USSR Hoax

20 SUIT-UP

Already dressed in his spacesuit, minus his bubble helmet and gloves, Tom stood in a hypnotic state, staring blankly at the large metal machine in front of him with its numerous pressure gauges, knobs, and blinking lights. Tom was unfazed by the orchestrated activity going on all around him by the many technicians in the suit-up room. Dressed in their white lab coats and caps, these workers were busy doing the job they had trained months for, helping Tom and his crewmates don and test their spacesuits.

In less than five hours, Tom would be sitting on top of the largest and most powerful rocket ever built, the Saturn V, blasting off to the moon over 200,000 miles away. He was surprised how calm he felt. The space veteran attributed his relaxed composure to the two years of intense training leading up to the mission. He was ready.

“Tom, why don’t you go ahead and sit down now.”

Breaking out of his trance, Tom looked over at the technician. “Will do.” He moved aside the various hoses and wires connecting him to the machine. He cautiously shuffled his feet backward until his yellow protective boot covers hit something solid, signaling he was at the chair. The technician then helped him fall backward.

“I’ll get your gloves and helmet and be right back.”

Nodding toward the technician, Tom moved around slightly so he was comfortable in the lounge. It was only a matter of time before his spacesuit would be pressurized and tested for leaks. If the suit passed, Tom would then breathe pure oxygen within his helmet, purging all the nitrogen from his system to prevent the possibility of the bends setting in. Waiting for the technician to return, Tom adjusted his Snoopy cap so his microphones were positioned just right. He glanced over at his crewmates, who were each being attended to as they lay back in their lounge chairs. The men had intense looks etched deep across their faces. Tom suspected the rookies were nervous, just as he was before his first flight. Hoping to put them at ease, Tom called out, “Hey, Dusty, Kirk.”

Both men looked toward their commander. Tom flashed a thumbs-up sign. A faint smile appeared on their faces as they each returned the gesture. Tom then pointed to the only thing hanging on the white walls, a large poster with a big, yellow smiley face with the caption, Have a nice day!

His crewmates looked up at the silly poster as Tom called out, “Let’s have a nice day.”

Kirk returned a more relaxed smile. “Roger that.”

Settling back in his seat, Tom eyed the bright-red stripe on each of his white spacesuit pant legs. These badges of honor signified he was the commander and responsible for his crewmates’ lives. As he touched one of the stripes, he reaffirmed to himself that he would do everything in his power to make sure the mission was a success and all three would return home safely.

The opening of a door caught Tom’s attention. He saw Dick enter wearing a blue sport shirt and tan pants. His boss carried a couple of packages, one certainly containing his family picture and the metal container he would use to steal the lunar soil. Dick first went over to Kirk, and, after a brief conversation, gave him one of the packages. Dick then worked his way over to Tom.

His boss approached with a big grin. “Is my commander ready for the thrill of a lifetime?”

“Absolutely!”

“Good. I have your family picture.”

Tom was impressed how nonchalant Dick acted as he casually opened the package. With only one hand he pulled out the photo wrapped in plastic, facing it forward so his body blocked the container from behind. Tom questioned if the small cylindrical container was there, considering how easily his boss held the snapshot. If it was, Dick must have practiced the move. Being in a lower, seated position, Tom could see the four-inch-long metal vial when Dick extended his arm. Tom wondered if he would be able to grab both items with one hand. Dropping the cylinder would draw unwanted attention and put the operation in jeopardy. He quickly looked around to establish that no one was paying attention, then reached with both hands and snagged the objects, making sure the container stayed hidden. “Thanks, Dick. Anne is excited to know our family picture will be on the moon for all eternity.”

Tom opened a pocket in his suit, slipping the items in.

Dick stood close by as he scanned the room. “Or until some future astronaut picks it up.”

After sealing the pouch, Tom exhaled deeply, satisfied no one had noticed. “True. When do you think we’ll go back to the moon?”

Dick also looked relieved as he took a step back. “Good question. After Apollo 17, I think it will be a while. So enjoy yourself.”

Tom extended his hand. “I plan on having a ball.”

Dick gave him a solid handshake. “I bet you will, and the thought of it makes me jealous.”

The technician approached. “Ready to put your gloves on, Tom?”

Dick began to move off. “I’ll let you get back to suiting up.”

As his boss left, Tom double-checked that the pouch with the container was sealed before answering the technician. “You bet. Let’s put those babies on.”

While the technician got down to business, Tom observed a man with jet-black hair and a beard drag a chair over toward him. After sitting, the fellow pulled out a sketch pad and pen. As the man began to draw, Tom wondered what he was up to. “Are you sketching me?”

