by Alton Gansky
“I can’t change your mind?” He stood.
A wry smile crossed her lips. “About what?” She stepped closer to him. “Are you saying you don’t want me to go to bed right now?”
“About not taking that stupid flight tomorrow. Don’t be coy.”
The smile dissolved like sugar in boiling water. “I’ll be anything I choose to be.” She marched from the room.
“Ginny. Don’t go away like this. Don’t leave angry.”
She raised a dismissive hand and strode to her bedroom for the night. She had made her feelings known. What she kept secret was the fact that she agreed with everything Denny said. She wished she could hop in the car and drive to LA. She knew she wouldn’t.
She knew she couldn’t.
The clock read 12:30. Tuck was now officially in launch day and he had yet to fall asleep. Not unusual. He seldom slept well the night before launch. Apprehension, an overactive mind, a relentless rehashing of launch protocols, and two or three hundred other things conspired to keep sleep at bay. Now there was another factor involved: Myra was in bed with him. Before Shuttle launches, Tuck would be in Florida sequestered with the rest of the crew. Not here. Tonight he lay on his side, his wife spooned next to him pretending to sleep and doing a better job of acting than he.
Several times, he considered starting a conversation but feared where it would go. He already knew of her deep anxiety. To hear it in discussion would make things worse. Anxiety is contagious — you get it from your family. His own apprehension had grown several orders of magnitude just being around his father, kids, and Myra. He didn’t resent their presence. In fact, he loved having them along, but everything about them reminded Tuck how worried they were. It was a difficult thing for a man to learn that he could not protect those he loved from the torture of anxiety and fear. It was worse knowing he was the cause of those eroding emotions.
He took a slow, deep inhalation and let it out in measured breath. Myra wiggled closer and held on tighter. He rolled onto his back and extended his arm in a familiar exercise. Myra snuggled close to his chest and let his arm enfold her.
Streetlights pressed illumination through a thin opening in the drapes, forcing a slice of yellowish light across the ceiling — the only thing in the room Tuck could focus on. From the nearby freeway came the sounds of big rigs and cars plying the asphalt river of the I-15.
His mind drifted to the room next to theirs where Penny and Gary slept. They had been putting on a brave front, something that became more difficult to do as the launch day drew near. Today, Penny had been almost mute and Gary couldn’t stop talking. Tuck’s father occupied the room to the south. He had remained stoic throughout the three days they had been here. Tuck knew that attitude well and attributed it to a firefighter’s discipline. Seeing death often and facing it every workday made such men immune to the emotions that cripple others.
As he thought of his father, he thought of their conversation. The old man had pulled no punches, and each comment had stung like a boxer’s jab. In the dark room, the words came back. Tuck had never wanted God to slip from his daily life, had never made a decision not to believe, but his action proved that such had become the case, if not by choice, then by default.
Have I written You off, God? Have I wandered away?
No spiritual voice sounded in his ear, and Tuck had expected none. He had never heard the voice of God and didn’t expect to in this life. That, however, had never affected his belief. There was much he had never seen but still knew to be true.
Images, unwanted and disturbing, played on his imagination. He could hear Jess’s slurred speech, hear the stress in the voices of Mission Control, hear his own nonsensical response. He could also hear himself praying for Jess to live and then watching her die. The anger he felt toward God but had kept under wraps bubbled to the top.
How could it happen, and why wouldn’t the pain of it go away?
How can I not blame You, God? They were all good people and You let them die — and You’ve made me live with it. I can’t help but wonder what You have planned for this trip.
He tried to keep the emotion hot. If he were truly angry with God, then why not be honest about it, honest in a way he could not be with his father?
He replayed the tragic images again, hoping to stoke the coals. He had a right to be angry, and if he was going to be awake all night, then he might as well use the time to clear the air between him and the Divine. But the anger never came.
Still, he told God of his hurt and his fear and his regret and his animosity in a way he had never before allowed himself. He wondered if it was wise to be so frank with God, especially before chauffeuring the first set of civilian passengers into space. His father’s words rose to the surface: “Do you think God doesn’t already know what’s on your mind?” Tuck had never been much for formal theology, but he knew what omniscient meant — God knows everything, including a man’s thoughts. What was that verse? From the book of Hebrews: “Nothing in all creation is hidden from God’s sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account.”
For well over a year, Tuck had borne the burden of Atlas: supporting a planet-sized load of guilt on his shoulders. He had been successful in pretending it wasn’t there, but he could no more hide the weight from his family than the hunchback of Notre Dame could conceal his disfigurement.
And it is Your fault, God. You were asleep at the stick. For someone who supposedly is on duty 24/7, You snoozed through this one.
Saying the words in his mind brought no anger, no fear, and not an ounce of relief. Tuck was lying and he knew it. He could accuse God all he wanted, but the blame would never stick. His dad had been right. People die. Sometimes they die in their beds, sometimes in their cars, sometimes by disease, other times by accident.
