Matt Eaton - Apollo 8.1

Bermuda has its tentacles firmly wrapped around America’s black budget, the billions of dollars devoted to top secret projects that have no congressional oversight. Work that includes back-engineering alien technology that has fallen into their hands to build weird and wonderful ships of their own, a defense force against any off-world menace that may one day rise against them.

But the bulk of their activity is much more down to earth and motivated by a force far easier to understand: self-interest. Decisions made by the people in this hangar are beyond the scrutiny of anyone outside their ranks. Bermuda is bound by one thing: what the American public and, to a lesser extent, the divergent nations of the world are willing to stomach. Bermuda can kill, it can wage war and its members can line their own pockets, but they can never draw overt attention to their actions. In matters of foreign policy and the development of weapons that will wind up in government procurement and testing, Bermuda is limited by plain old-fashioned public morality. As for their methods of development, the extent of technological advancement that makes it all possible, this is something else entirely. Such secrets are guarded closely in deep, dark underground vaults that likewise don’t exist.

That a man of Menzel’s talent and position is both afraid and distrustful of these people is already enough to have Borman on guard. But in joining them at their table, he finds his senses tingling big time. He’s vulnerable. His life is in their hands, yet his usefulness to them is limited.

Garrick Stamford is first to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen…” The table immediately falls silent. “It may not be protocol to speak out of turn, but I’d be remiss in my duty to you all if I didn’t make it clear I object in the strongest possible terms to this venture.”

“How so?” asks Borman, immediately feeling Menzel glare.

“Colonel Borman, you are a true-blue American hero, and good luck to you, son. But in this case, it makes our task a whole lot more complicated. Has it occurred to any of you that the cost of failure might not be one we are prepared to pay?”

Susan Borman stares at her husband like he’s insane.

“If it’s secret, that means it’s dangerous.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Come on, Frank, why else…?”

“It’s no big deal. A side trip. A little detour after the launch tomorrow. A day or two, tops.”

Susan says, “Lurton Scott’s having open house at her place for the launch. We’ll still be in full swing tomorrow night.” On every space flight, the mission commander’s wife throws open her doors. It’ll be the usual deal — the wives come together for the launch to eat, drink, and hug one another as their husbands ride rockets into the sky. Laughing so as not to cry. “I was hoping you could make it back here and join us.”

“I’m sorry, honey. Not this time.”

Her tone hardens. “Why’d you agree to this? Why can’t somebody else do it for a change? God, don’t tell me they’re sending you to Vietnam.”

He manages to stifle a laugh and shakes his head. “No. You can put that idea right out of your head.”

She looks hurt, maybe even betrayed. She can sense he’s holding something back. He had started off by giving her the impression he could say no, but she sees now his mind is made up. He hugs her close and says nothing for a time as she quietly sobs on his shoulder.

He takes her by the shoulders to look her in the eye. “I won’t be in danger. I can give you my hundred percent guarantee I’ll come home safe and sound. You hear me?” Even as he hears himself saying the words, he knows he’s in no position to guarantee anything of the sort, but it’s what she needs to hear.

She says, “I need you here. The boys need you. They feel like they don’t really know you anymore. Isn’t that what we talked about, you being here for your family? That starts now, Frank. Because one day soon, those boys will be gone and you’ll have missed your chance.”

He changes tack. “Who’s going tomorrow?”

“I thought I’d take Pat White with me. She’s been really down lately.”

“Oh. You sure that’s a good idea?” Pat and Susan had been closer than ever since Ed White died in the Apollo 1 fire. A drinking buddy is one thing, but Borman wonders if watching the Apollo 9 launch — all that smoke and flame — might only make matters worse for Pat.

Susan merely shrugs. She’s not thinking about Pat. “Why does it have to be you? Can’t you talk to Deke or Alan? How many times are you going to break my heart, Frank?”

Deke Slayton and Alan Shepard, the astronaut program’s go-to guys. Susan knows they never make their men do anything they don’t want to do. She’s right — he could go to them and refuse a mission and there would be no questions asked. Except for one thing. “Deke and Alan are out of the loop on this.” NASA knows nothing about it.

She frowns. “Now I’m really worried. You really can’t tell me?”

He wants to tell her more than anything. The words are on his lips, but he can’t bring himself to say them. Not because he’d be breaking the Espionage Act, but because he’s breaking his promise to her .

He shakes his head. “When I finally wore you down and you said you’d marry me…”

“I know… You said I could always trust you. And I do.”

“And I’m asking you to do that one more time.”

“Something’s worrying you. I can see it in your eyes, you’re like an open book. Let someone else do it. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“There is no-one else.”

“Is this about the Russians? Because I wouldn’t trust them, not one little bit.”

He says nothing.

“I knew it.”

He demurs. “It’s not the Russians, OK?”

She looks him in the eye, her expression hard and cold as sheet metal. “Whatever you say, Frank.”

It’s hotter than hell on the sedan’s red leather seats. Thank the Lord he managed to talk Menzel out of the black Lincoln. But white isn’t much better at deflecting the New Mexico heat, and the car’s air conditioning simply isn’t up to the job. They’re driving out of town toward the desert, like a couple of gangsters looking for somewhere to bury a body. It’s a half-hour drive. Time enough to talk.

Borman gets right to the point. “All this secrecy… how do you justify it? As a man of science?”

Menzel keeps his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel. “You want to do this now?”

“Seems as good a time as any.”

Menzel pauses a moment. “I guess I came to realize there are things that are too important, things that are complicated enough without throwing the turmoil of public scrutiny into the mix.”

“That’s a slippery slope, don’t you think?”

“Say what you like about Hitler, but he kept those trains running.”

“That supposed to be funny?”

“Come on Frank, lighten up. Swear to God, Werner Von Braun has a better sense of humor than you. I’m just saying… democracy and public debate is messy. It’s slow and inefficient. Sometimes you need to get things done quickly and quietly.”

“Democracy is messy because it’s about preserving freedom. But here’s you saying Lady Liberty is just a façade, like anybody with half a brain should know that already.”

“Liberty is not a façade, OK? Jesus… The American people are free to do whatever the hell they want with their lives. Try doing that in Russia. Try it in Cuba, and Castro’s secret service will have you up against a wall. I’m saying the defense of liberty can’t always be out in the open. Sometimes the stakes are too complex for Mr Joe Average to understand. Trying to explain would only undermine the very thing we’re trying to protect. Because make no mistake, liberty is a state of mind.”