Moon Shot

by Jay Barbree

  He would bring in this machine and its one soul on board despite all the odds.

  He felt his old calm settling through his system. He turned on the memory machine and reviewed all the steps he had absorbed in years of training and flying. He went back to the basics. No fancy stuff here. He flew to the point where he believed the aircraft carrier was and he rolled into a simple expanding square search. A basic expanding box. Fly so many minutes on this heading, do a ninety-degree turn, repeat, until you’ve completed the square. The next turn would be a larger square, because that was the pattern the sides of which represented the visibility limit. Increasing the search pattern this way meant he wouldn’t omit anything beneath him.

  “Let’s try it lower,” he told himself. The nose eased down. Payoff! He was now at low altitude, burning fuel at a horrendous rate, but he was below the clouds. He kept searching. One side, two, three, four sides. Still no ship.

  He expanded the square and flew lower. He didn’t have that much fuel left, and it was going through the Banshee like a fire hose under pressure.

  A dim red light just ahead of him.

  It had to be a destroyer in portside formation with the carrier! He eased into a turn toward the center of his squares, searching through the rain and scud clouds that had suddenly appeared.

  Beautiful, beautiful!

  The Oriskany grew swiftly in his vision.

  He warned himself this party wasn’t over yet. He had to make a night landing in foul weather onto a pitching carrier deck, and he had maybe five minutes of fuel remaining. If he were wrong, his aircraft would drop into the sea like a hot rock.

  Through the rain the carrier’s lights blurred. He saw them as if looking through a shifting veil. No time to worry about it. He rolled the Banshee into a final approach.

  Careful, careful now. He trimmed the fighter for the approach. There, the speed is pegged. Okay, down with the gear. Three beautiful green lights on the aircraft’s control panel beamed at him, confirming the gear was down and locked. Nothing on any Christmas tree ever looked that good. He didn’t know until that moment if he could get the gear down. Not with an electrical failure. Call it luck, fate, miracle. The landing gear was down. So was the hook that would snare the deck’s lifesaving cable.

  Gear down, flaps down, speed pegged. It’s one shot down the slot, Alan. There’s your ship, and the weather stinks, and the carrier deck is weaving and bobbing, but so what—it’s right there in front of you.

  He didn’t concern himself with going around if he screwed up this approach. He didn’t have enough fuel left for that fancy maneuver. He held the Banshee steady, sliding down the invisible line, keeping his approach smack on the numbers.

  He smashed with teeth-jarring, bone-shaking impact against the deck.

  Instantly he felt the tailhook snag the cable. Smash, hell! That was a “normal carrier landing.”

  “Normal landing, your ass,” he called out to himself.

  He laughed. There’s no question about coming home in a “controlled crash.”

  Any carrier landing you walk away from is terrific.

  He climbed down and there was a jaunty lift to his walk.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Astronauts

  THE TEST PILOTS WE ARE considering must meet certain minimum standards,” the NASA announcement of astronaut qualifications read. “Each man must have at least fifteen hundred hours of logged flight time; jet pilot training, experience, and full qualifications; at least a bachelor’s degree for academic qualifying; and he must pass national security requirements. He may not be taller than five feet eleven inches, he must weigh less than one hundred eighty pounds, and must be under forty years of age.”

  In 1958 there were no women test pilots in the military and of the 508 male test pilots serving the country, only 110 met NASA’s tough astronaut standards.

  On April 9, 1959, NASA introduced the Mercury Seven to America at a press conference held in the ballroom of the historic Dolley Madison House, NASA’s temporary headquarters on Lafayette Square in Washington, D.C.

  As the ballroom went from full to bursting with a steady stream of additional press arrivals, backstage the seven test pilots were being fussed over by the NASA brass. Reporters yelled, shouted, and cursed one another as they elbowed and jockeyed for best positions. It was a madhouse of excitement and anticipation. In moments the space agency would present America’s first astronauts. Seven brave volunteers who would lead America into space and leave the Russians behind. Men who would dare to ride rockets that often failed in raging explosions over Cape Canaveral.