And Jesus died. Died horribly. Died unjustly. Died for others. Died while “on mission.”
Tuck tried again to fire up the resentment he felt, but it refused to ignite. He couldn’t bring himself to hate the One who loved him so much. At times Tuck’s engineering mind clashed with his spiritual sensibilities, but in the end, he always found them to be compatible. Nothing would ever make him feel good about the tragedy. No insight would ever make him say, “Oh, I get it. In that case it all makes sense.” It would never make sense. Not tonight as he lay in the soft bed of a hotel in California, while his crew lay in their respective coffins; and not tomorrow when he would carry aloft men and women who, like he — and like those who died on Atlantis — had within them an unquenchable desire to fly.
What were the words he memorized at Annapolis? Words by the poet John Gillespie Magee Jr. Words recited by President Ronald Reagan after the Columbia disaster in 1986. He struggled to call them to mind, then in the dark of the night and the black of reminiscence, he mouthed in silence the words:
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. Hov’ring 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 wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor 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.
The story of the author flashed through the emotion of Tuck’s mind. John Gillespie Magee Jr. was born in China of missionary parents — his father an American and his mother British. John joined the Royal Canadian Air Force, too impatient to wait for his own country to enter World War II. The Canadians taught the
young man to fly and assigned him to the 412 Fighter Squadron, RCAF on duty at Digby, England. That was June 30, 1941. In September, he wrote a poem based on his experiences of flying at thirty thousand feet, then sent the poem to his parents on the back of a letter. In December, he was killed, the victim of a midair collision with another aircraft. In a desperate effort to save his life, he managed to push back the canopy, but it was too late. He jumped but was too close to the ground for the parachute to open.
He was nineteen.
Nineteen.
A clergyman’s son.
A soldier with a poet’s heart.
Dead after an accident in the air.
The distant sounds of freeway traffic faded as Tuck raised his hand through the midnight of his room, stretching, reaching, extending fingers as far as tendon and muscle would allow and . . .
. . . touched the face of God.
TWENTY-TWO
Theodore Burke moved his head from side to side, forward and back as he stretched muscles in a vain attempt to release the tension that had built in the past few hours. A headache nibbled at his brain. The sound of pulsating engines and spinning rotors worked its way into the marrow of his bones. He shifted his gaze out the side window and watched the desert tableau scroll by bathed only in the ivory light of a half-moon.
Five minutes earlier, he had left behind Edwards Air Force Base. He had spent the day there, having arrived early that morning on Air Force Two. His day had begun at 4:00 a.m. Washington time and he had been on the go since. After his morning ritual of exercise and breakfast over two major newspapers, Burke headed to the office. A few minutes later, he found himself in the Oval Office in his weekly meeting with the president of the United States.
Burke was happy to leave the cold of Washington, DC, behind, but when he left that morning, the coldest place was not the February morning outside, but the Oval Office itself. He was about to do what no other major government figure had ever done — he was about to fly in space.
A former Air Force pilot, Burke’s love for the air had not diminished since he entered civilian life so many years before. Not even the fact that he was a card-carrying senior citizen, sixty-two years of age, could keep him from thinking of flight and outer space. During his active-duty days, Burke had done his best to become part of the astronaut corps. He made the applications and took the tests, but he was never chosen. The best he could do was fly transport planes carrying supplies from one military base to another. Those years had long passed.
Every day he looked in the mirror and felt surprised by what he saw: no longer a young pilot, but a white haired, jowly man. He was still fit and maintained a regimen of exercise that would weary a much younger man, but age was age, and no matter how powerful the man, how high his office, he could not thwart the onslaught of passing years.
After exiting the Air Force, Burke returned to school and applied his formidable intellect to the task of obtaining a PhD in political science. He first thought of running for office, but he soon learned that he had no taste for campaigning. His skills worked best in one-on-one situations. A gifted negotiator, he’d worked in the diplomatic corps, and his skills were soon recognized. Over the years, he rose in prominence and influence, and now he served in his sixth year as secretary of state for the United States of America.
Burke loved the give-and-take of negotiating. He thrived on the planning and the forethought necessary to sway the opinion of world leaders, but he had not lost his hunger for flight. On many occasions, he encouraged the president and the members of Congress to continue what he called “man’s greatest exploration —the conquest of space.” His appeals went unheeded. There were other needs, and only a limited amount of money to go around. Still, Burke felt a thrill each time the Shuttle launched.
One year ago, he met a man who would change his life. Ted Roos had introduced himself at a five-thousand-dollar-a-plate fundraiser held for the president. Burke managed only a few moments with the young entrepreneur, but in that short span, Roos pitched an idea that clamped on to Burke’s imagination and refused to let go.
“Imagine, Mr. Secretary, ordinary folk flying in space.”
“It will be a long time before NASA can make such a claim,” Burke had said.
“I’m not talking about NASA, Mr. Secretary. I’m talking about flying in space without government aid and without government dollars.”
“Commercial space?”
