Phases of Gravity (20 page)

"You with the investigation team?" asks the trooper.

"No," says Baedecker. "I knew the pilot."

"Oh." The state trooper shuffles his feet and looks back down the hill toward the road.

"I'm surprised they haven't transferred the wreckage," Baedecker says. "Usually they try to get it into a hangar as soon as possible."

"Problem with transport," says the trooper. "That's where Colonel Fields and the government guys are this afternoon, trying to get the truck situation straightened out down at Camp Withycombe in Portland. And there's the jurisdiction problem, too. Even the Forest Service is involved."

Baedecker nods. He crouches to look at the dead animal again but is distracted by a bit of orange fabric fluttering from a nearby branch. Part of a backpack, he thinks. Or a flight suit.

"I was one of the first ones here after the crash," says the state trooper. "Jamie and me got the call just as we were heading out of Yale going west. Only guy here before us was that geologist who's got his cabin over toward Goat Mountain."

Baedecker straightens up. "Was there much fire?"

"Not by the time we got here. The rain must've put it out. There wasn't a hell of a lot to burn up here. Except the plane, of course."

"It was raining hard before the crash?"

"Shit, yes. We couldn't see fifty feet coming up the road. Real strong winds, too. Like I always pictured a hurricane was like. You ever seen a hurricane?"

"No," says Baedecker and then remembers the hurricane in the Pacific that he and Dave and Tom Gavin had looked down on from two hundred miles up just before the translunar injection burn. "So it was already dark and raining hard?" he asks.

"Yeah." The trooper's tone suggests that he is losing interest. "Tell me something. The Air Force guy—Colonel Fields—he seems to think that your friend flew over the park here because he knew the plane was going down."

Baedecker looks at the state trooper.

The man clears his throat and spits. The snow has stopped and the soil still visible looks even grayer to Baedecker in the waning afternoon light. "So if he knew the thing was having problems," says the trooper, "how come he just didn't punch out of it once he got the plane over the boonies here? Why'd he ride it down into the mountain?"

Baedecker turns his head. On the highway below, several military vehicles, two flatbed trucks, and a small crane have pulled to a stop near Baedecker's rented Toyota. An enclosed jeep with someone in Air Force blue at the wheel begins its climb up the hill. Baedecker walks away from the trooper and moves downhill to meet them.

"I don't know," he says to himself, the words spoken so softly that they are lost in the rising wind and sound of the approaching vehicle.

"How long to Lonerock?" asked Baedecker. They were headed north on Twelfth Street in Salem. It was already three P.M.

"About a five-hour drive," said Dave. "You have to take I-5 north to Portland and then follow the Gorge up past the Dalles. Then it's another hour and a half past Wasco and Condon."

"Then we'll get there after dark," said Baedecker.

"Nope."

Baedecker refolded the road map he had been wrestling with and raised an eyebrow.

"I know a shortcut," said Dave.

"Through the Cascades?"

"You might say that."

They pulled off Turner Road onto a lane leading into a small airport. Several executive jets were parked near two large hangars. Across a wide strip of taxi apron sat a Chinook, a Cessna A-37 Dragonfly with Air National Guard markings, and an aging C-130. Dave parked the Cherokee near the military hangar, pulled their luggage out of the back, and tossed Baedecker a quilted goosedown jacket. "Suit up, Richard. It'll be cold where we're going."

A sergeant and two men in mechanic overalls emerged from the hangar as Dave approached. "Howdy, Colonel Muldorff. All set and prechecked," said the sergeant.

"Thanks, Chico. Meet Colonel Dick Baedecker."

Baedecker shook hands, and then they were moving across the tarmac to where the mechanics were sliding back the side door of a helicopter parked behind the larger Chinook. "I'll be damned," said Baedecker. "A Huey."

"A Bell HU-1 Iroquois to you, tenderfoot," said Dave. "Thanks, Chico, we'll take it from here. Nate's got my flight plan filed."

"Have a good trip, Colonel," said the sergeant. "Nice meetin' ya, Colonel Baedecker."

