Dreams of the High Frontier

katchen

Banned
Chapter Four
1958

With the successful launch of Explorer 1, the Americans had finally gotten into the Space Race. The Explorer 1 mission lasted for 111 days and relayed much valuable scientific data. Explorer 1 carried a number of experiments, including temperature sensors, a Gieger-Muller tube, designed to detect cosmic ray in space and experiments designed to detect micrometeor impacts. Of considerable surprise to the scientists and the mission controllers, was the behaviour of the spacecraft itself. Explorer 1 had been designed to rotate around its longitudinal axis. It had been thought that this would minimize the forces of inertia acting on the spacecraft. To the surprise of the scientists, Explorer 1 immediately began to turn end over end. This was the result of previously unconsidered inertial forces acting on the spacecraft and led to the rediscovery of the mathematical theories of the Swiss mathematician Leohnard Euler, whose work had been forgotten for over two hundred years. Through this rediscovery it was learned that the Explorer 1 spacecraft behaved in the way it did because all spinning bodies in space spin in the direction that minimizes the kinetic forces of rapid rotation. Explorer 1 was the first in a long line of unmanned exploratory spacecraft that continues to this day. Explorer 1 re-entered the atmosphere and burned up during re-entry on Marc 31, 1970.

At the same time, signing of the National Air and Space Act led to the creation of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. Often referred to simply as NASA, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration absorbed its predecessor, the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics, or NACA, along with its 8,000 employees and testing facilities intact. NASA’s purpose was to explore the universe in peace and to develop space for the benefit of all mankind. This stood in sharp contrast to the Soviet space program, which was overseen by the Russian Air Force and existed mainly for military and propaganda purposes.

Luostari-Pechenga Airbase,
Murmansk, USSR,
January, 1959

The sleek MIG-15 fighter jet touched down and rolled to a stop at the end of the runway. The aircraft had barely come to a stop in front of the hangar before the ground crew rushed up to begin servicing the jet. Yuri Gagarin was just popping the canopy when an official looking car pulled up. It stopped about ten feet away. The driver got out, walked around the front of the car and opened the back door. Interesting, thought Gagarin. I wonder what this is about. Maybe they’ve mistaken me for somebody else. Gagarin unbuckled his safety harness and climbed out of the airplane. He walked across the snowy tarmac to the man waiting next to the car. The insignia on the man’s epaulettes indicated that he was a sergeant of aviation. Gagarin saluted.

“Comarde Senior Lieutenant Gagarin?”
“Yes.”
“I am Sergeant Ivanova. Please get in sir. I have orders to take you to the Base Commandant at once.”
“What is this about?” asked Gagarin. “Have I done something wrong?”
“I don’t know sir. I am only following orders.”
“Very well.” Gagarin got in and shut the door. “Take me to the Base Commandant.”

The drive from the air field to the base’s administrative centre wasn’t very long, only about 15 minuets. They pulled up in front of a large brick building and got out. Sergeant Ivanova escorted Gagarin inside and took him up to the third floor, to a wood paneled waiting room.
“Wait here,” said Ivanova, “I will tell the General that you are here to see him.” He went through a door and returned a few seconds later.
Gagarin opened the same door and found himself in a large and comfortably appointed office. He walked across the room to stand in front of a large desk. He saluted. “General Tolsky, Senior Lieutenant Gagarin reporting as ordered.”
General Tolsky returned Gagarin’s salute. He gestured to the chairs on the other side of the desk. “Comrade Gagarin, please sit.” Gagarin sat down. “Either you have very powerful friends or you have offended somebody very important.”
Gagarin was confused. “I don’t know what you mean, General.”
“Then I will tell you,” said General Tolsky. He handed Gagarin a sealed envelope. “I received a personal phone call yesterday from Admiral Chabanenko. It seems that special instructions have been prepared for you. There is an aircraft waiting to take you to Moscow. You are to be on it in four hours. You are to open your orders in flight. That is all.”
Gagarin stood up. “Understood sir.” He saluted again.
“Dismissed.”

Special Design Bureau #1
Moscow, USSR

Yuri Gagarin entered the non-descript looking building and walked up the receptionist. “Excuse me,” he said, “I am looking for Room 264.”
“Go up the stairs, go left and it will be the third door on your right.”
“Thank you,” said Gagarin.
Gagarin had read his orders yesterday on the flight from Murmansk. He hadn’t understood them then and he still hadn’t understood when he had read them again this morning. All they had said was to go to Special Design Bureau #1 first thing in the morning and present himself at Room 264. Gagarin didn’t understand his orders, but he didn’t have to. All he had to do was show up. Gagarin stopped in front of the door to Room 264 and knocked.
A voice said, “come in.”
Gagarin opened the door and stepped inside. The office was small and cluttered. The walls were covered with tacked up blueprints. More blueprints and schematics were rolled up in the corners. Technical manuals scattered haphazardly around the floor. Clustered around the desk in the middle of the room were three people sitting around the desk in the middle of the room. The man in the middle stood up and stretched out his hand. “Comrade Gagarin, welcome, I imagine that you are wondering why you have been sent to us.”
“Yes, Comrade,” answered Gagarin. “My instructions were very vague.”
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sergey Korolev. This is my deputy Vasily Mishin and my chief designer, Valentin Glushko.”
Sergey Korolev. The name jogged a memory. “I know your work, Comrade Korolev,” said Gagarin. “I read your book, Rocket Flight in Stratosphere.”
“Did you?” asked Korelev modestly. “Well it seems that my reputation has preceeded me.”
“Yes,” responded Gagarin. “I have always had an interest in astronomy.”
“Comrades,” interjected Glushko, “before we continue, I feel that we should remind Comrade Gagarin that Comrade Korolev’s association with Soviet rocket research is a state secret and his name is not spoken aloud in public, or to be written down. Do you understand Comrade?”
“Yes, I understand, Comrades” responded Gagarin.
“Excellent,” said Mishin. “To business.”
Korolev picked up a folder off the desk and glanced through it. “The truth is we know much about you, Lieutenant Gagarin. We know of your life long interest in astronomy and outer space. We know that you are an avid sportsman, that you play ice hockey and that you have coached basketball. We also know that you are an excellent pilot and highly observant.”
Gagarin was confused. “So you have read my service record. Why exactly have you summoned me to this meeting?”
“We are assembling a list of uniquely qualified pilots and we feel that you fit the bill,” said Mishin.
“For what?” asked Gagarin.
“To be the first human being to fly in space,” said Korolev.
“Understand, Comrade Gagarin,” said Glushko, “the training will be gruelling and difficult and the missions will be dangerous, but we are offering you something historic. Will you accept?”
“Yes,” said Gagarin at once.
“Very well,” Korolev. “For now you will return to Murmansk. In a few weeks you will receive your new assignment. Welcome to the Soviet space program.”
How does a MALE sar geant get the female name Ivanova? Shouldn't it be simply Ivanov?
 
How does a MALE sar geant get the female name Ivanova? Shouldn't it be simply Ivanov?

The answer is that I have zero familiarity with the nomenclature of Russian names and because I sprinkled names from various sci-fi series through the book as an in joke, so when I used the name Ivanova, I was actually referencing this.

babylon5.jpg
 
Chapter Thirty-Four
Aurora 7
Earth Orbit
Elapsed Mission Time:
02:45:25

As Carpenter flew out of range of the Hawaii tracking station he was unaware of the exchange that had occurred on the ground between Chris Kraft and Alan Shepard. His flicked across his instrument panel and came to rest on his fuel readouts. The spacecraft’s manual fuel supply was hovering at around 50%. That’s much too low, though Carpenter with concern. I will have to restrict my manoeuvring for the rest of the flight. As the Hawaiian Islands slid out of sight, Carpenter continued to make what visual observations and perform what experiments he could without expending any more fuel than was strictly unavoidable. The Pacific Ocean was an endless cerulean expanse beneath him and he felt a kind of serenity settle over him. The image of his grandfather came to mind again. Soon I will learn the great secret. At that moment, Scott Carpenter felt as though he was close to that secret. He turned his thoughts back to the mission and saw that the coast of California was sliding over the horizon. Alan Shepard’s voice crackled in his ear.
“Aurora 7, you are go for a third orbit.”
“Roger that,” said Carpenter. “Go for orbit three.” Carpenter rattled off his instrument readings.
Control mode on MANUAL
Gyros are normal.
Maneuver is OFF.
“Copy that, Aurora 7,” said Shepard. “General Kraft is concerned about your rate of fuel consumption. We recommend that you use as little AUTO fuel as possible prior to retrosequence.” There were ten seconds of silence on the air-to-group loop as Shepard allowed the words General Kraft to sink in.
“Roger that,” replied Carpenter. His eyes flicked over his read outs again. “Confirm control mode set to MANUAL.”
“Copy that, Aurora 7,” said Shepard. “Are you still perspiring at the moment?”
“Affirmative,” replied Carpenter. That was a good sign. It meant that Carpenter had not yet begun to suffer from the first symptoms of heat stroke. One hand went to a pouch full of water that had been Velcroed to the bulkhead. The other went to his helmet visor. “I am going to open my visor and have some water.”
“Roger that,” responded Shepard. “You sound good from down here. I am going to give a few minutes of peace and quite while I send the Z and R calibrations.”
“Copy that,” replied Carpenter. “That sounds like a good idea.” He squirted some more water into his mouth.
Ten seconds of silence elapsed over the air-to-ground loop as Shepard gave Carpenter some breathing space. “Aurora 7, the flight surgeon would like an update on your blood pressure reading.”
“Acknowledged,” said Carpenter. He pumped up the blood pressure cuff in his sleeve again.
“Copy Aurora 7,” said Shepard. “We read your blood pressure down here. You look good.”
“Roger that,” said Carpenter. The static in his ear was getting louder. The spacecraft was moving out of range of the tracking station.
“Rog…..no…..furth….inquiries…..”
From that point on Carpenter flew directly over the United States and was in constant contact with the ground passing over the White Sands Missile Range, Eglin Air Force Base and south Texas, as well as directly over the Cape. He rattled off his instrument readings, reported on the results of the various experiments and made visual observations on what he saw below him. As he passed over the United States he saw the arid deserts of the southwest and the craggy mountains of California and Colorado. In the distance, swirls of puffy white cloud dotted the mid-west. Farms were neatly laid out like postage stamps. The Mississippi River meandered, serpent-like, from Chicago to the Gulf of Mexico. The Mississippi Delta was a snarl of channels, swamps and islands. As he passed over Florida, Carpenter was readily able to identify the Cape. “Cape, Aurora 7, cabin temperature is 101 degrees. Fuel is 46 and 40%. I am drifting on inertia and am fully hydrated.”
“Copy that,” replied Gus Grissom.



Aurora 7
Earth Orbit
Elapsed Mission Time:
04:09:52

Heading back out to sea, the islands of the Caribbean appeared in the spacecraft’s periscope. Carpenter continued to transmit an unbroken flow of observations and instrument readings. Carpenter’s eyes flicked over his instruments and came to a rest on the mission clock. Retrofire was only 20 minutes away and the cockpit was filled with the various pieces of equipment that Carpenter had used during the flight. As the Cape and the Caribbean receded behind him, Carpenter passed back into night. As he was clearing away the detritus of the flight, Carpenter noticed a glimmer of light in the corner of his eye. He turned his attention from his instruments and looked out the window. Stretching from horizon to horizon, out of Carpenter’s field of view, the atmosphere was a continuous glowing ribbon of light. It was suffused with a deep purplish-blue glow. It stretched away in both directions, getting darker and darker until it finally merged seamlessly with the inky blackness of space. It was the most beautiful sight Carpenter had ever seen. Entranced by the beauty of the moment and thinking to record the glittering ribbon for the air glow experiment. Carpenter grabbed for his camera. In his haste, Carpenter lost his grip on the camera, which slipped out of his hand and collided with the inside of the hatch with a solid-sounding thunk! As the camera struck the inside of the hatch, a flurry of brightly luminous particles appeared in the window. John Glenn’s fireflies had returned. Carpenter had been intrigued by Glenn’s description of the glowing points of light in his post-flight report and had hoped to catch a glimpse of the phenomenon himself. Carpenter rapped sharply on the inside of the hatch. Another cloud of glowing lights swarmed in the window, as though drifting on an unseen current of air. Of course, he thought excitedly. He rapped again. More particles appeared in the window. After the flight of Friendship 7, the “fireflies,” as Glenn had called them, had been subject of much curiosity and scientific debate. Some researchers had speculated that the “fireflies” were a previously unknown astronomical phenomenon, or some kind of visual hallucination. There had even been speculation that the fireflies were a previously unknown life form. Carpenter now realized that while those theories had been tantalizing at the time, they were totally incorrect. Of course, he excitedly thought again. The fireflies must be emanating from the spacecraft, he thought. If that’s the case, it stands to reason that the spacecraft must be the source. Carpenter guessed that the fireflies he had seen swirling in the window were particles of ice that had been expelled from the thrusters.
Carpenter rapped repeatedly on the inside of the hatch, loosing a blizzard of glowing points of light. He took hold of the joystick and pulsed his thrusters, spinning the spacecraft around on its yaw axis so that the terminator and the cloud of glowing lights were now traveling away from him, receding into the distance. Carpenter turned his attention back to his instruments and saw that he was once again approaching Hawaii. He keyed his mike. “Hawaii, Aurora 7, how do you read me?”
Ten seconds of silence elapsed on the air-to-ground loop. Static hissed softly in Carpenter’s ear. When the Capcom spoke, Carpenter could barely make it out. “Aurora 7, we read you only barely. You are very weak. Switch to your high gain antenna.”
Carpenter flipped the switch marked ANTENNA to UHF-HI. “Copy, Hawaii.” The crackle of static lessened, but only a little. “How do you read me?”
“We read you a little better, Aurora 7. We would like you to re-orient your spacecraft and switch over to ASCS.”
“Understood.” Carpenter pulsed his thrusters, reversing his earlier yaw manoeuvre. He flipped a switch. “Switching flight mode from MANUAL to AUTO.” Carpenter turned his attention back to stowing the gear in the cockpit. However, a quick glance at his instruments told that the spacecraft was drifting off axis. If the spacecraft wasn’t aligned properly, it would not be safe to re-enter the atmosphere. If Carpenter came in too steep, the heat shield would fail and the spacecraft would burn up in the atmosphere. Too shallow, and Carpenter would skip off the top of the atmosphere and bounce back into space.
“Aurora 7,” asked the Capcom, “are you ready to start the pre-retrosequence checklist?”
Carpenter took hold of the joystick and pulsed his thrusters several times in rapid succession. “Stand by, Hawaii, I am re-aligning my attitudes for the de-orbit burn.”
“Copy that, Aurora 7.” Half a minute of silence ticked by as Carpenter wrangled the spacecraft back into the proper orientation. The Hawaii Capcom impatiently got back on the air-to-ground loop. “Aurora 7, can we proceed with the de-orbit checklist? We have less than three minutes of contact left.”
“Copy, Hawaii,” Carpenter replied. “I am returning to retro attitude and ready to proceed with the de-orbit checklist.” Carpenter toggled a switch. “I am on automatic control and my attitudes are set to-.” He had been about to say “standby” when something on his instrument panel caught his eye. He activated several switches in quick succession. There was no change in the instrument readouts. “Hawaii, Aurora 7. I have a problem with the ASCS.” Carpenter flipped several more switches. “My EMERG RETRO SYS is ARMED. Retros are set to MANUAL.”
“Roger,” responded the Capcom.
Another thirty seconds ticked by. The autopilot was not holding the spacecraft in the proper attitude. The spacecraft kept drifting out of alignment and Carpenter kept having to wrangle the spacecraft back into the correct orientation of zero degrees yaw and a nose down pitch over angle of 34 degrees in order to ensure a safe re-entry. It was vital that the spacecraft remain in that orientation if it was to land on target in the Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of southeast Florida.
“Aurora 7, recommend you turn off the EMERG DROGE DEPLOY and both EMERG MAIN FUSES.”
“Copy,” answered Carpenter, snapping the appropriate switches. He chanced another look at the mission clock in the middle of the instrument panel. There was only minute or so left until he was out of range of the Hawaii tracking station. He went into a flurry of switch throwing, making final adjustments before to the spacecraft’s instrumentation before loss of signal and the de-orbit burn.
 
Chapter Thirty-Five

Aurora 7
Earth Orbit
Elapsed Mission Time:
04:28:26

With the time remaining before loss of signal, Carpenter and the Capcom worked through as much of the pre-retrosequence check list as possible before contact was lost. When they were done, Carpenter allowed himself a quick glance at the Earth Path Indicator. He was almost out of range of the Hawaii tracking station. The air-to-ground loop was getting ratty and the Capcom’s transmissions were becoming increasingly garbled.
“Auror…..Hawaii, transmitting…..in…..blind. Make….all….tone switches….on…..” air-to-ground loop lapsed into silence.

Mercury Control
Cape Canaveral, Florida
Elapsed Mission Time:
04:32:15

Sitting at the Flight Director’s console in Mercury Control, Chris Kraft felt extremely uneasy. The anger that he had felt as the spacecraft had passed over Hawaii on the second orbit had evolved into acute anxiety. He had been trying in his mind to piece together a picture of exactly what was going in orbit. As he had listened to Carpenter’s reports, and the reports of the other flight controllers, he thought he began to notice a pattern of intermittent failures in the Horizon Pitch Scanner, which was a vital component of the spacecraft’s stabilization system. Kraft glanced up at the plotting board that dominated the wall at the far end of the room. The spacecraft would soon be approaching the California tracking station. With Carpenter’s fuel supply at somewhere below 50%, Kraft now realized that the mission control team had waited too long to run the necessary diagnostic checks on the attitude control system. Kraft took a deep breath. He held it for ten seconds and let it out very slowly. Kraft did not want to yell at any of the flight controllers again if he could help it. He pushed a button on his console. “Flight, Network.”
“Go, Flight,” said Kranz.
“Get me California,” said Kraft.
“Copy, Flight.”
Several seconds of hissing static were followed by a series of clicks.
“California, Cape.”
“California, Flight,” responded Kraft. “The retrofire manoeuvre is coming up shortly. Make sure Carpenter is squared away and in the proper attitude for re-entry.”
“Copy, Flight,” said Shepard.

Aurora 7
Earth Orbit
Elapsed Mission Time:
04:36:46

Scott Carpenter finished stowing his lose gear just as the west coast of the United States came into view.
The voice of Alan Shepard spoke in his ear. “Aurora 7, this is Capcom. Can you confirm retroattitude?”
“Aurora 7, Capcom. Retroattutide confirmed,” responded Carpenter, “however, my instruments are not in accordance with my visual observations.” Carpenter toggled a switch. “Going to FLY-BY-WIRE and MANUAL.”
“Roger that, Aurora 7,” replied Shepard.
Without realizing it, Carpenter had committed the same error that Shepard had committed the year before in the first flight of the program. He would have to control the spacecraft’s attitude and orientation with the fly-by-wire and manual flight control systems. Such a flight configuration had not been envisioned and would eat into Carpenter’s already critically low fuel supply. Carpenter’s eyes went to the mission clock.
“Ten seconds to retrofire,” said Shepard.
The RETRO blinked on.
“RETRO is green,” said Carpenter.
“Copy, Aurora 7,” replied Shepard. “Stand by for retro fire.”
10
9
8
7
6
With a sudden flash of insight, Shepard suddenly broke into the countdown. “Aurora 7, stand by.”
“Copy,” said Carpenter. “Aurora 7, standing by.” Five seconds ticked by.
Shepard came back on the air-to-ground loop. “Aurora 7, go to attitude bypass and manual override.”
“Roger,” said Carpenter. He threw several switches in rapid fire succession.
“Aurora 7,” said Shepard, “stand by for manual firing.”
Carpenter’s gloved finger hovered just above the firing button.
5
4
3
2
1
“Fire.”
Carpenter pressed the button. It depressed with a loud click. Carpenter braced himself for the violent deceleration that Glenn had described in his post flight debriefing. Instead he felt a gentle, prolonged nudge. Carpenter glanced at his altimeter. The needle was creeping backwards, almost imperceptibly slowly. Carpenter estimated that he was losing maybe five feet of altitude per second.
“Aurora 7, California. Good burn.”
“Copy that, Aurora 7,” responded Shepard. “Acknowledge good burn.”
He was still in range of the California tracking station and continued to rattle off instrument readings and visual observations. Carpenter’s attention was divided between his window, the periscope and monitoring his instruments. He would have missed the thin tendrils of smoke rising from behind the instrument panel, but there was no mistaking the harsh smell of burned metal and scorched wiring flowing into his helmet. “California, Aurora 7,” said Carpenter, “I see smoke in the cockpit.”
“Roger, Aurora 7,” responded Shepard. He was mostly successful in keeping his concern out of his voice. They last thing they needed was a fire in a spacecraft. “Do you see flames?”
“Negative, California,” answered Carpenter. “My best guess is that there’s a blown fuse somewhere on board.”
“Understood, Aurora 7, that is Cape’s assessment as well. Are your attitudes holding?”
“Affirmative,” Carpenter answered. “Visual indications look good. However, my gyros are still not right.” Based on his visual observations, Carpenter thought that he was close the optimum angle for re-entry, however, his attitude indicators indicated the spacecraft was at an attitude of minus ten degrees. He looked his yaw indicator next and at the Earth Path Indicator in the middle of his instrument panel. The spacecraft was off its yaw axis by 25 degrees. He suddenly realized that between that and the underpowered thrust from the de-orbit burn he was almost definitely going to land long. Carpenter was not concerned, however. The Mercury spacecraft had been designed for the eventuality of what pilots call a dead stick landing. Critically low on fuel, and partially disabled by a malfunctioning guidance computer, Carpenter would be making the dead stick land for which the Mercury spacecraft had been designed.

Aurora 7
Earth Orbit
Elapsed Mission Time:
04:38:27

An alarm buzzed in Scott Carpenter’s ear. At the same moment a red light blinked on on his instrument panel. LOW FUEL WARNING. Carpenter pushed a button to silence the alarm. “Aurora 7, Capcom, I am out of manual fuel.”
“Understood, Aurora 7,” Shepard replied.
Almost as soon as he had spoken the spacecraft began to buck heavily as the guidance system tried to bring the spacecraft in what it thought was the correct attitude for re-entry. Carpenter flipped a switch, transferring control of the spacecraft to the fly-by-wire control system. He looked at the altimeter again. The needle was moving faster than had been previously, sweeping smoothly backwards across the face of the dial, but Carpenter noted that the needle was not moving as quickly as it should have. He next looked at his G force indicator. It moved feebly back and forth, barely rising from the low end of the dial.
“Ten seconds to retrojettison,” called Shepard in Carpenter’s ear.
“Roger,” replied Carpenter.
10
9
8
7
6
5
4
3
2
1
A series of staccato reports reverberated through the cockpit. POP! POP! POP! The RETROJETTISON light shone green. Out of his peripheral vision, Carpenter saw the straps that had held the retropack to the bottom of the heatshield separate from the spacecraft and go floating off into the void. “Confirm good retrojettison,” he said.
“Acknowledged, Aurora 7,” replied Shepard.
Carpenter looked at his altimeter and G force indicators again. Both needles were moving in opposite directions. The altimeter needle was slowly pinwheeling backwards, while the G force needle was rising slowly off of its peg. Carpenter could feel himself gradually falling out of the sky as the spacecraft slowly bled momentum. It was as though his stomach was slowly being dragged downward to the bottom of his boots. Carpenter looked his altimeter gage again. The needle was spinning more quickly around the face of the dial. He was bleeding momentum faster and faster as the leading edge of the heat shield bit deeper and deeper into the upper atmosphere. At same time Carpenter felt himself becoming increasingly heavier. He felt the spacecraft begin oscillate back and forth as it plunged deeper into the atmosphere and began pulsing his thrusters to dampen the spacecraft’s unwanted movements. Carpenter stole a quick glance at his G force indicator. 0.5 Gs. Carpenter felt himself getting heavier and heavier. It was becoming increasingly difficult for Carpenter to lift his hands to reach the controls. Carpenter pulsed his thrusters one more time. He rolled the spacecraft over so that the window was facing downward. He was passing over the Great Plains and the Mid-west. Pastureland spread away in all directions. Farms were laid out in neat green and brown rows. Roads wended their way across the landscape like black ribbons.
“Aurora 7,” Shepard called, “return to re-entry attitude and stand by for loss of signal.”
“Roger,” responded Carpenter. “Wilco.” He pulsed his thrusters and the spacecraft returned to its re-entry attitude.