  Officials began herding the seven toward the stage, announcing them in alphabetical order.

  Alan Shepard took his place near the end of the line and was pleased to see Deke Slayton move up alongside. They both had made the final cut, and this was the first time Shepard really had a good look at Deke. He was relieved to see that Ironman Slayton was as nervous as a cat dancing on a frying pan. Alan watched Deke’s bow tie riding up and down his Adam’s apple.

  “Shepard,” Deke leaned toward him. “I’m scared shitless. You ever take part in something like this?”

  “Not really.” Alan grinned. “I sure as hell hope it’s over quickly.”

  “Uh huh. Me, too,” Deke agreed.

  Alan’s smile was sugar and honey as they moved in line toward a long felt-covered table on the stage. “Those, uh, bow ties coming back in style?”

  “What’s wrong with my damn tie?” Deke growled.

  “Oh. Well, nothing, really,” Alan said quietly. “I doubt if the cameras will pick up that smeared egg or catsup or whatever that guck is.”

  “What guck?” Deke demanded as he looked down and tried to bring his bow tie into his line of sight. He was still fussing as NASA officials seated them at the table and bright overhead lights illuminated their shining faces. They blinked from the glare as they stared at the heaving ocean of humans, lenses, and flashbulbs. Reporters stood, sat, balanced, squatted, and even hung from ladders. NASA gofers continued their rounds handing out press releases as they waited for the chatter to subside. A NASA official stood before a microphone.

  “Gentlemen, these are the astronaut volunteers. Take your pictures.”

  Cattle time! It was an out-of-control moving herd—a disorganized sea of elbows, arms, knees, legs, and waving hands heaving forward. Some remained upright, others crawled along the floor. The duck-walkers maneuvered painfully through resisting bodies.

  Shepard looked at Deke who was fiercely worrying about his tie and the “guck” he couldn’t see. It was ironic that this fighter test pilot, who’d flown combat across both hemispheres of the globe, and who’d faced death eating up the skies over Edwards with the fastest jets the country could build, was as self-conscious and uncomfortable as if he were tied naked to a tree.

  Deke had different thoughts about Alan Shepard. From where he sat, he marveled at the cool front that Alan was offering to the press. He saw Alan chuckling and laughing at the contortions of the media. Like that asshole on his belly! He’s got that camera almost up my nose!

  “Hey, Slayton! Look over here. Smile!”

  “I’m smiling,” Deke grunted.

  “You say something, Slayton?” Shepard queried.

  Slayton showed him a mouthful of teeth.

  “God, that tie,” Shepard said.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” a NASA public affairs official barked at the press. They recognized old-timer Walt Bonney. “Please move back,” Bonney pressed. “Take your seats. Take your seats! Thank you.”

  With the press corps receding, the astronauts found it possible to relax just a bit. Shepard found himself grinning again at Slayton.

  Deke ignored him. He was back to his tie and the egg or whatever it was that had been photographed for posterity. Alan gave him a gentle elbow. “There’s nothing on your tie, Slayton,” he said quietly.

  Deke looked startled. “What?”

  Alan grinned. “Gotcha
Air Force.”

  “Gotcha? What?” Light dawned. “Shepard, you—”

  Bonney’s voice cut him off with his introduction of NASA administrator T. Keith Glennan. The administrator made a brief greeting and then rolled off the names of the Mercury Seven for the gathering. Malcolm Scott Carpenter, a Navy lieutenant, veteran of the Korean War, and test pilot; Leroy Gordon Cooper Jr., an Air Force captain, test pilot, and fighter jock; John Herschel Glenn Jr., a Marine lieutenant colonel who had flown nearly 150 combat missions in two wars, downing four MiGs; Virgil “Gus” Grissom, an Air Force captain, a veteran of one hundred combat missions against MiGs in Korea; and Walter M. Schirra Jr., a Navy lieutenant commander, also a veteran of Korea. Glennan concluded by introducing Alan Shepard and Deke Slayton.

