Free The Last Pilot: A Novel by Benjamin Johncock Page A

ever heard, Harrison said to Deke.
    Any questions? Gilruth said.
    The men murmured a mixture of amusement and incredulity. A few raised their hands.
    The missions will be controlled automatically from the ground, Gilruth said, in response to the first question. The pilot will have no control over the capsule during the flight.
    No landing, he said. The capsule will splash-down in the ocean.
    No prototype of the capsule has been built yet, he said. We’re putting together some first-rate blueprints.
    Well, I see your point, he said. A reputation for blowing up is perhaps a little strong … but, yes, there have been a few incidents with the Atlas in the past and it’s being worked on.
    Harrison sat back in his seat. No flying? It wasn’t even a ship or a craft, it was a goddamn tin can. They sealed you in, shot you into the sky like a cannonball and prized you out in some remote and turbulent part of the Atlantic. Assuming you survived the ride, of course. The only prerequisite skill seemed to be the ability to take it. Sure, if the thing malfunctioned up there, the pilot could take over, push a button, fire the retro-rockets to pop it out of orbit and splash-down prematurely, but that was about it. No, a real pilot would take her up, fly the thing himself, grease it in like a man and make it to Pancho’s in time for beercall. That’s how it was done. Harrison looked up to Gilruth on the stage. The man was good; Harrison gave him that.
    The first men in space, Gilruth said, will be known as astro-nauts , meaning star voyagers .
     
    That night, the men were put up in hotels around town. Harrison was in the Marriott on Fortieth Street with Lovell, Conrad and a few others from Pax River. They dumped their bags as soon as they arrived and met in Schirra’s room, pulling chairs into a circle like it was a s é ance. They wanted to chew over this Project Mercury business together, in private; Schirra even locked the door.
    There were six of them, sat in a circle, filling their glasses from a bottle of scotch being passed around. Lovell, Conrad and Schirra, he knew pretty well. There was another navy guy, Al Shepard, an experienced test pilot who’d previously been an instructor at Pax River. Harrison knew him by reputation. The other man was from Edwards, Gordon “Gordo” Cooper, but wasn’t involved in either the X-series or Fighter Ops, so Harrison didn’t know him. Deke, along with Howard Lane and a few others from Edwards, were staying in another hotel across town.
    So, gentlemen, Lovell said. What do you think?
    The men looked around at each other.
    It ain’t the X-15, that’s for sure, Conrad said.
    It’s hazardous duty, that’s for sure, Schirra said. I’m not worried about putting my ass on the line, I’m worried about putting my career on the line.
    The men around Harrison nodded in agreement. The quickest way to screw up your career was to get caught up in some crackpot program that floundered on, leaving you two, three years behind in flight test and promotion. Schirra was higher up the ladder than most of his navy brethren, and had the most to lose.
    It’s the most harebrained thing I’ve ever heard, Harrison said.
    Suppose it works out how they say? Lovell said.
    We’re not all in line to fly the X-15, Gordo said. No offense, Jim.
    None taken.
    First man in space, Shepard said. I could live with that.
    They haven’t even built the damn thing yet, Conrad said.
    Even if they do, Harrison said, you’re not gonna be able to fly it at all. You’ll be a guinea pig; a lab rabbit, with sensors taped all over and a thermometer up your ass. Anybody goes up is gonna be nothing more than Spam in a can.
    I’d feel a hell of a lot better if it wasn’t the Atlas, Lovell said.
    I heard its walls are so thin they collapse if they’re not pressurized, Shepard said.
    Lighter it is, faster it goes, Conrad said.
    And the higher it blows, Lovell said.
    Schirra, who’d gone silent, said, we used to call this kinda