The last and possibly the best of us arrived the next day. Reeves ‘Doc’ Walker strolled into my office as I sat going over personnel records. His handshake was special. There was a current of experience and knowledge within the grasp that was new to me. His irreverent attitude on the phone had been misleading. There was deepness about him. His demeanor was self-assured, but at the same time, there was a humbleness beneath it. He wasn’t shy about his success, but he seemed not to be waving any banners, either.
I noticed too many lines for a fifty-year-old face. His complexion seemed permanently wind-burned. He had deep wood-brown eyes and low eyebrows, a sharp chin and a quick, genuine smile. He looked a lot more like a jet-jockey than a medical doctor. I noticed his hands. They looked like hands that had a lot of hours holding a control stick in the left and thrust levers in the right.
I asked him to sit, went out and came back with two black coffees. “Cream and sugar on my desk there, Reeves.”
“Doc would probably be more appropriate for we two, Adrian. I’ve read up a bit on you. Black is good. So that’s it?” He pointed at the window to the hanger.
“That’s the flight deck of the Griffin. We’ll be going faster and farther than anyone ever has.”
“Mmm. I’ve heard stories of the spacecraft that can fly like an airplane. Never thought I’d actually see it.”
“It can, but it’s a barnburner. You did a stint with the Blue Angels, as I understand it.”
“Not really. I was doin’ a lot of the same air shows as they were, demonstrating personal family jets for the Avaron Corporation. Supposed to show how crash proof they were. But the truth is, there are people who can crash anything. At one show, two of the Angels came looking for me. The team leader had a migraine that was ten on the Richter scale. It was too painful for him to fly. It was a pinched nerve from playin’ touch football behind the hanger. I cortisoned it and he was okay. After that, they kept stopping by at air shows, or when they needed something. They use chase planes when they’re developing new patterns. Eventually they invited me to fly chase with them and later, when they were short a fifth, they’d let me fly outside man during practice sessions. But I never went in any shows with them. My name was never on the flight list.”
“Those guys are a tight group.”
“Tight as it gets. You’ve got quite a bit of time under your belt yourself.”
“I have managed to recover from stupid mistakes on quite a few occasions.”
“As have we all, Adrian. As have we all.”
“It wakes you up at night sometimes.”
He smiled and sipped his coffee. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? Trying not to think about it.”
“What scares you the most? The world of medicine, or plummeting through the sky?”
“People, Adrian. People scare me the most. The ones who have no conscience. The ones who care only about themselves.”
“Want to go take a look at the flight deck?”
“Lead the way.”
In the hanger, we climbed the air stairs and stood looking into the darkened cabin. He said nothing but stood appraising it with a veteran’s eye.
“How much space time you got, Doc?”
“Not much, but it’s just a matter of missing stars, right?” He looked at me with a dead serious expression on his face and then burst into laughter. I couldn’t help but join in.
“Actually that’s true, but you don’t really do any stick time en route. Everything is programmed into the Spacecraft Management System before you go light, and the Nav computer and Flight Management Computer have to approve what you’ve requested before they’ll allow you to engage. It’s pretty much the same as the heavies you’ve flown, except the scale on the Nav display is in light years or AU’s instead of nautical miles. All the orbital stuff is joystick and Nav display. What about EVA time? Ever done any of that?”
“I’ve logged a bunch of weightless time doin’ zero-G rides, but never in a spacesuit.”
“I’ll want to schedule a little EVA sim time for you in the water tank over at KSC. Would you be alright with that?”
“Hell yes. Better than Disney.”
“Let me show you the habitat simulator. You might find it interesting.”
On the way, we stopped by the TCC where RJ and Terry were hanging over a station display looking at replays of a recent procedure. The appropriate introductions and handshakes were made. Danica and Shelly were away getting Shelly settled into her apartment. No one knew where Paris was.
Doc was duly impressed with the interior of the habitat module. Someone had set the living quarter’s wall display to reflect a cow pasture with cows. I had a strong suspicion who. Like the rest of us, the luxury of it was far more than Doc was accustomed to. Most professional pilots spend their free time sleeping in lounges, back offices, and sometimes their vehicle. Back in the TCC I gave Doc his study material, directions to his temporary housing, and begged off when he got into a long discussion with Terry. Doc was already intent on getting flying time in the Griffin.
Paris Denard was waiting in my office. No work apparel. Instead, a silly-looking green cashmere sweater and gray dress slacks with black penny-loafers. He was poking around but keeping his hands in his pockets so as to look innocent. It wasn’t working. It made me decide to start locking the office. He stopped and looked up as I entered, and reset himself for the task at hand.
“Enjoying the view,” he commented and pointed to the new monitors set to display the habitat training.
“They were just installed yesterday, but yes I am.”
“Getting a kick out of people jumping through hoops?”
“Paris, what’s up?”
“Forgive me for being blunt, but this training itinerary is bullshit.”
