The Last Pilot: A Novel

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.

 

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