0630 hrs (local time), March 19, 1968: I'm starting this journal without knowing exactly what will become of it. It may be destroyed, or I may be allowed to keep it, but I have had the habit for a long time, and my circumstances now suggest that recording these events may be advisable. I am sitting now in a dingy passenger cabin on a large cargo ship, having boarded yesterday under orders. The ship's name, painted on the front, is Cavalier, but it was obvious that this new name was recently painted on as I boarded. I am, or rather was, a communications officer at the U.S. Naval Station at Guam, under command of the Naval Forces Marianas. A few days ago, I and several other officers were ordered to prepare to change our station to a large cargo ship that had just arrived in port. We were not given many details, and the operation was treated with high secrecy, but not classified in any official manner, which is why I feel justified in keeping this journal. We are to set sail in about three hours, according to a schedule I have seen, but aside from that, I have no other details. We are apparently heading south. After we get underway, there is supposed to be a briefing for us. The crew seems to be a mix of Navy and civilian people, and I saw a large group of what looked like scientists housed near the aft of the ship.
2045 hrs (local time), March 19, 1968: The briefing this morning cleared up most of our confusion. They took us aft and showed us what was under the huge tarpaulins there: the stages of a large rocket, apparently a new model called the Saturn V, designed for manned orbital launches and supposedly suitable for lunar flights. After the tragedy last year, NASA had to put its public manned launches on hold, but the fact is that they need to keep testing manned flights or they're afraid they'll get left behind by the Russians. They're calling it “Project Paean,” supposedly after an old name for, or maybe a son of the Greek god Apollo. Nobody seems to be sure which it is. We're headed south to an island near the equator, where they're setting up a launch facility. On board are two men who will be the first to orbit the moon, as well as all of the NASA men they'll need to run the mission. I and the other Navy officers are here as support in various roles. They told us we can expect to arrive at the launch facility in around seventy-two hours. At our current speed, which I estimate at approximately 15 knots, that would put the facility about a thousand miles away from Guam.
0530 hrs, March 23, 1968: We arrived at the island last night. Today they are planning to unload the pieces of the rocket and begin assembly on the pad, which has already been constructed. I'll be working in the mission control room, helping to coordinate their efforts and learning as much as I can in the short time we have. The schedule they showed us last night said the rocket should be ready for launch in less than two weeks. It seems like an ambitious schedule to me--the number of men and amount of equipment we have seem barely sufficient, and the weather is relentlessly hot and humid--even worse than Guam, but this kind of overestimation of how much we can get done isn't rare among the brass where I come from, and I suppose NASA isn't much different, when you get right down to it.
2050 hrs, March 25, 1968: The construction is underway, and everyone not directly tasked with that are training for hours every day, in addition to our other duties. The two astronauts were a pair of Navy lieutenants--test pilots--before NASA picked them up. John Travers and Ben Kemp are spending their time in a mock orbital module, going through the motions again and again, planning for all contingencies. The mission control group, myself included, are going over mock missions and learning the capabilities of the launch vehicle from top to bottom, so that we can provide support and advice no matter what happens up there, but the stars are Travers and Kemp. Once they're out of our reach, it's all in their hands.
2120 hrs, March 28, 1968: I have to hand it to those guys. The construction of the rocket on the pad is moving faster than I thought possible. Everyone is working efficiently and morale is high, and I'm not surprised. We're a part of something big. They have the first stage ready, and the cranes were working on the second stage for most of today. The mission is supposed to last a little over six days, and take the two astronauts into a bow-tie path around the moon and back to Earth. By now, they've finished all of the initial training for the four burns--one at launch, two around the moon, and one at re-entry, so they're spending their time taking apart and putting back together every instrument that will be on their orbital module. They'll train for the burns again right before launch.
2240 hrs, March 31, 1968: All of us on the mission control team just had dinner with the two astronauts. The fish were fresher than we usually got in Guam, but we didn't have as many good cooks. In any case, we were in high spirits, since the construction of the third stage of the rocket is well underway and we've somehow managed to be ahead of schedule. Travers is kind of quiet, but Kemp was happy to see a bunch of Navy people on the mission control team, and we all spent hours chatting before one of the higher-ups broke it up and ordered us all to get some rest. A few days ago, I wouldn't have said I thought things would go this smoothly, but I'm happy to have been wrong. Even the NASA crew seems happy, though it's hard to follow some of those eggheads when they get going. It's back to work tomorrow morning--they have us Navy guys taking apart and putting back together all of the instruments on the orbiter now, just in case one of the astronauts needs advice in flight.