Mercury Control
Cape Canaveral, Florida
Elapsed Mission Time:
04:43:17

Chris Kraft felt as though his stomach was being tied in knots. As he listened to the telemetry coming into Mercury Control, he began to realize that something was wrong with the re-entry sequence. The spacecraft had not been properly oriented for re-entry and the de-orbit burn had been delayed by five seconds, which he knew meant that spacecraft would land at least 15 to 20 miles off target. Then Kraft learned that the retropack had been underpowered and not provided as much thrust as it should have. The reason why was unknown. The spacecraft was dropping out of orbit, but at much lower rate of descent. Based on the incoming telemetry, he reasoned that the spacecraft, in all likelihood would not skip off the top of the atmosphere and bounce back into space. That’s good, he thought. That means I won’t have to go before the American people to explain why there’s a dead man in orbit around the Earth. On the other hand, there was risk that a prolonged re-entry would exceed the design limits of the heat shield and that Scott Carpenter would burn in the atmosphere.
“Aurora 7, return to re-entry attitude and stand-by for loss of signal.” That was Alan Shepard on the air-to-ground loop in California.
Kraft heard Carpenter in orbit say, “Roger. Wilco.”
At the Capcom console in Mercury Control, Gus Grissom said, “Aurora 7, Cape, the weather in the recovery area is go. The weather forecast calls for overcast clouds and three foot waves. The wind is estimated at eight knots with 1,000 foot ceiling.”
“Copy that,” said Carpenter. “See you on the ground.”
I hope so, thought Kraft.
 
Chapter Thirty-Six
Aurora 7
Earth Orbit
Elapsed Mission Time:
04:45:34

As Aurora 7 sank deeper and deeper into the atmosphere, friction began to build across the face of the heat shield as the spacecraft encountered the steadily thickening air in the upper atmosphere. Carpenter felt increasingly heavy pressure on his chest, as though he was being pressed into his seat by a giant hand. His eyes roved over his instruments and came to a stop on his altimeter gauge. The needle was spinning freely now, rapidly pinwheeling backwards as the spacecraft fell out of the sky. Carpenter stole a glance out of the window. The colour of the sky had changed from the infinite blackness of space to a deep blue. The spacecraft bucked, oscillating wildly as it was rocked to and for by air currents in the upper atmosphere. As the friction on the heatshield continued to build, the spacecraft was gradually enveloped in a glowing cloud of ionizing plasma. As Carpenter plunged headlong into the atmosphere, the superheated ionized gases enveloping the spacecraft began to interfere with his communication system. As he descended through 75,000 feet, Carpenter thought that he heard Gus Grissom say “Auro….7….AUX DAMP…..” before the air-to-ground loop was reduced to hash. The G force indicator was now reading 4 Gs. With considerable difficulty, Carpenter reached out and pushed a button, activated the auxiliary dampening system. Almost immediately, the spacecraft’s wild oscillations slowed and became gentler. Carpenter took one eye off his instruments and looked out the window. The colour of the sky had lighted from a dark blue to a lighter blue, shot through with streaks of red and orange and yellow, as the 3,000 degree fireball played around the outside of the spacecraft. It seemed to Carpenter to flow over the window like water and cast a pale red-orange light into the cockpit. He keyed his mike and tried to contact the Cape. “Mercury Control, Aurora 7.”
Static hissed in Carpenter’s ear.
He tried again. “Mercury Control, Aurora 7.”
More static.
“Aurora 7, Mercury Control.”
Static.
Carpenter’s eyes, which were practically the only part of his body that he could move, slid over his instruments. He was passing through the period of peak deceleration and he watched as the G force indicator leaped upward.
4 Gs.
5 Gs.
6 Gs.
7 Gs.
8 Gs.
The needle eventually stopped moving at 12 Gs.
12 Gs. The pressure on Carpenter’s body was extreme. He was unable to turn his head and it was a struggle just to breath. Out of the corner of his eye, Carpenter saw a series of bright green flashes out of the corner of his eye. He was unable to turn his head, and so only got fleeting glimpses of the phenomenon. He wondered what it could be. Shepard, Grissom and Glenn had not reported such a phenomenon after their flights. This must be something new, he thought. Then he thought he saw something fly past the window. With great difficulty, Carpenter turned his head for a better look. As he did so, he saw another dark shape fly past the window and he realized what he was seeing. The bottom of the Mercury spacecraft was covered with several layers of beryllium shingles, which were capable withstanding temperatures of several thousand degrees. Re-entering the atmosphere at a shallower angle of descent had resulted in exposing the heat shield to more stress for a longer period of time. That would explain it, thought Carpenter. He looked at his instruments again. The spacecraft was descending through 65,000 feet and Carpenter felt the crushing G forces begin to ease. The hiss in his ear was starting to abate as well. They should be able to hear me now, he thought. Carpenter keyed his mike. “Cape, Aurora 7.”
No response.
Carpenter tried again. “Cape, Aurora 7.”
Still no response.
Carpenter was passing through 50,000 feet. The spacecraft began to rock back and forth again as it encountered the stronger eddies and air currents of the lower atmosphere. Carpenter’s automatic RCS thrusters were out of fuel and in the steadily thickening atmosphere would have done little good any way.
Carpenter kept watching his altimeter spin backwards.
40, 000 feet.
35, 000 feet.
30, 000 feet.
At 25,000 feet, Carpenter reach out and pushed the DROUGE DEPLOY button. A green light blinked on as an exterior hatch on the nose of the spacecraft opened. A spring-loaded mechanism inside was triggered and the drogue chute ejected. Carpenter felt the spacecraft jerk as the lines went taught. At 20,000 feet the drogue chute was cut and the MAIN PARACHUTE DEPLOY light clicked on. The big main parachute unfurled and Carpenter felt another, heavier, jerk shudder through the cockpit as the spacecraft’s descent was slowed significantly. At the same moment, a series of pops and crackles burst in Carpenter’s ear.
“….rora 7, Aurora 7,….is Cape Capcom. Do….read. Over?”
“Cape Capcom, Aurora 7,” replied Carpenter, “I read you loud and clear. I am at 10,000 feet, the main chute is green and my status is A-OK.”
Grissom must not have received Carpenter’s transmission, because he said, “Aurora 7, you are landing 200 miles long-”
“Copy,” interjected Carpenter.
“Air Rescue is inbound to your position,” continued Grissom. “ETA is approximately 60 minutes.”
“Roger,” said Carpenter.

The Atlantic Ocean
May 24, 1962
1:45 PM

Under the canopy of its billowing orange and white striped parachute, Aurora 7 floated gently down out of the sky to land with a splash in the sea. The spacecraft submerged momentarily then popped back to the surface like a cork in a bathtub. In the cramped cockpit, Carpenter pushed up the clear lexan visor on his helmet. His face was bathed in sweat and he could feel the perspiration soaking into his heavy cotton underwear. Carpenter quickly scribbled down his final instrument readings and prepared to exit the spacecraft. He reached down under his seat and opened a small storage locker. It contained Carpenter’s survival kit, which included, among other things, an inflatable life raft, a knife, a personal flotation device, a pair of sunglasses, a dye pack, a pocket knife and a signal mirror. Carpenter disconnected himself from the spacecraft’s systems and unbuckled his restraints. He rummaged through his survival kit and pulled out the pocket knife. . It dropped downward, revealing a narrow passage upward through the top of the spacecraft. Carpenter took the camera with the film in it and with some difficulty wriggled his way out of the top of the spacecraft. He placed the camera on a small ledge inside the nose of the spacecraft and pulled a cord attached to a small canister of compressed nitrogen.
The life raft inflated with a loud hiss and flopped upside down onto the surface of the ocean. Checking to make sure that all the valves on the front of his space suit were properly sealed, Carpenter carefully lowered himself into the water. He took hold of the life raft and flipped it over. Carpenter hauled himself out of the water and opened a panel on the exterior of the spacecraft. Inside was a small handle. He turned and heard the hiss of compressed gas as the bright yellow flotation collar inflated. Carpenter also heard the blurbling of bubbles. One of the air bladders had failed to inflate and as the air rushed out the chamber filled with seawater. Bracing himself against the side of the spacecraft, Carpenter carefully stood up, retrieving the camera, along with the film, and the spacecraft’s survival kit. He rummaged through the survival kit and retrieved a nylon rope, the dye pack and the rescue beacon, along with the battery pack. He tied the life raft to the floatation collar. Next he cracked open the dye pack, shook it very hard several times and poured the neon green contents into the water. Finally he plugged the radio beacon into its battery pack and settled down to wait.
 
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Atlantic Ocean
May 24, 1962
2:45 PM

The US Navy destroyer USS John R Pierce first appeared as a low grey shape on the horizon approximately 45 minutes after Aurora 7 splashed down in the Atlantic Ocean. She had set out had set out from the rescue fleet at flank speed upon receiving the signal from Carpenter’s radio beacon and now she was only ten miles away. Her speed slowed and she approached until she was about a mile distant. Ready and waiting on her fantail helipad was a helicopter. The rescue chopper’s rotors spooled up with a steady thud! thud! thud! that undercut the throbbing mechanical clamour of the Pierce’s engines. The helicopter lifted off from the Pierce’s flight deck and skimmed across the water to where Carpenter sat waiting in the life raft. The rescue chopper drew to a stop directly over the spacecraft and Carpenter was buffeted by the downdraft produced by the rescue chopper’s rotor blades. Carpenter instinctively held up a hand to protect him self from the stinging froth of spray whipped up by the rescue chopper’s powerful downdraft. The helicopter’s side door slid open and two Frogmen splashed into the water.
“Lieutenant Commander Carpenter,” shouted one of the Frogmen over the monotonous thudding of the helicopter, “I’m Airman First Class Heitsch. Are you alright, sir?”
By way of an answer, Carpenter gave the man a thumbs up.
Heitsch nodded and waved at the helicopter’s pilot, who appeared to speak into his helmet mike. The helicopter’s side door opened again and the air crew threw out two bundles of supplies, life rafts, food, signal mirrors etc. The helicopter then returned to the ship. Airman Heitsch, and his partner, Sergeant McClure inflated their life rafts and tied them to Carpenter’s.

USS Intrepid
The Atlantic Ocean
3:00 PM

The warbling ring of a growler phone cut through the quiet hum of activity that pervaded the bridge of the aircraft carrier USS Intrepid. Captain Lloyd Abbot picked up the phone and spoke into the handset. “Bridge.”
“C-in-C,” replied Commander George Hammond. “Captain, we’ve received a message from the Pierce. They’ve located the spacecraft and they have Frogmen in the water right now.”
“Very good, Commander,” said Abbot. “What is their exact location?”
Hammond rattled off some co-ordinates.
“Very good, Commander, signal the Pierce. Tell them to stand by, then signal the rest of the recovery fleet.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Abbot put the growler phone back in its cradle. He spoke to the bridge at large. “Helm.”
“Helm, aye,” said the fresh-faced young ensign manning the wheel.
“New bearing; come around to course 234.”
“Aye sir.” The ship’s wheel spun and the big carrier lumbered into the turn.
Abbot picked up the growler phone again and pushed the button marked ENGINE ROOM. “Bridge, engine room.”
“Engine room,” answered Lieutenant Commander Andrew Kaplan.
“Make revolutions for 20 knots,” ordered Abbot.
“Aye, Captain.”
No sooner had Abbot hung up, than he heard the ding-ding-ding of the bridge telegraph answering its counterpart in the engine room. Beneath his feet, the tremor in the deck plates increased in intensity as the ship picked up speed.

The Atlantic Ocean
3:45 PM

The Intrepid came lumbering on to the scene 45 minutes after Carpenter had been contacted by the Frogmen from the Pierce. To Carpenter’s eye she looked like someone had turned a large office building on its side and contrasted sharply with the angular, menacing lines of the Pierce. No sooner had she arrived on the scene, than a helicopter lifted off from the deck of the Intrepid and made beeline for Carpenter and the gently bobbing spacecraft. The helicopter drew to a stop above Carpenter, Heitsch and McClure, who were once again buffeted by the helicopter’s powerful downdraft. The side door slid open and a sling was lowered down on a cable. When Carpenter was secured in the sling, McClure flashed a hand signal to the helicopter’s crew, who began winching the astronaut up to the waiting chopper. There was a hair-raising moment when the cable suddenly went slack and Carpenter dropped ten feet to land with a splash in the ocean. All that was visible of him was his upraised arm as he tried to keep the camera, and its priceless photographs, from getting any wetter than they already were. Carpenter was immediately hauled out of the water and winched up the hovering helicopter. The side door slid shut and the helicopter turned and headed back to the Intrepid. As the recover chopper circled the Intrepid`s flight deck, Carpenter caught a glimpse of the Pierce slowly manoeuvring to come along side the spacecraft and hoist it out of the water.

USS Intrepid
The Atlantic Ocean
3:50 PM

The helicopter touched down on the flight deck of the Intrepid with a little bump. The door opened and Carpenter got out, to be greeted by the usual press of sailors, pilots and newsmen, as well as the flight surgeons attached to the NASA recovery team. Carpenter was hustled below deck to the Intrepid’s sickbay where he was helped out of his spacesuit and given a complete physical.
“How do you feel, Scott?” asked Dr. Rink.
“Fine,” responded Carpenter with a shrug. It was the typical nonchalant test pilot’s answer. He felt better than fine. Carpenter felt absolutely exhilarated. It was almost impossible for him to sit still and let the flight surgeons conduct their tests. Eventually, he calmed down enough for the doctors to complete their testing. They took blood and urine samples, check his pulse, listened to his breathing and his heart. When they were done, Carpenter was given a clean NASA jumpsuit and escorted to the Intrepid`s VIP quarters where he was given a chance to collect his thoughts and write his initial post-flight report.

Grand Turk Naval Facility
The Turks and Caicos
May 25, 1962

The aircraft from the Intrepid touched down with a bump and the screech of tires on asphalt. The aircraft rolled across the tarmac and stopped in front of the hangar. The side hatch opened and Carpenter and the recovery team alighted onto the tarmac where the usual gaggle of reporters was waiting, along with a brass band that immediately struck up Anchors Away. There was no time to enjoy any of it, however, Carpenter was immediately bundled into a car and driven off, first to the base hospital where the post-flight medical team wanted to conduct some additional testing and then to the base Administrative Centre for several days of post flight de-briefing. Before the post-flight debrief, however, Deke Slayton pulled Carpenter aside for a quiet word.
“You’ve put us all into a tight corner, Scott,” began Deke without preamble.
“I’m not sure I follow, Deke,” said Carpenter, in confusion.
“You screwed the pooch, Scott,” answered Deke. “On re-entry.”
“Is that this is about?” asked Carpenter. “You’re busting my balls over the landing?”
Deke shook his head. “It’s more than that. Chris is of the opinion that you put the entire mission in jeopardy.”
“Now wait a minute, Deke,” said Carpenter angrily, “I’m barely back on the ground, we haven’t even looked at the flight data yet and you’re telling me that my ass is in a sling.”
Deke pressed on. “Scott, you don’t understand. Chris is furious with you. He’s threatening to have you grounded.”
“Oh come on, Deke,” said Carpenter in exasperation, “he doesn’t have the ability to do that.”
“Maybe not,” allowed Deke, “but Bob Gilruth does and so does Jim Web.” Deke paused. “In any case that’s still not the half of it.”
“Then what is?” asked Carpenter, confused again.
“The press reported that you died.”
Carpenter was stunned. “They what?!”
“-Reported that you burned up on re-entry,” said Deke.
Carpenter felt some of jubilation he had felt yesterday slipping away. “How did that idea get in their heads?”
“The PR people,” answered Deke simply. “When we didn’t resume contact on schedule, the PR people reported to the press that you were still in-communicato and would land long. The press interpreted that as meaning that you had burned.”
Carpenter was silent for a second or two absorbing the information. Finally, after what seemed like a pregnant pause, he spoke. “It was my mission,” he said. “I was the pilot in command, so it’s my responsibility and my fault.”
Deke shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he said at once. God help us, thought Deke, the last thing we need is for an astronaut to publicly admit to a screw up.
Merrit Island,
Florida,
June 2, 1962

A week after Aurora 7 had hissed into the sea, Chris Kraft called a séance. Kraft and the other five Mercury astronauts had agreed to meet at a near-by beach house rented by Life Magazine on Merrit Island. The purpose of the beach house was to provide a naturalistic setting for setting for the frequent Life Magazine photo shoots and had almost immediately become a favourite gathering spot for the astronauts and their families for barbeques, cook-outs and beach games. The Beach House, as it became known, was a simple wood and concrete structure that sat fifty meters back from the surf line. Nestled amid the dunes, the Beach House, was tucked away in a quiet corner of Merritt Island and accessible only a by a narrow winding path.
The interior of the Beach House was simply and comfortably furnished. One wall of the main living area was dominated by large picture windows that overlooked the ocean. Just beyond was a large cedar deck. It was here that Kraft and the astronauts gathered to discuss the last mission. Gathered around the picnic table that dominated the deck were Chris Kraft, Alan Shepard, Gus Grissom, Wally Schirra, Deke Slayton and Gordo Cooper. John Glenn had disappeared into the insatiable maw of the agency’s publicity machine. Scott Carpenter was also absent, on the now traditional post-flight press junket.
Kraft spoke first. “Gentlemen, I would like to thank you all for being here today.” He paused, surveying the assembled astronauts. “As you know, the events of the most recent mission have cast the program in something of a bad light. I have called this meeting to discuss with you the future of the program and to lay out clearer guidelines and mission rules for the remaining flights. I will now open the floor.”
Al Shepard went first. “I’m frankly embarrassed by the events of last week,” he said. “I keep looking over the flight log and I can’t decide if Scott pulled one over the rest of us or, if he just makes us all look bad.”
The others nodded.
“He’s a propeller head, not a jet jockey,” interjected Wally Schirra. “He wasn’t jet-rated, prior to being selected for this program.”
Kraft nodded. “Yeah, we’re going to re-examine the initial qualifications and the selection process in the light of recent events.”
“Look,” said Deke, “I talked to Scott. He knows that he screwed the pooch pretty badly. He even offered to fall on his sword.”
“No,” said Grissom. “That’s the last thing that we need.”
“Gus is right” said Kraft. “We can’t afford any bad publicity. There are already enough people in Congress already who think that the space program is just a publicity stunt. An astronaut publicly admitting to being a screw up is the last thing that we need.”
“You know,” said Gordo Cooper, “I have to tell you that I’m a little disconcerted that we’re having this conversation.”
“I don’t follow you Gordo,” responded Deke. “What are you getting at?”
“Well,” began Cooper, “nobody’s saying it, but we’re all thinking it.”
“Thinking what, Gordo?” asked Kraft coolly.
“That we’re all thinking about throwing Scott under the bus,” replied Cooper levelly.
“Oh, come on,” said Shepard, “don’t you think that you’re being just a little bit dramatic?”
“I don’t know, Al” replied Cooper. “Am I? Nobody called a séance after Gus’s flight.”
“Now you wait just a goddamned minute-” burst out Grissom angrily. Liberty Bell 7 was always touchy subject for Grissom.
“Gus flew a text book mission, Gordo,” said Deke. “You know that.”
“Did he?” asked Cooper pointedly. “Did he, Deke, because a fifty million dollar spacecraft is sitting at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.”
“You are dangerously close to insubordination,” growled Grissom testily. “I was cleared of responsibility in that incident.”
“The difference,” interjected Kraft quickly, trying to defuse the sudden tension, “between that incident and this one is that that was caused by a technical glitch. In this case, the man malfunctioned.”
“The fact of the matter,” said Deke, “is that we have to put our personal feelings aside and do what’s best for the program.”
“I agree with Deke,” said Schirra. “We need to consider what’s best for the program.”
 
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Spring, 1962

As a result of the meeting held at the beach house, Scott Carpenter was quietly dropped from the flight rotation. He would never fly in space again. Deke, Shepard, Grissom and the other hated to do it, but in the end, after a long conversation, they all decided that Wally was right. It was in the best interest of the program. In the meantime, preparations continued for the next to last flight in the Mercury Program, which it had been decided would be flown by Wally Schirra.
While Deke Slayton was still campaigning to have his flight status reinstated, the analysis of the flight data from the Aurora 7 mission began in earnest. It was discovered that early in the flight, the Pitch Horizon Scanner had failed. The Pitch Horizon Scanner was connected to the autopilot and the guidance system and kept the spacecraft in the proper orientation relative to the Earth’s horizon. If the Pitch Horizon Scanner was malfunctioning it might not be immediately noticed by the pilot, as the there was no corresponding cockpit gauge to indicate a possible problem. It did not exonerate Scott Carpenter in the eyes of Chris Kraft or the astronauts, but it did allow the astronauts to win a battle that they had been quietly fighting since the start of the program.
In the early days of the space program there had been a fiercely contested battle within the agency over what kind of person would be sent into space. There had been those who had argued for daredevils, acrobats or trained athletes, as opposed to test pilots, who were seen as too individualistic, too prone to taking risks and just generally too difficult to control. Eventually, however, after weighing all the arguments, President Eisenhower had decided that piloting abilities would crucial to the successful completion of the planned Mercury flights. It didn’t matter in any case, the engineers had confidently claimed, the pilot was ultimately a redundant component and the spacecraft would be flown automatically from the ground.
The malfunctioning Pitch Horizon Scanner that plagued Scott Carpenter’s flight and cost him any future chances of going into space also proved to be an opportunity to demonstrate once and for the benefits of having an experienced pilot at the controls. “We need to prove once and for all that the astronaut can stay on task and control the spacecraft,” said Wally Schirra more than once.
At the same time other developments were brewing. Work on the Gemini spacecraft, the larger and more complex successor to Mercury was continuing apace and there were rumblings within the agency that a new class of astronauts would eventually be selected to augment the Mercury Seven as the Mercury astronauts were now called by the press. In anticipation of the expansion of the Astronaut Corp, it was decided that a manager would be brought in to run the Astronaut Office. The scuttlebutt was that the agency was looking at appointing a General or a senior bureaucrat to the position. The astronauts, of course, had different ideas.