The man looked up with concern, and answered apologetically, “I am. Is that okay?”

“Of course. I’m Tom Novak, by the way.”

The man smiled big. “I know who you are. I’m Paul Calle.”

The loud clicking sound of a glove being fastened caught Tom’s attention. He looked over and briefly moved his fingers to make sure the glove felt comfortable. Satisfied, he gave a quick nod to the technician before turning back to the artist. “Nice to meet you, Paul. Please excuse me for not shaking your hand. Mine are a little busy right now.” Tom figured some casual conversation might help pass the time. “So do you have any kids, Paul?”

Going back to his work, the artist answered without looking up. “I do. A girl and two boys.”

“Great, how old?”

“My girl is seventeen, oldest boy is fifteen, and the youngest is nine.”

Tom watched Paul’s hand moving quickly about the paper and tried to sneak a peek at the sketch. But he had no luck. “I have a boy, too, Peter. He’s seven.”

Studying Tom’s profile for a moment, Paul returned back to his drawing. “He’s close to my youngest, Chris, who is here for the launch. The oldest two had no desire to come out. According to them, once you’ve seen one launch, you’ve seen them all.”

Tom chuckled. “From their point of view, sitting in the stands, probably all the launches do look the same. A rocket shoots up into the sky, and a few minutes later, it’s gone.” Tom thought of Peter, who would be witnessing his first launch. “So do your kids draw?”

After another quick glance to help with his work, Paul resumed sketching. “They do. I’ve tried to take the time to work with them all. Chris seems to have the most talent. In fact, I carry one of his first drawings in my bag for good luck.”

Tom was impressed Paul could keep working while chatting. “I’d love to see it when you get a chance.”

Finishing up with the second glove, the technician interrupted. “How do those feel?”

Tom moved his fingers around in both gloves. “Good.”

Paul started to get up. “Well, good luck.”

“You’re already done?”

“Yep.”

“Impressive. Well, tell your little boy I said hi.”

The artist gave an appreciative nod. “I definitely will. Chris will be excited to hear the man flying the rocket he is watching said hi.”

“Ready to put your helmet on, Commander?”

As the artist left, Tom turned toward the technician. “Let’s do it.”

Once his helmet was locked in place, Tom would be breathing processed air for the remainder of the mission until their capsule was opened in the Pacific Ocean. Tom held up his hand in a stopping motion after seeing the technician approach with the clear plastic bubble in his hands. Tom had to take one final gasp of fresh air, his last for the next eleven days. He took in a lung full of air and then slowly exhaled. Happy with his last taste of Earth, he signaled he was ready. Tom looked straight ahead as the tech lowered his helmet carefully and snapped it securely in place. The only sound he now heard was his own breathing resonating within the plastic enclosure while cool oxygen flowed past his face.

The technician used hand gestures to ask if Tom wanted to recline in his chair.

Tom nodded he did.

The tech pulled the handle, releasing the lounger, putting Tom in a more comfortable position. He shot an A-okay signal before the tech turned to monitor the pressure gauges. Tom was now in his own world, comfortably inside his personal spaceship. The machine he was wearing would sustain and protect him when he ventured out into the harsh environment on the lunar surface. It was a marvelous piece of equipment. He turned his head from side to side in the fish bowl helmet, checking out the activity all around him. The helmet of the Apollo A7L suit allowed for an unrestricted view, different from the helmet he wore on Gemini. This made it easy to work inside the Apollo spacecraft, especially when floating around. When walking on the moon, he would wear a more restricted, gold-plated visor assembly over the bubble helmet that would protect him from dangerous micrometeoroids and the sun’s rays.

For the next forty-five minutes all Tom needed to do was relax in silence and breathe in pure oxygen. To take advantage of his last true downtime, he closed his eyes and tried to think pleasant thoughts. But his mind was going a mile a minute, cluttered with the many details associated with the launch. He methodically went through each step along with any possible failure, assessing what action he should take. He would have his hand on the abort handle, and turning it would not only abruptly end the mission, but risk the lives of the entire crew since there was no guarantee they would survive the jettisoned escape. No human had ever tried it. Though past commanders had been on the brink of aborting, each one made the right call, not turning the handle. He was certain he had the balls to do the same, though he wouldn’t hesitate twisting the lever if catastrophe was certain. After being killed hundreds of times in the simulator and learning from each mistake, he was confident he would make the right call.