“Well, I’m flattered that you would consider bringing this to my attention.” I sat on the corner of the desk and folded my arms.
He sat back in a chair by the wall. “I know what’s going on here. It’s pathetically obvious. You know, of course.”
“Okay, back up a bit. To what are you referring, exactly?”
“You have the Test Director harassing me with trivia because you are offended by my stature here.”
I had to keep myself from laughing. “Paris, I have not said one word to the Test Director about your training or testing, and I’m not sure what you mean by stature. Everyone on this team is at the top of their field. No one is subordinate.”
“Your Test Director buddy is assigning me tasks that are below my level of expertise. You are trying to demean me and make me look like an amateur, and you’re making a mistake, because I will not accept it.”
“Paris, let me be blunt. What you’ve just said shows that your level of expertise, as you call it, is not quite up to what it should be. If it were, you would know that TDs are completely independent entities. They are the policemen of mission hardware and crew. They are outside of the jurisdiction of any management, and any mission hierarchy. It is done that way to prevent people who aren’t qualified from being slipped into operations where they might be a danger to the mission or its crew. Any attempt to influence a Test Director, or modify his test plan, sets off alarms in the organization that brings more internal investigation than you can imagine. I would caution you against trying to pull any strings on Terry Costerly. You’ll get a lot more blowback than you’d be expecting.”
He stood, looking slightly disarmed. He wrinkled his brow and pursed his lips. He had the disposition of a man who had taken a wrong turn in a crowded city, and did not know where to go next.
“Paris, are you sure you want to give up a year for this project?”
He regained his composure. “I’ve made the commitment.”
“To whom or what?”
“I’ll discuss this with Mr. Costerly and see where it takes me.”
“Paris, we know you think you’re good. Now we need to think you’re good.”
He made a ‘humph’ sound and walked out. R
J was waiting outside the door and came in behind him, pausing to watch him storm by.
“Bet that was fun,” he said when the coast was clear.
“The man is a legend in his own mind.”
“He really does know his stuff, Adrian. When TD gives us something, he knows where to go and the correct procedure. Sometimes he seems a little awkward at implementing it, but he does know his field.”
“You mean like someone who had taught a class in something, but has not had a lot of practical experience doing it?”
“Exactly.”
“Hmm. I just wish he could put the harness on and pull with the team.”
“What a wonderful metaphor.”
“How are you doing back there, anyway?”
“It’s a breeze. I’m going deeper into the systems than is actually necessary. By the way, I get the afternoon off tomorrow. They need the sim time to let the newbies catch up a little. I want to hit the surf at high tide. Can I borrow your waders? Spike shredded one leg of mine.”
“Sounds like your cat is sending you a message.”
“There’s no doubt.”
“You know, our new propulsion engineer Erin has a cat. Maybe you could compare notes on feline training.”
“No training necessary. The cat has completed the training itinerary. I’m completely trained. The cat’s in charge. I’m his butler.”
“My waders are hanging up in my bedroom closet, right next to the suit I don’t wear. You have a key.”
“Thanks. I promise to keep your waders away from Spike.”
He smiled and left me to my misgivings about Paris Denard. The man had received too many accolades for too little suffering and now wore them like medals of valor everywhere he went. A little more notoriety and his ego would bring him one short step away from the ugly little snare that waits and watches for those too fond of themselves. It is the same nasty little trap that lures the nouveau rich or puerile famous. As fame and notoriety take hold, suddenly you are surrounded with an ample variety of overindulgences available to you most any time. Innocently you begin sampling the ones that do not offend your morals or ethics while secretly eyeing those that do. After a while, the lines become blurred and they all become indulgences that you rightly deserve, a normal part of the avant-garde life style you lead. The compromises become greater and greater until you are so possessed by overindulgence that you are a person owned by indiscretions, and those who provide them. That is the trap. You lose your self, one sin at a time, until those who specialize in sin can make you serve them and do most anything they require you to do to further their own aims. It is at that point many wealthy or famous individuals decide there is no going back, though they are unwilling to continue. They help fill the news and star magazines with the regretful obituaries of people who gave so much, and who were so dearly loved it seemed unthinkable that they took their own lives. They will always be remembered. There will always be gratitude.
Lingering on, are those smart enough to realize early what has happened. They too have found the bridges behind burned or collapsed. There is no way back. Yet to go forward is to delve deep into lonely or deluded darkness. The only option is to try to cut back on the excesses. To give them up completely would be to become a normal person, a fearful and consequential debasement. So they try to mold the high roller’s lifestyle back to a less soul-depleting existence, but it only makes for a longer, slower crash. It is an ugly little story that has happened to so many wonderful, gifted people you would think there would be an agenda to remedy it, but the lights are too blinding, and the praise too ingratiating. No drugs can compare to it, they can only pay homage and provide continuity to the illusion. Paris Denard had enough illusions to go around. One was that he was accompanying us on the Nadir mission.
Chapter 13