Matt Eaton
APOLLO 8.1
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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 steps 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.”