Blue Darker Than Black

by Mike Jenne

  Carson quietly cursed as he considered the consequences; at this point, save for abandoning the profile outright, the only option was to call a restart. A restart meant that this ordeal would drag on through the weekend, so Carson had little else to look forward to except three more days with his sore butt glued to this uncomfortable chair. Frowning, he looked towards the rear of the room and slowly shook his head at Virgil Wolcott.

  4:42 p.m.

  Leaning over a console, Wolcott nodded solemnly at Carson as he resisted the urge to smile. He gazed towards Tew, who was standing alongside him. In his haste to ground Carson and Ourecky, Tew seemed absolutely intent on proving that Jackson and Sigler were sufficiently competent to fly the next mission. In the meantime, the last mission’s serendipitous success was whispered along the elite circuit of high-ranking Air Force officials who were aware of Blue Gemini. Congratulatory calls and accolades—all couched in very vague and nonspecific language—continued to pour in.

  And now, there was yet another wrinkle. It was highly likely that they would launch another mission before December. Only days after the Project’s triumphant flight in June, Admiral Tarbox had apparently persuaded some extremely powerful people of a pressing need to employ the Gemini-I to destroy a new Soviet satellite. While Wolcott and Tew were privy to only sketchy details, the proposed mission was supposedly a hypersensitive requirement that would mandate a drastic shift to the flight schedule, perhaps even requiring a launch in a matter of weeks. They should learn more tomorrow morning, when the Ancient Mariner and his retinue arrived for a meeting.

  Unless he changed his mind in the interim, Tew intended to go into tomorrow’s assembly with his second string in tow. As the prime—and theoretically, the only—flight crew available for the mission, Jackson and Sigler were slated to attend, but Tew was being so stubbornly inflexible that he was fencing off the briefing from Carson and Ourecky.

  Although he had known Tew for decades, his friend’s obstinate behavior baffled Wolcott; the only logical explanation was that he intended to use the Crew Three’s failures as a foil to fend off Tarbox’s emergent mission.

  Now, Tew was clearly chagrined, obviously grappling with the inevitable reality that Jackson and Sigler weren’t going to be ready to fly anytime in the foreseeable future. It didn’t matter whether the mission was launched in December or next week.

  Opening a foil-lined packet of Red Man chewing tobacco, Wolcott nudged Tew’s elbow. “They ain’t gonna make it on this run, Mark,” he said bluntly. “Sorry to disappoint you, but it ain’t happenin’. Do you want me to terminate early and reset them, or just shut it down altogether?”

  Audibly gnashing his teeth, angrily glowering at the Box as he came to grips with grim reality, Tew did not reply.

  “Mark? Did you not hear me, buddy?”

  “I heard you, Virgil,” replied Tew. His muted voice hardly masked his frustration. “We’re still scheduled to meet with Leon Tarbox tomorrow?”

  “Yup,” replied Wolcott. “The Ancient Mariner and his minions are s’posed to be here at zero nine. Maybe then the great mystery will be revealed.”

  As if struggling to swallow something particularly distasteful, Tew grimaced and then muttered, “Well, then shut down this damned fiasco, Virgil. We’re just wasting our time right now. Yank those two boys out of the Box, and …”

  “And what, boss?” implored Wolcott, stuffing a thick wad of damp tobacco into his lower lip.

  “You know what, Virg. Inform Carson and Ourecky that I want them to sit in tomorrow morning. As the back-up crew, but no more than that.”

  “Will do, Mark.”

  As Tew stormed out of the hangar, Wolcott picked up the phone and called Carson in the front row. “Pour the coffee on the coals and fetch the mules, Carson. We’re done for the day.”

  Holding the receiver to his ear, Carson faced Wolcott and nodded.

  “That ain’t all, buster,” added Wolcott. “General Tew wants you and your fellow cowpoke to attend a high-level meeting tomorrow morning. Be advised that you are now out of Purgatory, but just barely. Congrats, Carson: you’ve been elevated to back-up crew status.”

  Carson smiled broadly, replied consent, and hung up the receiver.

  Wolcott grinned slyly, turned towards Heydrich, and quietly said, “I think you owe me a sawbuck, Gunter.”

