On Monday, most of my morning went to helping Bubbles with data from his latest engine tests. He bounced on his toes as he leaned over the desk. Across from me, Basira had her lower lip firmly clamped between her teeth and a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. His enthusiasm was just so … enthused.
“All right, Bubbles … The amount of thrust is consistent.” I slid the sheet of calculations over to him. “Even with a payload, you would only need two stages instead of three to get to orbit.”
“I knew it!” He punched the air, tie flapping. “Launchpad, here we come!”
I cleared my throat. “On paper the Sirius is ready. But that’s Dr. York’s call.”
He grinned. “You’re Dr. York too.”
Rolling my eyes, I shook my head. “You know which one I mean … I’m just a computer, he’s the lead engineer.” That said, the engine tests had been very consistent, and it was the most stable fuel structure I’d seen come through our department. This had the potential to be a game changer for the moon missions because it would consume fewer resources. More importantly, a two-stage launch process meant less opportunity for failure. “Go on. Show him.”
He picked up the pages, shrugging. “Ah. He and the director are off-site right now. But when he comes back, for certain! Thanks!”
Of all the engineers, Bubbles was probably my favorite. He bounced out of the room, paper and tie fluttering with each step.
Basira gave up her battle with laughter and bent forward to bury her face in her arms. “Does he end every sentence with an exclamation point?”
“I heard one question mark in there.” There were at least three other computation requests on my desk that I needed to work through. Ah … the glamorous life of a computer. “It’s a really lovely engine, though. At least on paper.”
Helen pushed back from her desk and came over to ours. “He said the director is off-site?”
My skin prickled with unease. Crap. We’d talked about this at the 99s. “Right … I think it’s a visit to Lockheed-Martin to look at the command capsule for the moon landing.”
“I guess that’ll take the rest of the day, huh?”
“Probably.” I stood up and stretched as casually as I could. It’s a good thing that the fate of our nation didn’t depend on Helen’s or my espionage skills. We were about as subtle as a cat in heat. “Be back in a bit. I’m going to visit the powder room.”
Nodding, Helen went back to her desk and picked up a pencil, as if she’d never stopped working on equations. Myrtle looked between us with some confusion, but thankfully didn’t ask what we were up to.
I headed out, skipping the ladies’ room in favor of Clemons’s office. Though Helen and I both had access to the same areas of the IAC base, I had less risk than she did. With Nathaniel working here, I could always claim to be on an errand from him. She would probably be fired, which would mean getting sent back to Taiwan.
The door to Clemons’s outer office stood open, as usual, and the sound of typing popped out of the room in staccato bursts. Mrs. Kare sat behind her desk, copying over a report. At least three layers of carbons filled out the pages.
She smiled, fingers still moving. “Well, hello, Dr. York. What can I help you with?”
“I need a copy of the astronaut candidates list.” Bluffing, as if this were totally something I should have, seemed safer than trying to dig through her filing cabinets.
“Oh … I wish I could help you, but I just sent all of that over to Stetson Parker’s office.” She brightened. “You might check over there.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.” Of course the head astronaut would have some involvement over was chosen. He must have been livid when Clemons made the decision to add women to the roster. And why had he let me on the list, after he’d sworn to keep me grounded? Waving, I backed out of Clemons’s office and headed down the hall. Now I steered into the bathroom. Stepping into one of the stalls, I locked the door and leaned against the cool metal partition until my heart slowed down.
I wanted to help Ida, and Imogene, and Helen, and whoever else had been knocked out of the running, but Parker hated me. I had to be on the list against his wishes, and going to his office would be the least inconspicuous thing I could do.
That left the tests … I’d be able to find out who was there at the tests.
On Monday, May 13, 1957, at 9 a.m., I showed up at the testing facility, which was not on the IAC campus but at a military testing facility at Fort Leavenworth. It was a pre-Meteor building with huge windows set in redbrick walls. At the front desk, they checked me in and then gave me a medical bracelet with the number 378 written on it.
“That’s a lot of women,” I joked, trying to get an opening to look at the list. “Anyone I know?”
The receptionist shook her head. “There’s only thirty-four of you. That was your number in the application stage.”
Even with a mission, my jaw fell open a little as the scope of the operation became clear. They’d already discarded … who knew how many applications … and I’d made that cut. Only thirty-four in, though … At least that would make collecting the names easier. “I’ll get out of your way, then.”
“Down the hall and to the left.” She had already returned to her ledger, leaving me to my own devices.
Down the hall and to the left led me past a line of women. All of them white. Would I have noticed, if not for Ida and Imogene joining the 99s? Probably not. As I walked down the line, Nicole leaned out to wave at me.
I paused next to her. “Fancy meeting you here. Anyone else we know?”
“I’ve seen Betty, Jerrie Coleman, and Jackie Cochran, but I haven’t been keeping a list. It’s not all white people, though.” She shrugged, and the fabric of her dress rippled with the movement. It was a navy blue dress that had a white collar to seem serious and a tightly girdled waist to seem … we’ll say “approachable.” She pointed farther down the line. “See? Maggie is here.”
“Oh, yeah.” Six or seven places back stood a lone Chinese woman. Maggie Gee had been a WASP during the war. She and I didn’t really know each other, but she had been one of two Chinese women there, so hard to miss. I waved as I headed to the rear of the line, but I don’t think she recognized me.
Around us, women circulated in a susurration of crinoline and starched cotton. Not a single one was black. And the longer I stood there, the clearer it became that Maggie was the only person who wasn’t white.
Pulling a notepad out of my purse, I jotted down the names of everyone I recognized. Fifteen or so had been WASPs, even if I didn’t remember all of their names.
I stood there, heels aching, as we all waited. I attempted small talk with the woman behind me—Francesca Gurrieri, from Italy—but our silences were filled with wondering what would happen. The line ended at a pair of double doors. Periodically, a woman would emerge and we would shuffle forward.
I tried to make guesses about what was happening inside based on the way they came out, but all I could really tell was that some people had done well—they walked with shoulders back and chins held up. If anyone ever forgot that these women were all pilots, all you had to do was look at the cocky edge in their stride.
Sabiha Gökçen sauntered out of the doors. I jotted her name down on my list and then did a double take.
She was wearing a pantsuit and tennis shoes. Darn it. That was brilliant. I’d fallen into the trap of trying to present myself well, but they were looking for pilots, not ladies.
It would be all right. I smoothed the wool of my skirt and took a breath. Most of the other women were also in skirts, and it didn’t seem to make a difference to the way they came out of the double doors.