Note: For this and subsequent chapters, asll names, characters, and locales are swiped from Donald Belisario, are the product of the author's fevered imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual historical figures, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"What do you mean they're scrapping Apollo?" Al cried.
Jim Taggert shrugged his shoulders sadly. "Yeah, I know," he said. "I was really sure Twenty'd be my shot, too."
"They can't do that!" Al protested. "They can't cancel those missions! It's just a setback—"
"They're the Congressional funding committee. They can co whatever they want," Taggert said flatly.
It was the middle of June, three weeks after Apollo 19 should have gone up, and the two astronauts were seated in the almost-empty cafeteria, nursing their coffees and catching a few minutes' leisure time. Leisure had been scarce lately, with everyone putting on a show of efficiency for a suddenly curious public. Now, it seemed, the tension was all for nothing.
"Are you going to try for a transfer to Skylab?" Taggert asked. "Me, I had my heart set on the moon. It's back to the Air Force for this jet jock."
"Don't be ridiculous!" Al said. "They aren't cancelling the program.
"Who's going to stop them?" Taggert asked. "You?"
Al got to his feet. "If nobody else will," he said fiercely.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMJohn Yardley nodded patiently as Calavicci concluded his tirade and sat back with a cathartic exhalation and a breathless, "Sir."
Yardley allowed silence to settle over the office. He had to admire the man's spunk. He'd been to hell and back, lost his health, lost his wife, discovered he'd acquired a crippling neurosis, and still he had the gumption to get worked up over something like this. It was men like Albert Calavicci that made America great, and Yardley really had hoped, once upon a time, to send him to the moon. Even now he had to admit that it would have looked very good for everybody concerned.
He folded his hands on the desk. "Calavicci, I appreciate your dedication to the Apollo program," he said. "You've shown determination in the face of unprecedented obstacles, and there isn't a man involved in this program who can deny that you've got the makings of one hell of an astronaut. Don't ruin it by making a fuss over this. We'll transfer you straight to Skylab—"
"You're saying it's true?" Calavicci exclaimed. "They're pulling the plug on Apollo?"
Yardley decided to lay it out like it was. "Calavicci, we're more than three years behind. Despite our best efforts, Apollo 18 barely even made the nightly news. If anyone's interested in space, they're interested in Skylab. Five years ago we managed to convince Congress of the importance of completing the program, but we wouldn't have managed that, even, if they hadn't had a bad year. Now we've been set back another six months and seventy million dollars—which is assuming Nineteen's S-II can be refurbished for Twenty. Nothing is final yet, but I'm telling you that there isn't a hope in hell that they'll fund us. We'll be lucky if they don't cut back on Skylab."
The wiry astronaut straightened up in his chair. "Nothing's final?" he said.
Yardley pinched the bridge of his nose. He was starting to identify the pain there as the Calavicci Headache: it had started when Holloway had called him up a year and a half ago to tell him there was a repatriated MIA interested in the space program, and the United States Navy was very interested in seeing him realize this dream. By way of a personal favor, Jack, you understand…
"Calavicci," he said; "they don't even want to hear it. They're going to crucify me when I ask for it."
"So you are going to try to get the money?" Calavicci said keenly, leaning forward. To make matters worse, he never missed a trick. He was quite possibly the smartest man who had ever come near NASA, if you didn't count Doctor von Braun. Yardley was by no means a genius, but he was smart enough to smell them.
"Yes, I'm flying to Washington on Monday to testify, but they aren't going to give it. Leave it alone, Calavicci. You'll be terrific for Skylab, and—"
"This isn't about me, this is about Apollo!" Calavicci said. "You can't just give up like this—damn it, you've only got two missions left! Do them and you keep your promise! You live the dream! Isn't that worth seventy million?"
Yardley chuckled. The man had a flair for rhetoric. Too bad he didn't know the first thing about politics. "Tell Congress that," he said, waving dismissively.
"I'm not the one who's flying to Washington," Calavicci said; "but if you go out there with that attitude of course you're not going to get anywhere!"
It struck with the force of an epiphany. Yardley hated the idea of giving up Apollo almost as much as Calavicci did… and after all, Congress had made it plain where they wanted this little dago pilot. Maybe…
Yardley smiled. "Maybe you could be…" he mused.
