Note: Credit and thanks to Scott Frost, whose retort I borrowed.
CHAPTER NINE
The week passed wretchedly for Al. News of his humiliating display in the LEMS spread as juicy gossip is wont to do, and by Wednesday morning everyone knew what had happened. No one would meet his eye, though he could feel them staring at his back, and conversations halted when he entered a room. Al was familiar enough with the dynamics of military instillations to know that everyone was waiting to see what was going to happen to him. Of all the curses a man could be smitten with, claustrophobia was perhaps the absolute least likely to be overlooked in an astronaut.
Al tried to go through the motions of a regular routine. They had cleared him from the simulator schedule entirely, but he could still use the other machines. Those he was good with. Even the centrifuge, though not exactly his favorite, was simple enough once you just relaxed. He had what it took… in theory. He knew he was good at the simulations too: he was quick and decisive, and he had a knack for remembering complex command sequences without referring to the itinerary or asking Cap Com for confirmation. If he could just quell the sense of rising panic that started to encroach on his sanity whenever he found himself in a confined space…
That was why he was putting in time on the training devices. He had to keep up with the others as best he could. He was trying desperately to overcome his irrational terror. Every chance he got he exposed himself to the cause of his fear. The psychiatrist had called it "flooding", and listed it as one of several treatment options. Maybe shrinks had something else they did in addition to the exposure, though, because it wasn't working. In fact, the attacks were getting worse. Shivers now ran up Al's spine whenever he passed his bedroom closet, and the other day he had almost gone off the road driving with the windows closed. Nevertheless, he had to lick this. He wasn't going to give up. He wasn't going to give Elsa Orsós the satisfaction of telling everybody she had known he was a quitter.
One week after his meeting with Yardley, Al made his way to the briefing room. The roster for Apollo 19 was to be announced this morning. Even though Al knew he hadn't made it, he felt he had to make an appearance. After all, he wasn't officially out of the program yet, and if he had anything to say about it he would be shortlisted for the next mission.
A brief shudder of hopelessness worked itself down his back as he paused before the briefing room door. He didn't really believe he could do it. It was just his obstinacy telling him he wasn't going to let anybody, especially not an impossible hag like Elsa Orsós, be vindicated in their allegations of cowardice.
Obstinacy was enough. Obstinacy had helped him overcome torment worse than this. Obstinacy and Beth…
Well, he didn't have Beth anymore. Obstinacy was just going to have to suffice.
The first ten seconds after he entered the room were horrible. The chatter died instantly as eighteen eyes turned towards him. Jacobs snorted quietly. Simmons looked away in an almost hangdog manner. Roosa and Glenwood exchanged knowing glances. Then Taggert got to his feet.
"Calavicci!" he said warmly, shattering the awkward silence. "Good morning! We're expecting the suits any minute now. C'mon and sit down."
Wary of this sudden show of friendship, Al sat in the vacant chair next to Taggert. Simmons cleared his throat. "We were just talking about being two years behind schedule," he said. "Trying to figure out if that's going to make the public more or less interested in the mission."
"Less," Glenwood said firmly. "They don't care about the space program."
"Then who cares about them?" Jacobs asked.
"Congress, for one," said Taggert. "As long as the government's footing the bill for these little field trips they're going to want to see results in the polls."
"That's a kind of cynical view, isn't it?" Roosa pointed out. "I mean, the scientific advances that we're making—"
"The government doesn't give a damn about science!" Glenwood scoffed. "They're just interested in the next election."
"I don't know," Al ventured. "It seems to me that the government's show a lot of interest in scientific research over the years. You just need to put the right spin on it."
"Oh, yeah, Calavicci?" Jacobs challenged. "And what kind of spin are they putting on this?"
"I don't know that, but it has to be a pretty positive one. I mean, they could just as easily have cancelled these last three missions back in '70—"
"I don't think you're a very good gauge of the American political situation in 1970, are you, Calavicci?" Jacobs asked with a nasty sneer.