  “You’re a very shrewd judge of character, Virgil,” growled the German engineer, shaking his head as he drew out his wallet. He fished out a five-dollar bill and palmed it to Wolcott. “It’s almost uncanny.”

  “Not really,” drawled Wolcott, folding the note before slipping it into the pocket of his denim cowboy shirt. “I just know my horses, pard.”

  Aerospace Support Project, Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio

  8:35 a.m., Friday, July 18, 1969

  Wearing a suit and tie, as instructed, Ourecky sat patiently as he waited for the proceedings to begin. Although he was curious about the meeting and what might eventually come of it, he wasn’t especially happy about missing out on precious time with Bea. All he knew was that Carson had told him that they were back on the flight roster—at least on a conditional basis—as the back-up crew for Jackson and Sigler. He wasn’t sure what that entailed or whether they would resume their normal training regimen, but the development almost certainly implied that his weekly routine would soon change. Nervously tapping his fingertips on the table, he glanced towards Carson; seated to his left, as always, the handsome pilot grinned like he had just won the fattest jackpot in Vegas.

  Ourecky glanced up as the door creaked open. Resembling haggard survivors of the Bataan death march, Jackson and Sigler slowly staggered into the conference room. Since Tom “Big Head” Howard had perished in February’s launch catastrophe, Jackson was the tallest of the pilots; standing erect, he would scrape close to five-eleven, but now he was hunched over as if in abject pain. Built like a sprinter, he was thin—almost painfully so—with narrow shoulders and hips. His dark brown hair was cut in a flattop, which looked a week past due for a trim. Mike Sigler was two inches shorter than his command pilot, with a pug nose, closely shorn receding blonde hair, and the solid physical build of a collegiate wrestler.

  Sighing in relief, the two men slumped into their chairs. Obviously slow to recover from the Box’s stresses, they were jittery and their eyes were bloodshot. To complement their horrendous physical appearances, both men seemed steeped in shame and humiliation, like a pervasive stench of body odor that could not be showered or scrubbed away. Like Ourecky, they obviously weren’t sure of the meeting’s purpose and probably suspected that they might be bumped from December’s flight as a result of their failure yesterday. Even if they weren’t immediately benched, Tew might be calling them all together to issue Crew Three a stern warning of what might happen if they didn’t get their act together.

  Sigler gestured at a pitcher of ice water at the center of the table; in a thin, raspy voice, he murmured, “Please …”

  Barely able to lift the vessel, Jackson poured a glass and slid it to his counterpart. Grasping the tumbler between two trembling hands, the right-seater quickly slurped it down and then quietly thanked the pilot. Sigler wore a thick pad of blood-tinged gauze taped to the inside of his left wrist and forearm. It was the telltale wear mark where the metal glove cuff ring persistently chafed the skin. As a pre-Box prophylactic measure, Ourecky had long ago learned to protect that sensitive flesh with a generous wrapping of white adhesive bandage tape; he was very surprised that Sigler had not arrived at the same solution.

  “I guess we really blew it yesterday,” mumbled Jackson, looking towards Carson.

  “Not we,” asserted Sigler apologetically. “It was all my fault, Parch. I let you down.”

  Ourecky was surprised. Their conduct was in marked contrast to what Carson had related to him earlier. Soft-spoken and contrite, the pair showed absolutely no sign of the surly behavior and incessant grousing Carson had described.

  “Just anoth
er bad day in the Box, guys,” noted Carson, twisting an end of his neatly trimmed moustache. “We’ve all had them. No need to dwell on it.”

  After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, they were joined by Tew, Wolcott and Heydrich. Only the two generals seemed to have any clue about what was to ensue, and they remained reticent.

  After the three men sat down, Jackson quietly spoke: “I’m sorry we let you down, General…. We’re ready to accept any consequences …” The buzz of a desktop intercom interrupted his apology.

  Cupping his ear as he leaned in the direction of his desk, Tew shook his head to cut off Jackson’s apology. Through the intercom, his aide announced, “The admiral’s plane has arrived, sir. They’ll be up shortly.”

  “We’re waitin’ with bated breath,” snapped Wolcott.