Calavicci's eyes narrowed in suspicion.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMElsa listened to the dull roar of the shower as she set the table for supper. Something strange was going on. Al had come over, as he had promised, but he hadn't seemed interested in their usual initial advances. On the contrary, he hadn't even kissed her before telling her that he needed to bathe and vanishing behind a locked door.
The wedding was less than three months away, and Elsa was certain she was going to go mad. There was so much to consider, and Al didn't seem inclined to think about it at all. Thank God it would at least be a small affair: neither of them had any family, at least not in the United States, and they had few friends, either. Yet though the church was booked there was the dress, and the scant guest list, the food…
And after the wedding, where would they live? When she had raised this question the first time Al had just shrugged and said that the two apartment system seemed to be working just fine. That was ridiculous. She had pressed and pressed until he had finally exclaimed that he'd give her his chequebook and she could go and buy a house! Elsa had bristled at this insinuation that she was a spoiled child to be placated with money and toys. Then Al had soothed her ruffled feathers and promised that they would go together to look at houses, and settle upon something in a diplomatic fashion, as befitted two equal partners in a relationship. In fact, they had a day set aside next week to do just that.
Ever since the mishap with the S-II, Al had been much more preoccupied than usual. He was constantly thinking about NASA, incessantly mulling over problems. His claustrophobia treatments weren't going any better, and he was frequently tired and waspish—not at all the caring, affectionate man he had been through the early days of their engagement. Now he was brooding in her shower while the dinner she had prepared for them grew cold.
Or not, she realized abruptly. The sound of rushing water had stopped, and bare arms were wrapping themselves around her waist. His chin rested on her shoulder and he pulled her buttocks against his bony hip.
"Hey, beautiful," he murmured. "What do you say we try out the springs on your mattress?"
"Supper first," she said firmly. "Go and put some clothes on."
He rocked both of them to and fro. "Aw, c'mon," he wheedled. "I'm not hungry."
"Hah! You always say that, and when I sit you down, behold! you eat!"
Al rubbed at his forehead. "Elsa, I'm not in the mood," he muttered.
She steered him to a chair. "You sit down and eat your supper," she said firmly, uncovering the dishes and filling his plate with generous helpings of everything. He picked up his fork, but then dropped his hand back to the table with a sigh. She massaged his shoulders. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Congress wants to pull the plug," Al muttered.
Elsa shook her head. "They can't do that," she said.
"That's what I told Yardley."
"And?"
"And he said I should tell Congress that." Al looked up at her warily. "He's flying up to Washington on Monday, and he wants me to come with him."
"On Monday?" Elsa echoed. "Why?"
He shrugged. "Search me. Seems to think the argument will carry more weight if he has a pet astronaut in tow."
"Well… are you going?" Elsa asked.
"Of course I'm going!" he snapped. "I can't just knuckle under and let them shut Apollo down!"
She regarded him briefly. It meant yet another delay in their preparations, and yet she had to respect that he was fighting. He was right: he couldn't knuckle under. All surrender ever brought was pain. "Good!" she said fiercely. "Good, I'm glad!"
He frowned. "What about the house?"
"What about the house?" She waved her hand dismissively. "You have to go! Or else we'll both be out of a job. That's bad luck on a marriage: bride and groom unemployed."
He laughed a little and kissed her hand. "Can I spend the night this time?" he asked.
She allowed herself an effervescent giggle as she put the fork back in his hand. "If you eat all your asparagus," she said.
Al smiled wearily and started on his meal.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMHe was so tired… so tired… The darkness swam and fluctuated before his eyes. His jaw quivered and trembled. His back ached. He couldn't remember how long he had been sitting like this. They had fed him ten times… or eleven? God, he was tired…
Al tried to move his aching legs, but that only made the vice-like stocks dig their rusty edges deeper into his ankles. If only he had a bit of wire he could pick the cuffs that held his hands behind his back… but he had inadvertently cinched them tighter when he had fallen back against the rough wooden plank that served as a bed, and his fingers were numb and swollen. Next time they removed the cuffs for a meal they would be useless. He would have to lower his face to the dish and root in the foul-tasting rice like a dog. He didn't care. He was starving. And God, God, he was so tired. Just a little sleep… just a little sleep…
He had lost track of the time… not just how long he had been bound like this, unable to sleep, unable to rest, living in his own mess because even when they removed the cuffs the stocks remained. He had lost track of how long it had been since he'd spoken to another American. He had lost track of the time since the crash. Was it summer, or autumn? God, it felt like a year. He was going to go crazy. He was crazy already. You didn't sleep, you went whacko awful fast.