“Exactly, Mr. Secretary, exactly. I plan to build and operate the world’s first affordable space-tourism business.”
Burke had given a gentle and polite laugh. “I admire a dreamer, but what you’re suggesting will cost millions, maybe billions to whoever tries to make such a dream a reality.”
“It just so happens, Mr. Secretary, I have billions, and I’m willing to spend them on this project.”
It took a few moments for Burke to judge if Roos was serious or just a crackpot. There was something different about young Ted Roos that made Burke believe the man. He gave him a pat on the shoulder and said, “Should that day ever come, Mr. Roos, let me know. I’d be happy to be one of your first passengers.”
“I may just hold you to that, Mr. Secretary. I have everything under wraps for now, but when the time is right, I’ll issue a press release. I assume you read the Washington Post.”
“It’s required in my job.”
“Good.” It was all Roos said.
That night Burke stayed up late searching the Internet for information about Ted Roos. What he learned surprised him.
A few months ago, an article appeared in the Washington Post describing the successful launch of a privately owned space-going vessel. The man behind it all was a young video-game entrepreneur named Ted Roos. Later that day, Burke made a phone call. Roos had been expecting him.
Now, Burke was making the short flight by helicopter from Edwards Air Force Base to the spaceport created by Ted Roos. It was not the secretary of state’s first visit. He’d been on-site earlier that week to receive a briefing, undergo some training, and receive a final fitting of his flight suit. He made each visit in tight secrecy. Burke insisted that his involvement in the flight be kept in the strictest confidence. Very nervous members of the Secret Service agreed.
“On the day we fly,” Burke had instructed, “you can tell the world that the American secretary of state is on board, but not before.”
Roos acquiesced but not without heated protest. A hot conversation with the Secret Service had convinced Roos to follow the program. Burke could see Roos did not take orders well, but if he wanted to include the secretary of state on the inaugural passenger flight, then he would have to learn to take some instruction.
Burke knew of another man who didn’t like to take instruction — the president of the United States. When Burke first mentioned to his boss that he intended to fly into space aboard one of the first fully commercial spaceships, the president hit the ceiling and delivered a ten-minute unbroken diatribe about the sacrifices people like Burke had to make for the good of their country.
“We can’t have the secretary of state of the world’s most powerful nation taking a trip to outer space to fulfill some childhood dream. It is not seemly, it is not safe, and it may reflect badly on this presidency.”
“With all due respect, Mr. President, none of that is true. It is more than a childhood dream, and although it may not be safe, it is worth the risk to me. And as far as reflecting badly on your presidency, I couldn’t disagree more. I believe it will be of great benefit to your legacy and to some of the causes we hold most dear. You know my position on space exploration. It is a duty we have let fall by the wayside. Sure, we are planning new efforts and new manned space trips, but we have done so begrudgingly. It is my opinion that humankind reaches its pinnacle when it stretches beyond its grasp, when it tries to reach what cannot be attained, when it does the brave thing in the face of danger.”
Leaning against the large desk near the center of the Oval Office, the presiden
t said, “I know this means a great deal to you, but I can’t allow you to do it. What would the other countries think?”
“I don’t care what the other countries think. Some might think I’m nuts, others might think I’m brave. I don’t care either way. You know me, Mr. President; my goal has always been to do the right thing with little concern for appearance.”
The president shook his head as if he were dealing with an obstinate child. “Theo, I just can’t allow it. I’m still president, and you’re still part of this administration.”
Burke rose from the sofa and faced his commander-in-chief. “Mr. President, I can have my resignation to you by the end of the day.”
“Resignation? You’re joking. There’s no way you’d walk away from the office of secretary of state for a few hours in space.”
“I’m sorry to be disagreeable, Mr. President, but there is a way. If you feel my participation in what has been a lifelong dream is inappropriate and an embarrassment to this office, then I will resign to spare you the awkwardness.”
“Theo, you can’t be serious. We’re just now making headway with North Korea. China is finally opening some doors to help us solve the human rights problem. How can you walk away at such a time as this?”
“The undersecretaries are well briefed, and very capable of handling whatever comes our way. In this role, it only becomes a factor if the worst happens.”
“And what if the worst does happen, Theo? What would I tell the country? What do I tell your family? What do I tell the world?”
“You tell the country and the world that I died doing what I’ve always wanted to do: fly in space. Tell them that I died trying to be part of the opening of a new frontier. As far as my family goes, you won’t have to tell them anything. They already know how I feel.”
The conversation ended soon after that, and Burke was still secretary of state. But the president was still unhappy about the decision.
The military helicopter skipped along the landscape, the sound of its thunderous rotors echoing back toward the craft. Burke checked his watch: 1:00 a.m. He was used to keeping late hours. It came with the business he had chosen, but this time the lateness of the hour had taken its toll. He longed for sleep. The day had been tedious, much of it spent at Edwards Air Force Base meeting with engineers and technicians from the various NASA groups that called the base home. To the media it would look like a government dignitary had come by to pay a short visit.