2130 hrs, April 2, 1968: The rocket is almost done. From what I heard, they expect to finish tomorrow. That puts us a few days ahead of schedule. The launch is supposed to happen on the seventh, weather permitting. Travers and Kemp are starting the last stage of their training the day after tomorrow, after the command module is installed. Everyone is feeling proud but tired. The brass and the scientists seem tense but satisfied. I think everyone is a little worried about having a repeat of last year, but Travers and Kemp seem unfazed, sanguine even. I guess that's why they're the ones going into the rocket. A lot of test pilots are like that--unflappable. It's a good trait, but one I was never too strong on, myself. Give me a radio, a bunch of coaxial cable, some transistors, a soldering iron--that's where I like to be. Travers and Kemp, in contrast, seem happiest at the cold end of a big ball of fire.
2245 hrs, April 5, 1968: We had one last dinner all together tonight. Everyone has trained about as much as we're going to be able to, but the tension is slowly ratcheting up as the crucial time gets closer. Somehow we manage to be pretty happy even though we might be resting on the edge of a knife. Tomorrow, Travers and Kemp are finishing up their preparations for the launch, and the mission control team starts counting down. The weather forecast says it will be clear and calm on the morning of the seventh, when they're going up, assuming it's right. As I sit here, I can hear all of the bugs chirping and buzzing and it just doesn't seem real. The day after tomorrow, two men are going up to fly around the moon. It's amazing. I remember looking at the rocket around sunset and the imposing shadow it cast across the whole facility was overwhelming.
1245 hrs, April 7, 1968: The launch went off exactly as planned. The sun was just coming over the horizon, the sky was clear, and the air was calm and crisp when the countdown ended and the rocket started its first burn. The radio chatter was surprisingly level-headed and Travers and Kemp were excited--you could hear it in their voices as they went up. It felt like all of us in mission control had our eyes glued to the rocket as it went up, even though we had to keep eyes on the readouts and displays. Finally, as the final burn finished and pushed them out of reach of Earth and towards the moon, we all sighed with relief, including Travers and Kemp. You could hear it in their voices, even over the radio. It will be almost three days before they start their next series of burns, to navigate around the moon and make their way back.
1930 hrs, April 9, 1968: Tragedy struck tonight. Mission control was talking with Travers and Kemp about the burns that are supposed to start tomorrow, when suddenly we heard noises. Wheezing and some thumping noises. Kemp came over the radio and said it looked like Travers was having a heart attack or something. We tried to keep him cool and he tried to resuscitate Travers but it was no good. Fifteen or twenty minutes passed before Kemp was forced to give up. The commander asked if he wanted to abort the mission and turn around. There should be just enough fuel to do it, but Kemp said that since he was almost there, that he would press on. It must be nerve-wracking to have to share that tiny pod with a dead body. Kemp got permission to finish the mission. They're moving mission control onto the Cavalier, and we're leaving port tomorrow to make it to the planned splashdown point as early as possible. They told us to get to sleep early, because we're leaving as soon as they've loaded up the ship. I can't believe Travers had a heart attack. He seemed like he was in such good health. I hope Kemp manages to keep it together for the next four days.
2115 hrs, April 10, 1968: Another strange day. We got the ship running this morning and tracked the pod as it approached the moon. As high as our spirits were three days ago, they're just as low today. Kemp set up the burns to change his trajectory and swing himself around the moon without any problems. The strange thing happened right before we lost radio contact with him. There were about forty minutes when the moon was going to block any transmissions, and right before he cut out, the last words Kemp said were, “My God, the lights... what are those lights...” The entire mission control staff nearly snapped during those forty-some minutes. At first, we tried to get him to clarify, but when there was no response, everyone started trying to get some kind of signal and location of the pod. We worked frantically, only for Kemp to come back online just as expected. But there was something different about him. I don't know if it's just depression or isolation or what, but he was much quieter and more withdrawn after he came back into radio contact. Three more days, and he should splash down and we can pick him up. Just three more days.
2030 hrs, April 12, 1968: We're almost at the splashdown point. Everything is still going as close to the plans as possible. The pod is exactly where it's supposed to be, and Kemp is quiet but lucid, philosophical even. We're all on edge, because if he splashes down far from where we expected, he'll have to sit alone in that pod with Travers's body until we find him. In the place where the parts of the rocket were on the ship before, we now have a couple of helicopters to make finding him easy, but we should also be able to triangulate his position with the radio if needed.