Al stiffened. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"I think you know what that means."
"I don't think it's fair of me to jump to a conclusion like that," Al said acerbically.
"I don't think it's fair that the rest of us have to have our training schedules thrown off while a brainwashed commie turncoat has flashbacks in the simulator!" Jacobs snapped.
Taggert and whoever was sitting on Al's other side had to grab his arms and haul him back to prevent him from launching himself over the table to wipe that look of smug superiority off of the Texan's broad face. They couldn't stop the string of multilingual profanity that spilled from his lips: English and Italian and Vietnamese and even the "bazd meg, elfajzott!" that Elsa had hit him two weeks ago, despite the fact that he had no idea what that meant. Jacobs bristled, and Roosa and the major with the strong Bostonian accent sprung up to restrain him, too. Simmons sprung to his feet and brought his fist down on the table with so much force that one of its legs leaped off of the ground and the pens went rolling for the floor.
"Enough!" he barked. "Calavicci, sit down and control yourself! Jacobs, if you were under my command you would be on latrine duty for a month for that remark! Calavicci! Sit down!"
Still burning with rage, Al sat. "There wasn't a man over there the VC brainwashed," he snarled, gripping the armrests with so much force that his knuckles turned white. "God knows they tried, but they couldn't do it. Don't you ever say that to me again, you action-shirking nozzle! You filthy cowa—"
"Calavicci!" Simmons roared again. Then he leveled his voice reasonably. "All military men have to follow their orders. Jacobs was assigned to NASA in '66. It isn't his fault that he wasn't called upon to serve overseas."
"Oh, sure. Hundreds of—"
Al stopped as Taggert gripped his arm. The lieutenant's eyes were almost… pleading? "Come on, Calavicci," he said softly. "It's not worth it."
Realizing even through his rage that he was right, Al sat back, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at Jacobs as if he could will him to spontaneously combust.
"All right," Simmons said firmly. "Now that we're all calm, let's just try to be a little more open-minded all around."
"No, Jacobs is right," Glenwood said. "I mean, I for one don't think it's fair that some of us have been with the program from the get-go, and in comes this greenhorn who's supposed to be given an equal chance with the rest of us. We've been waiting for eight years, and he comes along expecting the same consideration, just because he was a prisoner of war—"
A bitter laugh tore itself from Al's lips before he could stop it. "Oh, I wasn't lucky enough to be a proper prisoner of war!" he said harshly. Taggert's grip on his forearm tightened as if he was afraid that Al was going to try another assault on the morons.
"That's enough," Simmons commanded. "The next person who maligns someone else's war record—"
The door opened and Simmons sat hastily as Yardley and his aide entered, followed by a couple of the colonels who were overseeing the astronauts' training.
"Good morning," Yardley said. "Sorry I'm running a little late—there was a bit of a hitch over at Skylab this morning…" He settled at the head of the table. "As always, gentlemen, it was a difficult decision, but we've finalized the roster for Apollo 19. To those who will be going up in May, congratulations. To the rest of you, you've all done well, and you'll get another chance next January."
He produced a clipboard and cleared his throat. "Lunar Excursion Module Pilot, Major David Winters."
The Bostonian grinned in delight. Al was surprised at his own disappointment. He had thought he was adequately prepared for these announcements.
Yardley was continuing. "Command Module Pilot, Captain Ashton Glenwood." He raised his eyes from the paper and studied the faces before him. "Mission Commander, Major Stuart Roosa. Congratulations, gentlemen. You're going to the moon."
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMAfter the duty shift ended the other astronauts headed into town to celebrate and congratulate the lucky ones. Al wasn't in the mood.