  “Gentlemen, let’s set aside what happened yesterday and focus on matters at hand,” instructed Tew. “Let’s just see what Tarbox and his people have to say. Regardless of what it is, I want everyone to remain calm and keep their opinions to themselves. General Wolcott and I will do all the talking.”

  “Yup,” added Wolcott. “Unless we specifically call on you, we don’t need anyone pipin’ in.”

  A few minutes later, led by Tarbox, the Navy contingent arrived and took their places at the table. Obviously following the admiral’s fashion sense, the four members of his entourage were attired in almost identical snug-fitting off-the-rack Brooks Brothers suits in either black or dark gray. With matching white shirts and solid-color ties, the staidly dressed monochromatic clique could be readily mistaken for a gaggle of accountants or a squad of FBI agents.

  Ourecky was mildly surprised to see that Ed Russo accompanied Tarbox’s group. He was aware that after the tragic launch accident in February, Russo—now a full-fledged lieutenant colonel—had returned to the Manned Orbiting Lab project in California. According to rumor, when the MOL effort was summarily cancelled in June, Russo was shifted to a temporary assignment within a classified Navy effort overseen by Tarbox. Ourecky looked towards Carson; seething, the pilot wasn’t very adept at concealing his festering scorn towards Russo.

  Seated at the admiral’s right hand like a favored son, Russo had obviously ingratiated himself to the Ancient Mariner. Like Admiral Rickover, the autocratic overseer of the Navy’s nuclear program, Tarbox was granted immense latitude in handpicking officers for critical assignments. He subjected each prospective candidate to a lengthy series of excruciating interviews to assess their technical knowledge, judgment, and personal reliability. Consequently, it was a virtual certainty that Russo—even though an Air Force officer—had endured the same gauntlet as the other men in Tarbox’s inner circle of trusted advisors.

  Ourecky studied Tarbox. He knew him from his days in El Segundo but mostly just by reputation; he could tally their actual encounters on one hand and still have fingers left over. The acerbic admiral always reminded him of a malicious elf from a childhood fairy tale; he seemed like he would be far more comfortable in a lofty room atop a castle’s tower, gleefully spinning straw into gold in exchange for some desperate damsel’s firstborn.

  After exchanging cursory greetings with Tew and Wolcott, Tarbox cleared his throat and curtly nodded at Russo.

  “This will be a joint Navy-Air Force venture,” declared Russo, speaking on cue. He paused to solemnly hand neatly bound briefing books to Tew, Wolcott, and Heydrich. “The objective is to interdict a Soviet maritime radar surveillance platform—Object 4201—launched in May.”

  Scrutinizing a diagram that depicted the new satellite alongside the second stage of a Titan II booster, Wolcott whistled through his chipped teeth. “Whew … that’s a mighty big critter.”

  “When?” demanded Tew tersely. With one hand, he perched black-framed reading glasses on his florid nose as he quickly leafed through the briefing book’s pages.

  “No later than mid-September, General,” replied Russo.

  September? thought Ourecky. Surely this has to be some sort of joke.

  “Out of the question,” replied Tew, slamming his book shut as he turned his attention to Tarbox. “I thought you were coming here with something substantive, not some convoluted pipe dream. I’m not going to rush our boys into harm’s way, particularly when this damned thing may be nothing more than a discarded booster.”

  “This platform is very real, Mark, and very dangerous to our national security,” growled Tarbox. “And it’s crucial that we scuttle it as quickly as possible. You need to set aside your qualms because I can assure you that this mission will fly.”

  “That’s all well and good, Leon, but you’re assuming that we will have hardware available to execute your mission. That’s not necessarily the case.”

  As if on cue, Russo pulled a document out of a folder and slid it across the table to Tew. “General, this is an inventory of what you currently have on hand at the HAF in San Diego,” he asserted arrogantly. “Including spare parts and back-up flight computers. You currently have two complete mission-ready stacks. One is ready for encapsulation and transit to the PDF at Johnston Island.”

  Ourecky resisted the urge to shake his head. He despised Russo almost as much as Carson did and just could not comprehend how such a slimy character could have evolved into such a disruptive force. In his brief time as a liaison officer here, he had obviously gleaned a tremendous amount of inside information and was now exploiting it to the Project’s detriment. A wooden steed jammed with Greek warriors probably couldn’t wreak nearly as much havoc as this erstwhile emissary.