Frustrated with his spinning mind, Tom squeezed his closed eyelids even tighter, forcing himself to purge all the thoughts associated with the mission. There would be plenty of time in the capsule before launch to review his procedures. He wanted to focus on something more relaxing and soothing. The one subject he knew would do that was Anne. He reflected on their last moments together. Over the weekend they had enjoyed NASA’s beachfront cottage, the only beach house not torn down when the land was purchased by the government. On the last day of her visit, they took a long, loving stroll along Kennedy’s pristine shoreline to say their final goodbye. Though Tom was excited and filled with anticipation about what lay ahead, he sensed Anne was apprehensive. Virtually in the shadow of his rocket sitting just over a mile away on pad 39A, he put his hands gently on her face and looked her directly in the eye. He promised with all his heart he would return. She stayed strong as she kissed him warmly on the lips, hugging him tightly as if she didn’t want to let him go.

A sudden tap on Tom’s helmet broke his daydreaming. Without turning his head, he gradually opened his eyes. A stick-figure drawing dangled inches away from his face. He saw Paul beaming as he held up a Crayon-colored illustration of a man standing on the moon holding the American flag, obviously drawn by his son. Tom smiled at the proud parent, flashing a thumbs-up sign in his direction. Paul did a slight wave before leaving. As Tom calmly closed his eyes, a pang of jealousy shot through him, envious of the relationship the artist had with his boy. He wanted the same with Peter, but how? He was an astronaut.

Tom thought back to a few days earlier when he last saw his son. Tom was in an environmentally controlled area while Anne and Peter were on the other side of a glass wall. Excitedly, Peter showed off a new Hot Wheels toy car that was supposedly a “goodbye” gift from Tom. Even though this was news to him, he still nodded, pretending to be aware of the toy. Once again, Anne was covering for Tom for not being a part of his son’s life.

Snapping his eyes open, Tom stared up at the white ceiling above. Things had to change. He couldn’t continue not being there for his family. They meant too much to him. Though he planned on staying with NASA after the mission, he would have to make some kind of adjustment to his schedule. He needed to spend more time with Peter. If that meant taking a desk job, so be it.

Tom wondered if he ought to start guiding his son along the path of someday becoming an astronaut. Considering the dangers of the profession, he questioned the wisdom of that choice. Space travel will surely be safer when Peter flies. Think of how far air travel has come. Shoot, by 2000, America will probably be flying tourists into space. Peter could be a commercial space pilot. Tom decided he had to see if his boy was a chip off the old block, and the only way to do that was to teach him how to fly. Right then and there he concluded he’d buy a small airplane. He had no idea how he would be able to afford such an extravagant expense, but he rationalized that whatever the cost, it would be worth every penny to be able to share the joy of flying with his son.

Pleased with his decision, Tom contentedly closed his eyes and dozed off.

TOM LED HIS crewmates proudly down the long corridor of the Manned Spacecraft Operations Building toward the transfer van that would take them the short eight miles to their launch pad. The hallway was scattered with a handful of office personnel there to see them off, along with some photographers. Tom’s rigid spacesuit made walking difficult. He tried not to look silly as he clutched his portable oxygen unit feeding him air. With very little sound penetrating his helmet, he was unable to hear the well-wishers. He simply waved at the folks as he continued on.

After the short elevator ride, Tom came to the exit of the building. A security guard opened the door. Outside there were hundreds of people behind a barrier. Tom saw them waving and cheering, but he couldn’t hear them. Without breaking stride, Tom acknowledged the crowd. In front of him was a thirty-foot ramp that led down to the transfer van waiting with its back doors open.

The last thing Tom wanted was to trip and fall on the ramp, so he concentrated as he awkwardly moved his stiff legs down the incline. Halfway down he looked up and got a pleasant surprise. There at the bottom of the ramp he saw Anne and Peter clapping. The wonderful sight had Tom grinning from ear to ear. Clearly Dick had set up the surprise. As he approached his family, he had to stop. He gave Peter a light pat on the head. The little boy instantly reached up and grabbed Tom’s black glove, squeezing it tight. Tom winked at his son before turning to Anne. She surprised him by placing both hands on his helmet. Stepping on her tippy toes, she pulled him close and planted a big kiss right on the plastic bubble. Then she lovingly mouthed that she loved him. He did the same before strolling on with a sudden burst of happiness.

As he entered the van and took a seat, a warm smile crossed his face. There on the bottom of his helmet was the faint outline of Anne’s lips. Though he should have had the impression wiped off, he decided to keep it. It represented what was most important to him and what would be waiting for him when he returned.