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  Apollo 8.1

  Copyright © 2018 Matthew J. Eaton

  Vagus Publishing

  mattjeaton.com

  Edited by Suzanne Lahna, Word Vagabond

  Cover design by William Heavey

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHOOSE DEATH

  1

  2

  3 | March 1

  4

  5 | March 2

  6

  7 | March 4

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  CHOOSE DEATH

  The room is lighter and more comfortable than the cell where the Russians are being held. But Frank Borman knows better than to let a jug of fresh water and a bowl of fresh berries lull him into a false sense of security.

  His captor faces him across a table. “Why are you here?” he demands. “You are not working with the Russians. Of this I am certain.”

  Borman replies, “Of course I’m working with them — It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “You tell me this because you think it’s what I want to hear.”

  “No, I’m telling you because it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “To you, nothing makes sense. You cannot even explain to me the means by which you arrived at our doorway.”

  “I know the way my leaders think. They want to beat the Russians at any cost. Even if it means working with them in secret.”

  Skioth isn’t satisfied. “Then what of the Cosmonauts? What would you have me do with them? I could make them disappear. Would that not suit your purpose?”

  “No. Let them go. Let us leave. You have my word I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you’re left alone.”

  Skioth breathes loudly, the air leaving his lungs an illustration of his reluctance. “How are we to trust you, when you do not trust one another?”

  Borman shrugs and nods slowly in acceptance. “You’re right. Our two nations are afraid of one another. But there are bigger considerations. I think you’ve demonstrated that much, at least.” He chooses his next words carefully and honestly, fearing his contempt for the Soviets will be the thing they use against him. “Those two men have families too. And a leader who values their lives enormously. Let them go.”

  Skioth stares at him for an uncomfortably long period of time, trying to decide. “Yet still there is something you won’t tell me.” He waves his arm through the air in a figure eight and a door appears in the wall, as if by his magic hand. Through the door step the two Russians. They appear bewildered, but utterly unsurprised to see Borman again. They barely even look at him.

  “Now you will choose. Which one dies and which one lives?”

  Borman is aghast. “What? No...”

  “You choose, Frank Borman. Or I will do so for you. Who will die?”

  Borman kicks his chair back and stands to meet Skioth. “This is not a choice,” he spits back, “it’s an ultimatum. You do this, the blood is on your hands.”

  The Russians say nothing, but they know what’s happening.

  “I’ve told you everything I know,” says Borman. “There is nothing else for me to say. Come on... You don’t want to do this.”

  Skioth just stares at him with a fierce and unwavering determination. He tips his head sharply to one side and a terrible sound fills the room, giving voice to the rending force of destruction, the sort of noise you’d expect to hear outside the gates of hell. It is the embodiment of wrongness, of annihilation. The body of Viktor Patsayev stiffens, then emits a flash of white as the life force is sucked from his flesh. He is already dead by the time his skin turns translucent purple and his body dissolves into fine particles that gradually wink out of existence.

  Georgy Dobrovolsky stares murderously at Skioth, but remains rooted to the spot, either reluctant or simply unable to move.

  Skioth says, “Now you see what I can do.”

  “Why?!” yells Borman.

  “Perhaps I want to start a war.”

  “This won’t do it,” says Borman.

  “Can you be certain? Your leaders have their fingers poised over the nuclear button and appear eager to use it. It is amazing to us one of you has not already done so.”

  “Nobody’s going to start a war over the loss of two men. Not even Cosmonauts.”

  “Not even if it is an American astronaut responsible for their deaths?”

  “No...”

  “Unfortunately for you, Colonel Borman, this is not your biggest problem. Tell me who sent you or decide who dies next — you or Georgy Dobrovolsky.”

  There is no fooling Skioth. He will kill them all to get what he wants. But Borman has nothing to give him. Even if he wanted to tell, he wouldn’t know where to start. He’s afraid even to open his mouth in objection, lest his next words be the cue for another killing.

  Seeing Borman in crisis, the Russian speaks first. “I am not afraid to die.”

  This is too much. Borman shakes his head and smiles ruefully like a condemned man reduced to his bare essence. “No, you don’t. Set him free, Skioth. You wanna kill someone else, it’s gonna have to be me.”

  1

  By late January 1969, Frank Borman is still one of only three men to have flown to the Moon. Weeks after the event, it still seems almost too incredible to be true. Already this month, they’ve been called twice to the White House by two successive presidents; first by Lyndon Johnson, on his way out the door, but eager to take a moment to acknowledge the bold success of a space program he had championed since early in the Kennedy era. Now Richard Nixon, new to the job and far less vocal in his support for getting men to the Moon, but nevertheless happy to bask in the glory of a successful mission.