As Baedecker followed Dave around the ship, he felt a slight sinking sensation in the region of his solar plexus. He had ridden in Hueys scores of times—even clocked thirty-five hours or more flying them during the early days of his NASA training—and he had hated every minute of it. Baedecker knew that Dave loved the treacherous machines; much of Muldorff's experimental flying had been in helicopters. In 1965, Dave had been on loan to Hughes Aircraft to sort out problems in their prototype TH-55A trainer. The new helicopter had a tendency to drop nose first into the earth without warning. The research led to comparison field studies on the flight characteristics of the older Bell HU-1, already in service in Vietnam. Dave was sent to Vietnam for six weeks of observation flying with the army pilots who were reported to be doing unusual things with their machines there. Four and a half months later he was recalled after it was discovered that he had been flying combat missions with a medevac squadron on a daily basis.

Dave had used his experience to solve Hughes's problem with the TH-55As, but he had been passed over for promotion as a result of his unauthorized flying with the 1st Cav. He also received notes from both the Air Force and Army informing him that under no circumstances could he put in for retroactive combat flight pay. Dave had laughed. He had been notified two weeks before leaving Vietnam that he had been accepted into NASA's training program for post-Gemini astronauts.

"Not bad," said Baedecker as they finished the external checks and moved into the cockpit. "Got your own slick for weekend jaunts. One of the perks of being a congressman, Dave?"

Muldorff laughed and tossed Baedecker a clipboard with the cockpit checklist. "Sure," he said. "Goldwater used to get his free rides in F-18s. I've got my Huey. Of course, it helps that I'm still on active reserve out here." He handed Baedecker a baseball cap with the insignia AIR FORCE 1½ sewn on it. Baedecker tugged it on and set the radio headset in place. "Also, Richard," continued Dave, "it might reassure you to know—as a concerned taxpayer—that this particular pile of rusted bolts did its duty in 'Nam, ferried around weekend warriors out here for ten years, and is now officially on the spare-parts list. Chico and the boys keep it around in case anybody has to run up to Portland to buy cigarettes or something."

"Yeah," said Baedecker. "Great." He strapped himself into the left seat as Dave waggled the cyclic control stick and reached down with his left hand to squeeze the starter trigger on the collective pitch control lever. It had been the constant interplay of controls—cyclic, collective, rudder pedals, and throttle thrust grip—that had given Baedecker fits when he had been forced to

fly the perverse machines twenty years earlier. Compared to a military helicopter, the Apollo lunar module had been a simple machine to master.

The gas-turbine engine roared, the high-speed starter motor whined, and the two forty-eight-foot rotor blades began to turn. "Yowzuh!" called Dave over the intercom. Various dials registered their appropriate readings while the whop-whop-whop of the main rotors reached a point of almost physical pressure. Dave pulled up on the collective control and three tons of well-aged machinery lifted off its skids to hover five feet above the tarmac.

"Ready to see my shortcut?" Dave's voice was flat and metallic over the intercom.

"Show me," said Baedecker.

Dave grinned, spoke quickly into his mike, and confidently pitched the ship forward as they began their climb into the east.

San Francisco was rainy and cold for the two days Baedecker and Maggie Brown were there. At Maggie's suggestion, they stayed in a renovated old hotel near Union Square. The halls were dimly lit and smelled of paint, the showers were jerry-rigged onto massive bathtubs with claw feet, and everywhere hung the exposed pipes of the building's sprinkler system. Baedecker and Maggie took turns showering to remove the grime of their forty-eight-hour train trip, lay down to take a nap, made love instead, showered again, and went out into the evening.

"I've never been here before," said Maggie with a wide grin. "It's marvelous!" The streets were busy with rushing theater-goers and couples—mostly male—walking hand in hand under neon signs promising topless and bottomless delights. The wind smelled of the sea and exhaust fumes. The cable-car system was down for repairs, and all of the cabs in sight were either filled or beyond hailing distance. Baedecker and Maggie took a bus to Fisherman's Wharf where they walked without speaking until a cold drizzle and Baedecker's injured ankle forced them into a restaurant.

"The prices are high," said Maggie when the main course had been served, "but the scallops are delicious."

"Yes," said Baedecker.

"All right, Richard," said Maggie and touched his hand. "What's wrong?"

Baedecker shook his head. "Nothing."

Maggie waited.

"I was just wondering how you were going to make up this week's worth of classes," he said and poured more wine for both of them.

"Not true," said Maggie. In the candlelight her green eyes seemed almost turquoise. Her cheeks were sunburned even under their tan. "Tell me."

Baedecker looked at her a long moment. "I've been thinking about when Tom Gavin's son pulled that stupid stunt in the mountains," he said.