Merritt Island,
Florida,
June, 1962

A month after the return of Scott Carpenter from space, the astronauts, this time sans Deke Slayton, were once again gathered at the Beach House for another informal meeting.
“I had to go up to NASA headquarters last week” John Glenn was saying, NASA HQ was in located in Washington DC, “for a meeting with Webb and Dryden.” Of the Mercury Seven, John Glenn had always been considered the most eloquent and well spoken, but in the wake of his Mercury flight, Glenn had also become the consummate politician as well. He had a standing invitation to the White House and it was not uncommon for Glenn to drop in on President Kennedy. “Anyway,” Glenn continued. “Webb was sounding me out on,” running the Astronaut Office.”
“Well, I can’t imagine anyone who’d better suited to the job,” said Gordo Cooper.
“I appreciate that, Gordo,” said Glenn, “but I turned down the job.”
“Shit, John” said Shepard, “what the hell did you that for?”
“I want to stay in the flight rotation, Al,” answered Glenn. “I’d like to think that I’ll go to the Moon some day.”
“Tell you what, John,” said Grissom with a grin, “when I get to the Moon, I’ll send you a postcard.”
Everyone laughed. It was no secret that Gus believed that when the first man walked on the Moon, the name on his space suit would be GRISSOM.
“It’ll be just our luck,” Cooper, “that NASA will put a pencil-pushing bureaucrat in charge of the Astronaut Office.”
“I might just have to resign in protest if that happened,” said Schirra.
“Wally and Gordo are both right,” said Glenn thoughtfully after a moment or two of silence.
“How do you mean, John?” asked Carpenter.
“I want some one I can trust to run the office,” answered Glenn, “not some penny-pinching bureaucrat.”
“I agree,” Cooper, “someone who’s been through the training-“
“-and could fly the mission now, today,” put in Shepard.
“An astronaut,” agreed Schirra.
The astronauts all looked at each other. “Ok, an astronaut,” said Shepard, “but who?”
“Well, hell, isn’t it obvious?” asked Grissom.
“What about Deke?” suggested Cooper.
“You’ll get no argument of me,” responded Schirra.
The astronauts had long been in agreement that Deke’s grounding was unfair and bad break. Making Deke the head of the Astronaut Office seemed to the astronauts like reasonable compensation for losing his chance to go into space.

Cape Canaveral,
Florida,
June, 1962

A few days later, Shepard cornered Bob Gilruth and Chris Kraft and found them receptive to the idea.
“You’ll go no argument from me, Al,” said Gilruth.
“Me neither,” said Kraft.
Later that day, Shepard buttonholed Walt Williams and set up a meeting for later in the month to sound Deke out on running the Astronaut Office.

* * *

Deke Slayton knocked on Bob Gilruth’s office door first thing on Monday morning. He pushed open the door and stepped into the bright summer sunshine filtering through the large window behind Gilruth’s cluttered desk. Chris Kraft, Al Shepard and Walt Williams were all clustered together at one end of Gilruth’s desk. Deke took the only empty seat, right in front of Gilruth. He surveyed the four men. “Bob, Chris, Al?” All four faces were masks. “Guys, what’s going on here?”
Gilruth gestured to the empty chair. “Why don’t you sit down, Deke. We have a couple of things we’d like to talk you about.”
Deke sat.
Kraft went first. “Deke, we know you’ve been campaigning to have your flight status re-instated,” he said.
“We’ve examined the report filed by Dr. White,” Gilruth continued.
“That’s great,” said Deke excitedly.
Kraft interjected. “Sorry Deke, the flight surgeons have carefully studied the finding of this report and compared these test result to the previous set, as well your initial results from the candidate selection process.”
“The flight surgeons agree with Dr. White’s conclusions,” Gilruth continued. “In all likelihood you are not a flight risk.”
“However, they see no reason to take a chance either,” said Kraft.
“I’m sorry, Deke,” said Gilruth. “You’ve put a lot into the program, and I know that this isn’t the answer you were hoping for, but there’s nothing more you can do right now.”
“Having said that however,” said Kraft, “We’ve been thinking about what to do about you, Deke.”
“We have a proposal for you,” continued Williams.
Deke’s curiosity was piqued. “What’s that?” he asked.
“As you know,” said Kraft, “we have the Mercury follow-on missions to think about, as well as the flights to the Moon later on.”
“That means that we’re going to be looking to recruit several new classes of astronauts over the next four or five years,” said Gilruth.
“That means that the Astronaut Office will be expanding rapidly in the coming years-” began Williams.
“-And the brass has been looking at a number of candidates to oversee the expansion of the Astronaut Office, bureaucratic weenies and wing-wipers mostly, not pilots,” interjected Shepard. “We talked it over last week while you were out in San Diego, and we all agreed. We don’t want some bureaucrat running the show. We want an astronaut running the Astronaut Office.” Shepard paused. “In short Deke, we want you.”
“We don’t want to lose you Deke,” said Kraft. “We need your skills and experience.” Kraft exchanged a look with Gilruth. “This could be a good fit for you.”
“What about Webb,” asked Deke, “will he go along with this.”
“John and Gus are flying up to DC later today to talk to him,” said Shepard. He cracked a crooked smile at Deke. “You know how persuasive Mr. Clean Marine can be.”
“Don’t worry about Webb,” said Walt Williams in agreement. “He’ll sign off on this.”
“Who knows,” said Gilruth wryly, “you may even be able to assign yourself to a mission some day.”

The Astrodome,
Houston, Texas
July 4, 1962

The astronauts could hear the noise even before they exited the tunnel. As the seven cars bearing the astronauts and their wives pulled on to the arena floor, they were assaulted with a wave of sound. There were people everywhere and the air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and barbarque sauce. A blue haze of charcoal and tobacco smoke hung above the heads of the milling throng, which Deke estimated to be at least several thousand strong. One end of the arena was dominated by a temporary stage awash in bright floodlights. Vice President Lyndon Johnson stepped up to the microphone. A hush fell over the crowd.
“My fellow Texans,” proclaimed a beaming Johnson. The Vice President was wearing a cowboy hat. The pointed toes of a pair of black leather cowboy boots peeked out from beneath the hem of his trouser cuffs. Everybody cheered. Johnson raised his hands for quiet and an expectant hush fell over the crowd. “My fellow Americans, my fellow Texans,” said Johnson again, “it is true what they say, that some things are bigger in Texas. We have in our midst seven extraordinary men.” As he spoke half a dozen floodlights bathed the tunnel entrance where the astronauts were waiting in bright light. Johnson continued speaking extolling the virtues of the astronauts, of which he claimed there were many; their courage, their patriotism, their loyalty. Johnson continued on, extolling the virtues of the space program; that it would bring prestige to the United States; that it would expand Man’s knowledge and contribute to greater understanding of humanity’s place in the universe and would create new opportunities as it created new materials, technologies and manufacturing procedures. “My friends,” concluded Johnson, “lets give a big Texas welcome to America’s Mercury astronauts.”
The seven cars bearing the astronauts and their wives rolled to a stop in front of the stages. They got out and climbed the steps to stand with the Vice President. The crowd cheered wildly as the astronauts and the Vice President were bathed in glow of bright floodlights. No sooner had the astronauts stepped off the stage, than they were swarmed by, Congressmen, oil tycoons, cattle ranchers and businessmen, all as eager as children to have their pictures taken with the astronauts.
The astronauts would quickly discover that the people of Houston had pulled out all the stops in welcoming them, and NASA, to their city. Rice University had donated a large plot of land immediately adjacent to its campus. On the 1,500 acre plot donated by the university, NASA would eventually construct a one hundred building campus, where it would train the members of the Astronaut Corp and oversee the forthcoming Gemini flights, as well as the follow-on moon missions, which had been tentatively named Project Apollo.
At the same time, the seven Mercury astronauts found their own welcomes to Houston were equally as warm and generous. As soon as it had been announced that NASA would be making Houston its permanent home, land had been set aside by a local real estate developer. A local contractor had agreed build a house for each of the astronauts, and their families for free. As if that wasn’t enough, the astronauts also learned that Sears had already agreed to provide the furnishings for their homes for free.
 
Chapter Thirty-Nine

The Baikonur Cosmodrome
Site 1/5
Kazakhstan, USSR
August 11, 1962
4:00 AM

The pre-dawn glow on the distant horizon was drowned out the by harsh glare of the big spot lights surrounding the launch pad, where another Vostok rocket was held securely in the embracing arms of the gantry. Engineers and technicians swarmed over the rocket like ants, which was based in clouds of vapour and shone with a thin sheet of ice. Some distance away, a bright pool of light spilled out onto the concrete apron surrounding the launch pad and the Assembly Hall, where a second rocket was being readied for transfer to the pad the next day.
In 1961 and 62, the Americans had had a string of successful missions, but the capabilities of the American space program were still limited and the Russians were looking jump ahead and hoping for a propaganda coup at the same time. The Russians were aiming for another spectacular space first, the back to back launch of two rockets and the rendezvous of two spacecraft in orbit.
The transfer van’s grumbling engine split the pre-dawn stillness. The transfer van pulled up at the base of the gantry and stopped. The door opened and a figure in a bright orange space suit clambered out. Andrian Nikolayev waddled from the transfer van to the waiting elevator at the base of the gantry. The elevator door clanged shut and the elevator rattled upward into motion. To Nikolayev, the elevator seemed to move with agonizing slowness. In reality the ride from the base of the tower to the catwalk that led from the gantry to the White Room only lasted a couple of minutes.
Andrian Nikolayev had been born in Shorshely, in Chuvashia, seven hundred miles south of Moscow, on September 5, 1929. The son of a collective farmer and a dairy maid, Nikolayevc was descended from a long line of ethnic Bulgars who spoke Turkish as well as Russian. As a young boy, Nikolayev loved to venture into the forest surrounding his home, where he often collected nuts and berries. When he was seven, saw a fighter jet taxiing on near-by runway and became enamoured with airplanes. He wanted to feel the sensation of flying, and in a bid to impress his friends, tried to jump out of a tall tree.
When Nikolayev was a little older, he moved to Tsivilisk, where he had intended to study as a doctor’s assistant, however, his older brother, Ivan, convinced him to switch to a career in forestry. In 1947, he graduated from the Mariinski-Posad Forestry Institute and eventually became a timbre procurement foreman for the Derevyanski Timber Industrial Firm.
Nikolayev’s life underwent a seismic shift in 1950, when he was drafted into the Russian Air Force. As an air cadet, Nikolayev was assigned to a succession of trainings posts, first was the deputy commander of a platoon of anti-aircraft gunners and radio operators, then as a gunner and radio operator on a bomber crew. Nikolayev’s time in the Russian Air Force rekindled his childhood fascination with flight and after graduating first from the Kirovobad Higher Air Force School, where he joined the Young Communists, he attended the Frunze Air Force Pilot School. Upon his graduation, in 1954 he became a fighter pilot.
He relished the thrill of the time he spent the cockpit of his sleek, agile MIG-15. He came to the attention of Sergey Korolev after he walked away from a plane crash and managed to save his jet at same time. He was inducted into the Russian space program, where he excelled in training, earning the nickname the Iron Man and became one of the Vanguard Six. Now he was poised to become the third Russian to fly in space.
The elevator jerked to a stop and the door opened with a clatter. Nikolayev came back to reality with a little bump. He stepped out on to the landing. Ahead of him was the catwalk that led to the White Room and the spacecraft. The air was filled with the screams of tortured metal as the super cold fuel flowed there labyrinthine plumbing system. The shrieking, rattling cacophony of the piping was undercut the low moan of the air being forced out of the rocket’s fuel tanks, along with the WHOOSH! of fuel sublimating into vapour and escaping through the pressure relief valves.
Nikolayev crossed the catwalk in a fast waddle. Technicians hovered around the spacecraft making final adjustments to the systems. Nikolayev paused as the technicians removed his rubber overshoes. He then squeezed through the narrow hatch and clambered into the spacecraft. In the now familiar routine, hands reached into the cockpit, connecting Nikolayev to the on-board systems. Several of the technicians shook his hand. Then the hatch, was lowered into place and bolted shut, followed the outer aerodynamic shroud that protect the spacecraft from the extreme forces of launch.
Nikolayev made contact with mission control. “Moscow, this is Vostok 3, do you read me.”
“Vostok 3, we hear you loud and clear,” answered the Capcom.
“Roger, Moscow,” said Nikolayev. “I am proceeding with my pre-flight checklist.”
He began to bring the spacecraft to life.
Oxygen.
100%
Fuel cells.
Green
Electrical.
On-line.
Guidance.
Nominal.
The sun was up now and the rocket gleamed, tall, silver and sculptural in the morning light. Firmly strapped into the custom fitted acceleration couch, Nikolayev heard the babble of the technicians and engineers in his ear as they made their final adjustments. Then he heard the terminal countdown.
10
9
8
7
6
5
4
3
2
1

Vostok 3
Mission Day 1

The rocket rumbled to life. Nikolayev felt the spacecraft shudder and vibrate, as it strained against the embrace of the gantry arms, while the engines built up to full power. At T+00:00:02 after engine start, the gantry arms fold back on command and the Vostok rocket surged skyward. Nikolayev felt as though an elephant was standing on his chest. The high forces made it almost impossible to breathe. His eyes flicked across his instrument panel and he rattled off his instrument readings.
The rocket vibrated heavily and Nikolayev felt as though he was being shaken in a paint shaker. The rocket’s convulsions were so violent that it was almost impossible for Nikolayev to read his instruments. The rock was passing through Max Q, the moment of maximum aerodynamic resistance, then all at once the rocket soared into the upper fringes of the atmosphere and the violent buffeting dropped off substantially. At T+00:03:40, Nikolayve felt a bang and a jolt as the four strap-on boosters fell away, the rocket was lighter now and surged higher and faster.
With a muffled pop! pop! pop! pop! the explosive bolts holding the protective shroud to the rocket fired and the shroud was jettisoned. A bright shaft of sunlight lanced into the cockpit. Through the round porthole, Nikolayev could see the surface of the Earth, puffy white clouds and the glowing blue band of the atmosphere where the air glow layer caught and refracted the light of the sun. It was the most beautiful sight Nikolayev had ever seen.
At T+00:07:26 the rocket’s sustainer engine cut out and Nikolayev glided silently into orbit. The spacecraft was jostled by what felt like a hard shove, as the spacecraft detached the rocket’s second stage. The rocket’s second stage fell away and would eventually burn up in the atmosphere.
As the spacecraft was inserted into its orbit, Nikolayev felt a sudden lightness of being, as though he were in a state freefall. The loose ends of the straps in his restraining harness drifted lazily upward. From somewhere around his feet, a stray washer rose slowly into the air. He stared at it in wonder. Then a burst of static crackled in his ear, snapping him out of his reverie.
“Ground Control to Vostok 3,” said the Capcom. “Ground Control ton Vostok 3, please respond.”
Nikolayev keyed his mike. “Moscow, Vostok 3,” he replied. “I read you clearly.” He rattled off his instrument readings. “All systems are nominal.”
“Understook, Vostok 3,” said the Capcom. “How are you feeling?”
“I feel fine,” responded Nikolayev. “Everything is in order and I am ready to carry out my tasks.”
“Roger that, Vostok 3,” answered the Capcom. “Proceed with the first task.”
“Understood,” said Nikolayev. He reached up, and very slowly began to unbuckle his safety restrains. First, he freed the left shoulder. Nikolayev’s left arm rose lazily into the air of its own accord. He brought his arm back down and unbuckled the right shoulder. This time, Nikolayev held very, very still. Nothing happened. Nikolayev moved very slightly. As he did so, he rose very gently into the air. He subconsciously kicked at the air, trying to find purchase and arrest his upward momentum. Nikolayev’s brain was trying to him that something must be causing him to move. That wasn’t totally inaccurate. As his spacecraft was circling the Earth at a speed that was faster than the speed of the Earth’s rotation, Nikolayev experience as sensation of falling. Now, as he left his contour couch he experienced that sensation more directly. He reached out with a gloved hand toward what been the ceiling. With the lightest touch, Nikolayev arrested his upward momentum. He held very still again, revelling in the sensation of being suspended in mid-air. It was as though physics had been replaced with magic. Nikolayev reached out slowly with his left hand and touched the bulkhead. As soon as he did so, he immediately began to move in the opposite direction. It was Newton’s Third Law in action.
All the predictions were wrong, thought Nikolayev, drifting serenely in the middle of the cockpit. Prior to the launch a number of medical experts had made lurid and imaginative predictions about what would happen to the human body in the zero G environment if detached from the spacecraft. They had insisted that Nikolayev would become violently sick or totally disoriented, that he would be unable to perform even the simplest tasks and that he might even go mad.
Nikolayev spent most of the next hour moving around the cramped confines of the spacecraft and recording his observations of the experience. Nikolayev found the experience of weightlessness to be amazingly pleasant. In complete contradiction to the effects expected by the flight surgeons, he felt completely clear headed. He had no difficulties co-ordinating his movements. His hearing and vision were unimpaired and he detected no problems with his vestibular system. The entire experience, Nikolayev decided as he drifted back into his seat, had been thoroughly pleasant.
 
Chapter Forty

Cape Canaveral,
Florida,
August 12, 1962,
5:00 AM

Wally Schirra was startled from a deep sleep by the sound of the jangling telephone. He groaned and rolled over. He picked up the phone from is cradle. “Hello?” he said groggily.
“Wally?” It was Gus Grissom.
“Gus?” asked as Schirra in bleary confusion. “Jesus, it’s five AM. What’s going on?”
“Turn on the TV,” said Grissom tersely. He hung up with a loud click!
Schirra returned the phone to its cradle and got up. He put his house coat, padded into the next room and turned on the TV. The screen filled with the fuzzy image of a Russian cosmonaut laughing, smiling and waving at the camera as he floated serenely in space. \
Shit! thought Schirra. He was only dimly aware of what Walter Cronkite was saying on the TV.
“It has been confirmed these are live images coming from the spacecraft Vostok 3,” said Cronkite in his deep baritone. “The cosmonaut’s name, according to the Soviet news agency TASS, is Adrian Nikolayev.”
Hell! thought Schirra. This couldn’t have come at a worse time. There had been some discussion in the Astronaut Office recently noting that the Soviets had been fairly quite since the flight of Gherman Titov in August, 1961. There had been some vauge indications that Titov’s flight had not gone exactly as planned and the Russians’ year long silence had led the Americans to wonder, and to hope, that Soviets had dismantled their space program. Such did not appear now to be the case, as evidenced by the live pictures from orbit. That’s a nice trick, thought Schirra grudgingly. The Mercury missions included 16 mm film cameras to record the reactions of the astronauts to the sensations of space flight, but so far as Schirra was aware, no effort had been made to actually broadcast images from orbit while in flight. To make matters worse, NASA was still battling a public perception headwind as a result of the negative publicity following Scott Carpenter’s Aurora 7 flight.

* * *
While the Americans were grappling with the implications of live television from outer space, the Russians had another surprise in store. Ten hours after the launch of Andrian Nikolayev aboard Vostok 3, Pavel Popovich rocketed into space aboard Vostok 4. The global media, which already devoured the images of Nikolayev cheerily floating, suspended in mid-air in the middle of the spacecraft, went wild at the thought of two spacecraft orbiting the Earth at the same time.
In Denver, Colorado, Scott Carpenter, who was talking time off from the busy post-flight public relations tour, was cornered by reporters looking for a statement.
“I’d like to be that Russian fellow up there,” said Carpenter candidly. “I envy him the wonderful experiences he’s going through right now.”
While the Americans were left to ponder just how the Russians had managed to launch two spacecraft in the span of a day, and what they could do to respond to the Soviets, the rest of the world went wild. The New York Times claimed that NASA was further behind in the space race than in had imagined. In Britain, the London Daily Herald innocently suggested that the Russians had demonstrated orbital rendezvous was actually a simple matter. This was an exaggeration, as Popovich and Nikolayev never closer than three or four miles apart. However, they were close enough to communicate with each other by short wave radio, another first. The London Daily Herald, also intimated that if the Russians could launch two spacecraft at once, then putting the Americans’ growing number of spy satellites out of action should be a simple matter. That was also an exaggeration, but it reflected the under current of suspicion and political reality were a sign of the times.

* * *

With every orbit, Nikolayev and Popovich set another record. On his thirty-ninth orbir, Nikolayev became the first person to travel a million miles in space, making, at the time, the travelled man in history. The Soviet news agency TASS meanwhile, kept the world updated on the status of the flight. Like their American counterparts, who had a penchant for pranks, pratfalls and gotcha games there were a few surprises in store for Nikolayev and Popovich. As Nikolayev turned to the next blank page in his flight log, he found a sheet of paper full of brightly drawn road signs, and a message. He immediately recognized Yuri Gagarin’s hand writing. Learn your road signs! Space is not the Earth-you have to know the rules of the road well…we are with you at heart. Nikolayev laughed and tucked the hand written message away in a pocket on his spacesuit.
In addition to the zero G motion experiments, which made for good TV and good propaganda, there was also serious science to be done. Both spacecraft carried biological specimens. Nikolayev and Popovich both spent significant amounts of time observing their reactions to their environment and carrying out experiments on them. They also photographed the surface of the Earth and observed weather patterns and cloud formations. The endless, shifting display of clouds and land and water, as they circled the Earth every ninety minutes was the most beautiful thing Nikolayev or Popovich had ever seen. Popovich’s experiments involved the study of the behaviour of fluids in microgravity. Popovich injected a burst of air from a little canister into a sealed container of water. He was almost endlessly fascinated by the interplay of the bubbles in the water. He watched in amazement as they merged together, forming a tenuous wobbling orb surrounded on all sides by water, that broke apart into millions of tiny bubbles when the container was shaken.

* * *

The tandem flights of Vostok 3 and 4 did not go totally smoothly, despite the triumphant crowing of the Soviet government to the contrary. On the second day of Popovich’s flight, the environmental control system malfunctioned and the spacecraft became uncomfortably cold, and there had been a discussion on the ground of ending the mission at three days, however, Popovich insisted that he was fine and the decision was made to extend the flight to a fourth day. By the third day of the mission, the cold temperature in the spacecraft and the generally cramped conditions had left Popovich slightly cranky and quarrelsome.

August 15, 1962

The two Vostok spacecraft touched down within minutes of each other 125 miles apart. The recovery teams swung into action as soon as the spacecraft touched down and Nikolayev and Popovich were recovered in short order. They were given a quick on-site medical check and then bundled into the waiting helicopters. From there Nikolayev and Popivich were flown back to the Baikonour Cosmodrome, where they were given a more thorough medical check and then put on a plane to Moscow, where there was to be a parade in their honour.

