Air Traffic Control called with a frequency change, transferring them from Houston to New Orleans as they worked their way eastward. The morning sun was bright in Kaz’s eye, and he had his dark visor rotated down into place.
“Any other Jews in the program?”
Kaz was startled. Religion was not a normal topic of conversation among astronauts. Yes, the Apollo 8 crew had read from Genesis on Christmas Eve, during their return flight from the Moon, and Buzz Aldrin had taken Communion while on the surface. But this was a weird thing to ask in the cockpit.
“Uh, not that I know of.”
Kaz knew that Chad had been raised in the Midwest, but where was this coming from?
“The Soviets have one,” Chad said. “Boris Volynov. He got yanked from his first flight on Voskhod in ’64, but eventually flew in ’69.”
Kaz shook his head. Why was that important? And why would Chad have noted it in the first place?
“Huh,” he replied. “I didn’t know that.”
Chad continued. “Have you ever been blocked for an opportunity because you’re Jewish?”
“Nah,” Kaz said, now determined to lighten this up. “I just tried to come first at everything so no one could say no to me. And here I am today, riding with an Apollo commander on his way to launch!”
Chad grunted, and went silent.
Kaz made a note to check whether Chad had made similar off-color comments to Luke or Michael. The man was a great pilot, but maybe more of a redneck than Kaz had thought.
The long silty tendrils of the Mississippi Delta were passing off to their left, a web of sandbars like a chicken’s claw reaching out into the Gulf of Mexico. Kaz turned slightly over the southern tip, heading 100 degrees, following the jet route. Michael’s voice broke in. “Hey, Boss, the photog wants some formation shots with New Orleans in the background. Okay if you two close up, and we’ll move around for good angles?”
“Sure,” Chad said, and Luke brought his T-38 into tight formation. Kaz watched as Michael’s jet moved around, getting pictures from several perspectives. They were halfway across the gulf when the photographer decided he had enough.
Chad took control back from Kaz as they entered an area of wispy cirrus cloud that was getting thicker, telling the other two pilots to move into closer formation.
As they crossed the Florida coast, Chad selected NASA Ops on the radio, turned down the squelch and called ahead. “This is NASA 18 flight, a hundred and twenty miles back. We should be there in fifteen minutes.”
The responding voice was scratchy with static. “Good morning, 18 flight, we’re ready for you, weather’s good, plan on landing 31.”
“Wilco, thanks.” Chad switched back to Air Traffic Control, and asked to begin descent. Florida rolled quickly by underneath, the crew focusing on holding formation as they went in and out of cloud, the jets extra-sensitive at just barely under the speed of sound. As they crossed over Orlando, they switched back to Ops frequency.
“NASA, 18 flight, be there in five. We’d like a couple passes of the pad for photos, and then we’ll come into the break for 31.”
“Roger, 18 flight, no traffic, cleared as requested.”
Chad pushed the jets lower as Merritt Island and the oversized buildings of the Kennedy Space Center came into view. Kaz peered ahead to the coastline, and spotted the massive white and black Saturn V rocket next to the orange framework gantry of its launch tower.
Michael moved his jet slightly away to give the photographer a good angle as they raced past the launch pad a couple hundred feet above the 500-foot tower. They made a wide dumbbell left turn over the Atlantic shore, coming down the coast for a second pass.
With all three jets now almost out of gas, Chad continued down the coast, turning to line up with runway 31. He waved Michael to the far side, moving the jets into echelon right, positioned like the last three fingers of his right hand. They flashed in close formation across the shore, down low and fast over the runway, and Chad broke hard up and left over the small crowd of NASA support crew and media waiting for them. Luke counted “thousand one” and yanked his jet left to follow, Michael doing the same in perfect sequence. They each slowed and dropped gear and flap as they headed downwind, and landed on the 10,000-foot runway, one behind the other.
Chad slowed to taxi speed so the others could catch up, and the three of them rolled in unison up to the waiting groundcrew. They turned in, parked neatly lined abreast and, at a nod from Chad, chopped throttles to Off together. The engines wound down quickly as they opened their canopies, and it was abruptly quiet. They started pulling off gloves and helmets, welcoming the salty Florida breeze on their faces.