  The Apollo 8 crew, dressed like they’re going to a wedding, shake the hand of the president one by one. They’ll do it again for the cameras, but this moment alone in the Oval Office is just for them. Something to tell the grandchildren. One by one, Nixon looks them in the eye, obviously enjoying the fact these men of renown are also of equal stature — Lovell, the tallest of the three, is still only Nixon’s height, five foot eleven inches. Being less than six feet tall is important when you have to pack into a space capsule like three people in a telephone booth. Nixon finds himself looking down on Borman, though there’s only an inch in it. Borman grips the president’s hand firmly, noticing how Nixon effortlessly dominates the exchange by placing his hand on top.

  “It is a mighty fine thing you men have accomplished,” the president tells them. “I want you to know you have my deepest respect and appreciation.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Borman replies, holding the president’s attention with the steely-eyed intensity he inherited from his father. Nixon is the first to look away.

  Like a quarterback who spots a gap in the defense, press secretary Ron Ziegler s
teps up and places his hands on the shoulders of Bill Anders and Jim Lovell. “Now gentlemen, if you’ll just follow me.”

  Nixon, they have been reliably informed, wants a quiet word with Borman. He watches bemused as his crewmates depart the Oval, leaving him alone with the president. Nixon points at the couch, and they sit down to face one another.

  “I hear you’re one of us, Colonel Borman.”

  “If you mean a Republican, sir, then yes. And please, call me Frank.”

  Nixon smiles. “Always good to know when your intelligence is reliable. All right Frank, I guess I might as well come right out and say it — I’d like you to take over as the head of NASA.”

  Borman is more than a little stunned. “Well, now. That’s a surprise...”

  “You have a great head on your shoulders, Frank. I was most impressed with your handling of the Apollo 1 investigation, especially the way you handled Congress.”

  “I’m honored, Mr President.”

  “I won’t lie to you — there’ll be some changes down the road, once we get those men up there to the Moon. We can’t keep spending money like this.”

  He’d heard whispers, of course, about Nixon’s plans to cut the space program. But it’s different hearing it from the horse’s mouth, and so soon into his presidency.

  Borman asks, “You’re not talking about scrubbing the Moon landing?”

  Nixon holds up his hands in self-defense. “No, no, of course not. We’ll get men on the Moon all right. That’s a foregone conclusion, no holding back that tide now. Need to beat the Russians. I’m talking about what comes next.”

  “Tom Paine hasn’t been in the administrator’s job very long, Mr President. He’s only just finding his feet.”

  “Which is precisely why I’d like to get you in there, Frank. From everything I’ve seen, you’re a man of your word. That’s a rare commodity in my line of business, believe me. There are going to be some hard times ahead. Tough decisions need to be made.”

  “I’d have to give it some serious thought.”

  “Of course. You’ll have a few weeks in Europe to talk it over with Susan anyway.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “You have friends in Vietnam?”

  “I do.”

  “It keeps me awake at night. I’ve just seen the latest figures... We’ve lost 40,000 men, spent 70 billion dollars. What do we have to show for it? Now I hate the commies as much as any loyal American, but that rat bastard Johnson damn well knew all along we could never win this war. Yet still he kept digging the hole deeper. He couldn’t see a way out that preserved American prestige. Now that falls to me.”

  Nixon laughs humorlessly, suddenly embarrassed by his own candor. “But that is just between you and me, Colonel — Not a word to anybody.”

  “No, sir.”

  “I guess you better not keep them waiting out there any longer.”

  “You’ll work it out, Mr President. I have faith in you.”

  Nixon smiles, apparently far less certain, but he shakes Borman’s hand firmly and points him toward the door.

  “We’ll talk again, you and I,” says the president.

  Ziegler, Anders, and Lovell are waiting in the hall just outside the Oval.

  “What was that about?” Lovell inquires.

  Borman says, “Never you mind.”

  Ziegler leads them around the corner to the Fish Room, where the members of the White House press corps are waiting for their photo opportunity.

  In the days since Apollo 8 splashed down in the Pacific, Borman had been slowly coming to terms with the realization the rest of his life would be downhill from this moment. Flying into lunar orbit would stand as the greatest moment of his life. But it was also something he had long known would come to pass. It had been the culmination of years of persistence through many terrible years of death and failure. In being first to set foot upon the Moon, they will prove once and for all the American way of life is superior to that of the Soviets. Mission accomplished. The pragmatist in him is embarrassed by this attention. Every astronaut knows people serving on the front lines in Vietnam, fighting and dying in their own battles to preserve America’s way of life. Who’s shaking their hands?

  Since returning to Earth, Borman’s eyes have been opened to miracles. He has peered behind the curtain and into a world where power, truth, and knowledge are more highly advanced and jealously guarded than he could ever have imagined. In so doing, he’s seen wonders beyond the comprehension of even the most brilliant minds, hard at work on America’s manned space flight program. Things that leave him feeling like his grip on reality may be loosening.