August 16, 1962,
Kubinka Air Base,
Moscow,
The Soviet Union

The Ilyushin Il-14, proudly bearing the hammer and sickle of the Soviet Union droned down out of the sky to land with a bump on the runway. It taxied to the end of the runway and the stairs were moved into position. A small press pool and a only a few news cameras were waiting. It was a stark contrast to the welcome that awaited returning American astronauts, who were practically thronged by well wishers and reporters as soon as the got off the airplane. Waiting for Nikolayev and Popovich at the bottom of the steps was a gleaming black limousine. Nikolayev and Popovich got in the back seat. The driver revved the engine and the car drove off.
The drive from Kubinka Air Base to Red Square didn’t take very long. When the limo arrived at the Kremlin, it pulled through the main gates and stopped in front of the Kremlin Palace of Congress, a huge modern ediface that housed the People’s Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. The driver opened the door and the two cosmonauts got out. The red carpet was flanked on either side by an honour guard of air force officers who snapped to attention with text-book perfect salutes. After that, the day was a bit of a blur. There was a seemingly endless succession of salutes and hand shakes with generals and admirals and senior Party members. Nikolayev and Popovich both addressed the People’s Congress, which had convened a special session in honour of the occasion.
While in space, Popovich had been struck by the stark contrast between the bright colours of the Earth and the inky infinite blackness of space. “Looking outward to the blackness of space, sprinkled with the glory of a universe of lights,” he said, “I saw majesty, but no welcome. Below was the welcoming planet. There, contained in the thin moving, incredibly fragile shell of the biosphere is everything that is dear to you; all the human drama and comedy. That’s where life is; that’s where all the good stuff is.”
That afternoon there was a military parade in their honour. Tens of thousands of people packed Red Square like it was May Day to watch the show. In the sky, formations of MIGs howled overhead, while neat blocks of infantry stomped past, their bayonets shinning in the sun. Next, the tanks, trucks and mobile rocket launchers came rumbling past. Overhead, bombers and transports droned through the sky. Brass bands belted out patriotic songs. Nikolayev and Popovich never felt more proud to Russian. After the parade there were more speeches. The day’s events were capped off when Nikita Khrushchev personally awarded them the Order of Lenin, while the Red Army band OOMPAHed its way through the Russian anthem.

* * *

While the Soviet propaganda machine was going full tilt, the Americans were quietly assessing the state of the Mercury program and the impact of the Soviets’ latest space coup on their own plans and on the public perception of the space agency. The truth was that the Russians had done something that NASA was not planning to do for another two years. One of the program goals of Gemini was the rendezvous and docking of two spacecraft in orbit. In a candid interview with the New York Times, Dr. Eberhard Rees, the deputy director for the Marshall Spaceflight Centre, said that “the Russians are not ahead of us in the race to the moon and probably do not have the rockets necessary to go to the moon yet. Like us, they must develop them first.”
Nobody at the Cape felt very confident, upon hearing these words, however. The Russians had established a pattern of doing the unexpected at the least opportune time. Nobody was quite sure what the Russians were going to do next.
 
Chapter Forty-One

Late Summer, 1962

In the wake of Scott Carpenter’s less than perfect Aurora 7 flight and the sudden success of Vostok 3 and 4, everyone at the agency was feeling a little on edge. The next flight, which was to be flown by Wally Schirra who had chosen the call sign Sigma 7 for his mission, had already been pushed back from September to October. The rescheduling of the launch had been necessitated by what effective amounted to a redesign of the Mercury spacecraft. The Agency was determined that the malfunction Pith Horizon Scanner and other problems that Carpenter had encountered would not reoccur. That’s why Schirra had been selected to fly the next mission. It was also the reason why the astronauts, as a group, insisted on and got more freedom how they trained and drew up the flight plan.
“Don’t go crowding the flight plan with a lot of egghead experiments,” said Schirra more than once.
In the meantime, construction had begun on the Manned Space Flight Centre in Houston, which would be NASA’s future home. Launch operations would still be conducted at Cape Canaveral, but starting with Gemini, the missions would be managed from Houston. That meant that the astronauts and the flight controllers would soon be moving.

* * *

The rental car turned off the main highway and bumped its way down the dirt road past the hand painted wooden sign that read TAYLOR LAKE VILLAGE. The whole area was mostly open scrubland, dotted here and there with little thickets of trees and bales of hay. The smell of cow manure hung in the air and mixed with the sharp tang of clear water coming off of the near by Taylor Lake. The rental car stopped and Wally Schirra got out. There wasn’t much to look at, just cows and trees and tall grass. Stakes hammered into the ground marked the foundations of where the houses would eventually be built.
Schirra shaded his eyes against the low-hanging afternoon sun and looked around.
“I don’t know Wally,” said his wife, Josephine uncertainly, “it looks pretty desolate.”
“Well, I admit that it doesn’t look like much, now Jo-” began Schirra. He was interrupted by the sound of a car rumbling up the road. It slowed and pulled over, stopping just behind Schirra’s rental car. The door opened and the driver got out.
He was a tall and broad shouldered with close-cropped blond hair, piercing blue eyes and a scrubby blond goatee.
“Jack Sheridan?” asked Schirra.
There was a round of handshakes. Sheridan pulled out a map. “So which lot were you interested?”
The Schirras studied the development plan for a minute or two. Finally Jo pointed. “This one,” she said. The lot in question only a short walk away. Taylor Lake Village had been incorporated the year before as a vacation village. Lot sales had been slow, but with the space program coming to Houston, the astronauts and flight controllers suddenly found themselves house hunting. The Schirras had taken a precious weekend away from the busy training schedule to come down to Houston look at real estate. John Glenn had found Taylor Lake while flying out to California to visit the Atlas assembly plant.
The Schirras and the real estate agent rounded a corner past a sign that said SLEEPY HOLLOW COURT. They stopped in front of lot 86. The model that Wally and Jo were interested in was called the Sunbeam. It was a snug little ranch house that would be just perfect for their young family.
“So why don’t we step inside,” said Sheridan. They stepped off the road and trudged through the tall grass to approximately where the front door would be, stopping just inside it. On the left would go a large living room, on the right was the dining room. Behind that was the kitchen. Across the hall from the kitchen was the bathroom. Arrayed across the back of the house was the master bedroom, with en suite, two smaller bedrooms for the kids and a guestroom. At the back of the property, the waters of a quiet canal that ended in a water cul-de-sac lapped gently against the shore. Boats bobbed gently on the water.
“Scott Carpenter is two doors down that way,” said Sheridan, “and John Glenn bought the house immediately beyond that.”
It was perfect.


The Rice Hotel,
Houston, Texas,
September, 1962

The cab ride from the airport hadn’t taken very long. As the taxi pulled off the Gulf Freeway, Jim Lovell, who was sitting in the back seat, caught a brief glimpse of a billboard. It said
WHILE IN TOWN, STAY AT THE RICE HOTEL,
YOUR HOST IN HOUSTON
MAX PECK, MANAGER

For a second, Lovell was confused. Manager Max Peck, he thought, there must be some mistake. Either that or somebody has a sense of humour. Several days earlier, Deke Slayton had called Lovell as he was sitting in the pilot’s ready room at the Naval Air Test Centre at the Pax River US Naval Air Station, looking over a weather report for a test flight that he was to make later that day.
“Hey Lovell, phone call for you.”
Lovell looked up from what he had been doing. “Who is it?” he asked.
A shrug. “I don’t know, he won’t say.”
Lovell got and walked across the room. He took the proffered telephone. “Hello?”
“Jim Lovell?” It was Deke Slayton.
“Speaking,” said Lovell. He suddenly felt his throat constrict.
“Jim,” began Deke without preamble, “how you like to come work for me?”
It took a couple of seconds for Lovell to process what Deke was telling him. “Would I?” asked Lovell in a dazed. He had applied to the space program, when NASA had issued its first call for astronauts in 1958 and had failed to pass the initial round of medical tests. His bilirubin had been too high. When NASA had announced that it was accepting candidates for a second class of astronauts, Lovell had submitted his name again. Flying experimental, prototype spacecraft had struck him as a lot more interesting than testing jets.
On the phone, Deke was laughing. “That’s what I’m asking you.”
“Yeah, sure, Deke,” said Lovell, recovering his composure. “I’d love to.”
“Good,” said Deke. “There’s a plane ticket waiting for you at the airport. When you arrive in Houston, go straight to the Rice Hotel. There’s a room waiting for you under the name Max Peck.”
Lovell was scribbling quickly. “Houston. Rice Hotel. Ask for Max Peck.”
“No,” said Deke, “you are Max Peck.”
More scribbling. “Got it,” said Lovell. “Deke, can you tell me if Pete-” Lovell had been about to ask if his good friend and flying buddy Pete Conrad had been accepted into the Astronaut Corp the second time around. Conrad had put in his name along with Lovell the first time, but had been dropped when he had loudly and blunt refused to continue with the second round of medical tests, which he had regarded needlessly invasive.
“Don’t worry about that,” said Deke, cutting him off. “You’ll find out when you get there. See you in a few days.” Deke hung up.
Lovell sat for a second, absorbing what had just happened. I just became an astronaut, he thought. He put the phone back on its cradle and then picked it up again and started dial his home number. It was ringing.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
He shaking with excitement. He just had to tell her. Come on, Marilyn, thought Lovell. Pick up.
“Hello?”
“Marilyn,” Lovell gabbled excitedly. “Start packing.”
“Packing?” asked Marilyn in confusion, “why?”
“We’re moving.”
“Moving? Where?”
“Houston.”
Lovell thought he heard a loud thunk! as his wife dropped the phone in surprise.
The cab dropped Lovell off in front of the Rice Hotel under the ornate portico. He paid the driver and went inside. The lobby was large and spacious. It was dotted here and there with clusters of comfortable sofas and armchairs. The bright Texas sunshine streamed in through the windows that faced the street. Lovell paused, looking around. He had thought that Deke, or somebody, would be here to meet him, but he didn’t see anybody who appeared to have even the slightest connection to the space program. He pushed his doubts aside and walked across the lobby to the reception desk. Lovell dinged the bell.
“May I help you?” asked the pretty, young receptionist. The name tag on her uniform said her name was Sheila.
“I have a reservation,” said Lovell. “My name is Max Peck”
Sheila quickly riffled through the pages of the reservation book. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I don’t see a reservation for a Mr. Peck.”
“No, really-” Lovell began. He wracked his brain. Deke had told him to come to the Rice Hotel and check in under this name. He had misunderstood something? Lovell didn’t think so, but all the same, he was rapidly becoming unimpressed with all this cloak and dagger nonsense. He had thought that NASA was a stand-up outfit. Maybe he had been wrong about that. At that moment, Sheila’s manager came over.
“Is everything alright?” he asked. The badge on his jacket said his name was Wes Hooper.
“No, Mr. Hooper,” said Lovell at once. “My name is Max Peck, and your receptionist is having trouble finding my reservation.”
“As, I told the gentleman, Mr. Hooper-” Sheila began.
“That’s all right,” interrupted Mr. Hooper. He waved her away. “I’ll deal with this.” He turned to Lovell. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Peck.” He turned the reservation book around to face Lovell and pointed at the first blank line on the page. “Please sign here.”
Lovell had to remind himself to write Max Peck and not Jim Lovell. He signed his name. Mr. Hooper handed him the key to Room 1138. Lovell picked up his luggage and walked around the corner to the elevators. He got in and rode up to the eleventh floor. He found Room 1138, opened the door and dropped his luggage on the bed. Lovell looked around. He looked at his watch. It was almost 6:00. This is ridiculous, he thought. He wasn’t about to just sit in his room and wait for something to happen. I’m going to go downstairs and have dinner, Lovell thought, if that blows my cover, than so be it. He opened the door, stepped out into the hall and shut the door. Lovell found the elevators and rode back down to the main floor. As he walked around the corner and into the lobby he stopped, and stared. No, he thought in amazement. It can’t be. Sitting together, in a pair of armchairs in the middle of the lobby were three men, two of whom were smoking. One was smoking a pipe and the other was puffing away on a very big cigar. The third man, Lovell didn’t recognize. He took a more circuitous route around the edge of the lobby so that he could sneak up on the other two men unseen. “Well, well,” said Lovell. “So, the fleet has landed.”
The two men started in surprise then jumped up. The one with the pipe grinned broadly. “If it isn’t Shaky Lovell,” said Pete Conrad in amazement.
“What loophole did you slip in through?” asked John Young, beaming.
“I don’t know,” answered Lovell, “but they should keep it open.” Lovell surveyed the scene. “So an all-Navy crew?” he observed.
“Not exactly,” said Young. The third man who had been sitting with Young and Conrad stood up and took a step toward Lovell.
“Jim,” interjected Conrad, “this is Ed White, US Air Force.” Lovell shook White’s hand.
The four men sat down. “So is this it?” asked White. “Is it just the four of us?”
Lovell shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, “I asked Deke who else had been selected, but he wasn’t giving anything up. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
Over the course of the next couple of hours, several more men walked into the hotel. They all wore the same slightly confused look that Lovell had worn when he had arrived. No doubt they had all seen the billboard by the side of the highway. Eventually, there were nine of them.
Neil Armstrong.
James A Lovell
Charles “Pete” Conrad.
Edward H White.
John Young.
Frank Borman.
Elliot See.
Thomas Stafford.
James McDivitt.
They would call themselves The New Nine.
 
Chapter Forty-Two

October 3, 1962
Launch Complex 14
Cape Canaveral,
Florida,
1:40 AM

Wally Schirra was gently shaken awake by Dr. Minners very in the morning on October 3. He blinked in the sudden bright light as the bedside light went on with a click. Schirra rolled out of bed and walked into the bathroom for a shower and a shave. After performing his usual morning ablutions, on this most unusual of mornings, Schirra left the astronaut quarters and made his way down the hall to where Minners, Deke, Walt Williams and Bob Gilruth were waiting for him. After breakfast, which was a light hearted affair, Schirra and Minners went off for a final pre-flight check. Minners had given Schirra a full physical a few days earlier. Now he listened to his heart beat and breathing. He took his pulse and drew a couple of vials of blood.
“Ok, Wally,” said Minners, making some notes on a clipboard, “I am certifying you as fit to fly.”
Schirra hopped down off of the examination table. “Roger that, doc,” he said genially. He walked next door where the technicians were waiting to help him struggle into the 20 pound rubber, aluminum and mylar spacesuit that had been custom fitted to the contours of his body. Half an hour later, Schirra wattled out of the fitting room and down the hall to the door that led outside to the waiting transfer van. In the space of a year, the whole tenor of the program had changed. When Alan Shepard had made his sub-orbital flight, in 1961, you could have cut the tension on launch day with a knife. Fast forward 18 months, and it was normal. A year of hard work had turned everyone in the program into veterans.
As the transfer van jerked to a stop at the base of the gantry, Schirra opened the door and got out. The rocket, the gantry and the concrete apron around it was bathed in a pool of bright light cast by the big xenon flood lights that ringed the scene. The engineers and technicians looked like ants swarming over some huge goliath. As Schirra rode the elevator up to the Green Room, his senses were assaulted by the moaning of excess air escaping from pressure relief valves and the screaming of tortured metal as the -200 degree liquid oxygen fuel was continuously pumped into the rocket’s fuel tanks, but he had been through it all before, training as Scott Carpenter’s back-up pilot. He didn’t hear the discordant symphony of noises coming from the rocket. To Wally Schirra, today was just another day in the cockpit, except that it wasn’t, because today Wally Schirra was about to be strapped into the nose cone of a ballistic missile and launched into space.
The elevator stopped and the door rattled open. Schirra stepped out. The Green Room hummed with activity as the technicians hovered around the spacecraft, making last minute adjustments and conducting their final checks. Schirra walked around the spacecraft once, mentally kicking the tires. He may not have been fighter pilot any more, but you never lose the attitude. Satisfied that all was in readiness, Schirra approached the spacecraft. He paused momentarily as the technicians removed the rubber overshoes covering his boots. He handed somebody the portable cooling unit. He wormed his way through the hatch and into the cramped cockpit.
As he settled into his seat, Schirra noticed something dangling from the joystick safety latch. It was a set of car keys. He laughed and handed them to Gordo Cooper, who had overseen the preparation of the spacecraft for the flight.
Hands reached into the cockpit and Schirra was buckled in.
Comm check.
Pre-flight checklist.
Hatch closure.
The countdown proceeded apace and the gantry was rolled back. Schirra felt the rocket sway slightly as the engines were gimballed off-axis and then returned to their centre positions.
Schirra heard the terminal countdown.
10
9
8
7
6
5
4
3
2
1
He reached out and pushed a button in the middle of his instrument panel. “Sigma 7, Mercury Control, the clock is started.”
“Roger that, Sigma 7.”
The ascent was not as violent as Schirra had anticipated. He felt a steady pressure on his chest, as though something very heavy were sitting on him, but otherwise the ride was very smooth.
2 Gs.
3 Gs.
4 Gs.
5 Gs.
The needle stopped moving at 7 Gs.
“Stand by for staging.”
“Copy,” said Schirra.
He felt a hard shove from behind as he was thrown into his restraints. Almost as quickly Schirra was thrown backward back into his seat as the second stage engine kicked in. “Confirm good staging,” said Schirra.
Through his helmet, Schirra heard a muffled whoosh! and a bright shaft of sunlight lanced into the cockpit.
TOWER SEP.
The TOWER SEP winked on and glowed green.
Another shove, this time more gentle as the spacecraft was ejected from the second stage. Schirra took hold of the joystick and pulsed his thrusters. The spacecraft flipped end over end as Schirra put the spacecraft through its paces. The spacecraft was as responsive as a fighter jet. As it tumbled and turned, views of the Earth flashed past the window. Schirra saw none of it. His attention was directed to his instruments and controlling the orientation of the spacecraft. Schirra pulsed his thrusters again, and the spacecraft came to a stop. Schirra allowed himself a glance out the window. In the distance, he spied the spent, tumbling second stage booster as it slow succumbed to gravity.
Below the spent rocket the world spread out in front of him, like a page in an atlas. In a moment, Schirra’s gaze swept from northern Europe to the Sahara Desert. He began snapping pictures.
Click! Mount Etna.
Click! The sand dunes of the Sahara.
Click! The jungles of the Congo.
A part of Schirra saw the beauty of orbital panorama that had spread it self out below him, but that part was submerged. He was totally mission oriented. As he passed over the Canary Islands he turned his attention from tracking the spent booster to putting the spacecraft’s RCS thrusters through their paces. One of the recurring problems during the early flights in the program had been that the RCS thrusters had been inefficient and had left the spacecraft with insufficient RCS propellant at the end of the flight. After Scott Carpenter had run out of propellant during re-entry a decision was made to overhaul the Orbital Maneuvering System.
Schirra keyed his mike. “Canary Capcom, Sigma 7.”
“Sigma 7, Canary Capcom reading you 5 by 5.”
“Roger that,” answered Schirra. He rattled off his instrument readings.
“Copy that, Sigma 7,” responded the Capcom.
Schirra flipped a switch, resetting the guidance system from AUTO to MANUAL. Schirra twitched the joystick. The view out the window shifted slowly. He was flying on minimal thrusters. One of the objectives of the flight was to test the efficiency of the re-designed reaction control system. The Earth slid out of view, to be replaced by the infinite blackness of space. Another twitch. The spacecraft came to a stop and held its orientation.
“Canary Capcom, Sigma 7,” said Schirra. “The RCS thrusters are very responsive. Nice and smooth.”
“Copy that, Sigma 7.”

Sigma 7
Earth Orbit
Elapsed Mission Time:
03:22:14

The sun set with startling swiftness. One second it was a glowing incandescent ball hanging in space, the next it was sliding downward behind the bulk of the planet. The thin ribbon of the atmosphere caught and refracted the light, turning the atmosphere a deep shade of indigo. As he arrowed out over the coast of Africa and into the Indian Ocean, Schirra turned in the direction of Australia. Below him clouds scudded shapelessly over the surface of the ocean. Beyond the limb of the Earth, the stars in Orion’s belt gleamed faintly through the thin ribbon of atmosphere. The flight was going well. On his first orbit, Schirra had put the spacecraft through its paces, checking out the manoeuvring system. On the second orbit, the spacecraft’s air conditioning system failed causing the temperature in the cockpit to being to rise, a problem that had occurred on the previous two flights. In Mission Control, there had been serious discussion of ending the flight right then and there.
“I’m fine,” Schirra had insisted and he systematically began to make incremental adjustments to the environmental controls. By the start of the third orbit, the temperature in the spacecraft had come down to a more tolerable level. As he approached Muchea and Woomera, the cockpit was pierced by a shaft of golden sunlight. The sun was above the horizon again. Below him, the arid, red-brown coastline of Australia was bathed in the cerulean waters of the Indian Ocean.
The spacecraft was oriented nose down with Muchea and Woomera appearing in the periscope viewer. The view was partially obscured by dark, turgid looking storm clouds. Lightening danced across the scene.
Static crackled in Schirra’s ear.
“Sigma 7, Muchea,” said the Capcom, “we have a break in the weather. We are going to attempt the flare experiment.”
“Copy that, Muchea,” replied Schirra. The flare experiment was pilot visualization experiment that had been attempted on the previous two flights and had been forestalled by bad weather.
Schirra rattled off his instrument readings.
Schirra looked through the periscope viewer again. Muchea and Woomera were obscured by scudding clouds. Lightening continued to flicker, obscuring Schirra’s vision. “Muchea, Sigma 7,” radioed Schirra, “no joy, repeat no joy. I see heavy cloud cover and lightening over your area.”
“Copy that, Sigma 7.” The experiment was bust. Again.

Sigma 7
Earth Orbit
Elapsed Mission Time
06:08:18

As the sun slid smoothly downward toward the limb of the Earth, Canton Island basked in the twilight glow, its pristine beaches casting a ghostly white glow in the fast on-coming night. A burst of static crackled in Schirra’s ear.
“Sigma 7, Canton Island,” said Grissom. “How do you read?”
“Canton Island, I read you loud and clear,” replied Schirra. He rattle off his instrument read outs.
“Roger that, Sigma 7,” responded Grissom. “Mercury Control confirms that you are go for six orbits.”
“Roger that, Canton Island.” Schirra snapped a succession of switches, turning off the autopilot and the automated RCS thrusters. He pulsed his thrusters and heeled the spacecraft over on its yaw axis. The world rolled slowly into view, filling the window with its bulk. It was a bit like staring out the window of a train, as the world glided serenely by beneath him.

* * *

As Schirra approached the west coast of the United States at sunrise, John Glenn’s voice crackled in his ear.
“Sigma 7,Cal Capcom. Do you read?”
“Copy,” replied Schirra. “I read you loud and clear.”
“Roger that, Sigma 7.” The sun was up and Schirra could see from Seattle all the way south to San Diego. San Francisco Bay shone like a mirror in the morning sun. The crumpled peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains thrust themselves upward. Here and there snow capped peaks caught the sunlight and glowed brightly. Swirls of clouds blew in off the ocean. Surrounded by the jagged mountain peaks, the farms of central California painted a swath of green that stretched beyond Schirra’s vision. Glenn’s voice spoke in his ear again. “Sigma 7, Cal Capcom, two minutes to live TV.”
“Copy that,” replied Schirra. In the wake of the numerous firsts on the most recent Vostok flight, there had been considerable discussion within the agency as to how to respond to the Soviet successes. The larger Mercury follow, Gemini, was not ready and would not be so for some time. Additionally, NASA did not have the ability to launch two spacecraft in quick succession as the Russians had done and it had been decided that NASA would respond by broadcasting Schirra’s image live from orbit.
Schirra pushed a button and a light blinked on on his instrument panel. His image was now being broadcast live all over the United States.
“Ok,” said Glenn, “Sigma 7, this is Cal Capcom. You’re on live TV for two minutes. Anything you want to say Wally?”
“Copy that. John,” said Schirra. “I am just coming out a powered down configuration,” he said. On half way through the previous orbit, Schirra had turned off the ASCS and allowed the spacecraft to drift while he took pictures and made observations. “I’ve now turned it back on,” continued Schirra. “It will stay on for the duration of the flight.”
“Roger that,” answered Glenn. “Do you have else anything you’d like to say to the American people?”
“Well,” began Schirra, “I’ll tell you, I understand why you and Scott love it up here. I’m looking that United States and starting to pitch up.” As Schirra and Glenn had been talking, the spacecraft had passed over the California coast. The jumbled peaks of the Rocky Mountains spread themselves out before him. In the distance, just on the edge of the horizon, the Mississippi River, wended its way down from Chicago toward the Gulf of Mexico. “I can see most of the United States and the Moon from this angle.” As the spacecraft continued its upward drift, the Moon came into Schirra’s line of sight. It hung motionless in the infinite void like a brightly polished silver coin. “I wish I could share it with everyone,” said Schirra. “It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.” As he said it, an old song suddenly came to mind, Drifting and Dreaming. I may be drifting, he thought, but I’m not dreaming. I’m enjoying it all too much..
 