2345 hrs, April 13, 1968: The pod splashed down today. Kemp was oddly quiet right before he started reentry, then after that we didn't hear from him. We assumed the radio was damaged, so we sent the helicopters out and they found the pod, no problem. We pulled up alongside and there it was. The rescue team opened the door. There was no one inside. No Kemp, no Travers's body, nobody. Everything was in good condition. The rescue team double-checked and they said they're sure the pod hadn't been opened since launch. Apparently there are some seals and bolts that they can know that from. Where did Kemp and Travers go? They lifted the pod onto the ship with the crane, and just as we were about to radio back to the island that we had recovered the pod, all of the men on the radio suddenly heard what they described to me as “a terrible screeching sound” and the radio died. I and several other people spent the entire evening working on getting it running again, but so far we've had no luck. I'm tired and we're all frantic. We've turned the ship around and are headed back to the island. It should only be three days away, two if we push the engines a bit.
1315 hrs, April 14, 1968: Panic today. I awoke this morning to an odd quiet. I opened the door to my cabin and looked out, and the ship wasn't moving. Last night, the man responsible for keeping the engines running disappeared, along with two members of the rescue team. We're desperately trying to get the radio working and the engines running, but no luck so far. The commander was visibly upset this morning. We have a good number of the crew looking for some sign of the missing men, but they haven't found anything yet. Maybe later this afternoon.
1930 hrs, April 15, 1968: Five more men missing today, including the rest of the rescue team. We're adrift and nothing is working. The few of us qualified to work on the radio are doing our best, but every time we fix something, something else seems to go out. There was a mist on the water all day today, and the sea was eerily calm. None of the missing men left so much as a note, and none of them were particularly worked up or depressed. Some of the men are suggesting we escape in the lifeboats, but the commander put a stop to that talk before locking himself in his cabin. There are murmurs of distrust among some of the men. I know I need sleep but I can't seem to keep my eyes closed.
1400 hrs, April 16, 1968: We had to break into the commander's cabin this morning when he didn't come out. He wasn't there. A few others are missing, too. We're starting to lose count. Two men jumped into a lifeboat and lowered themselves into the sea. But the motor on the lifeboat didn't start up and we heard strange shouts after they drifted out of sight. I went below decks and took a look at the engines and I can't see anything wrong with them but they just won't run. Someone got mad and smashed up some of the radio equipment, but we're not sure if it's someone still on the ship or one of the missing men. A couple of guys claimed they heard strange sounds coming from the pod, but when we all went to investigate there was nothing there. I need to get the engine running. I need to. We can't be that far from the island.
1000 hrs, April 17, 1968: We woke up this morning to find the rest of the lifeboats missing. There are only four of us left. Maybe some of the missing men took the rest of the lifeboats, but they should have left one for us. Cloudy and rainy. Miserable weather but no serious waves. I managed to get the engine to turn over a few times this morning but that's all. One of the men said he heard sounds from the pod again, but I don't have time to listen to his nonsense. We need to report back somehow.
1300 hrs, April 18, 1968: I woke up alone on the ship today. I spent some time searching for anyone else but I really am all alone. The engine is still not working. I can't even get it to turn over today. It's like something is holding it in place. The mist is back around the ship. I was walking around the aft section and thought I heard voices but there wasn't anyone there. I'm scared now. Scared and trapped on this ship alone. The island should have sent someone to look for us by now. Why did they take the last lifeboat? What did Kemp see on the far side of the moon?
This journal was found on a drifting shipwreck in 1982. There were no signs of human remains anywhere on the ship. The helicopters and pod the author wrote about were also not present. NASA records provide no insight on the island that the rocket supposedly lifted off from. The team that found the ship managed to get the radio running with some minor repairs, and replacement of a few visibly damaged parts. The engine was so long out of service that it could not be made to run, but experts examining it said it looked as if the only damage was due to age and exposure to seawater. The ship was towed back toward Guam and was dismantled over the course of the next eighteen months. The only two names in the journal were compared to Navy records, which spoke of two test pilots named John Travers and Ben Kemp, but they left the service in 1966 with honorable discharges. After that, there are no records of them. Only one lifeboat was found, in 1973, and its registration referred to the ship's previous name, the Westerly, which was last recorded entering a port in 1967. The lifeboat was found empty, with full stores and no signs of human habitation.
THE END
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Thanks for checking out my short story here! I liked the journal-style method I used for this one!
Do you like space sci-fi? You might check out my novella Missed Contact, a mystery wrapped in a bit of relatively hard sci-fi! Aric Misevelin's salvage team are looking for a group of missing biologists this time, and what they find might revolutionize mankind's understanding of the universe!
Jade Cargo is one of my shorts with a similar bit of nameless cosmic horror--it's available here for free!
Also, this cover image was edited from a picture by NASA, courtesy of Unsplash.
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