  The uproar prior to this moment was by comparison a subdued rumble. The audience erupted in heartfelt response. They were serious! They stood and applauded and whistled and cheered, but the best of all were the smiles and brightness of their eyes. It was against journalistic ethics for members of the media to take sides, to show approval or disapproval. It was their job just to report facts as simply and objectively as possible, but on this day the astronauts were overwhelmed by the good wishes from not only the media, but all the people in the ballroom.

  Deke Slayton knew he’d never forget this moment. He watched the audience before him. They were almost mad with reverence. “My God,” he thought. “They’re applauding us like we’ve already done something, like we were heroes or something.” Deke nudged Shepard. They both knew that from this day on they were part of something extraordinary.

  What they didn’t know at the time was that in the coming hours, and for years to follow, their families would find themselves pinned to the same stage. And none of them were even remotely ready for the onslaught.

  Edwards Air Force Base was about as remote as any pilot’s wife would ever want to find herself and her family. Dry desert, dry-as-a-bone ancient lakebeds, dry mountains, desiccated scrub, and dust that blew across roads and into homes. That was Edwards. A wasteland. But after a time, especially with close friends, Edwards became a real home, the solitude acceptable.

  After NASA presented the Mercury Seven, reporters, photographers, television crews, and public relations people flooded Edwards. Marge Slayton stared in disbelief at the first waves of the invasion. She wondered if life for her family would ever be normal again as she watched her young toddler son, Kent, charge at cameras and attempt to dismantle every microphone he could reach. She did her best to field the nonstop torrent of questions booming at her.

  It quickly became obvious that these news people apparently had no respect for the privacy of the families at Edwards. Marge knew that she must shoulder the same burden that Deke had in the news conference, so she did her best to give straightforward, honest replies to the barrage of questions. She explained she and Deke had married in 1954. Yes, it was in Germany. Yes, Deke was then a fighter pilot on active duty. No, she wasn’t German. She was a civilian secretary working for the Air Force.

  “Of course, I’m pleased my husband was selected as an astronaut. It’s a great honor.”

  “Do I have any fears about the unknowns of space flight? Do you know of anyone who’s going to be boosted out of this world who wouldn’t be apprehensive?”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with the dangers. Yes, I’ve lived with them for years through Deke’s service as a fighter pilot and a test pilot.”

  “Yes, I stand by him. Yes, I support Deke all the way. No, I have no reservations about what he has chosen to do.”

  “Yes, I—”

  The telephone rang. She caught her breath and picked up the instrument. “Hi, honey.” She wanted to reach out and hug him. Deke was calling from Washington to tell her about the news conference. Before they finished talking, they both understood the publicity wave was gathering power like a rolling sonic boom.

  The wave engulfed them the next morning. There, on the front page of newspapers throughout America, was a photograph of Marge on the phone, talking to her husband, with Kent in diapers by her side.

  The other astronauts, and their families, were soon overwhelmed as the media pursued the nation’s newest celebrities. In Ohio, Gus Grissom’s wife, Betty, and sons, Scott and Mark, learned the joys of being interviewed by a young and excited Jay Barbree with his NBC Huntley-Brinkley crew while in Virginia Beach, Alan Shepard’s wife, Louise, gathered together daughters Laura and Julie and niece Alice and fled their home one jump ahead of the press.

  Louise drove herself and the girls to a nearby beach. It was April. The day was cold, the wind strong and uninviting, but in spite of the lack of a warm sun the girls frolicked while Louise walked slowly along the edge of the surf wondering how Alan was handling this new experience called a press conference. He’d been so excited when he left for Washington. She’d wanted so badly to be with him, to share this great moment in his life.

  That was one of their secrets of the marriage: sharing. Sharing their thoughts, their plans, dreaming together, reaching out beyond the present into the possibilities of the future. They both loved golf, and so they shared that like the great team they were. This had been the pattern of their life from the day they first met, when Alan was attending the Naval Academy. When life and most of the people about them were bright and young and eager.