Chapter Forty-Three
USS Kearsarge
The Pacific Ocean
12:30 PM

CRACK! crack! The deep report of the sonic boom and its echo shattered the opalescent blue sky above the aircraft carrier placidly steaming on station, 500 miles northwest of Hawaii, causing the bridge windows to rattle slightly in their frames. The echo had barely faded before Captain Rankin had picked the growler phone that lay within arm’s reach of his chair.
“Bridge, C-in-C.”
“C-in-C, standing by,” said the Officer of the Deck crisply.
“Recovery choppers are go for flight ops.”
“Yes sir.”
Captain Rankin put the phone back into its cradle with a solid sounding clunk. He picked up a pair of binoculars and trained them on the far aft end of the flight deck. Down on the flight deck a pair of helicopters began moving slowly forward, their rotors spinning lazily. No sooner had they reached the centre of the flight deck, than their rotors spooled up and they rose into the air. Almost as soon as they lifted off from the deck, they wheeled around, circled the ship once and arrowed off in the direction of the descending spacecraft.

Sigma 7
The Pacific Ocean

The spacecraft drifted gently down from the sky under its three brightly coloured parachutes. The spacecraft hit the water with a jolt. Schirra’s window was momentarily submerged, turning the cockpit a watery green colour, then the spacecraft popped back up to the surface and heeled over slightly in the water.
“Sigma 7, this is Castle Tango 629,” said the lead recovery pilot, “we are in bound to your position. ETA five minutes.”
“Copy that Castle Tango 629,” said Schirra. He must have been right on the nose on his re-entry and landed smack in the middle of the recovery fleet. He quickly scribbled down his final instrument readings. When he was done, he pushed up his face plate. The cockpit was slightly warm, but not uncomfortable so and began to disentangle himself from the spacecraft systems.
The two recovery choppers drew to a stop above the spacecraft, the down draft from their rotors whipping the sea into a froth of spray. Frogmen splashed into the water.
“Sigma 7, do you wish to exit the spacecraft now?”
“Negative, Castle Bravo 629,” replied Schirra, “I will exit the spacecraft onboard the recovery ship.” A career Navy man, Wally Schirra was well aware of Navy etiquette and the proper manner of boarding an aircraft carrier and he did not intend to disappoint today.
“Understood, Sigma 7.”
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! One of the frogmen had climbed up on the side of the spacecraft and banging on the window. Schirra gave him a thumbs-up and flashed him a hand sign. The man nodded and splashed back into the water. He turned away from the spacecraft, looked up the helicopter and flashed a hand sign. A couple of minutes later one of the ship’s boats came along side. One of the sailors tied a line to the hook on top of the spacecraft. Schirra felt the spacecraft heeling over slighting in the water as it was taken in tow. A hook was lowered from one of the ship’s cranes and Schirra felt the spacecraft slowly swinging back and forth with the motion of the ship as it was hoisted out of the water.
By now word had spread through the ship and a large crowd of sailors, pilots and Marines had coalesced, seemingly out of thin air around the number three elevator, as the scorched and dripping spacecraft was swung over the deck.
Schirra felt a gentle bump as the spacecraft touched down on the deck of the Kearsarge. Through his window, he could see the Marines forming a cordon around the spacecraft. Just beyond, in the front row of the gathered crows were several members of the recovery team and Captain Rankin. Schirra flashed a hand sign to the young Lance Corporal heading up the squad of Marines. He nodded and motioned for everyone to get back. When Schirra thought that the immediate area was clear, he flipped up the clear plastic cover, pulled the pin and hit the firing button. A series of loud pops! reverberated through the spacecraft. At the same instant, Schirra felt an intense pain in his hand and he wondered for a second or two if he had broken a bone. Before the echo had faded the recovery team moved in and pulled the hatch off. Schirra wriggled out of his seat, through the hatch and on to the deck. He stood up, turned to face Captain Rankin and saluted.
“Permission to come aboard, Sir?”
“Permission granted.”
The crowd parted and the recovery team hustled him below decks.

Havana, Cuba,
October 8, 1962

The Sergey Rubilov appeared like a steel behemoth out of the morning mist, just off of the entrance to Havana harbour. She slowed as the pilot boat chugged out past the breakwater. A ladder was lowered over the side and the harbour pilot clambered up the side of the ship. He was helped over the railing and on to the deck by the ship’s Third Officer. The deck was cluttered with shipping crates, construction equipment, trucks and other vehicles. In the middle of deck were two long, rectangular cargo crates. They were securely lashed to the deck and covered by tarps.
“Please, bridge is this way,” said the Third Officer. He spoke in already broken Spanish that was further mangled by a thick Ukrainian accent. He gestured for the harbour pilot to follow him and together they made their way up four decks to the bridge.
The harbour pilot had brought many ships into Havana over the course of his career, warships, mostly American until recently, all haze gray and stainless steel, liners, with their stained teak and gleaming brass, and numerous nameless freighters, dingy, battered and rusted. The bridge of the Sergey Rubilov fit into the latter category. The bridge of the Rubilov was cramped and slightly dank. The signal flags in their wood locker were slightly faded. The chart on the plotting table in the alcove just aft of the bridge was creased and torn at the edges. The hand grips on the ship’s wheel were worn smooth and the engine telegraph looked very battered. One of the overhead lights flickered feebly. Everything about the Sergey Rubilov said that she was a ship much closer to end of her career, than the beginning, which was precisely why she had been chosen to deliver this cargo.

* * *

Half an hour later the Sergey Rubilov was tied up at the pier. Two trucks with unusually long trailers were waiting for her. As soon as the dock workers had finished tying up the ship, her cranes swung into action and lifted the two long, rectangular crates in the middle of the deck on to the two trailers waiting on the dock. The engines of the two trucks rumbled to life and they pulled away, one behind the other. Nobody on the dock looked up at their departure.
Washington DC,
The White House,
October 14, 1962

President Kennedy stared at the maps and photographs with a look of dismay etched on his face. Cuba, though Kennedy. Why does it have to be Cuba again?
Upon his election, President Kennedy had inherited a CIA plan that had been developed under the Eisenhower administration to foment an anti-Communist uprising in Cuba, which had fallen into the Soviets’ orbit late in Eisenhower’s second term as a result of Fidel Castro’s successful anti-Batista uprising.
Jack and Bobby were both avowed anti-Communists. Their anti-Communist sentiments coupled with the prospect of a hostile nation less then ninety miles from the southern tip of Florida had meant that the President had been easily persuaded to sign off on the plan, which had called for the bombing of the Cuban Air Force and for the landing of a ground force that consisted of 1,100 American trained Cuban exiles at a place called the Bay of Pigs. Kennedy had been assured by his advisors that the swamps bordering Bay of Pigs would make perfect guerrilla country. When the CIA-trained Cubans had landed they found not a swamp, but a nearly impenetrable tangle of mangrove roots bordering the beaches. Realizing that he’d been mislead, Kennedy first ordered the size of the operation’s aerial support reduced from 16 bombers to eight, and further ordered their rules of engagement restricted to defending to ground force. Kennedy had wanted a quite coup, not a shooting war with Cuba, which was certain to attract the attention of the Soviets. After two days of bitter fighting, the Cuban Army over ran the rebels’ position. The incident had not only become a political embarrassment for the President, but had left both Jack and Bobby deeply sceptical of the CIA and the Joint Chiefs. More than once in the wake of the Bay of Pig fiasco, President Kennedy had contemplated simply disbanding the CIA.
He surveyed the photographs, the maps and the men gathered in front of his desk. He pursed his lips. Occupying the two sofas that occupied the middle of the Oval Office were Bobby Kennedy, the President’s brother and the Attorney General of the United States, Dean Rusk, the Secretary of State, Robert McNamara, the Secretary of Defence. McGeorge Bundy, President’s National Security Advisor and the Director of Central Intelligence, John McCone. Sitting opposite them General Lyman Lemnitzer, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Sitting on either side of him were General Curtis LeMay, the Vice Chief of the Air Force and Admiral George Anderson, the Chief of Naval Operations.
Kennedy got up from behind his desk with a slight wince. His back was unusually cramped today. His back brace clinked slightly as he walked around his desk and sat down in his rocking chair. He surveyed the room yet again. “I am most dismayed at these developments, gentlemen. The big red dog is digging in our backyard and we simply can not have that.” Kennedy nodded to McCone. “John, you called this meeting; please begin.”
McCone nodded and rose. He moved to stand between the easels that held the maps and the photographs of the Soviet missiles in Cuba. McCone began speaking without preamble. “As you may remember gentlemen, we have been monitoring Soviet activities in Cuba for some time.”
American-Cuban relations had been deteriorating for some time. In the wake of Castro’s successful uprising, in 1959, the Cuban dictator had sought official recognition and support from the United States, however, the brash young Senator from Boston, who had just been elected President of the United States chose not to extend American support to the bearded Cuban rebel. Instead, Castro turned to the Soviets, who accepted him at once. Within a year of Kennedy’s election, Cuba had been firmly pulled into the Soviets’ sphere of influence.
Relations between Cuba and the United States had declined precipitously just within the past month, when Andrei Gromyko, the Soviet Foreign Minister, had intervened on Cuba’s behalf against what Castro had called “American bully tactics.”
“Under no circumstances,” Gromyko had said, “will the people of the Soviet Union permit further American adventurism in Cuba. We regard that as a hostile act.”
Maybe Bobby was right, thought Kennedy. Maybe we should have gone inv all guns blazing on the Bay of Pigs. Even as he thought this, another part of him rebelled. And risk a shooting war, or worse, with the Soviets? Over Cuba? It’s not worth it.
Kennedy’s train of thought was interrupted by the voice of Curtis LeMay. “I said it September, and I’ll say it again. We should hit them now and the bastards hard, while we will have the element of surprise.”
Kennedy shook his head. “The time for armed intervention may have passed, General.”
Bobby nodded in agreement. “If we move on Cuba, the Soviets will move somewhere in response; conceivably in Berlin. We can not allow that.”
It was McCone’s turn to nod. “There is an additional wrinkle,” he said. Another photograph went up on the easel, a slender pencil shaped rocket on the back of a truck. “The missiles that the Soviets have thus far shipped to Cuba are all of the RS-12 variety.”
The RS-12 Intermediate Range Ballistic Missile, also known in NATO intelligence circles as the SS-4 Sandal, was armed with a single 3 megaton nuclear warhead and was capable of striking targets up 2,000 miles away.
New York.
Boston.
Philadelphia
Baltimore.
Washington.
Houston.
Chicago.
The implications were frightening.
McCone was still speaking “The missiles are all on truck mounted launchers-,” he said.
“Which means that we’d need to hit them all at once,” interjected Bobby.
Everyone looked apprehensively at each other.
“I don’t like where this is going,” said the President.
“Nor do I, Mr President,” said McNamara uneasily, “but I must agree with General LeMay.”
“As do I,” said interjected Lemnitzer, nodding to McNamara and LeMay. “I am forced to agree with my colleagues’ assessment of the situation. We should strike now while we still have time.”
“If we do that we look like the aggressors,” replied Bundy adamantly.
“And if we wait,” replied Anderson, “it may be too late.” He turned to Kennedy. “Mr. President it is my considered opinion that the actions of the Soviets are tantamount to nuclear blackmail. I say strike, and strike quickly.”
Kennedy was quite for a moment or two, aghast at the implications of where this line of thought might take them. Finally he spoke to LeMay. “General,” he asked pensively, as thought he didn’t really want to hear the answer, “What kind of anti-aircraft defences will the Soviets have set up around the missile sites?”
“We should expect a mix of anti-aircraft artillery, surface-to-air missile batteries and heavy machine guns,” replied LeMay
Wonderful, thought Kennedy grimly. “Very well,” he said. “I am ordering low level recon flights and stepping up our level of readiness to Defcon 3. Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all for now.”
The assembled men nodded and rose to leave.
“Bobby,” asked the President, “will you stay for a moment?”
Bobby Kennedy nodded.
After the others had filed out and shut the door, the President motioned to the sofa. Bobby sat. “So what did you think?” asked the President.
Bobby was blunt. “I think LeMay, Lemnitzer and McNamara are itching to start World War III.”
“Anderson’s right though,” said Jack. “The Soviets are engaging in nuclear blackmail and we simply can not allow that.”
 
Chapter Forty-Four
October, 1962

There were two more meetings in the wake of the first meeting in which once again the Joint Chiefs pressured President Kennedy to authorize air strikes against the suspected missile sites in Cuba, but the President, bolstered by his brother, the Attorney General, held firm. “I will not rashly do anything that will precipitate a nuclear war,” said the President bluntly. In the meantime, the Air Force began to step up both high and low level aerial reconnaissance flights.

Naval Air Station Jacksonville,
Jacksonville, Florida
October 18, 1962

It was unseasonably hot for the middle of October. As he walked across the tarmac, Lieutenant Roger Chaffee could feel the waves of heat reflecting off of the concrete apron as he walked across the tarmac toward the pair of big Vought Crusaders sitting in the middle of the taxiway. As he approached the two aircraft, he saw the squadron commander, standing out in front of the two jets. Commander Roroemer had only just assumed command of Heavy Photography Squadron 62, the previous month. He no doubt wanted to make a good impression for the brass, particularly in light of the current situation. They all did. The normally simmering tensions of the Cold War had spiked dramatically when Commander Roroermer had called an all hands briefing in which he had informed the assembled personnel that the brass had received confirmed intelligence that the Soviets had set up launch sites for ballistic missiles in Cuba. A current of quiet alarm had run through the entire base. No-one needed to be told what that meant.
That night, Chaffee had gone home to his wife, Martha, and told her to pack a suitcase.
“Why?” she had asked in confusion. “Is everything all right, Roger?”
Chaffed had told her about the missiles. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you should pack a suitcase and leave it by the door, just in case. You should go to my parents in Grand Rapids.”
Chaffee’s parents lived in rural Michigan. With no military installations and little in the way of heavy industry, Chaffe reasoned that Grand Rapids should come through a possible nuclear war reasonably unscathed. At least that was his hope.
Martha had nodded. “What about you?” she had asked.
“Don’t worry about me,” he had said confidently. “I’ll follow you as soon as the Navy lets me get away.” He hadn’t told her the whole truth, which was that the base would no doubt be a high priority target on the Soviets’ target list which meant that there was probably a nuke with his name on it.
Chaffee stopped in front Commander Roroermer and came to attention. He shifted his helmet and oxygen mask from one hand to the other and executed a crisp salute.
Roroemer returned Chaffee’s salute.
“Good morning, Sir,” said Chaffee.
“I came out to the flight line to wish you and Captain Jansen good look and good hunting,” said Roroemer. Captain Jansen was up on the side of his plane, waiting for Chaffee.
“Yes Sir, thank you, Sir,” replied Chaffee.
“I also have additional instructions for you.”
Additional instructions? he thought, slightly confused. Did I miss a briefing? “Yes Sir,” he said again.
Roroemer licked his lips nervously. He had received a phone early that morning Ken O’Donnell, who asked him to pass along a simple message. Don’t get shot down.
“I am ordering you, both of you, not to take any unnecessary chances.”
Now Chaffe was really confused. “I don’t understand Sir,” he said.
“Then I will explain it to you clearly, Lieutenant,” said Commander Roroemer bluntly. “Under no circumstances are you to be shot at-”
“Yes Sir,” responded Chaffee automatically.
“If you receive enemy fire and are shot down, I have it on good authority that the President will be forced to defend you with the bomb, and we don’t want that, do we?”
“No, Sir,” replied Chaffee emphatically. He sure as hell didn’t want to be remembered as the guy who started World War III.
“Good,” replied Roroemer. “Carry on.” He turned on his heel and walked back down the flight line to the administration building.
Chaffee watched him go, for what seemed like a long time, ruminating on Commander Roroemer’s words. Captain Jansen’s voice brought him back to reality with a little bump. “Hey Chaffee!” he said. “Let’s go. Time to turn and burn.”
Right, thought Chaffee. He turned and made a quick eyeball inspection of his airplane.
Leading edges.
Flaps.
Brakes.
Intakes.
Outlets.
Everything looked good.
He climbed the ladder and hopped into the cockpit. The crew chief climbed up beside him and started buckling Chaffee into the cockpit. He handed Chaffee his helmet and oxygen mask.
Chaffee pulled on his helmet. He buckled on the chin strap with a metallic click.
“Bring us back some pretty pictures, Lieutenant.”
“You bet, chief,” replied Chaffee with more jauntiness than he actually felt. The two men shook hands. The crew chief climbed down the ladder and pulled it away from the side of the aircraft.
In the cockpit, Chaffee ran through his pre-flight checklist.
Hydraulics.
Fuel.
Avionics.
Camera systems.
They all checked out.
He keyed his radio. “Zulu Papa 2 to Zulu Papa lead. Comm check. How do you read?”
“This is Zulu Papa Lead. I read you five by five,” responded Jansen.
“Copy that,” said Chaffee. He thumbed the big red ENGINE START button.
On the tarmac, the early morning stillness was shattered by the sound of the big jets’ Pratt and Whitney J57 jet engines began to turn over. Chaffee closed his canopy and the high powered hum became a distant whine. One of the base Aircraft Marshalls was standing about ten feet in front of the nose of the air plane. He held up a pair of paddles and flashed a signal, first to Jansen who goosed his engine a little and pulled out his parking spot and rolled on to the taxiway, then to Chaffee who fell in about twenty feet behind him.
“ATC, this is Zulu Papa flight, requesting taxi clearance.”
“Roger that, Zulu Papa flight, you are cleared for runway 6.”
“Roger that,” said Jansen.
The two aircraft rolled one behind the other down the taxiway to the far end of the runway. They turned on to the runway and lined next to each other wingtip to wingtip. Chaffee’s left hand went from the stick to the throttle.
“Zulu Papa flight, you are cleared for take off.”
“Copy that, ATC.” A short pause. “Zulu Papa 2, Zulu Papa lead. On three count.”
“Roger,” said Chaffee, “waiting on your signal.”
3
2
1
“Hit it.”
As possessed of the same mind, Chaffee and Jansen thrust their throttles all the way forward at the same time. Chaffee felt a surge of a adrenaline as the two jets roared down the runway side by side. Chaffe was first into the air. He felt the jet bounce. \
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Then he was airborne.
He pulled back on the stick, and, engine screaming, soared skyward. He levelled off at 20,000 feet. Jansen came up beside him. He took the lead position and Chaffee fell beside and slightly behind him on his right wing. Maintaining perfect formation, the pilots wheeled around and headed out over the Atlantic Ocean, where they open their throttles to cruising speed and sped south down the coast for Cuba.

* * *

At mach 1.5, the flight from Jacksonville south to Cuba didn’t take very long, but it gave Chaffee time to think. He looked down and saw long, white ribbons of sand and waves lapping against the shore. Nestled among the dunes were rows of beach houses and Chaffee suddenly remembered the beach house he and his wife had looked the previous week in Bradenton. Chaffee had only been assigned to NAS Jacksonville six months earlier and was still settling in, but thus far Roger and Martha had found Florida to be highly agreeable and had discussed buying vacation property. He thought again of the little house in Bradenton and of the hunting trips he had been on with new flying buddies; Chaffee was an avid hunter. All at once another image came to mind. It was not the verdant holidaymaker’s paradise spread out below him, but a blasted and irradiated hellscape.
Millions of dead and no one to bury the bodies. The very thought was horrifying.
Chaffee and Jansen’s flight path took them farther out to sea, in order to avoid the Cape Canaveral firing range, but off in the distance, Chaffee could see the launch towers all lined in up in a row like sentinels on guard duty, guarding what Chaffee didn’t know, but they seemed to be a portent of the future.
Like virtually everyone else, Chaffee had thrilled to the drama of the infant Space Race. Still a wet-behind-the-ear pilot in 1959, when the Mercury Seven had been selected, Chaffee had followed every twist and turn with avid professional interest, along with most of the other pilots in his squadron. Their mantra was “faster, higher, farther,” and the astronauts were going the fastest, highest and farthest of all. Everyone had been glued to the TV in a corner of the pilot’s lounge when Alan Shepard had made his space shot. They had all been fiercely proud that the first American in space had been a Navy man. No one talked about it openly, but the pilots with more stick time than Chaffee were all fighting each other tooth and nail to be in a prime position should NASA call for a third class of astronauts. The Mercury astronauts were best pilots in the world. Everyone else was just a pudknocker in comparison.
Chaffee thought again of the launch towers at Cape Canaveral, now lost beyond the horizon, those monoliths of the future. It suddenly seemed to him that the world was at a crossroads. One road led to peaceful exploration and co-operation in pursuit of knowledge. The other led tension, division and nuclear annihilation. Turn one way, peace and life. Turn the other, war, chaos and death. Which way would the world turn? Chaffee didn’t know.
Commander Roroemer’s words came to mind again. I suppose that depends on whether or not I get my ass shot off on this mission, he mused.

