Eisenhower was in a fix; the press were goin nuts, remember?

  Sure we do, Eb said.

  All the engineers wanted the occupant to do was flick a few damn switches, Harrison said. But you know what? The Mercury boys, they said, no, we want to fly the thing, like a pilot, case we need to. Good job, too, or ol Gordo would have fried.

  Gordo Cooper? Bill said.

  Yeah, Harrison said. His flight, the last one; designed to be the longest of em all. Twenty-two orbits.

  How many’d Glenn do?

  Three.

  Jesus.

  Harrison continued. Gordo’s first eighteen orbits, everything goes swell, then, on the nineteenth, the electrical system shorts. Next orbit, he loses all attitude reading. Then the whole automatic control system goes off. Temperature in the capsule hits a hundred and, because of the electrical problem, carbon dioxide starts building up in his suit. Mission Control, well, they’re getting themselves in quite a twist. Gordo figures he’s in a tight spot, so takes over. He’s gotta line up the angle of reentry manually, with his eyeballs, holding the capsule steady with the stick. On his final orbit, he approaches daylight over the Pacific, checks his orientation with some lines he’s drawn on the window with a pencil. Then, using his wristwatch for time, manually fires the retro-rockets at exactly the right moment, and splashes down alongside the carrier. Hell, they were so close, you could toss a ball between them. Ol Gordo, yeah; that’s how you do it.

  Hey, Walt, three more, Bill said.

  Coming up.

  Have to say, Eb said, glad we ran into you.

  Harrison nodded.

  These Gemini flights, he said, they take real piloting. Besides, you can’t put a monkey on the moon. What’s the poor sonofabitch gonna say?

  Reds’ll blow us all to hell before we get to the moon, Eb said.

  Could be worse, Bill said.

  Eb looked at him. How could it be worse?

  In your guts, you know he’s nuts!

  The men laughed. Harrison smiled, his face creasing along old lines, eyes narrowing into half-moons.

  Oh, boy, Eb said, Goldwater; that crazy sonofabitch. Christ, though, what about Johnson’s daisy girl?

  The way her eye filled the screen during the countdown? Bill said. Then, kaboom! Honest to God, I wet my goddamn pants first time it ran.

  Say what you want about Johnson, Harrison said, but that broadcast was genius.

  Love each other or die, Eb said. What an asshole.

  Was a hell of a slogan, Harrison said.

  Vote for me or the other guy will kill you?

  Whatever works, I guess.

  Thank God it did.

  The Reds ain’t stupid, Bill said. It’s a suicide button; they know that, everyone does. Something’s changed. Don’t know what, all I know is we now got men on top of missiles, not bombs.

  Still plenty of bombs, Eb said.

  All I want to do is fly, Harrison said.

  An hour later it was half past midnight and the bar was quiet.

  Jim? Walt said. You okay?

  He looked at the light, it hurt his eyes.

  What happened?

  Fellas left a while ago.

  Harrison’s mouth was dry.

  Sorry, Walt.

  You’re always welcome here, Jim.

  He stood, his legs were weak.

  You okay?

  Sure.

  You don’t look too good.

  I’m okay.

  He dropped some bills on the bar.

  No need, Walt said. Bill took care of it.

  But after they left—

  That too.

  Guess I’ll have another, then.

  He ordered a scotch and stared at the bar and sat there for a long time.

  When he left, it was very dark. He stood on the sidewalk. The alcohol was messing with his processes; his reasoning. He couldn’t think straight. He didn’t feel good. C’mon, he thought, c’mon. He pushed his hand hard against the wall. He lived by one rule: don’t fuck up. If someone saw him struggling, if it got back to Deke, he’d be out. It was the only thing that mattered. He’d gotten good at hiding it, but all it took was one fuckup. He walked back to the Holiday Inn.

  Gemini V splashed down at twelve fifty-five on August twenty-ninth
, nineteen sixty-five. Eight days in a garbage can, Conrad said. Wish I’d taken a book.

