He’d heard whispers, of course, about Nixon’s plans to cut the space program. But it’s different hearing it from the horse’s mouth, and so soon into his presidency.
Borman asks, “You’re not talking about scrubbing the Moon landing?”
Nixon holds up his hands in self-defense. “No, no, of course not. We’ll get men on the Moon all right. That’s a foregone conclusion, no holding back that tide now. Need to beat the Russians. I’m talking about what comes next.”
“Tom Paine hasn’t been in the administrator’s job very long, Mr President. He’s only just finding his feet.”
“Which is precisely why I’d like to get you in there, Frank. From everything I’ve seen, you’re a man of your word. That’s a rare commodity in my line of business, believe me. There are going to be some hard times ahead. Tough decisions need to be made.”
“I’d have to give it some serious thought.”
“Of course. You’ll have a few weeks in Europe to talk it over with Susan anyway.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“You have friends in Vietnam?”
“I do.”
“It keeps me awake at night. I’ve just seen the latest figures… We’ve lost 40,000 men, spent 70 billion dollars. What do we have to show for it? Now I hate the commies as much as any loyal American, but that rat bastard Johnson damn well knew all along we could never win this war. Yet still he kept digging the hole deeper. He couldn’t see a way out that preserved American prestige. Now that falls to me.”
Nixon laughs humorlessly, suddenly embarrassed by his own candor. “But that is just between you and me, Colonel — Not a word to anybody.”
“No, sir.”
“I guess you better not keep them waiting out there any longer.”
“You’ll work it out, Mr President. I have faith in you.”
Nixon smiles, apparently far less certain, but he shakes Borman’s hand firmly and points him toward the door.
“We’ll talk again, you and I,” says the president.
Ziegler, Anders, and Lovell are waiting in the hall just outside the Oval.
“What was that about?” Lovell inquires.
Borman says, “Never you mind.”
Ziegler leads them around the corner to the Fish Room, where the members of the White House press corps are waiting for their photo opportunity.
In the days since Apollo 8 splashed down in the Pacific, Borman had been slowly coming to terms with the realization the rest of his life would be downhill from this moment. Flying into lunar orbit would stand as the greatest moment of his life. But it was also something he had long known would come to pass. It had been the culmination of years of persistence through many terrible years of death and failure. In being first to set foot upon the Moon, they will prove once and for all the American way of life is superior to that of the Soviets. Mission accomplished. The pragmatist in him is embarrassed by this attention. Every astronaut knows people serving on the front lines in Vietnam, fighting and dying in their own battles to preserve America’s way of life. Who’s shaking their hands?
Since returning to Earth, Borman’s eyes have been opened to miracles. He has peered behind the curtain and into a world where power, truth, and knowledge are more highly advanced and jealously guarded than he could ever have imagined. In so doing, he’s seen wonders beyond the comprehension of even the most brilliant minds, hard at work on America’s manned space flight program. Things that leave him feeling like his grip on reality may be loosening.
After a decade spent furiously pursuing a seemingly impossible goal, the finish line is now on the horizon. He’s proud of his part in that, but he’s also starting to feel like nothing will ever surprise him again. That from now on, everything is possible. Which is why Nixon’s job offer is as perplexing as it is tempting.
Ziegler puts his hand on the door handle. On the other side of the door is a room full of White House reporters. “OK,” he says, “we go in and the president will join us about thirty seconds later. You ready?”
Borman nods, exchanging knowing glances with the other astronauts — the only other people in his life who know what they saw out there on the far side. Since those first few days after splashdown aboard USS Yorktown, none of them have said a word to one another about it. That’s fine by Borman. It’s safer that way.
Flash bulbs start firing as Ziegler ushers them into the Fish Room. Even by White House standards, it’s a big press call. Reporters are four-deep in the room. Will they sense it, these reporters? Will they see in his eyes he’s harboring the story of the century? Even if he told them, they’d never believe it.
Borman knows from experience Mr Nixon will not be the center of attention today. He wonders if the president is ready for that. Lovell and Anders smile and nod sagely, untroubled by the attention. In the past few weeks, they have become accustomed to the circus, calmly and solemnly facing down everybody who has wanted a piece of them. While military types are usually shy and retiring in the face of public scrutiny, astronauts are an altogether different breed. They live their lives in the public eye. Facing reporters is part of the deal. Many actually seem to revel in the attention, possibly because of the associated perks of celebrity, but also because they genuinely believe they deserve it.
Lovell points across the room. “Last time I was in here, JFK’s sailfish was up on that wall. Guess they took that down, huh?”
Neil Sheehan of the The New York Times replies, “It’s fair to say Mr Nixon and JFK never exactly saw eye to eye.”
Carroll Kilpatrick from The Washington Post adds, “The fish came down the day they carted all Kennedy’s other possessions out of here. It’s in the JFK Library in Boston.”
Lovell shakes his head, earning a brief warning glare from Borman. He says, “Seems strange to have a Fish Room without a fish.”
Nixon has the dubious honor of entering at the very moment a roomful of people start laughing at a joke he hasn’t heard. As if he’s the butt of their humor, they hush like schoolboys caught out by the teacher.
The president wastes no time in chasing the source of their mirth. “Wonderful to have you here,” he tells Borman, looking him firmly in the eyes as he offers another firm handshake, before quickly turning his attention to the other two men.
“We were talking about this wonderful reception room of yours,” says Anders, “and how it seems to be missing a fish.”
“Between you and me,” Nixon whispers, “I’m renaming this room. It was the president’s office when they built the West Wing back in 1902.”
“I did not know that,” says Borman, noticing how quickly the president has taken control of the room, while also angling himself in just the right way to ensure he’s facing the cameras at all times. Smart man.
Nixon says, “I want to call it the Roosevelt Room.”
It’s all for show — a repeat performance of their actual meeting a few minutes earlier just across the hall in the Oval Office. Ziegler had explained how it would all go down. The astronauts, no strangers to the media circus, happily played along.
Lovell asks, “Which Roosevelt will you be honoring?”
Nixon tells him, “Both of them.”
“But one of them’s a Democrat,” says Anders.
“Well,” says Nixon, “I try to be a man of the people.” He glances in the direction of the reporters. “By the way, that’s not for publication. I’ll let you know when it’s official.”
Several reporters mumble their assent. Having made sure all assembled had fully captured the moment, Nixon takes his place at the podium to begin the briefing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, these three men who stand with me need no introduction.