* * *

As they sped south from the tip of Florida, the Keys stretched away in a broad arc in the opposite direction. The Everglades spread themselves out in a lush tangle of vegetation across the bottom of the state. Chaffee pushed away his ruminations and musings. Cuba was only 90 miles from the United States across the Straits of Florida. It was game time and he needed to focus.
Jansen snapped him back to reality with a bit more abruptness. “Descend to 5,000 feet. ETA to target five minutes.”
“Copy that, flight leader.” Chaffee pushed the stick forward. The nose dropped and the horizon came up. Chaffee spared a quick glance at his gauges. His altimeter needle spun smoothly backwards as the ocean rushed up to meet him. He levelled off a five thousand feet. Everything seemed to be moving much faster as the two jets flew across the water. On the distant horizon a line of mountains reared up in front of them. They dropped lower again, this time to a just thousand feet. They were right on the deck.
Feet wet.
Feet dry.
They flashed over the coast and Chaffee thought he caught a brief glimpse of several fishermen looking up in startled surprise as the two jets screamed overhead with a sound like the end of the world. In unison, the jets banked into a perfect graceful turn. The two pilots firewalled their throttles and shot off in the direction of their target, leaving the deafened, bewildered fishermen in their wake.
They traced the mountains that made up the spine of Cuba. The high peaks and the steep upper slopes were covered in a thick cloak of jungle that obscured their topography. The lowlands were neat squares of sugar cane, bananas and pineapples.
They were so low that they had to duck and dodge around hills and tall trees. This close to the ground, the plane bucked in the eddies and updrafts. Chaffee had to fight to keep control of the aircraft and to keep from bouncing around the cockpit. These speeds and at this altitude were a dangerous combination. He could easily clip a wing or go into a spin from which he would never recover.
“60 seconds to target.”
“Copy.”
Chaffee flipped a switch and brought three big Vinten cameras built into the fuselage to life. He allowed himself another quick look at his instruments and camera controls. Everything was in order.
“ETA to target 20 seconds.”
“Copy that, flight leader.”
A clearing appeared in the distance. It was approaching rapidly. Chaffee’s eye caught the brightly painted foul lines of a baseball diamond. Scattered round the edges of the clearing were guard towers, the machinegun muzzles pointing ominously skyward. Several quarter ton trucks were parked in a neat row along the first base foul line. On either side of the pitcher’s mound-
Well, thought Chaffee, son of a bitch.
Two nuclear missiles on trucks.
He thumbed the button his joystick that American pilots call the pickle switch. The electric motors in the three cameras whirred to life and the three rolls of 70 mm film began to unspool through the cameras.
The death scream of the two jets howling down of the clear morning sky had an effect not unlike that of a child kicking over an ant hill. Men came boiling of an unseen barracks. They were running, shouting and pointing. In the guard towers dotting the edge of the clearing, the sentries pulled back the charging handles on their machine guns. They took aim and opened fire.
Chaffee didn’t hear the chatter of the machine guns, but he saw the muzzle flash and the line of traces stretching out towards him.
Shit!
He shouted into his radio. “Go evasive!” Out of the corner of his eye, Chaffee was dimly aware of Jansen standing his jet on its right wing tip in attempt to shield Chaffee from the machine gun fire. They flashed over several clearings in rapid fire succession, weaving in and out of gun fire and flak to the whole way. Finally the shooting stopped.
Chaffee suddenly realized he was shaking and took several deep breaths to calm himself. A light blinked on his instrument panel and alarm buzzed harshly in his headset.
BINGO FUEL
“Zulu Papa lead, this is Zulu Papa 2,” said Chaffee. “I’m sucking fumes over here.”
“Copy that, Zulu Papa 2. Let’s bug out and go home.”
 
Chapter Forty-Five
Washington DC,
The White House,
October 22, 1962

As President Kennedy walked into the Oval Office, the cameras from the three networks lined up in front of his desk seemed to have the air about them of a firing squad. For the last three days, the debate had rage fiercely in the President’s Cabinet and the National Security Council Executive Committee over what to do next. After intensive discussions and consultations, the National Security Council Executive Committee, or EXCOMM, as it was commonly called by the Kennedy Administration, had present President Kennedy with four possible options in response to the Soviets’ provocative actions in Cuba.
The first option was to do nothing. One of Kennedy’s campaign promises in 1960 had been to close the missile gap with the Soviets. While the spectacular successes of the space program had convinced the voting public that the missile gap had been closed, the real story was more complicated. The Soviets, as it had turned out, did not have the massive strategic missile advantage that the CIA initially thought they had, however, the Soviets’ lack of numerical superiority had been offset by the lack of finesse in their nuclear weapons programs, which meant that the Russians been forced to design larger and more powerful boosters. This in turn meant that they had been able to design larger and more powerful nuclear weapons.
“Well,” Kennedy had mused thoughtfully when he heard this, “we’ve always known that our missiles have had certain deficiencies, in comparison to theirs. The present situation doesn’t really change that.”
However, nobody was comfortable with allowing the Soviets to get away with positioning nuclear weapons in Cuba,
The second possible response was to issue a warning. Now that the presence of the missiles in Cuba had been confirmed issuing a strong warning was seen as a possible deterrent against further Soviet expansion.
“There is a potential downside,” Bobby Kennedy had warned. “If we call the Russians on their gambit, they will attempt to negotiate-”
“Which is just a stalling tactic,” interjected LeMay. “They’ll tell us that they’re willing to close their bases in Cuba, but only if we close bases somewhere else in return.”
“General LeMay raises a valid point,” the President said. “What if they ask for something that they know we are unwilling or unable to give up?”
“Like Berlin?” Admiral Arliegh Burke had asked darkly. “Mr. President, we can’t allow the Soviets to dictate our global deployments, and what will our allies say?”
Heads nodded around the conference table.
“What other options can you give me?” Kennedy had asked matter of factly.
The generals, politicians and diplomats had all looked at each other, uneasily.
Ten seconds of uncomfortable silence.
“Mr. President-“began McNamara. He had paused, trying to find exactly the right words.
Curtis LeMay butted in. “Mr. President, you know my position. We should hit the Commies hard and do it now.”
“And how will than make us look, General,” interjected Bobby Kennedy angrily. “A big country kicks down the door and bombs a little country into the stone age. We’re supposed to be finding a way to defuse the tensions, not make them worse.” From the other end of the table Bobby had looked the President squarely in the eye. “That’s the entire point of the blockade.”
A blockade, the President had thought, yes that might be it. If it worked, it would allow the United States to take a strong, but balanced stance against the Soviets.
“What’s the downside of a blockade?”
“The downside, Mr. President, is that it could bite us in the ass,” replied Burke bluntly.
The Attorney General nodded. “Right, in order for a blockade to be effective, we would have to position a picket line between the Soviets and Cuba.”
Admiral Anderson continued. “If they attempt to run the blockade line they will be turned back.”
The President had suddenly not liked where this was going. “If they refuse to turn back?”
“They they will be stopped, boarded and searched.”
Oh hell!, Kennedy had though dismally. That’s tantamount to piracy. Piracy was virtually an act of war in and of itself.
The final option was to attack, in full force. 250,000 men had already been placed on alert.
The President had nodded. He was not enthused. No matter what course of action he decided on, there were significant risks and was bound to be dissension in the ranks. “Thank you gentlemen,” Kennedy rose. The rest of the room rose with him. “I will consider the options and make my decision in a day or so. That will be all.”
The President sat down at his desk. He stared at the cameras. They seemed to stare blankly back at him. As predicted, the decision that he had come to had been divisive.
Bobby Kennedy, McNamara and General Shoup, the Commandant of the Marine Corp had all been supportive, but the course of action that Kennedy was about to announce to the American people had not been met with universal approval. General LeMay had skirted perilously close to insubordination when he had called the President’s plan “worse than Munich.”
“Let’s just hope that cowardice doesn’t run in the family,” he had been heard to mutter after the meeting had broken up. The comment had rankled the President, and part of him had been tempted to ask for LeMay’s resignation on the spot.
President Kennedy turned his attention back to his speech, which was sitting on a little podium in the middle of his desk. In front of him were two small microphones. He quickly rifled through the pages, making sure they were all present and in the proper order. Outwardly, he calm. Inwardly, he was nervous. The Cuban Missile Crisis was already being called the defining moment of his Presidency. With the stakes so high, he couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Kennedy took a deep breath to steady his nerves.
The camera operators and producers were rushing around making last minute adjustments to their cameras and transmitters.
It was almost time.
Five minutes.
The red lights on the three cameras began to blink.
Sixty seconds.
Thirty seconds.
Ten seconds.
5
4
3
2
1
The red lights stopped blinking and glow steadily
“My fellow Americans,” began Kennedy solemnly, “it is my heavy burden to inform you of recent developments that have taken place on the island of Cuba.” He paused before continuing. “Within the last week,” Kennedy explained, “unmistakable evidence has confirmed the existence of a series of offensive missile sites on the island of Cuba. The purpose of these bases can only be to provide the Soviet Union with a forward nuclear strike capability in the Western World.”
The President elaborated at length. The low level photo recon flights that President Kennedy had ordered had revealed the true scope of the Soviets’ activities in Cuba. In addition to the RS-12 rockets that had the Americans had already known about, the Soviets had also delivered medium range ballistic missiles to Cuba. The Soviets’ MRBMs had a range of over 2,000 miles. It wasn’t just about Washington and New York and Chigaco any more. Virtually the entire Western hemisphere, from Hudson Bay to the Panama Canal, was with in range of the Soviet bases in Cuba.
Denver.
St. Louis.
Salt Lake City.
Los Angeles.
Toronto.
Montreal.
Halifax.
Not even the cities of the Pacific Northwest, such as Seattle, Portland and Vancouver, were out of reach of the Soviet threat.
“In addition to Soviet strategic rocket forces,” Kennedy continued, “the CIA has also uncovered evidence of the construction of air bases in Cuba. As I speak to you,” Kennedy went on, “components and spare parts for bombers capable of delivering nuclear payloads are being unpacked and assembled in Cuba.
It was almost beyond comprehension.
An entire continent laid waste. Tens of millions of people reduced to bones and ashes and shadows.
“From the size of the undertaking,” the President continued, “it is clear to me, the Soviets’ activities in Cuba have been some months in the planning.”
The month before, Andrei Gromyko, the Soviet Ambassador to the United States, had sat in the Oval Office and assured the President that the weapons and supplies being sent to Cuba were strictly defensive in nature.
“I must have your assurance Mr. Ambassador,” Kennedy has said, “that spare parts and technical crews headed to Cuba are not intended to be used in an offensive capacity.”
“This is important Andrei,” Bobby Kennedy had said earnestly. “A misunderstanding could have disastrous consequences, for both our countries.”
Gromyko had nodded. “Da,” he had said in clipped, Russian-accented English. “Mr. President, I share your concerns. The Soviet Union wishes only for peaceful existence with the United States.”
Kennedy knew that wasn’t exactly true. In a draw in his desk he had a file full of photographs to prove it. For half a second he had been tempted to let Gromyko look at them, but that meant that he would have had to explain where he had gotten them and had let the temptation pass.
“Thank you for your honesty,” President Kennedy had said politely. “I trust you will relay our concerns to your government.”
Sensing that the conversation was over, Gromyko stood up to leave. “Da,” he had said. “I will speak with my government.”
A round of hand shakes had followed and Bobby walked Gromyko out.
“In accordance with these false promises and broken assurances,” Kennedy proclaimed, “I have ordered a naval quarantine of the island of Cuba.”
A blockade.
There, he had said it.
EXCOMM had recommended not calling it a blockade. They had thought that that word might be seen as too provocative and recommended the term “naval quarantine” instead, but for all intents and purposes, the President of the United States had just ordered a naval blockade of the island of Cuba.
As he spoke a picket line composed more than sixty ships was already on station in the Atlantic a hundred miles off the Cuban coast.
“In support of the Naval quarantine now in effect,” the President proclaimed, “I have ordered a further escalation in the scope and frequency on-going surveillance of Cuba and its military build-up.”
Another pause.
“Third, henceforth, it is the policy of this nation, that an attack upon any nation in the Western Hemisphere as an attack upon the United States by the Soviet Union, necessitating a direct response in kind.”
Well, thought Kennedy, we just threw down the gauntlet. Will the Russians pick it up? The President he would be able to avoid a military conflict with the Russians, but he had ordered the evacuation of all non-essential personnel from Guantanamo and had ordered additional units to be placed on stand-by alert. He desperately hoped they wouldn’t be needed.
“Finally, we are calling for immediate meetings of the Organ of Consultation of the Organization of American States, in addition to asking for an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council to take additional action against this newest act of Soviet aggression.
“I conclude by calling on Chairman Khrushchev to put an end to this reckless and dangerous threat to world peace and to the stable relations between our two countries. I urge him to abandon the Soviet quest for world domination and to end this perilous arms race and move the world back from the abyss of distruction.
“To the captive people of Cuba, for whom this speech is being specially broadcast, I speak to you as friend. I, and the American people, know of your deep and abiding love of your homeland. The American people share your aspiration for justice and liberty. The Soviet missiles in Cuba are not in your best interest and will not keep you safe. Your lives and your land are being used as pawns by those who deny your freedom.
“Our goal,” the President concluded, “is not the victory of might, by the vindication of right. The American people do not seek peace at the expense of freedom, but peace and freedom, not just in this hemisphere, but around the world. God willing, that goal can be achieved.”
The President looked steadily into the cameras.
“Thank you, and God bless America.”
 
Chapter Forty-Six

USS Joseph P Kennedy
Off the Cuban Coast
October 24, 1962

The bow of the destroyer USS Joseph P Kennedy cut a furrow of churning foam through the choppy waters of the Western Caribbean. On the bridge of his ship, Captain Walter Bensen paced back and forth, trying not to show his nervousness and only partially succeeding. The President’s speech the night before had run like an electric current through the ship’s company.
There are always rumours on a warship, Bensen had thought more than once. Since leaving port a week ago, tensions had been running high. The officers hadn’t been able to tell the crew much, mostly because they didn’t know very much themselves. That had all changed the previous night.
Captain Bensen and his officers had been sitting in the Wardroom listening has the speech had been piped over the ship’s PA system. The Master-at-Arms has gone as white as a ghost, and the Chief Engineer had muttered “Jesus Christ!”
When the President’s speech had ended Bensen had suddenly found all of his officers looking at him.
They had been silent.
Waiting.
Expecting him to say something.
Captain Bensen stared each of them in the face in turn. “I know you’re all expecting me to say something patriotic and inspiring.” A short pause. “To be perfectly honest, I’d like to hear it too, but you heard the President. We seek the vindication of right, not the victory of might. I wouldn’t blame you being a little bit frightened at the moment, we find ourselves in frightening times. Remember what you’re fighting for, remember your training and we’ll get through this just fine.”
The warbling tone of the growler phone next to the captain’s chair brought Captain Bensen back to reality. He picked it up. “Bridge.”
“CIC,” said the OOD.
According to the duty roster, the Officer of the Deck today was Lieutenant Commander Anderson.
“Sir,” continued Anderson, “we have picked up a large group of contacts on radar.”
“How many, Mr. Anderson?”
“Twenty, Sir.”
Twenty, thought Bensen, Shit! That’s a lot of ships. “What’s your assessment of the situation, Mr. Anderson?”
“They must be a supply convoy, Captain. They’re moving too slowly to be warships.”
“What’s their speed and heading?”
Anderson rattled off some numbers.
They’re on a direct course for Havanna, thought Bensen. “Continue to monitor their progress, Mr. Anderson.” This we need to phone in. Bensen took a note pad and a pen out of his shirt pocket. He scribbled down Anderson’s information. He got out of his chair and walked across the bridge to his XO, Commander Reynolds.
“I need you to plot an intercept course for this speed and heading.” He quickly scribbled out the information and handed it to Reynolds.
Reynolds took the slip of paper and studied it. “So we finally got a nibble, Captain?” he asked.
“More than a nibble,” replied Bensen. “I need that navigational data right away.”
Reynolds nodded. “Yes Sir.”
Bensen left him to his duties and walked aft past the fresh faced young ensign at the helm. He continued aft through the chart room to the radio room. He pushed aside the curtain and stepped inside. He tore a slip of paper off of his note pad and handed it to the two radio operators. “Send this to message to Washington right away. This is priority traffic. Regular ship’s business can wait.”

Washington DC,
The Pentagon

The Naval Operations Room hummed with activity. The air was filled with the clack! clack! clack! of typewriter keys, the buzz of quietly urgent conversations and the hum of teletype printers. Gold braid and brass buttons shone brightly under the overhead lights. Dominating the middle of the room was a large map table. Flat on the large, expansive surface was a map of Cuba, Florida and the Western Caribbean. Half a dozen people were hovering around it, pushing around model ships on painted water. To Robert McNamara, they seemed to resemble boys playing war in a bathtub with toy boats, except they weren`t boys and they were deadly serious. As he watched the goings on from the VIP viewing room, a messenger came into the room. He threaded his way through the people swirling around the map table and approached Admiral Anderson, who was easily recognizable even from this distance thanks all the gold on his uniform. The two men exchanged salutes, and the messenger handed Anderson a piece of paper. More salutes, and the messenger left.
The phone on the wall rang. McNamara picked it up. “Yes?”
“Please come down here, Mr. Secretary,” said Anderson. “We have something.”
“I’ll be right down.” McNamara hung up the phone. He gulped down the last dregs of his coffee to shake off the effects of the last two weeks. Everyone had been pulling eighteen and twenty hour days searching for way of resolving the current crisis that didn’t involve starting World War III. EXCOMM had known when it had recommended a strategic quarantine of ships bound for Cuba that a Soviet supply convoy was already at sea. He half hoped it was just a lost fishing boat. McNamara put his empty coffee cup down on the side table that held the coffee urn, along with the milk and sugar. He opened the door and stepped out into a short hallway. McNamara walked to the end of the hall and down a flight of steps. At the bottom of the stairs was a drab looking metal door. He pushed it open, stepped out on to the floor and threaded his way through the people bustling this way and that toward a knot of officers and sailors on the far side of the map table that dominated the middle of the room.
The little knot of people dispersed as McNamara approached. Anderson looked up.
“Mr. Secretary,” he said. “We received a communiqué from one of our destroyers.” He handed it to McNamara.
“When did this come in?” he asked, taking the message from Anderson.
McNamara studied the message.

FLASH TRAFFIC
PRIORITY: Urgent
FROM: CDR, USS Joseph P Kennedy
TO: Director, Naval Operations
CC: CDR, Task Force 132

Have acquired large group of contacts on steady bearing for Cuba.

Have reason to believe contacts are Soviet supply convoy.

Contacts’ last known position is 22” 15 minutes north by 56” 28 minutes west. Course 237, speed 10 knots.

Estimate 7 hours to blockade line.

Request immediate instructions.

Walter Bensen, USS Joseph P Kennedy, Commanding

So, thought McNamara, the Soviets may be attempting to run the quarantine line.
“We received the message from Captain Bensen not quite an hour ago,” said Anderson, in answer to McNamara’s question.
“Where are the Soviet ships now, Admiral?”
Anderson pointed to the map. “Based on the original estimated position, heading and speed, we believe the Soviets to be approximately here.”
“And where is the Kennedy?”
“Here,” replied Anderson, pointing.
McNamara nodded. “What other assets do we have in range?”
Anderson spared a quick glance at the map table again. “The Pierce is also in intercept range,” he replied.
McNamara nodded. “Please excuse me, Admiral,” he said. “I must inform the President.” McNamara walked back up to the VIP viewing room and picked up the phone on the wall. Instead of dialling the number for the White House switchboard, McNamara entered a code into the nine digit keypad.

07-03-07-229-634-03
ROMEO-MIKE-SIERRA-229-634-DELTA

Every member of the President’s Cabinet and inner circle was issued a fourteen digit alpha-numeric ID number that would automatically connected them to the President if input into any touchtone phone in any American government building anywhere in the world.
There were a series of clicks and beeps as the connection was made.
The President spoke. “Yes,” he said.
“Mr. President,” said McNamara, “I have the latest intelligence up-date from the quarantine.”
McNamara rattled off a quick summary of Bensen’s message.
“OK,” said Kennedy when McNamara was done, “what assets do we have in interception range?”
“Two ships, Sir,” responded McNamara, “The Franklin Pierce and the Joseph P Kennedy. They are standing by requesting instructions.”
“Very well,” replied the President. “Order the Pierce and the Kennedy to intercept.”
“Yes Sir.” McNamara hung up the phone and walked back out on to the floor of the operations room. He threaded his way back through the scurrying people.
“Order the Pierce and the Kennedy to intercept.”
Anderson nodded. He handed McNamara a sheaf of papers, who quickly rifled through them. “I had the orders cut while you were conferring with-“
McNamara didn’t wait for him to finish. “Approved.”

USS Joseph P Kennedy
Off the Cuban Coast

Captain Bensen had been drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair for the last fifteen minutes. He had sent off his report to Washington some time ago. What the hell is taking them so long? he thought. It’s not like its rocket science. He took a sip of the lukewarm coffee sloshing around in his coffee cup in time to the motion of the ship. Where are my orders, he thought. Every second of delay sees the Soviets that much closer to Cuba. Bensen’s thoughts were interrupted by a cough.
He turned to look.
Commander Reynolds was standing next to him armed with a clipboard and a sheaf of papers.
“Yes, what is it Mr. Reynolds?”
“Fresh orders, Sir,” said Reynolds. “Direct from DC.”
Finally, thought Bensen. He held out a hand. “Let’s seem ‘em.”
Reynolds handed Bensen the clipboard. Bensen quickly rifled through the pages.

FLASH TRAFFIC
PRIORITY: Urgent
FROM: Director, Naval Operations
TO: CDR, USS Joseph P Kennedy, CDR, USS Franklin Pierce
CC: CDR, Task Force 132

Acknowledge receipt of message.

Have strong belief that contacts are Soviet convoy bound for Cuba.

You are ordered to intercept Soviet convoy.

If convoy does not does not turn back you are authorized to take the following actions:

1. Stop

2. Board

3. Search and seizure

Current intelligence estimates Soviets five hours from your current position.

Good luck and good hunting

ADM. G Anderson, DNO

“So, I guess this is where the shit hits the fan,” mused Reynolds.
Bensen nodded in agreement. Here we go, he thought. “Commander, sound general quarters.”
“Yes Sir.” Reynolds turned and walked aft to the rear bulkhead that formed the wall that divided the bridge from the chart room. He found the intercom panel and pushed the button marked PUBLIC ADDRESS. Then he pushed a button marked CHIME.
BONG! BONG! BONG! BONG!
“General quarters! General quarters! All hands report to battle stations! This is not an exercise!”
Bensen could swear he heard the pounding of feet on the linoleum covered deck as the crew ran to action stations.
I bet that woke some people up, he thought, slightly amused. Somewhere in the background, he heard the squeak of a hinge as an equipment locker was opened. He knew without looking that one of the crew was handing out helmets and life jackets.
Someone handed him a life jacket and a helmet with captain’s rank insignia stencilled on it.
The mood on the ship had changed. He could feel it. The waiting was over. The tension had been building for two weeks. He had seen it in the looks on his officers’ faces in the Wardroom and heard it in the conversations of the men when he walked through the enlisted mens’ mess.
Finally.
Something, anything, was going to happen.
Bensen barked a string of orders. In the background he heard the ding! ding! ding! of the engine room telegraph as the ship picked up speed. At the same moment, he could feel the ship heeling over to one side as she came around on to her new course, leaving a long wake of seething water behind her.
 
Chapter Forty-Seven

Washington DC,
The Pentagon,

When Robert McNamara returned to the Naval Operations Room, he was wearing a freshly pressed suit. When it had become clear that nothing was going to happen for some time, McNamara had reported directly to the President. After that he had gone home for a shower, a change of clothes and some sleep. After two week the crisis had everyone running on adrenaline and people were starting to run ragged. A shower, some sleep and clean clothes made McNamara feel civilized again.
He passed through the last check point, pushed open the door and stepped in the Naval Operations Room. He threaded his way through the controlled chaos and came to a stop next to Anderson.
“Mr. Secretary,” said Anderson, slightly surprsied. “I wasn’t expecting you back for a while yet.”
“Did you expect me to miss all the fun, Admiral?” responded McNamara grimly. He looked at the plotting table “So, what’s the situation?”
Anderson surveyed the plotting table. The positions of the ships on the board had changed as the quarantine fleet had redeployed itself to support the two advanced picket ships. “The bulk of the fleet is here,” Anderson explained moving his arm in a broad arc. “The Kennedy and the Pierce are here.” He pointed to another spot on the map.
“Where are the Soviets?”
“Their last reported position was there.” Anderson pointed. “They’ll hit the quarantine line a little more than an hour.”

