Matt Eaton - Apollo 8.1

Fallon also told them to keep their mouths shut, and especially to tell nobody at NASA, an organization renowned for its inability to keep anything secret. He warned that breaking silence on this would be career suicide. Emphasis placed knowingly on the suicide, suggesting career change might in fact be the least of their problems if they blabbed.

Borman had taken a photograph, as ordered. But upon his return to Earth, Borman had informed Fallon the camera was lost after splashdown, falling from his spacesuit as he exited the space capsule. Whether or not Fallon believed him hardly matters now. Given the circumstances, Fallon had no real motivation to act against them, just as long as they kept quiet about what they saw. He was one of those wheels-within-wheels guys, precisely the sort of unaccountable backroom type Borman had long despised. While not normally a good liar, Borman had been highly motivated when he met Fallon after the landing that day — because he’d already handed the spy camera over to Menzel. In so doing, a deal of sorts was struck with the scientist.

“There’s something I need you to do for me,” says Menzel.

Right about now, it’s starting to feel to Borman like he’s just bypassed one devil only to strike a bargain with another. He says, “Don’t know if you heard — Mr Nixon is sending me on a trip to Europe.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you can take your little junket. I know you’d hate to disobey an order from the ‘commander in chief’.”

Menzel says the words like he doesn’t believe the title is genuine. Like he couldn’t actually give a damn about the president’s orders. He’s staring at Borman now, waiting to see who’ll blink first. Finally, Borman says, “So you gonna tell me or not?”

“I’ve kept your secret as long as I dared. Powerful men are about to come looking for you,” says Menzel.

“You mean you sold me out.”

Menzel shakes his head. “The problem’s always been that they knew you’d see something out there. Which means you have two choices here: let me take you to them, or face them on your own.”

“There’s always door number three — that’s me ignoring the lot of you.”

“You don’t ignore these guys, Frank. Not if you know what’s good for you. Besides, I think you’ll want to hear what they have to say.”

From the bottom of the air stairs on his Eastern Airlines whisper jet, a Kombi courtesy vehicle takes Borman along the service roads skirting the runways of LAX. For a moment, as the jet lag takes hold, he is forced to remind himself he’s no longer in Europe, but back on home soil. Familiar territory, yet strange nonetheless. In 48 hours, he needs to be down at Cape Canaveral for the Apollo 9 launch, part of the official vice-presidential party.

Today promises to be something else entirely.

He’s at the Los Angeles Airways helicopter base within a few minutes. The chopper pilot is standing by for his arrival. Moments later, he’s airborne again. A fifteen-minute flight avoiding two hours of traffic and a whole lot of official scrutiny.

Borman is the only passenger. This is Menzel’s idea of security. Heck, if the man wants to spend lavish amounts of money to keep things compartmentalized, Borman isn’t about to argue the point. He gets the feeling that in the secret circles through which Donald Menzel passes, money is no object.

Hopefully they won’t just take this poor chopper pilot out the back and shoot him in the head when they’re done.

It must be nearly ten years since Borman last saw Bill ‘Trick’ Stamford. He’s the last person Borman expected to find waiting for him on the ground at Edwards, and about bottom of the list of people from those days he’d have hoped to see again.

He’d secretly been hoping they’d bring in Chuck Yeager for this one, even though he’s been rotated out to command the 405 thFighter Wing in the Philippines. Yeager would have been here with bells on, given half a chance. He probably doesn’t even know.

Borman has never liked Trick Stamford. The nickname said it all. He was a lousy test pilot, the sort who nearly gets other men killed by reckless endangerment, but always stays alive himself. Frank almost hates himself as he holds out his hand for Stamford to shake — who’s he trying to impress?

Stamford shakes it warmly, like they’re the best of friends. “Great to see you, Frank. I’ve got to say, wow man. I’m in awe of what you did. I mean it. Flying to the Moon… What was that like ?”

“Greatest adventure of all time. And the toughest thing I’ve ever done. Left test pilot school for dead. We had some terrifying moments up there. Fair to say NASA gave me the greatest frights of my life.”

Stamford grins. “Yeah. That’s what I figured.”

“Other than the day I married the woman of my dreams.”

He and Stamford served together at Edwards under Yeager, but it’s about all they have in common. They’ve always been polar opposites. Borman set himself to rigid standards of self-discipline, devoting himself to God and country, and eventually to Susan. Stamford had only ever been out for a good time. He had a high level of natural ability as a pilot, but it was as if he didn’t really want to be in the Air Force. If not for that factor alone, he might have been good enough to be an astronaut. Instead, backed by his father’s money and influence, he treated his time in the Air Force like it was the ultimate joy ride. As it was, after a few close calls and a test plane that ended up a fiery wreck, the Air Force got him out of everybody’s way pretty damn quick. Borman had always assumed Trick simply went to work for daddy.

But he’s here all on his own today. And something about the man’s demeanor is different. There’s a calmness, a quiet sense of belief that was sadly lacking when last their paths had crossed. The old swagger is gone. In its place, an unspoken confidence of the sort that doesn’t seek approval and is thus untroubled by the opinions of others. Menzel has it too. Money alone doesn’t buy that degree of certainty. It comes from power.

Trick’s father, Garrick Stamford, the multi-millionaire aerospace investor, pulled all the strings to get his son into the test pilot program. He’s the sort of man who doesn’t accept no for an answer. His son, on the other hand, had devoted his energies almost entirely to hedonism during his time in the Air Force. A womanizer, a profligate wastrel, a borderline alcoholic — catastrophically self-destructive for mere mortals, yet somehow seen as tolerable, even endearing characteristics of the uber rich. In that way, too, Trick would have made the perfect astronaut.

Feeling his low opinion of the man tempered by what appears to be genuine admiration on Stamford’s part, Borman deigns to shoot the breeze a while about the past, an air of forgiveness that comes with the passing of years. They avoid the topic at hand, until the point where there is nothing but the obvious to talk about.

“What’s your role here, Trick?” Borman asks. Stamford just taps his nose and says nothing. “What about the test pilot school — they know anything about this?”

Stamford gazes across the tarmac toward the buildings a mile or so distant. “No. Those guys don’t have the clearance.”

A momentary silence descends; Borman resists the urge to fill the gap. But Trick is on a roll, excited to have a famous astronaut all to himself. He points a finger at the furious activity going on around them. “How’s about all this then? And it’s all down to you, Frank.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” says Borman.

“Well I’m sure. This is all about your little photograph.”