So where would Gromova be?
What would I decide if I were the Americans? He nodded slightly. Having Gromova on the surface as an extra set of hands would be safer than a moonwalker being there solo. He thought through it again, weighing benefits, and reached the same conclusion. The Americans had to be thinking the same thing.
A Soviet on the Moon. From disaster, potential triumph!
But they were at the Americans’ mercy. They couldn’t even talk with Gromova unless NASA let them. Chelomei pictured the assets at his disposal, and what might be possible. He started a mental list of what was needed and who could provide it. He glanced at his watch and realized it was still evening. He grabbed the flight director console’s phone and began making calls.
29
The White House
Bob Haldeman stood impatiently at the corner of the long, highly polished mahogany table in the West Wing of the White House. The hastily called National Security Council meeting was starting late. As President Nixon’s fiercely loyal Chief of Staff, Haldeman was an unyielding taskmaster, and the delay made the veins in his forehead bulge below his tight crew cut.
Sam Phillips had arrived from his NSA office across town, and the Joint Chiefs Chairman and the Secretary of State were already at the table. Henry Kissinger, the head of the Council, had just taken his corner seat. CIA Chief James Schlesinger was still standing, pipe in hand, talking with Nixon. Haldeman placed a speakerphone in front of Nixon’s chair to tie in to Houston and said, “Gentlemen, let’s get seated, please.”
Nixon looked at Haldeman, who nodded, and then walked around to sit midway up the side of the table, his chair bracketed by US and Presidential flags. He glanced at the phone on the table next to his cigar ashtray, and turned to Kissinger to begin.
“Mr. President, we have . . . a very tense situation . . . that has developed in space.” Kissinger spoke like he was dictating a letter, in German-accented chunks. His gravelly voice was serious, his face impassive behind heavy-rimmed glasses.
“I will let Sam Phillips summarize what has occurred. But what we need to decide today is how to advise the Soviets, and how to turn this to our advantage.”
Sam Phillips let that sink in before he spoke, and then he chronologically reviewed the events that had occurred that morning in space. As they listened, the faces of the men around the table darkened.
“The bastards!” muttered Schlesinger.
Sam continued. “I spoke with NORAD, and they’re tracking multiple objects near the Almaz Space Station, confirming some sort of breakup. They estimate the lighter pieces will decay and burn up fairly quickly, and the main ship will re-enter Earth’s atmosphere in about six weeks. A few dense pieces will likely make it to the surface, but the odds are they’ll land in an ocean somewhere.”
He made eye contact with Nixon. “Mr. President, if you concur, I’d like to get our rep in Mission Control on the line.”
Nixon frowned. He hated ad hoc meetings and surprises. Haldeman and Kissinger prepared detailed daily written briefings for him, which he found much easier to deal with. But this was an unforeseen, serious event that required immediate action.
“Go ahead.”
Haldeman walked around the table, reached carefully past the president and pushed the blinking button on the phone. Light static came through the speaker.
Sam Phillips said, “Kaz, I’m here with the President and National Security Council members. Can you hear us?”
“Yes, sir, loud and clear.”
“I’ve summarized what you and I spoke about, but what we need is the latest info and recommendations from there at NASA.” As he talked, Phillips made eye contact with James Fletcher, the NASA Administrator, seated across from him.
Kaz was sitting in the Director of Flight Ops room, looking through the glass at Mission Control. Christ, I’m talking to the President! His heart raced, but he kept his voice calm, matching Sam’s tone.
“Mr. President, this is Lieutenant Commander Kazimieras Zemeckis, MOL astronaut and military liaison to Apollo 18. As General Phillips has probably told you, both the Command Module and the Lunar Lander are healthy, and they’re on their way to the Moon, arriving in orbit there in”—he glanced at the timer on the front screen—“sixty-nine hours. A little under three days.
“The crew is asking for direction on a few key issues, and NASA needs to decide a couple things soon, all at your direction, sir.”
In preparing for the call, he’d tried to visualize the group he was talking to, and their concerns. “The main question is, do we land on the Moon or not? The military purpose of the landing is still strong—to determine what the Soviets have found there with their unmanned Lunokhod rover. It could have key tactical and scientific importance for America.”