USS Joseph P Kennedy
Off the Cuban Coast

The smoke from their funnels was visible before the ships themselves, a series of greasy black clouds on the distant horizon. The CIC had been monitoring the Soviets’ progress continuously since their initial radar contact some time ago. A mile or so distant, off to the port side, the menacing grey shape of the Pierce was momentarily obscured by a sudden rain squall as the two ships ploughed side by side through the choppy waters of the Western Caribbean.
“Contact!” cried one of the bridge lookouts.
Everyone’s ear perked up at that. In at instant everyone’s attention become shaper and more focused.
Bensen got up to look for himself. He walked out on to the portside bridge wing. The lookout in question had been manning the Big Eyes, which could see objects in the water at distances of ten thousand yards or more.
“Where are they?” asked Bensen.
The lookout pointed. “That way, Sir. Multiple contacts on bearing 289, range twenty thousand yards.”
“Let me see.”
The lookout stepped aside and Bensen peered through the viewfinder. Even with long lenses such as these, they were too far away to be seen clearly. He could just barely make out the Soviets’ mastheads and funnel tops, arranged in neat lines across the horizon under trails of greasy black smoke. Some of the ships were partially hidden behind each other.
They’re still quite a distance away, thought Bensen, and they appear to have altered their course. He was already mentally computing the new navigational data.
He walked back inside and proceeded directly to the chart room. The ship’s track was up-dated at the beginning of every watch. Since the initial radar contact, Bensen had ordered regular updates on the Soviets’ bearing and speed. The Soviets’ track was marked in red. The Americans’ course was in blue. Bensen made some quickly scribbled calculations on a note pad then updated the navigational plot. He walked back into the wheelhouse. “Mr. Reynolds, come about to course 275.”
The bridge crew snapped into action.
“Aye, Sir. Helm, come around to bearing 275.”
The wheel spun.
The ship heeled over as her bow came around onto her new heading.

Washington DC,
The Pentagon

Robert McNamara was just finishing his third cup of coffee when the messenger came scurrying up, holding a clipboard.
The man saluted. Anderson returned his salute. “Flash traffic from the Kennedy, Admiral.”
“Thank you ensign,” said Anderson, taking the clipboard. He quickly scanned the pages, then handed them to McNamara. The message from the Kennedy was succinct and to the point.

Have sighted the Soviet ships. Am moving to intercept.

McNamara read the message from the Kennedy. “Admiral how far away are the Soviets now?”
“Ten thousand yards and closing,” said Anderson.
McNamara looked at the plotting table. Models that were only inches apart were, in fact, miles distant from each other.
A current of tension suddenly seemed to run through the room. One wrong word, one wrong move and the result was war. McNamara took a deep breath to steady his nerves. There was nothing to do now but watch and wait.

USS Joseph P Kennedy
Off the Cuban Coast

The ships had grown steadily closer as the distance had closed. The Soviet freighters were no longer just dots on the horizon. Bensen could see the Soviet convoy in a neat square. He raised the binoculars to his eyes and peered through them. They were close enough to make out little figures, sailors on deck. He could clearly make out streaks of rust in the ships’ paintwork and sloppy welds where they had been repaired, inexpertly.
“Range?”
“Ten thousand yards.”
Captain Bensen thought for a second. He picked the growler phone and pushed the button for the radio room. “Get on the PA system and the radio. Hail the Russians.”
“Yes sir.”
A voice rang out over the water in Russian. “Attention Soviet ships! This is the American destroyer Joseph P Kennedy. You are entering a restricted zone by order of the President of the United States!”
Bensen raised the binoculars to his eyes again.
No change.
“Hail them again,” he said.
“Attention Soviet ships! This is the American destroyer Joseph P Kennedy. You are entering a restricted zone by order of the President of the United States. Turn around now or prepare to be boarded!”
Still no change.
The growler phone warbled. Bensen picked it up. It was the radio room.
“We’re not getting any response over the radio, Captain. What are your instructions?”
Damn! thought Bensen. They were not slowing down or changing course. The rules of engagement clearly stated that in the event that the Soviets did not turn back upon reaching the blockade line, he was to fire a warning shot, but with a situation this tense, caution was the better part of valour.
“Get me the Director of Naval Operations.”
“Stand-by.”
Click!
Static.
Click!
Click!
More static
Click!
Still more static, and then “Naval Operations.”
“This is Kennedy actual,” said Bensen, “Authentication code, Whiskey-Bravo-775-Delta-Delta, I need to speak to the DNO.”
“Yes sir, please stand by.”

Washington DC
The Pentagon

An aide approached Admiral Anderson with a headset and a microphone.
“Admiral,” he said, “we’ve got the captain of the Kennedy on the radio.”
“What does he want?” as Anderson.
“He’s requesting to speak with you, sir.”
“Put me on with him.” Anderson took the headset and microphone from his aide. “This is the DNO,” he said. “Report.”
Anderson held the headset earpiece to his ear.
Bensen spoke in Anderson’s ear. “Admiral, we have made repeated attempts to hail the Soviets by radio. They are not responding. Request permission to fire a shot across their bow.”
“Permission granted. Clear your throat, Captain.”
“Wait, stop,” interrupted McNamara.

USS Joseph P Kennedy
Off the Cuban Coast

Captain Bensen turned to Commander Reynolds. “Mr. Reynolds, put across their bow.”
The tension on the bridge seemed to jump up another couple of notches.
“Yes sir.” Reynolds picked up the growler phone and issued a string of orders. Down on the fo’c’sle, the ship’s twin five inch guns turned and fired with a deep throated Crump! Crump! that the made the whole ship vibrate slightly.
The shells exploded high over the decks of the Soviet ships with a series of bright flashes and a loud EEEEEEEEE!

Washington DC
The Pentagon

“Stop firing, Admiral,” said McNamara urgently.
Anderson keyed his mike. “Weapons hold! Repeat, weapons hold!” He eyed McNamara acidly. “Just what do you think you’re doing, sir?” he asked.
“I could ask you the same question, Admiral,” responded McNamara coldly. “You ordered the Kennedy to fire on those ships.”
“I’m following the rules of engagement as authorized by the President on October 22,” replied Anderson. “You ought to be fully aware of what they are. You wrote them.”
“And just want exactly is that supposed to mean?” asked McNamara.
“They were not firing war shots. Mr. Secretary,” explained Anderson in exasperation. “They were firing starshells.”
“What?” said McNamara, apparently confused.
“Starshells, Mr. Secretary,” replied Anderson. “Flares. We were not firing on those ships. We were firing over them. I’m sorry Mr. Secretary, you’ve been camped out here for too long. You’re operating on almost no sleep and you’re starting to make mistakes. You should let us do our jobs. The Navy has been managing blockades since the days of John Paul Jones.”
McNamara goggled at Anderson for what seemed like a long time, even though it was only ten seconds.
“NO, Admiral!” McNamara drew himself up. “Yes, I drew up the rules of engagement that were signed by the President. If you had read them closely you would have been aware that the order you just gave requires my authorization, and I will not give my authorization unless instructed to do so by the President.” McNamara gestured to the plotting table, crowded with miniature ships. “You need to wake up and pay attention Admiral. This is not just a blockade. This is language. A new vocabulary is emerging. This is President Kennedy communicating with Secretary Khruschev!” The room went quiet. You could hear a pin drop. McNamara was suddenly of everyone looking at him and he felt a little embarrassed. He hadn’t realized that he’d been shouting. He gave Anderson a stern look. “I trust I’ve made my point, Admiral.”
The spell was broken when a messenger approached. He handed McNamara a message. McNamara took it, read it and let out a relieved sigh. He handed it to Anderson. “The freighters are turning around,” said McNamara. “I think the other guy just blinked.”

Operation Brass Knob
70, 000 feet over Cuba
October 27, 1962

The U-2 brushed the edge of space on slender wings as it cruised through the sky. As he looked out the cockpit window, Major Rodney McKay could see all of the Caribbean spread out below him like a page in an atlas. The curve of the Earth arced gently across the horizon. The lower atmosphere appeared as a thin, misty ribbon that merged seamlessly with the inky blackness of space. In a single glance, he took in all of the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean from Florida to the Yucatan Peninsula to South America.
McKay leaned forward and peered through the five power telescopic site mounted in the middle of his dashboard. He made some minute adjustments to his scope and the image sharpened slightly.
McKay glanced at his flight schedule, and then his instruments. He was on schedule and right were he was supposed to be. He had been scheduled to fly today, but when the mission had been added to the duty roster at the minute, he had lobby hard for the slot. He hoped to be able to qualify for the space program someday and needed the flight hours.
He saw a line of trucks winding their way up a mountain road.
Click!
A motor depot.
Click!
A barracks.
Click!
A radar dish.
McKay made some notations on a small note pad, glancing occasionally at his maps and instruments. Mission rules required him to indicate exactly what he saw and where he saw it when he submitted his written report.

* * *

Unbeknownst to McKay, the radar dish he had just photographed from 70,000 feet was part of the air defence system that the Soviets had set up in Cuba.
The radar operator called over his supervisor, Colonel Yossil. “Comrade Colonel, I have a contact on my scope.”
“Where?” asked Colonel Yossil.
“Bearing 285, speed 430 knots, altitude 20,000 meters.”
A U-2, thought Yossil, it must be. It is too high to be anything else. “Is the American in missile range?”
“Da, Comrade Colonel,” nodded the technician.
“Bring the American down.”
“Da, Comrade Colonel.” The radar technician input a series of commands into his console. A tone sounded and the dot that was the U-2 was outlined in a red circle.

* * *

An alarm hooted shrilly in McKay’s ear. What the hell?! he thought. His eyes quickly slid over his instruments.
A light was blinking on his dashboard.
RADAR WARNING
Shit! thought McKay. I’ve been made. No sooner had he thought that then a second alarm began to warble in his ear. He didn’t need to look at his instruments to know what that meant.
MISSILE LAUNCH
McKay swore again and pulled back on the stick, corkscrewing the aircraft into an evasive turn. At the same moment he thumbed a button on his control column. A panel popped in the tail of the airplane and bundle of chaff was ejected. The tone in his ear continued unabated. McKay snapped a switch and his radar screen flickered to life. In the bottom left hand quadrant, an electronic green dot was moving swiftly toward the middle of the screen. A series of beeps sounded in McKay’s ear. Beep!.......Beep!.......Beep! They came slowly at first, then faster and faster. McKay jinked and juked around the sky, weaving back and forth, hoping throw the missile off. With its slender wings and long thin fuselage, the U-2 was built like a glider. As a result it was not very manoeuvrable.
Beads of sweat stood out on McKay’s brow. He chanced another look at his radar screen. The missile was getting uncomfortably close. McKay fire walled the throttle, but even as he did it, he knew it would not be enough. The U-2 was designed for range and endurance, not speed. The steady Beep! Beep! Beep! Now became a tone.
Beeeeeeeeeeep!
MISSILE LOCK
The missile was very close now. McKay kept trying to evade, but even as he did so, he knew it would do no good. The missile struck exactly in the centre of the target. The two hundred pound high explosive warhead went off exactly ten feet below the aircraft. The concussion physically lifted the U-2 twenty upward from its starting position. In the same moment a cloud of ball bearings was hurled in all directions, penetrating the U-2’s fuel tanks and engines. Blood spattered the cockpit as McKay’s body was riddled with shrapnel. He didn’t have time to register the pain, because at that moment the left wing snapped off spilling its entire load of fuel into the void. The aircraft tumbled wildly out of control. The fuel came into contact with the glowing hot remains of the two jet engines, which caused a secondary explosion, blowing the remains of the aircraft apart. The thunderclap that marked the death of a man once named Rodney McKay was lost in the tenuous atmosphere that marked the transition from air to space. The wrecked tumbled silently to the ground.
 
Chapter Forty-Eight
Washington DC
The White House

“Goddamn bastards!” said President Kennedy. Mid-morning sunlight filtered in through the windows framing the President’s desk. He surveyed the men gathered in front of it. “So what happened?”
“It seems that Major McKay was shot down by a previously undetected SAM site,” replied LeMay. “It was just straight up bad luck.”
“Did he have a family?” asked the President.
“A wife and two children,” responded LeMay. “I understand his widow is pregnant with a third, as well.”
Somebody muttered, “Christ.”
Kennedy was trying hard not to look as tired as he felt. Everyone was nearing the end of their rope. The quarantine seemed to have been effective. A few of the ships had refused to stop and had had to be boarded and searched, but most had turned back on their own. Then a letter had come through teletype machine. It had been from Khrustchev, who had proposed a deal. The Soviets would remove the missiles from Cuba if the Americans promised never to invade. Bobby Kennedy and Kenneth O’Donnell had immediately made several phone calls. They had woken up several government agents with known Soviet contacts. The people on the ground were still shaking the bushes, but the letter had been carefully scrutinized and determined with a high order of probability to be genuine.
An offer to withdraw the missiles, mused Kennedy in frustration, then this happens.
LeMay interrupted Kennedy’s train of thought. “I don’t see that we have a choice now,” he said gravely, “for all we know this could be an indication of a coup.”
“Now wait a minute,” interjected McNamara, “we don’t know that for certain.”
“No, we don’t,” allowed McCone, “but we can’t take the risk that Krushchev has been overthrown or co-opted by his own government.”
“The fact is that we don’t have a lot time left,” said the President, “the invasion force is almost in position and the missiles will ready in 36 hours.” He eyed Bobby and O’Donnell. “Have either of you heard back from your contacts yet?”
The two men shook their heads.
The President nodded.
“Mr. President,” asked a concerned McGeorge Bundy, “are you actually considering this deal.”
“I would strongly recommend against it,” responded McCone at once. “They’ve already made one demand. What if they make a second, and a third and a fourth? What if they demand something they know we won’t give them? What then?”
The President nodded again. “That is a valid point,” he said, “but we only have time one last round of diplomacy before we go in guns blazing.”
“What about a trade?” asked Bobby.
Why didn’t I think of that? wondered Kennedy. “What do you mean?”
“Well, we give them something,” responded Bobby.
“Then we’re back to where we started,” replied McNamara.
“Not necessarily,” mused the President. “What if we gave them something we know that they want, something they won’t refuse.”
“Well,” said Bobby thoughtfully, “we could offer them the missiles in Turkey.”
“That’s a possibility,” said McNamara. Several batteries of Jupiter-C missiles had been stationed in Turkey since 1961. The Russians had howled about the move at the time, calling it a violation of their national security and had demanded the missiles’ removal ever since.
“This would have to be done completely under the table,” said Kennedy. “If the Russians, or anyone else, so much as breaths a word of this deal, we deny everything and the deal is off.”
Everyone nodded.
“We also need to make it clear to the Soviets that we must have an answer by tomorrow,” said McNamara.
The President nodded. “That point can’t be made clearly enough. If the Russians don’t give an answer by this time tomorrow, we will have no choice but to proceed with the first wave of air strikes.”
“So, who gets to go into the lion’s den?” asked Bundy.
“Whoever it is will have a tough balancing act,” said McCone.
McNamara nodded. “Push too hard and the Russians will feel backed into a corner-“
“-But come off too soft,” interjected Kennedy, “the Russians will perceive that as weakness.” He thought for a moment then looked at Bobby. “You know the Russian ambassador best,” said the President. “See if you can set up a meeting for later today.”
Bobby nodded. He got up and left the Oval Office. He had to prepare to meet Ambassador Dobrynin and only a few hours in which to do it.
The President surveyed his advisors. “This is our last chance gentleman,” he said, “because in 48 hours, we are at war.”

Washington DC
The Soviet Embassy

The clouds hung low and leaden in the evening sky, pregnant with rain. It had already rained once; the lights of the Soviet embassy cast soft puddles on the ground. Bobby thought it looked ready rain again. The Soviet embassy was a large modern looking building, grey and undistinguished, in typical Soviet style. Office lights left on by the building’s cleaning staff created a haphazard checkerboard pattern across the building’s face. The grounds were simply and neatly manicured. The whole compound was ringed by a ten foot tall wrought iron fence. Video cameras mounted on tall poles swept slowly back and forth.
The gates bearing the red star of the Soviet Union and the Cyrillic letters CCCP yawned open. The car pulled into the compound. As it rounded a corner, Bobby and O’Donnell caught sight of a thick pall of grey-white smoke hovering over the main embassy building.
Bobby and O’Donnell both stared grimly at the scene.
Oh my God, thought Bobby.
“They’re burning their documents,” said O’Donnell.
“They must think that war is inevitable,” said Bobby. Are we too late? he wondered.
They pulled around the main embassy building and stopped in front of the ambassadors’ residence. They car drew to a stop in front of the main entrance. O’Donnell shut off the engine and pocketed the keys. The two men got out and walked inside. The foyer of the house was spacious and well lit, which struck him as an odd contrast to the dim, rainy night just outside. Antique furniture dotted the walls. Here and there, Kennedy caught glimpses of the Romanov eagle. His shoes clacked loudly on the polished marble floor. Even in the workers’ paradise there were haves and have nots.
Kennedy shook hands with Ambassador Dobrynin’s Chief of Staff. “Mikhail,” he said, “thank you for arranging this meeting.”
“Comrade Kennedy, Comrade O’Donnell.” The man looked grave and pale.
The Russians’ people on the ground don’t want to be in this situation any more than we do, Kennedy thought. That realization calmed and comforted him. Maybe we have a chance.
“Please, come with me,” said Mikhail. “The ambassador is waiting in his study.” He led upstairs. They followed him up the curving staircase to the third floor where he led them down a wide, plushly carpeted hallway. Scenes of the October Revolution and World War II, the Russian front of course, lined the walls. They turned down a side hall and went through wooden door. Kennedy and O’Donnell found themselves in a spartan, but comfortable anteroom.
“Wait here,” said Kennedy. “I need to talk to the ambassador alone.”
Kennedy went through the door. It shut with a quiet click.
O’Donnell sat down to wait for Bobby in one of the chairs that dotted the walls. They appeared more comfortable than they actually were. He idly flipped through one of the magazines left on the little table next to his chair. It was a recent issue of Pravda, and it was in Russian. He put it back down and turned his attention to the woman sitting at the desk. She was sitting in a corner typing something on a typewriter. The sound of her typing filled the room with an overly loud clack! clack! clack! The typewriter dinged occasionally as she reached the margin. She pushed the bar back the other way with a metallic clicking noise.
O’Donnell studied her closely. She was a severe looking woman, dressed in non-descript looking black pant suit. Someone had thought to disguise her as a secretary, but everything about her said KGB. O’Donnell looked at her hands. They were shaking.
Shit, he thought, the Russians are as frightened as we are.
He stared at her for what seemed like a long time.
The only sound that filled the room was the clack! clack! clack! of her typewriter.
O’Donnell reached into the inside pocket in his jacket and pulled out a package of cigarettes. He shook one out, stood up and crossed the room in a couple of steps. He held it out to her.
“Hey.”
No response.
“Hey,” he said again.
She looked up from what she was doing.
“You want a cigarette?” She stared quizzically at him, as though trying to comprehend what he was saying, although O’Donnell had an inclination was she knew exactly what he was saying, even if she wasn’t about to admit it. He mimed smoking. “You know cigarette?”
She took the cigarette and brought it to her mouth. O’Donnell reached into his pocket again and pulled out a lighter. It lit with a metallic snick! He lit her cigarette. She took a long drag and blew out a cloud blue-grey tobacco smoke. O’Donnell shook out a cigarette for himself and lit it. “You know,” he said, “we don’t want to have to fight you any more than you want to have to fight us.”

* * *

Bobby stepped into Ambassador Dobrynin’s office and shut the door. The room was in semi-darkness. The only source of light was a lamp on Ambassador Dobrynin’s desk, which cast a soft puddle and left the ambassador partially in shadow. A large rug, from the Caucasus, covered most of the floor. A sofa and a coffee table formed a sitting area on one side of the room. The walls were lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves. The spines of leather bound volumes gleamed faintly in the darkness.
“Ambassador,” said Bobby, “thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
Dobrynin gestured to the empty chair next to his desk. “Comrade Kennedy, please sit.”
Bobby sat in the proffered chair.
Dobrynin studied him closely. There was a long and pregnant silence. “Tell me,” Dobrynin said at last, “what message does your President have for Secretary Khrushchev.”
Bobby saw no reason to beat around the bush. “The President has considered the proposed offer in Secretary Khrushchev’s letter,” Bobby began. He spoke slowly and carefully. He wanted to be sure that Dobrynin understood what President Kennedy was proposing. “We are prepared to consider accepting Secretary Khrushchev’s terms,” Bobby continued.
“The United States will pledge to leave Cuba in peace?” asked Dobrynin, “publicly?”
Bobby nodded. “If Secretary Khrushchev would like the President’s public assurance in that regard, then I am authorized to tell you that President Kennedy is willing to undertake such actions.”
Bobby paused and mentally took a breath. “The President is prepared to offer a further guarantee,” he began.
“What additional guarantee will the President give?” asked Dobrynin. His curiosity was piqued, but his face and his voice betrayed nothing.
“Remove the missiles from Cuba,” said Bobby, “six months from now, the United States will remove its missiles from Turkey.”
Dobrynin tried to hide his surprise and was only partially successful. Of all the things Bobby could have said, he had not expected this.
A muscle in Dobrynin’s face twitched.
“Your President is also willing to state this publicly?”
“No,” replied Bobby. “The missiles will be removed from Turkey six months from now,” he reiterated, “ but any public mention of this deal will result in the most explicit and stringent denials by the United States. Furthermore, we must have your answer by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” asked a surprised Dobrynin. “That will not be enough time to-“
Bobby cut him off. “No, Ambassador,” he said firmly. “There can be absolutely no equivocation on this point. Any attempt to delay, stall or obfuscate, and there can be no deals.”
Dobrynin pondered Bobby’s words for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he nodded. “Your President’s proposal is intriguing,” he said at last. “It seems we have misjudged President Kennedy,” said Dobrynin. “He is more perceptive that we give credit for.”
“We don’t want war any more than you do,” said Bobby.
Dobrynin nodded. “Da. I will convey your terms to my government.”
The two men rose and walked to the door.
 