He was trying to forget what had happened in the briefing room. To help himself, he left the hangar and wandered out by the runways. An A-4 Skyhawk… and old A-4 Skyhawk, now, he reflected grimly, was circling above, coming in for a landing. He moved over to a jumble of crates stamped with the legend "USAF". With a little maneuvring he hauled his scrawny form up onto one of them, letting one leg dangle and drawing the other knee up to his chest. He watched the plane as it descended and touched the asphalt with the grace of an alighting butterfly. He stared at it and wondered wistfully if he would ever be able to fly again.
There was a cigar in the breast pocket of his uniform—not strictly allowed on base, but not expressly forbidden out of doors. He bit off the tip and spit it out, then dug out a pack of matches emblazoned with the name of a particularly wild nightclub he'd visited a while back. He cupped one hand around the flame to shield it from the crosswind, and puffed until the flame took. He inhaled blissfully. A taste of paradise.
The cigar reminded him of Chip. Good old Chip, who never let a guy down, who could always be counted on to sniff out a good time in a fresh port. Chip, who had been there to put a firm, companionable arm around his shoulder when the news had come about Lisa. Chip, best man when he had married Beth. Al's eyes drifted back to the A-4 now taxiing towards its hangar. He couldn't forget the way Chip's plane had flown apart as if it was made of paper when the SAM missile had made contact. Even after the horrors of captivity that moment stood out as one of the worst of the whole war.
Al inhaled fiercely, sending out twin jets of smoke through his nostrils. Why did it still hurt? Wasn't it ever going to stop hurting? Just like the place deep in his left shoulder, where the ligaments had been yanked and torn and popped out of alignment once too many times, so that it still ached dully almost continuously, this pain wasn't fading. Maybe because he'd never had a chance to mourn Chip properly. Three days later, the morning before the memorial service and a week before rotation back to San Diego, the squadron had gone in for one last run over the Highlands and lost one more pilot. Only this one hadn't died. He'd come out of the jungle shattered, twisted and malnourished six years later, and now he was sitting on a tall wooden box trying to make sense of the whole miserable mess that was his life.
Eyes were boring into the back of his head. Al didn't like to think that he was paranoid, but years of crouching on display in the tiger cage, an open target for any gook with a grudge had left him somewhat jumpy. He spun around, throwing out his hand to catch himself before he could fall off of the crate.
"Oh," he said sourly, taking another drag on the cigar and resting his chin on his knee. "It's you."
Elsa Orsós smiled sardonically. "Yes," she said. "It's me. Aren't you lucky?"
"When have I ever been lucky?" Al muttered.
"Still feeling sorry for yourself," she observed, approaching with the kind of confidence that Al could only wish for. "Does it help?"
"Shut up." Al plucked the cigar from his lips and tapped a little ash onto the ground.
"I don't think so," Elsa said.
"Neither did I. Too hard to resist the opportunity to gloat. After all, you're only human. Almost human."
"You didn't get the mission. Too bad." Elsa put her hands on top of the crate next to Al.
"You win, all right? Just leave me alone."
"Help me up," she said, grabbing his hand. Rolling his eyes in defeat, Al gripped it and she wiggled up onto the box. He noticed abruptly that she had removed her lab coat, and his eyes couldn't help skimming over her shapely bosom. When he reached her eyes again she was glaring at him.
"Sorry," he mumbled, looking away. "Serves you right for not leaving me alone."
"Hah! If everybody leaves you alone you're going to swallow yourself."
"I'm going to what?" Al turned back to her with a puzzled frown.
She gestured impotently. "In Hungary, we say… no, forget that I said it: it makes no sense in English. Let me tell you a story, dirty-minded little boy."
"Look, if you're just going to insult me—"
She patted his cheek condescendingly with one beautifully manicured hand. "Hush and listen," she said. "Once upon a time, there was a girl who was afraid of loud noises."
Al's eyebrows danced as if they had a mind of their own, and the lower lid of his left eye twitched. "What kind of story is this?" he asked suspiciously.