  There was reality to be accepted along with love and happiness and promise. Marrying Alan was also signing up for the full duration of his life as a pilot. It wouldn’t be all manicured lawn and nine-to-five and planned vacations. He would come home with news that she knew sooner or later would intrude upon their time together. Aircraft carrier duty. Assignment to distant parts of the world—the Mediterranean Sea or Korea or other places totally strange to her—were long periods of emptiness that stretched into lonesome months.

  She hated that part of her life but accepted that it must be, and no complaint passed her lips. It was simple. He flew for his country, she sustained the home for the family.

  “Mrs. Shepard?”

  The sudden intrusion of the reporter’s question startled her. She was on the edge of acknowledging that whether or not they were pilots, or astronauts, or a mixture of both, they were fiercely competitive. She knew these men. Friends they might be, and they were, but they’d stomp right over one another to get a flight ahead of the rest of the group. She turned to the voice.

  Two men. “We’re from Life magazine, Mrs. Shepard,” said one. Smiling, very smooth. “We’d like to take some pictures.”

  She locked eyes with the speaker and returned the smile. “Okay,” she answered, “but why?”

  “Your husband,” said the photographer. “You know, of course, that your husband is one of the new Mercury astronauts.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said. “That’s about all I know. I’m afraid—”

  “We understand,” the smiling man broke in quickly. “We’re not reporters, ma’am. We take pictures,” he offered in explanation. “We don’t ask questions.”

  “That will be all right,” she said. She didn’t change position. She could see they expected her to slip into a pose for their cameras.

  The cameras clicked; the two men worked different angles. She stood patiently for a few moments and then turned toward the girls. “Laura, time to go,” she called. The faces of the photographers registered their surprise that she had chosen to leave before they were through with their pictures. Quickly she gathered the three girls and they returned to their car.

  Driving home, Louise somehow felt she had made an escape. Then, rounding the corner, her driveway in sight, she knew the photographers on the beach had been just a harbinger of an invasion. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Cars and vans filled the street, many had been driven onto lawns and sidewalks. She was reminded of a great cattle drive, and her home was the final destination. People milled about between cars, along her driveway, and on her front lawn. She recognized the faces of several of her neighbors. The others were stran
gers. And they’d come armed. Men and women with notepads, clipboards, tape recorders, cameras, movie cameras, microphones on booms, bright lights. All eyes were staring at her, the crowd ready to move in for close-ups.

  “This can’t be,” she said quietly. The girls stared in surprise. “Mom! What is all this?”

  Louise knew. She had already escaped once to the beach. But this was overwhelming! She felt apprehension building to panic. “Stay close to me, girls,” she told them as she edged her car into the single space left in her driveway. She was still moving as the microphones and camera lenses swarmed the car.

  She turned off the engine and took a long breath. There was no way out of this. She could have kept driving, but this was home. She stepped from the car, and strident voices railed at her from all sides.

  “How does it feel to be the wife of an astronaut?”

  “Are you worried he’ll be killed?”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “What do your kids think?”

  “Do you really want him to go?”

  “Are you worried he’ll be killed?” That question would be repeated again and again, annoying her like some kind of angry bug she wanted to grind into the earth with her heel.

  She’d been brought up to be gracious and understanding, and she ordered herself to be so now. She left the girls in the car and strode into the midst of the crowd of reporters milling on her front lawn, smiling and, when possible, answering questions in a polite and orderly fashion. This was crazy, but at the same time she was aware this was for Alan, and her tremendous pride in her husband helped calm her. She weighed every word she spoke to avoid saying anything that might reflect adversely on him.

  A photographer, unusually courteous, requested her to stand by her mailbox. The request seemed harmless enough but proved to be a great error. The address of 580 Brandon Road glared prominently in the picture that appeared in hundreds of newspapers and opened the floodgates for a torrent of mail that made her home the receiving end of a postal blizzard.