Chapter Forty-Nine
Washington DC
October 28, 1962

President Kennedy sat at his desk and read the letter that come through the teletype machine from Moscow for what seemed like the third time. He breathed a silent sigh of relief. It was over. Additional negotiations had followed in the wake of Bobby’s meeting with the Soviet ambassador, hammering out the details, but in the end the Soviets had agreed to the American terms. The United States would remove its missiles from Turkey and pledge never to invade Cuba. In return, the Soviet Union would remove its missiles from Cuba. As he read Khrushchev’s letter again, Kennedy thought of all that had happened in the last two weeks, all the twists and turns and sudden reversals. We were damn lucky, thought the President. This all could have ended very badly. For Major McKay, it had ended badly, Kennedy reminded himself. McKay’s death had very nearly caused the whole situation to spiral irretrievably out of control. Fortunately cooler heads had prevailed and disaster had been averted at the eleventh hour.
Kennedy thought of all the men who had been ready to go into battle, all the men who he had nearly had to send to almost certain death. For what? he thought, land? Ideology? For national interests? For mother and country? No, he thought, we have to be better that blind nationalism, naked strategy and naive patriotism. He pondered these thoughts for a long time, examining them in his mind, turning them this way and that. The President found his thoughts turning to the space program He didn’t know why. The space program had baffled and perplexed him. It was expensive and dangerous. More than once, the President had wondered at the adulation that astronauts received from the public. “I don’t get it,” he had said more than once. “What do they see in space?” He was forced to admit that he didn’t know, but he wondered if people had gravitated to the space program because they wanted to be part of something that was bigger than they were. Have they found it in NASA, the President wondered.
We have to think about the future, thought the President. He had remembered how he had felt, as though the world was poised at the edge of some great abyss and all it would take was the slightest nudge to push it over. He would be eternally gratefully that nudge hadn’t happened. The President’s thoughts turned to the future again, yet even as he did so, the spectre of nuclear war seemed to hover in the background. It was an image he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. We have to think of the future, he thought again, of the world we will leave to those who come after us. He though of his children, Caroline and John, what kind of future would they have, he wondered. What legacy would be left to them. A photograph hanging on the wall caught suddenly caught the President’s eye. It was a photograph of his home state of Massachusetts from orbit. John Glenn had given it to him following the Friendship 7 flight. As he looked at it, he suddenly remembered something that Glenn had told him.
“I was struck,” Glenn had said, “by the fact that that were no borders.”
No borders, thought Kennedy. Seemingly of their own accord, his eyes went from the photograph to antique nautical chart on the opposite wall. It’s all a fantasy, he thought in realization, a paper game of names and lines. As soon as the thought occurred to him, part of him wanted to push it away. It seemed almost cynical and made him feel a bit uncomfortable. No. He pushed the thought away. It’s not cynical, it’s aspirational. The space program can move us beyond our terrestrial concerns. We can compete with the Soviets on our terms, peacefully, safely and without running the risk of accidentally starting a world war.
The President thought of his children, and of all the children yet to be born and the hundreds of thousands of men who would not have to fight and die in nuclear fire and their families. He thought again of the tensions of the last two weeks. All this has to mean something, he mused. Something positive has to come out of this. Let it be space.

Ellington Field,
Houston, Texas
November, 1962

The Cuban Missile Crisis had severely disrupted the preparations for the final flight in the Mercury Program flight schedule. All the astronauts were veteran combat pilots. They had followed every beat and tick of the crisis as it had unfolded. As the crisis had worsened and war looked imminent, they had fully expected to be recalled to active combat duty. All seven of them had bags packed and sitting by the front door for the past week. Their training had been severely curtailed as well. Patrick Air Force Base was practically within spitting distance of the launch towers at the Cape. Everyone was well aware that both the Cape and Patrick would be high priority targets on the Soviets’ target list. The astronauts had been advised to go to Houston and stay there until the crisis was over. That had not made them feel better.
“Houston is as much of a target as the Cape,” Shepard had said.
Ellington Air Force Base lay on the outskirts of Houston. In addition acting as a training centre for Air Force, Navy and Army pilots, it was also a major NASA hub for astronauts crisscrossing the country on their way to and from various training and technical assignments. Ellington would also no doubt be a high priority target. To make matter worse, the Manned Spaceflight Centre, which was being built in anticipation of the forthcoming Gemini and Apollo flights, which were currently slated to start in 1965, was still unfinished and would be for some time.
Not willing to give up valuable training time, Gordo Cooper and Alan Shepard had, with Deke’s blessing, decided to fly to St. Louis for their scheduled conference with Max Faget and the Mercury spacecraft design team.
I’m not sitting around waiting to get nuked, Cooper had thought. I’d rather be doing something. Anything. The trip had been productive but tense, in regular contact with both Houston and the Cape, Cooper and Shepard had been kept up to date on the developments of the Cuban Missile Crisis. Although they would never have had admitted it, both me felt the separation from their families much more keenly than usual.
In light of the stress that the current crisis had placed upon everyone, the Agency had decided to give the astronauts a weeks’ rest. Shepard and Cooper were looking forward to some extended family time.
The two T-38s touched down on the runway at Ellington with a gentle bump. They rolled out, engines whining, and crossed the taxiway to the hanger. Shepard and Cooper popped their canopies. They unbuckled their safety harnesses and unplugged themselves from the aircraft communication and oxygen systems. The two men ignored the technicians swarming around the sleek jets and climbed to the ground. They collected their duffle bags from the aircrafts’ luggage lockers and walked into the pilots’ duty locker. There, Shepard and Cooper changed out of their flight suits and into their street clothes. They walked off the flight line and out to the base parking lot where they got in their cars. They gunned the engines loudly and drove off.
The drive from Ellington to Taylor Lake didn’t take very long, less than half an hour. In the distance, the concrete monoliths of the Manned Spacecraft Centre were rising from the Texas scrubland. As Cooper turned off of NASA Parkway and on to the quiet, winding residential streets, he noticed that not much had changed. A few more houses dotted the landscape. Two or three looked to be mostly complete. The rest were in various stages of construction. In the far distance heavy construction equipment rumbled along, breaking earth for new foundations and sewer mains. In Cooper’s rear view mirror a moving truck negotiated a corner as it lumbered on to the main thoroughfare from a side street. The lazily winding road was dotted here and there with young, freshly planted trees. Neatly piled rolls of sod sat on freshly paved drive ways next to empty brown lawns waiting to be cloaked in a mantle of grass. It looked for all the world like any other half built subdivision, blissfully unaware of the tensions that had gripped the world the previous two weeks. The disconnect momentarily caused Cooper to wonder if he had made a wrong turn somewhere, but no, there was his street. Cooper turned off onto a side street and pulled into his driveway. He shut off the engine. The silence seemed deafening.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a curtain twitch.
He pushed open the car door and got out. Cooper’s footsteps seemed to crunch overly loudly on the brick-and-gravel path that led to the front door.
Cooper got as far as inserting his key into the lock. Before he could even put his hand on the door knob, it was wrenched open and he was practically knocked off his feet by his two teenaged daughters.
“Daddy!” they cried excitedly.
Cooper found himself enveloped in his childrens’ arms.
“We missed you,” said Jan.
Cooper gave Jan and Cam a kiss each on the cheek. “I missed you too,” he said. As they stood in each others’ embrace, framed by the front door, they all felt the lingering tension draining away. They all went inside and shut the door. The house was small and cosily furnished. Despite the money the astronauts had received from the Life Magazine deal, they all lived solidly middle class existences. At the sound of the door opening closing, Trudy appeared from somewhere in the back.
“Oh, Gordo,” she said relieved. “Thank God.”
Cooper wrapped his wife in a bear hug. Theirs had been a troubled marriage at times, but right now he was geniunely glad to see that everyone had come through the crisis unscathed. “Is everything alright?” he asked. “No problems while I was gone?”
“No,” replied Trudy, “it’s just, well…” she trailed off.
Cooper’s eyes went to the three packed suitcases sitting by the door. He hadn’t noticed them right away.
“We’re glad you’re back, Dad,” said Cam, finishing her mother’s thought.
“Thanks, Cam,” said Cooper. He suddenly realized just how much he had missed them during the past two weeks. “I’m glad to be back too.”
 
Chapter Fifty
Late 1962
A few days later, the astronauts went full tilt back into training for the last mission of the program. They were glad for the distraction. The whole country seemed to be under a cloud. Everyone was trying hard to act like it had been nothing had happened; that there had never been any real danger, but the astronauts all knew better. They would never have admitted it, but they too were secretly relieved that Cuban Missile Crisis had been peacefully defused.
It has to mean something, though Cooper more than once as he said his evening prayers. A devout Christian and a life-long member of the Church of Christ, Cooper had diligently said his prayers before bed since he had been a young boy. Heavenly Father, he prayed, thank you for Thy mercy. Thank you for sparing my family and my country from the horrors of war. I beseech Thee for Thy wisdom. Show us the way to Your peace. Show us how to live side by side with our fellow man. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.

* * *

November slipped past and faded into December. Christmas. The training continued apace. In the meantime the rest of the world became a wonderland of Christmas lights and tinsel and department store displays. The astronauts barely noticed. They were firmly ensconced in their own world, a world of thrust vectors and delta v calculations and re-entry angles. It was a world that the public thought they knew, and yet was totally alien to them. The world that astronauts inhabited was only fully understood by themselves and the engineers and technicians who worked on the space program with them.

Winter, 1963

For Gordo Cooper and his family, the Christmas of 1962 was quiet and subdued. There were the usual Christmas festivities, church, gifts and generous amounts of turkey. A weather system, that had dumped three feet of snow on Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle, exhausted itself over Houston, turning Gordo Cooper’s lawn into a slushy mudpuddle.

In the weeks that followed, the astronauts kept training and continuing to work through the post Christmas doldrums, they began to sense that the country was slowly beginning to unclench after the tensions of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

* * *

Trudy Cooper was jolted back to consciousness by the sound of the jangling alarm clock. She rolled over in bed. Her arm fell on the space that her husband usually occupied. Gordo’s half of the bed was empty and unslept in. His half of the bed had been unslept in more often than not these past few years. She still remembered the phone call she had received from the Lovelace Clinic in New Mexico.
“Hello,” she had said. At the time Trudy and the kids had been staying in San Diego at the time. She loved Gordo, but their relationship had never been easy. This had beeen one of the roughest of their many rough patches.
“Hey, babe,” said Gordo’s voice jauntily over the telephone.
“Gordo?” she had asked, “is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine, babe,” he had said, then Gordo had paused. “Listen, Trudy,” he had continued, suddenly much more earnestly, “I need you to do me a favour.”
Trudy had rolled her eyes. There was always a favour or an eleventh hour appeal.
Gordo had continued speaking. He had taken Trudy’s silence as assent and kept talking. “They want to meet you,” he had said.
“For what?” she had asked, slightly confused.
“Well,” Gordo had replied, “all guys down here are married with families. I don’t think they’re even considering anyone who isn’t.”
So they want to meet me, Trudy had thought. She had sighed inwardly. Gordo had explained the nature of the testing and what the program would involved, should he be selected, but she had tried to be supportive as her husband had gone through the gruelling physical and psychological testing, but the truth was that deep down Trudy had been sceptical of the whole thing from the start.
Gordo was still talking. “So what do you say?” he had asked.
Trudy had paused, thinking. She had been tempted to simply hang up, but she had found herself unable to do. For all their ups and downs, she couldn’t have hurt Gordo that way. Instead she had said, “when do you want me to come to New Mexico?”
Gordo had quickly rattled off the information that he had been given.
Trudy had quickly scribbled it down. “I’ll see you in a few days,” she had said.
“You’re the best, babe,” Gordo had said. Trudy thought that she had detected an audible note of relief in her husband’s voice.
The drive from her parents’ house in San Diego to Albuquerque, New Mexico had been short and uneventful. She had pulled off the road and found a hotel. The next morning she had driven from her hotel to the Lovelace Clinic. She parked and went inside to the front desk, where she had been directed to Room 622.
The man sitting behind the desk had been tall and thin. He had curly blond hair and twinkling blue eyes. The name tag on his white doctor’s coat had read BRAND.
“Mrs. Cooper,” Dr. Brand had said, “please sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
Trudy had sat in one of the large chairs on the other side of Dr. Brand’s desk. Brand’s desk was occupied by a large reel-to-reel tape recorder and two microphones.
Dr. Brand had steepled his fingers and stared at Trudy. “Mrs. Cooper, thank you for coming,” he had said in his soft Texas drawl. “We have been very impressed with your husband’s test results. We’d like to ask you a few questions about your relationship with your husband.”
Trudy had nodded.
Dr. Brand pushed a pair of buttons on the tape recorder, which had whirred to life. Dr. Brand’s interview of Trudy lasted about 45 minutes. He had questioned her closely about herself, Gordo and their life together.
Where had they met?
What had she thought of him?
What was his family like?
What kind of relationship did he have with their children?
Trudy had been a bit comfortable answering questions about their sex life, wonder just what that had to do with the space program, but she had tried to answer as honestly as she could all the same.
All the while, Dr. Brand had taken notes on a pad of paper while the tape recorder whirred on his desk.
As she had been leaving Dr. Brand’s office, Gordo had been waiting for her. He gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Hey, babe,” he had said genially. He had been totally oblivious to doctors and nurses going about their rounds and military men in various states of discomfort and undress. “How did your interview go?”
Trudy had shrugged. “Well, I told him that you’re happy, normal, well adjusted-“
Gordo had laughed at that. “So you lied?” he had asked with a mischievous grin.
Trudy stared in the pre-dawn light at the empty space on the other side of the bed. For most of their marriage, they had moved from base to base to base, living in Quonset huts and cinderblock base housing, never staying in one place for more than two or three years at a time. The five years that Gordo had spent with the space program had been the longest that they had spent in once place. Now they had a home of their own, they had been able to decorate their home as they has seen fit. There had been no groaning pipes, no leaky faucets or antiquated appliances. Trudy had been able hang a picture wherever she liked. Everything had been new and spotless and clean, and yet something had been missing.
Gordo.
“Well, I told him that you’re happen, normal, well adjusted-“
“So you lied?”
Yes. She had bent the truth for her husband and had probably ensured his place in the program as a result. At the time Trudy hadn’t really believed that the space agency would even get off the ground, it had sounded like so much science fiction Buck Rogers nonsense, then it caught the public’s imagination and Trudy had found herself swept-up in astromania as the space craze had swept the nation. In the meantime, Gordo, along with the rest of the astronauts, had found himself grappling with the demands of instant celebrity, while shielding his family from the incessant media onslaught that the astronauts had encountered. For the astronauts, escape the constant glare of the media spotlight had been simple. The task of getting the space program up and running, coupled with developing the training and procedures for the Mercury flight program had been enormous. From inspection trips to public appearances to seemingly endless tests and interminable technical briefings, the astronauts had found themselves grappling with overnight fame and an almost Herculean amount of work in getting NASA up and running.
Trudy sometimes felt as though she were married to a stranger. The long hours and hard work had meant that Gordo was rarely home and when he was he was often fast asleep on the living room sofa by nine PM. The rest of the time, he was absent, working, leaving her to raise their children more or less on her own.
Trudy got out of bed. The early morning sunlight cast a dappled pattern of light and shadow across the bedroom. On the dresser, a photo of Gordo as a much younger man in his Air Force uniform smiled genially at Trudy. Trudy walked into the bathroom. She slipped off her night clothes, turned on the water and stepped into the shower. Trudy felt the hot water coursing over her body. She should have felt her tensions ebbing away but she didn’t. Trudy had thought that Gordo training to go into space would mean stability for their family. She turned it all over in her mind, as she stood under the hot water absently scrubbing her self.
It’s not that I don’t love him, she thought, how could I not? Gordo is the father of my children, but I need more.
She still jumped sometimes whenever the phone rang, certain it was NASA with calling with bad news. She started at the sound of a car backing firing. It sounded too much to her like the sound of a jet hitting the ground. Trudy must have been standing under the water for a long time wrapped up in her thoughts, because she suddenly realized that the water was ice cold. Trudy shivered and shut of the water. She felt goose bumps erupt all over her body as soon as she stepped out of the shower. Trudy shivered again as she dried off. She pulled a comb through her wet hair and blew it dry, then got dressed and walked into the kitchen. The sun was up. A bright shaft of sunlight streamed into the kitchen through the window over the kitchen sink. At the kitchen table, Pam and Cam chattered happily over breakfast. The room was filled with the smells of scrambled eggs, bacon, freshly squeezed orange juice and coffee.
Trudy stopped in the entrance to the kitchen for a moment and survey the scene. It was the picture of domestic tranquility. To any outside observer, Trudy and her daughters appeared to be the very picture of domestic tranquility. The only thing that was missing was her husband.
I don’t want to leave him, thought Trudy. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I need this. She looked at the scene in front of her again. Trudy knew that Gordo would be hurt and humiliated if she left him, but she understood. She needed to get out.
 
Chapter Fifty-One
Early 1963

1962 ended quietly and faded into 1963, taking with it the tensions of the Cuban Missile Crisis and the brightly coloured rush of Christmas and New Year’s Eve. Unbeknownst to anyone, not even her own children, Trudy Cooper continued to wrestle with her decision to end her marriage. She loved Gordo, but she had come to understand that her husband had a mistress; the Air Force. Trudy had always been supportive of Gordo’s career, but she needed more than an absent father for her children and husband who was more that just a voice on the phone. It would be painful, she knew, and Gordo would be humiliated, but Trudy believed that this was for the best.

* * *

As the same time that Trudy Cooper was wrestling with her personal problems, the program was getting back on track. As the tensions had swirled over Cuba and looked increasingly was though war was imminent, the astronauts had cleared their schedules and quietly made inquiries to return to active duty. None of them would admit to it, but they were all secretly relieved when the crisis came to a negotiated end. With the crisis past, the last flight of the program only a few months away and Gemini on the horizon after that, there was a lot to do and not much time to do it in.

US Route 49 North,
Rural Mississippi,
February, 1963

An oppressive, heavy looking leaden sky hung over the city of Biloxi, Mississippi. It promised rain. It had rained off and on all day and would rain again later. Joe Harlan trudged along the shoulder of US Route 49 North. He eyed the sky again, hefted his satchel and tugged at his collar. Joe had been born in upstate New York, not far from Albany. As a child, his family had frequently moved back and forth between New York and Alabama. For a time they had settled in Gadsden and there they had been happy. Joe had always been a sensitive child even as a young boy he had been struck by the sharply divided world of the Deep South in the 1930s and 40s. A particularly vivid childhood memory was of a group of white boys pelting a group of black boys with rocks. The white kids were playing segregation. Horrified, a nine year old Joe had tried to intervene, only to find himself bombarded with rocks and racist insults. A stone had struck him above his left eye and drawn blood. He still carried the scar to this day.
In high school, Joe began exhibiting unusual behaviour. Where he had been a bright student the year before, his grades dropped and he began acting out, arguing with his teachers and getting into fights with his classmates. Concerned over his increasingly disruptive behaviour, Joe’s parents took him to see the family doctor, who misdiagnosed him as simply being overstressed and gave him a prescription for a mild sedative. It seemed to work. His grades came back up and he was no longer getting into fights. Joe finished at the top of his class and gave the valedictorian address at his high school graduation.
After high school Joe moved back north to Baltimore, where he enrolled as a student at Johns Hopkins University. A few months later, Joe began hearing voices. In the middle of his second year, Joe suffered a psychotic break and was checked into the Laurel Sanitarium, where he had been diagnosed as a schizophrenic. He had been placed on medication and had eventually gotten better and gone on to finish his education, graduating with honours from Johns Hopkins with a degree in public health. The eighteen months that Joe spent in the Laruel Sanatorium had left a searing impression on his memory. The large rambling red brick building was dilapidated and crumbling on the outside. On the inside, the building was dank, dark and cold. Here and there, mould spotted the walls. The so-called doctors were quacks and inflicted dubious and sometimes outright barbaric treatments on the patients, while the nurses were indifferent and allowed the patients to wander around half naked and wallow in their own filth. Not long after he was discharged, Joe began to advocate for better conditions in mental institutions and for the rights of mental patients. From there, it was, perhaps, inevitable that Joe would become interested in the Civil Rights movement.
He eyed the sullen looking sky again. The clouds seemed lower and more threatening. It’s definitely going to rain, he thought. Joe hefted his satchel higher on his shoulder again and kept walking. Joe’s walk from Biloxi to Jackson was his form of protesting against the injustice of racial segregation. Joe was a member of CORE, the Congress of Racial Equality, although he rarely took part in CORE’s larger protests. Joe’s schizophrenia diagnosis sometimes made it difficult for him to be in large groups. Joe’s walk was his protest. In his satchel was a letter that he intended to hand deliver to the Governor of Mississippi. This was the third such walk, Joe had undertaken. In 1960, he had walked from Annapolis, Maryland to the White House, where he had hand delivered a letter to President Kennedy, informing him of his intention to walk from Chattanooga, Tennessee to Frankfort, Kentucky, where he had attempted to deliver a letter the state Governor. Joe had been unsuccessful in delivering his letter, as he had been arrested by the Frankfort Police when he got to the edge of the city limits.
They had not even given him the opportunity to surrender himself. Instead they had attacked him with tear gas and police dogs as soon as he had stepped over the city line. His trial had been little better than a show trial. He had been denied bail and his lawyer had been a tax lawyer with virtually no court room experience. Joe had been found guilty of vagrancy, a petty crime that ordinarily carried a fine of $50.00. Instead Joe had been sentenced to a six month jail sentence, which he had spent all of solitary confinement.
After returning home, Joe had found himself the target of a continued campaign of intimidation. He had received multiple death threats and he found a burning cross on his lawn, as well as racist graffiti and threatening phone calls. That had not stopped him from attempting to deliver another letter, this time to the Governor of Arkansas. This time Joe had been lucky to make it to the Mississippi-Arkansas state line. He had awakened three days later in an Arkansas hospital. A Good Samaritan had found him bleeding and unconscious on the side of the road. When Joe had awakened in the hospital, it was with three missing teeth, a fractured eye socket, two cracked ribs, two broken legs a broken wrist and a severe concussion. They had also cut the letters KKK into his chest with a box cutter.
Joe wasn’t deterred, however and as soon as he got out of the hospital he began planning his next protest. That had led to this moment. Joe kept walking. The low hanging clouds were black and heavy looking in the sullen gloom of twilight. It began to rain. Fat drops splattered the two lane blacktop and the gravel shoulder, giving everything a wet sheen. The lights from the occasional passing cars cast a pale glow over everything. It was raining harder now and there were few signs of civilization around.
Joe was just thinking, I need to get out of the rain, and looking for a place to camp for the night, when a sound interrupted his thoughts. It was the low frequency hum of tires on wet pavement. Joe turned and saw a Mississippi State Police car pulling over onto the shoulder. The police car pulled up to with in a couple of feet of Joe and stopped, its’ single police light strobbed fitfully, casting lurid splashes of red light over the scene.
The police car stopped, the sound of its rumbling engine mixed with the fitful tattoo that was being played by the rain on the roof of the car. The doors opened and two Mississippi State Troopers got out. The one the passenger’s side got out first and levelled a .22 calibre hunting rifle squarely at Joe’s forehead. Joe felt a sudden thrill of foreboding as he stared down the long black barrel. The driver’s side door opened and the other trooper got out. In one hand was a gun, in the other a pair of stainless steel hand cuffs gleamed silver in the pool of light cast by the car’s headlights.
“Is there something I can help you with?” asked Joe. He had to work to keep the tremor out of his voice.
“Never you mind, boy,” said the trooper on the rifle in his thick Mississippi accent. “You just do as you’re told.”
The trooper with the gun motioned to Joe’s satchel. “Put that on the ground,” he said. “Put your hands behind your head.”
Joe put his satchel on the ground and put his hands behind his head. In a single fluid and well practiced movement. The wet handcuffs were cold against his wrists. Joe felt them close tightly with a metallic racketing sound. The trooper with the gun took him by the elbow and guided him toward the car. The trooper with the rifle shouldered his weapon. As Joe bent to get into the back seat a black bag was pulled over his head. He heard the door slam shut, then the engine rumbled into gear and they drove off.

* * *

Joe didn’t know how long they had been driving, or even where they were. He heard the engine stop. The silence was deafening. The footsteps of the two troopers seemed overly loud as they crunched on the wet gravel. Joe was unceremoniously pulled out of the car. Before he could find his feet, hands seized his shoulders and forced him into the dirt. He heard the metallic of a rifle bolt being pulled back. The last sound he ever was the sharp CRACK! of the rifle, followed a few milliseconds later by rifle bullet entering his brain.
 
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