  As the men discussed what equipment was available and what was not, Ourecky read the pages of Wolcott’s briefing book as the retired general slowly flipped through them. Gathering all the pertinent facts about orbital inclinations and timing, he felt confident that he and Carson could execute the mission with minimal preparation. In fact, the profile was so similar to June’s mission, they could probably launch as soon as the hardware was ready, tomorrow if necessary. Despite this, Blue Gemini was commanded by General Tew, and if he was reluctant, he obviously had good reason.

  Glaring at Russo, Tew pointed at Jackson and Sigler. “There’s another flaw with your plan,” he said. “If we elect to undertake your mission, these two gentlemen will be the crew to fly it. As it stands, they have been training for a mission scheduled to launch in December, and they are not yet certified for any flight, much less one that will be executed in less than two months. So even though we may possess the hardware, we don’t have a ready crew to scramble.”

  “If that’s your prime crew,” croaked Tarbox, looking towards Carson and Ourecky. “Then who are these other two?”

  “They’re our, uh, back-up crew,” replied Tew. “They haven’t even started training for the mission in December, so they’re not certified either.”

  “Carson and Ourecky flew last month,” noted Russo smugly, as if he had actually contributed something momentous to that effort.

  “You’re Carson and Ourecky?” growled Tarbox, extending a hand to shake theirs. “Congratulations! That was a fine piece of flying, you two. Superb work.”

  “We’re mighty proud of them,” observed Wolcott. “Top-notch hands, they are.”

  Russo gestured towards Ourecky and added, “Admiral, Major Ourecky took the picture.” As if Tarbox needed reminding, Russo produced the now infamous photograph depicting the brass data plate on the Soviet reconnaissance satellite previously known as Object 2368-B.

  “Amazing,” blurted Tarbox, covetously examining the glossy print. He seemed to be on the verge of drooling. “Absolutely amazing.”

  Carson glared at Russo with unbridled malice, as if he were summoning daggers and hatchets to fly from his eyes and into the shiny forehead of his nemesis.

  Sensing Carson’s barely latent hostility, Wolcott chuckled and then drawled, “Yup, Ourecky snapped the picture, but let’s not forget that our man Carson here played a significant role in making that happen.”

  Nodding, Tarbox handed the
photo back to Russo. “And they’re your back-up crew for this mission, Mark?” he asked, looking askance at Tew. “Since time is so short and they already have operational experience, why don’t you assign them to fly my mission?”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” answered Tew. “But unless there’s some compelling reason to convince me otherwise, Jackson and Sigler will fly the next mission. If they’re ready to go in September, fine, but otherwise …”

  “We’ll just see about that,” scoffed Tarbox.

  “So what’s with the danged ants in your pants, Leon?” Wolcott sneered. “Shucks, it ain’t like that big ol’ satellite is going anywhere anytime soon. Why are you so riled up to whang it?”

  “Good point,” added Tew. “Why don’t you enlighten us?”

  “There’s a major fleet exercise called ‘Operation Peacekeeper’ scheduled for mid-September in the North Atlantic,” divulged Tarbox, examining his watch. “It involves an evaluation of some new anti-submarine warfare technology and procedures, and we would prefer that the Soviets weren’t watching over our shoulders. We want this monster knocked down as expeditiously as possible.”

  “That’s fine,” replied Tew. “But I don’t see how this supposed time-sensitive issue merits doing business in such a haphazard manner. Sure, we might be able to do this, but at what potential cost? If you’re so intent on safeguarding your new ASW technology, why don’t you delay the tests or at least conduct them somewhere that it’s less likely you’ll be monitored?”

  Not responding, the volatile admiral fumed for a few seconds before vowing, “Mark my words, gentlemen, this will be done. The faster you accept that notion, the more time that you will have to prepare.” He abruptly stood up, and his entourage quickly gathered their materials and followed suit. Before leaving the room, he added, “My staff will draft a memorandum of understanding to spell out our specific requirements and expectations. It will be delivered here on Monday morning. Good day, gentlemen.”