Maggie smiled. "You mean dancing naked on a rock during a lightning storm? With a tent pole in one hand? That stupid stunt?"

Baedecker nodded. "He could have been killed."

"This is true," agreed Maggie. "Especially since he seemed intent upon taking the names of all the gods in vain until he pissed off the wrong one." She seemed to notice Baedecker's intensity and her voice changed. "Hey, it turned out all right. Why are you letting it bother you now?"

"It's not what he did that bothers me," said Baedecker. "It's what I did while he was up on that boulder."

"You didn't do anything," said Maggie.

"Exactly," said Baedecker and finished his glass of wine. He poured more. "I did nothing."

"Tommy's father got him down before either one of us could react," said Maggie.

Baedecker nodded. At a nearby table several women laughed loudly at an unheard joke.

"Oh, I see," said Maggie. "We're talking about Scott again."

Baedecker wiped his hands on a red linen napkin. "I'm not sure," he said. "But at least Tom Gavin saw his son doing something stupid and saved him from possible disaster."

"Yes," said Maggie, "and little Tommy was . . . what . . .? seventeen, and Scott will be twenty-three in March."

"Yes, but . . ."

"And little Tommy was ten feet away," said Maggie. "Scott is in Poona. India."

"I know that . . ."

"Besides, who are you to say what Scott's doing there is disaster? You've had your chance, Richard. Scott's a big boy now, and if he wants to spend a few years chanting mantras and giving away his lunch money to some bearded horse's ass with a Jehovah Complex, well, you've had your chance to help him, so what do you say you just get on with your screwed-up life, Richard E. Baedecker." Maggie took a long drink of wine. "Oh, shit, sometimes, Richard, you give me such a . . ." She stopped and began to hiccup violently.

Baedecker gave her his ice water and waited. She sat silently for a second, opened her mouth to speak, and hiccuped again. Both of them laughed. The group of ladies at a nearby table looked over at them disapprovingly.

The next day in Golden Gate Park as they peered out from under their newly purchased umbrella at orange metal columns appearing and disappearing in the low clouds, Maggie said, "You're going to have to work out this thing about Scott before we get on with our own feelings, aren't you, Richard?"

"I'm not sure," said Baedecker. "Let's just let it rest for a few days, all right? We'll talk about it later in the week."

Maggie brushed a raindrop from her nose. "Richard," she said, "I love you." It was the first time she had said that.

In the morning, when Baedecker awoke to bright sunlight sifting through the hotel curtains and to the sound of traffic and pedestrian bustle from the street below, Maggie was gone.

They flew east and then north and then east again, gaining altitude even as the forested land rose under them. When the altimeter read 8,500 feet, Baedecker said, "Don't Air National Guard regs call for oxygen somewhere around here?"

"Yup," said Dave. "In case of sudden loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will fall from the overhead compartments and hit you on the head. Please place them over your snout and breathe normally. If you are traveling with a child or infant on your lap, quickly decide which of you has the right to breathe."

"Thanks," said Baedecker. "Mt. Hood?" They had been approaching the volcanic peak for some time. Now it loomed tall to the left of their flight path, the snow-crested summit still two thousand feet higher than their own altitude. The shadow of the Huey rippled across the carpet of trees below and ahead of them.

"Uh-huh," said Dave, "and that's Timberline Lodge where they did the exterior shots for The Shining."

"Mmmm," said Baedecker.

"Did you see the movie?" asked Dave over the intercom.

"No."

"Read the book?"

"No."

"Ever read any Stephen King?"

"No."

"Jesus," said Dave, "for a literate man, Richard, you're incredibly poorly versed in the classics. You do remember Stanley Kubrick, don't you?"

"How could I forget him?" said Baedecker. "You dragged me to see 2001: A Space Odyssey five times the year it was at the Cinerama theater in Houston." It was not an exaggeration. Muldorff had been obsessed with the movie and had insisted on his crewmates repeatedly seeing it with him. Before their flight, Dave had talked enthusiastically about smuggling an inflatable black monolith along only to "discover it" buried under the lunar surface during one of their EVAs. A shortage of inflatable black monoliths had frustrated that plan so Dave had contented himself with having Mission Control awaken them at the end of each sleep period by playing the opening chords of Also Sprach Zarathustra. Baedecker had thought it mildly amusing the first few times.