  Three weeks after Harrison’s backup duties on Gemini V ended, Deke assigned him and Neil to the prime crew of Gemini VIII. Fifty-five orbits, the world’s second rendezvous, followed by the first docking of two spacecraft in space. Rendezvous in Earth orbit was a dark art, requiring the pilot to slow down, rather than accelerate toward his target, in order to drop into a lower orbit, increase his centrifugal force, and speed up. Orbits in different planes, of varying shapes, complicated matters. The whole enterprise took exceptional piloting skills. In addition, there was an ambitious EVA in the flight plan; much longer and more complex than Ed White’s spacewalk on Gemini IV. It was set to be a hell of a mission. As commander, Harrison relished the challenge, immersing himself in the details. Gemini VIII would launch in March. He and Neil worked long and hard; eight, nine, ten hours in the simulator, straight, almost daily. The technical detail kept his mind calm, his attention focused. Don’t fuck up.

  He tried to be careful.

  Then in late February one of the new fellas from the third group was flying from Houston to the McDonnell plant in St. Louis in heavy rain and came in too low and too slow—bad news in a T-38 that often stalled below two hundred and seventy knots—so gunned the afterburner for another pass and turned and crunched into the McDonnell hangar and was decapitated in the parking lot.

  That evening, after the news broke, Harrison sat on his bed, smoking, reviewing his black notebook. It was divided into six sections: SCHEDULE, SYSTEMS BRIEFINGS, EXPERIMENTS, FLIGHT PLAN, MISCELLANEOUS, OPEN ITEMS. He sighed, rubbed his face. There were a hundred and eighty-four open items, each numbered in his tight black hand. He stopped reading, dropped the book on the bed. It was late, almost eleven, the telephone rang.

  Jim Harrison, he said into the receiver.

  Jim, it’s Deke. We need to see you here urgently.

  Where are you?

  MSC.

  I’m at the Cape.

  I know.

  What’s it about, Deke?

  Tomorrow, eleven-thirty, my office. We’ll talk then.

  The line went dead. He didn’t have time for a round-trip to Houston. Four weeks before the flight? What did Deke want to see him about? Jesus—had he been found out? No, he’d been careful, discreet, trained harder than anyone; no one could deny that. Maybe Deke wanted to talk Apollo crew selection? That was more likely. Or the new fella’s funeral. He went to bed, rose early, flew down to Houston in a T-38. He landed, taxied, popped the canopy. It was a sunny day.

  Thanks for coming on such short notice, Jim, Deke said, from behind his desk. Have a seat.

  Uh, no problem, Deke, Harrison said, and sat down.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Yup, Deke said, and Marvin Hoffman, the flight surgeon, came in and sat down. As soon as Harrison saw him, he knew.

  Jim, it’s come to my attention, Deke said, that you’re not doing too good.

  I’m fine, Deke.

  Come on, Jim, Hoffman said.

  Does Marvin have to be here?

  Yes, Deke said. Look, I know the last few years have been pretty tough on you—

  Deke—

  And you’ve been through shit that—God forbid—none of us will ever have to experience—

  I don’t want to talk about that, Harrison said.

  I know you don’t, Jim, but I do, Deke said. And if this goes on much longer the whole world will be talking about it, and I’m pretty sure neither you, or Grace, want that.

  Harrison didn’t say anything. He began to feel not good. He’d stopped using stupid techniques a while ago. He’d realized that he was a test pilot and, if he treated every instance as a test pilot in a tight spot, he could easily maneuver out of trouble. He didn’t realize that this was simply another technique.

  Harrison stood.

  I got a flight to prepare for, he said.

  Jim, you’re mentally unwell, Hoffman said, rising.

  Marv, Deke said.

  Are you grounding me? Harrison said to Deke.

  Deke got to his feet.

  Yeah, he said.

  This is flight surgeon horseshit, Deke! Harrison said, pointing at Hoffman.

  You need to look after yourself, Jim, Deke said. You need to get some help. Marvin can help you with that. We’ve got people you can talk to now. Hell, you’ve been doing a pretty damn good job of keepin on; you’ve done good work, you should be proud of that. But now’s the time to stop, before you do something stupid and auger in. We sure as hell don’t need another astronaut clobbered before he’s even been into space. Or, worse, what if we send you up, and something happens, and NASA’s got two dead men orbiting the Earth? There’d be no damn program left.

  He’s right, Jim, Hoffman said.

  A month before the flight, Harrison said. You’re taking me off a month before the flight.

  That’s why we have backup crews, Deke said.

  Look, Harrison said, Dave Scott’s a fine pilot but—

  Dave will do just fine, Deke said. And no one came to me. It’s important you know that. It was just, a little thing here, a little thing there; Marv and I spoke.

  Deke—

  I’m sorry Jim, Deke said.