Breathing was difficult. The last time the guards had come with food, one of them had thumped him in the ribs with a billy club, beating him because he hadn't asked for permission before speaking. The prisoners were supposed to say "bao cao" before addressing a guard. That was Viet talk for "report". Report. Retort. Consort. Cavort. God, every muscle in his body hurt, and he suspected he was getting bedsores on his buttocks. Ironic, 'cause this wasn't a bed. Not any more. It was a torture rack.
There was a jangle of keys, and Al shrunk in on himself. He didn't know if he could take another session in the ropes. He'd break. He knew he'd break. They must have broken him four or five times since they'd brought him here five… six… seven months ago. How long had it been? When would this end?
The door opened and light poured in to the narrow cell. There was a snap as the locking bar was removed from the stocks. Al felt the metal being lifted, and then rough hands were hauling him to his feet. His legs were weak from prolonged inactivity, and they collapsed under him, but rough hands hauled him up. Pain arched through his collarbone, the one that he'd broken in the fall to earth, and that hadn't healed right. He bit back a moan of agony.
An iron bar tipped with a hook scraped along his leg, pulling off the soiled shorts. Guards at the Hilton were finicky that way. Out in the jungle camps they weren't quite so scared to get their hands dirty. Not if it meant they could torture you.
No, but he didn't know that yet, Al reminded himself. This was Hoa Lo, it was 1967. He hadn't been dragged back by Quon yet. He didn't know anything about hell. He just thought he knew. Stupid, innocent kid. Oh, he thought he knew.
What was all that about? God, he was whacko, all right. Off his rocker. Dinky dau.
They dragged him down the corridor and into a room. There were hooks of every size and description. Hooks and ropes and rags to prevent scars. At the Hilton they cared about avoiding signs of torture. In that way, too, Quon was less particular. After all, his prisoners were MIA. They didn't exist. The United Nations would never know if one more MIA was tortured to death.
The agony as they strung him from the ceiling by his arms wrenched a tormented cry from his lips. Hard to control your body when you hadn't slept for a week or more. How much more? Who knew…
But you had to control your mouth. You had to. And the only way to do that was to feed it the words. Always the same words. "Calavicci," he babbled, the syllables spilling out like the nonsense they were. "Albert. Lieutenant. B-933-852. 15-06-34. Calavicci, Albert. Lieutenant. B-9—"
They dragged on his legs and he screamed.
Then suddenly Hoa Lo was gone. He was in the jungle. Cham Hoi. His feet were torn and bleeding from the forced march. His arms were still bound behind his back. Beyond the cage the V.C. were celebrating. A pig was roasting over the embers, filling the jungle with the smell of meat. Al's dry mouth ached and his empty stomach sobbed in protest. By the light of the fire he could see Titi at Major Quon's right hand, her cold eyes glittering and her face proud and haughty. She was blooded today. She had killed her first American. And what an American! Al didn't know why, but he understood that this particular young commander was especially hated by the Major. He had wanted him dead now for months, all winter. And Titi had accomplished that. She had always been Quon's favorite soldier. Now she would be given anything and everything she wanted.
She left the fire and approached the cage, trim hips swaying like the shoulders of a panther. She halted before the cage, and he could see the gleam of hell in her eyes. Then she grabbed his shoulders and she shook him.
"Al!" she shouted. "Al, wake up! Al!"
She shook him so hard that his shoulder popped out of its ill-healed socket. He screamed. He couldn't help it: it hurt, oh, God, it hurt!
"Al!" Titi roared, but her voice sounded strange. Still deep and rich, but the accent was wrong. And her black eyes glittered like sapphires, and her black hair was on fire. "Al!"
It wasn't Titi. It was Elsa. Oh, God, it was Elsa!
Al fell forward with a dry sob of abject relief, and suddenly the long-nailed hands were stroking his back.
"Only a dream," Elsa murmured gently. "Al, it was only a dream."
He clutched her tightly. It was only a dream. It had to be. But there was only one way to prove it. He sat up and took her in his trembling arms. His lips found hers and he kissed her. "As long as we're both awake…" he gasped, though he knew it was a need and not an incidental at all.
Elsa was not so informed. She laughed and their embrace grew more intimate. As passion rose to banish terror Al was overtaken by an ocean of blessed forgetfulness.