Elsa continued. "She was afraid of loud noises because when she was small there was a war, and in the middle of the night there would be shooting and explosions. She was afraid that the noises would hurt her, because when she was small noises had hurt many people she knew. So even when she was older she hated loud noises."
"Uh-huh," Al grunted around his cigar.
"It's true," Elsa said. "When she grew up she crossed the ocean on a ship, and every time there was a sound from the engines or the watch-bells she would feel fear before her mind could help her realize that there was no danger. This made the journey very difficult. Still, until she decided what she wanted to do with her life, there was no problem."
"Oh, yeah? She wanted to be a road worker or something?"
"No. She wanted to work with computers. The old computers were very loud, and at times she had great trouble concentrating on her work because her mind would try to bring her back to the war. But at last she decided that she wanted her dream badly enough that she overcame the fear. Now she can sit by a runway and she isn't afraid at all."
"And why do I care?" Al asked.
"If you don't care about anything, why do you bother to stay here?" Elsa demanded. "If you want to quit, why don't you quit instead of hanging around in the centrifuge and going to the briefings?"
Al didn't answer her.
"I know," said Elsa. He glanced at her in mild surprise. "You have shadows under your eyes. You have been trying to keep up with your training during the day, and at night you are trying to overcome your fear. I'm not stupid."
"No comment," Al grumbled. Was he really that easy to see through, or was she just guessing?
"But it isn't working, and now you want to give up again."
Something inside snapped. "Look, just leave me alone, okay? I've got enough to deal with without feminist know-it-alls trying to psychoanalyse my life!"
"Have you thought about who is going to get you back into the simulator?" Elsa asked. Al frowned. She then nodded her head calculatingly. "I thought not," she said. She hopped off of the crate and started to walk away.
"Wait!" Al cried. She paused and turned, and then he realized that he had no idea what to say. "Look, I… Elsa…"
She cocked her head to one side so that her earring glittered blindingly, waiting expectantly.
At a loss, Al found himself producing sounds that they usually did in the presence of a beautiful woman.
"You and I really should have dinner some time," he said.
Her eyes ignited like signal flares. "Maybe," she said.
Al grinned victoriously.
"When they start serving ice in the drinkss in the cocktail lounge of hell," Elsa added. She turned on her heels and strode off in the direction of the parking lot.
Torn between wonder at her wit and annoyance at her flat-out rejection, Al waited until he was sure she had to be gone before heading for his own car. He pulled out of the lot and made for the gates, firmly resisting the voice that told him that he had to open the windows.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMThe Black Flamingo was housed in an abandoned warehouse in the heart of one of the worst neighbourhoods in Orlando. A lesser man might have been afraid to park a sleek new sports car between the burned-out apartment building and the adult video store, but Calavicci had complete confidence in human nature—at least among the down-and-out brothers of the world.
He got out of the car, smoothing the sleek lapels of his new silver suit. One hand found its way to his head to tease the curls out of their smooth military conformation. He hadn't even bothered to go back to the apartment: he had just driven straight to the city, and after an evening of spending like there was no tomorrow (he had always said tomorrow was overrated!) he was ready to party.
The Flamingo catered to a predominantly African-American clientele, but Al had been there more than once already, learning the new moves and integrating himself into the glitzy and gloriously superficial subculture of disco. He earned some askance looks as he stepped into the enormous dance hall already pulsing with music and filled with gyrating bodies. Then a girl he'd done a couple of numbers with last week came twisting out of nowhere. Her name was Daphne, and her roommate was visiting her mother in Atlanta this week. The second she said that, Al knew that he wouldn't be staring at his closet tonight. In fact, with his uniform in the trunk of the Ferrari, there was absolutely no reason to go back to the apartment at all tonight. Curling one hand around her soft, supple waist he let himself be swept away in the whirl of frantic abandon that filled the floor. The sour taste of the day was soon washed from his mouth by the violent catharsis of noise and action, and the sweet, velvety kisses he stole between songs.