  I’m sorry too, Harrison said.

  Conrad’s downstairs, Deke said. He’ll fly you back to the Cape, if that’s where you want to go.

  He stared at Deke, then nodded.

  Marv will make you an appointment to see one of our people right away.

  Where can I reach you? Hoffman said.

  Holiday Inn, Harrison said.

  I’ll need a permanent address.

  That is my address.

  Deke waved his hand at Hoffman.

  Right, Hoffman said. Deke, I gotta run.

  Sure. Thanks, Marv.

  Jim, Hoffman said. I’ll be in touch.

  Harrison nodded and Hoffman left, leaving the two men in the room together.

  No reason why you can’t get back in the rotation for Apollo if things go well, Deke said.

  Guess I’d better find Conrad, Harrison said.

  The heat hit him hard outside. He felt sick. He was sick.

  You’d better not do that in the cockpit, Conrad said, stepping out of his Corvette.

  Pete, Harrison said.

  Or my car. Tough break?

  Something like that.

  C’mon, Conrad said. Let’s get back, sit by the pool, have a beer.

  Harrison said, a beer sounds good, and Conrad drove them to Ellington and they flew back to the Cape.

  He didn’t go to the launch. The night before, he drove up to pad nineteen, parked the Corvette and looked across at the vast Titan II rocket. The small Gemini capsule sat on top of the fat booster, black and silver and white. He looked at it for a long time. Then he drove back to the motel. That old pilot’s saying: only two ways out of a doctor’s office. He went down to the bar and drank and smoked. He thought about all the work Neil and Dave were now having to do before the launch. He looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. They were probably still in the simulator. He felt bad. He was falling into a funk. It started as soon as he and Conrad landed at the Cape and had gotten progressively worse. He wasn’t going up. Something else was slipping away too, but he didn’t know what. He took a bottle back to his room.

  The next morning, he got one of the engineers to install a squawk box by his bed. He might not be attending the launch, but he sure as hell wanted to listen in.

  Sure appreciate this, Lou, he said to the engineer as he finished up.

  No sweat, Jim, Lou said.

  Harrison headed downtown and bought cigarettes, bags of potato chips, Budweiser.

  The Agena target vehicle—that Neil and Dave would rendezvous with—launched on an Atlas booster at three seconds past three. When he heard the rocket boom and roar, he stepped onto the walkway outside his room and looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. It shrieked into the sky and the Agena p
opped itself into a one hundred and eighty five-mile circular orbit without blowing up. Gemini VIII was scheduled for an hour and thirty-four minutes later. He went back inside and lit a cigarette and sat down and smoked it. Twenty minutes later he turned on the squawk box.

  This is Gemini launch control coming up on T minus seventy-four minutes and counting; mark; T minus seventy-four minutes and counting on the Gemini VIII mission.

  The technicians, under Gemini Pad Leader Guenter Wendt, were busy in the white room during the final phases leading up to hatch closure. Finally, at four forty-one and two seconds, Gemini VIII left the pad for orbit. Harrison’s heart stuck in his throat and he opened a Budweiser that foamed onto the floor.

  Over the squawk box he heard Dave Scott say, Guenter Wendt? I vonder vere Guenter Vendt?

  Harrison finished his beer and opened another.

  You’re looking good, VIII.

  How about that view?

  Coming up on five minutes.

  Boy! Here we go!

  Harrison got up to find the potato chips. He took another beer from the fridge and added more. He sat back down and felt a deep misery. The mission proceeded right on the book. He knew every stage, every task, every burn. They rendezvoused with the Agena.

  Outstanding job, coach!

  Way to go, partner!

  Boy, that was really slick.

  The two spacecraft, a hundred and fifty feet apart, flew around the Earth at seventeen and a half thousand miles an hour, passing in and out of contact with NASA’s global tracking stations that relayed communication and data between the spacecraft and Houston. Harrison listened as Armstrong flew the spacecraft around the Agena, inspecting the vehicle for launch damage.

  Man, it flies easy.

  Really?

  Nothing to it.

  Harrison lit a cigarette and cracked open another can. The crew were given the go-ahead to dock with the Agena before they passed into the darkness of the next night. Harrison sat forward, ear cocked toward the squawk box, sweating the taxing maneuver. The spacecraft eased closer to the Agena. Jim Lovell, the CAPCOM for the mission, gave the final go to dock.