Riding Rockets - Mike Mullane [77]
Judy parked the car and we grabbed our luggage and headed for the elevator. The crew quarters occupied a small portion of the third floor of a huge Apollo-era rocket checkout building. The facility included a fully equipped kitchen, a small gym with weights and stationary bicycles, some conference rooms, ten or so bedrooms, and a handful of unisex bathrooms. NASA must have consulted with Benedictine monks on the decor of the bedrooms: They were monastery spartan, containing a bed, desk, telephone, lamp, and chair. No TV. To ensure no outside noises would disturb a sleeping crew, the quarters were located on the interior of the floor. There were no windows.
Judy and I found the facility deserted.Come on, Satan, give me a break, I thought. I was going to be in sixteen hours of solitary confinement with a beautiful woman and idle hands, those instruments of the devil.
“Hey, JR,” I shouted down the hall, “let’s check out the old Cape Canaveral launch facilities.” On multiple trips to KSC I had tried to fit in such a tour but the schedule had not allowed it. Now was a propitious time. My brain was screaming,Don’t do something stupid. Get out of here!
“Sure, Tarzan,” she called back.
It was too warm for flight suits so we changed into our NASA gym wear. I grabbed the NASA phone book, which included a map, and jumped in the car, letting Judy drive while I navigated. The early launch pads had been preserved as part of the Air Force Space and Missile Museum. The centerpiece of the museum was the concrete blockhouse that had served as the control center for the 1958 launch of America’s first satellite. An outdoor display of a couple dozen rockets had been added to the area. The orange-painted latticed gantry of Launch Complex 26 speared the sky a mere four hundred feet east of the blockhouse.
It was late in the afternoon, long after tour hours. The facility was as deserted as the crew quarters. Judy looked at the rocket displays. “How many of these can you identify?”
I did a quick survey. “All of them.”
“Bullshit, Tarzan. I’ll bet you a six-pack you can’t identify all of these.”
“Judy, I lived and breathed rockets from the age of twelve. Photos of these things wallpapered my bedroom. You’re challenging a rocket geek. You’re going to lose that bet.”
Her smile said, “No way,” and she rushed ahead to look at a placard. “What’s this one?”
“The Navajo. It was the world’s first supersonic cruise missile. Range fifteen hundred miles.”
“Lucky guess.” She walked to the next display. “This one?”
“Bomarc. A ramjet-powered supersonic antiaircraft missile.”
I could see she was beginning to believe my rocket identification powers might not have been exaggerated.
“This one?”
“Easy. Firebird, an early air-to-air missile. By the way, make it a six-pack of Moosehead.”
“You haven’t won yet.”
But I did. After correctly answering several more of Judy’s challenges, she capitulated in front of a Skybolt missile.
“Tarzan, did you do anything as a kid besides memorize rockets, like go to rock concerts or dances?”
“I have one autograph in my high school yearbook. Does that answer the question?”
She laughed. “Yeah, I guess it does.”
I was worried an air force security officer would arrive at any moment to lock the blockhouse, so I suggested we take a quick tour of it. For me, stepping inside was a spiritually moving moment. I had never been