Not a Peep

Well, here is something I never knew before:

On the other side of the world, terrorists attacked the Munich Olympic games and murdered a number of Israeli athletes while a stunned world watched on television. U.S. intelligence services soon picked up information that a bloodthirsty group known as Black September might be planning something even more bizarre: a strike at Apollo 17. Charley “Supercop” Buckley, head of security at the Cape, quietly escalated his protection procedures, but the crew wasn’t told anything at the time. Headquarters felt we had enough on our minds without worrying about a bunch of thugs.

... 

By the end of summer, I thought it would be hard to surprise me on anything. But Deke and Charley Buckley managed to do just that one afternoon when I returned to the crew quarters and found carpenters putting the finishing touches on a new door. The old lightweight panel had been replaced by one that looked about the same on the outside, but had an interior that was a slab of hardened steel. “Bulletproof,” Charley said.

Deke and Supercop felt the terrorism threat had grown to a point where they had to tell us about Black September. Inside the crew quarters, they explained the situation was being taken very seriously, but also was being kept very quiet. The kooks wanted headlines and we weren’t going to give them any. “Geno, everything is under control here,” said Deke, without elaboration. I looked at that new steel door and hoped he was right.

Then he brought the conversation up another level. The security experts had concluded that Black September might not try for a heavily protected astronaut or the Saturn at all, but instead might go after the most vulnerable targets—our children. With the kids as hostages, the terrorists would hold some pretty powerful leverage. Barbara and Jan Evans were shocked, almost wide-eyed with surprise and fright, when we broke the news to them.

Ron and I were furious at the idea of faceless terrorists posing a threat to our families while we were on the Moon, where we would be helpless. We didn’t know who these terrorists were, so for us to grab a couple of shotguns and try to go out and stop them made no sense at all, particularly when loads of trained cops were already doing that job. 

The security chiefs proposed that teams of their men be allowed to park outside our homes in Houston twenty-four hours a day, and for plainclothes officers to take our kids to school. We approved the stakeouts, but not right in front of our doors. So until we got back from the Moon, unmarked cars with quiet, armed men inside parked just down the way, watching my house on Barbuda Lane.

But Ron and I refused to further disrupt our children’s lives by forcing them to live within a police cordon. They were normal kids—as normal as kids could be who had fathers going to the Moon—and we wanted them to stay that way, so they would continue to ride the school bus. As a compromise, when our children went to school each day, one of those unmarked police cars drove right behind the bus, and Tracy’s classes were watched over by well-dressed, polite and very capable federal agents. Amazingly, the press never figured it out.

Cernan's memoir has been a good read, full of details and perspective that I haven't seen before.  This was the most eye-popping bit.

One thing I particularly appreciate is how he included historical vignettes throughout the book to provide a global context.  You don't need to view our little world from space to see how interconnected it is.

Selah.