  After a decade spent furiously pursuing a seemingly impossible goal, the finish line is now on the horizon. He’s proud of his part in that, but he’s also starting to feel like nothing will ever surprise him again. That from now on, everything is possible. Which is why Nixon’s job offer is as perplexing as it is tempting.

  Ziegler puts his hand on the door handle. On the other side of the door is a room full of White House reporters. “OK,” he says, “we go in and the president will join us about thirty seconds later. You ready?”

  Borman nods, exchanging knowing glances with the other astronauts — the only other people in his life who know what they saw out there on the far side. Since those first few days after splashdown aboard USS Yorktown, none of them have said a word to one another about it. That’s fine by Borman. It’s safer that way.

  Flash bulbs start firing as Ziegler ushers them into the Fish Room. Even by White House standards, it’s a big press call. Reporters are four-deep in the room. Will they sense it, these reporters? Will they see in his eyes he’s harboring the story of the century? Even if he told them, they’d never believe it.

  Borman knows from experience Mr Nixon will not be the center of attention today. He wonders if the president is ready for that. Lovell and Anders smile and nod sagely, untroubled by the attention. In the past few weeks, they have become accustomed to the circus, calmly and solemnly facing down everybody who has wanted a piece of them. While military types are usually shy and retiring in the face of public scrutiny, astronauts are an altogether different breed. They live their lives in the public eye. Facing reporters is part of the deal. Many actually seem to revel in the attention, possibly because of the associated perks of celebrity, but also because they genuinely believe they deserve it.

  Lovell points across the room. “Last time I was in here, JFK’s sailfish was up on that wall. Guess they took that down, huh?”

  Neil Sheehan of the The New York Times replies, “It’s fair to say Mr Nixon and JFK never exactly saw eye to eye.”

  Carroll Kilpatrick from The Washington Post adds, “The fish came down the day they carted all Kennedy’s other possessions out of here. It’s in the JFK Library in Boston.”

  Lovell shakes his head, earning a brief warning glare from Borman. He says, “Seems strange to have a Fish Room without a fish.”

  Nixon has the dubious honor of entering at the very moment a roomful of people start laughing at a joke he hasn’t heard. As if he’s the butt of their humor, they hush like schoolboys caught out by the teacher.

  The president wastes no time in chasing the source of their mirth. “Wonderful to have you here,” he tells Borman, looking him firmly in the eyes as he offers another firm handshake, before quickly turning his attention to the other two men.

  “We were talking about this wonderful reception room of yours,” says Anders, “and how it seems to be missing a fish.”

  “Between you and me,” Nixon whispers, “I’m renaming this room. It was the president’s office when they built the West Wing back in 1902.”

  “I did not know that,” says Borman, noticing how quickly the president has taken control of the room, while also angling himself in just the right way to ensure he’s facing the cameras at all times. Smart man.

  Nixon says, “I want to call it the Roosevelt Room.”

  It’s all for show
— a repeat performance of their actual meeting a few minutes earlier just across the hall in the Oval Office. Ziegler had explained how it would all go down. The astronauts, no strangers to the media circus, happily played along.

  Lovell asks, “Which Roosevelt will you be honoring?”

  Nixon tells him, “Both of them.”

  “But one of them’s a Democrat,” says Anders.

  “Well,” says Nixon, “I try to be a man of the people.” He glances in the direction of the reporters. “By the way, that’s not for publication. I’ll let you know when it’s official.”

  Several reporters mumble their assent. Having made sure all assembled had fully captured the moment, Nixon takes his place at the podium to begin the briefing.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, these three men who stand with me need no introduction.

  “I think, if anything, they are probably better known than the president of the United States, as a result of television and their recent very great exposure for the whole world to see.

  “It is my very great privilege today to welcome them not only here again to this house and this office, but to announce that Colonel Borman, his wife, and two sons are going to make a goodwill trip to Western Europe.”

  A murmur of appreciation passes through the room.

  “As Colonel Borman goes to Europe, he pointed out to me just a few minutes ago that his two colleagues have a mission here at home that they need to undertake and consequently will not be going with him.

  “I should also point out that as he goes to Europe, he emphasizes a fact we often forget: that the knowledge which made possible these great discoveries is not limited to this nation; that it comes from the whole history of scientific discovery, and there is certainly no national monopoly on that kind of knowledge.”

  2

  After what feels like an eternity of glad-handing and pat responses to questions they’d answered a thousand times, the media call finally reaches its conclusion and the astronauts are able to follow the president out of the room.

  Perhaps upset at being upstaged in his own theatre, Nixon vanishes back inside the Oval Office without another word, allowing several other nameless West Wing staff to scatter in various directions. Everyone bar Ziegler is out of sight behind closed doors in moments.