by Mike Jenne
Carson’s visions of nautical oblivion were interrupted by the helicopter pilot’s voice: “Ready for release?”
“We are ready for release,” answered Carson, bracing himself. Like most of their live training, the drop would be tremendously exhilarating, if it weren’t also so damned frightening.
“Five, four, three, two, one, Mark. Release,” stated the pilot. There was a loud clicking noise followed by a slight jolt, like they were starting off on a roller coaster. They lurched forward, almost nose down, and fell a short distance as the paraglider unfurled. After plummeting earthward for a few seconds, the paraglider gathered lift and then they were soaring. As part of their regular routine, Carson executed his controllability and stall checks to verify that the paraglider had deployed correctly. After that step, he set a course for the designated compass heading and kept a wary eye on the altimeter.
Unlike landing at a contingency recovery site, manned by an LSO team, an emergency water landing would be flown blind; there would be no TACAN beacon to guide on and no updated information concerning local weather conditions. To effectively simulate the contingency, they were literally on their own after being released from the helicopter. Actually, as Carson well knew, they weren’t entirely alone; a HH-3A “Jolly Green Giant” helicopter, loaded with several pararescue PJs and specialized recovery equipment, trailed approximately a quarter-mile behind the training vehicle. The PJs were tasked with prying open the hatches and extricating them from the vehicle if they were knocked unconscious or otherwise incapacitated on landing. As an additional safety net, a pocket fleet of six Boston Whaler safety boats were holding station in the vicinity of the predicted touchdown area.
Their first order of business, if they determined that a water landing was inevitable and ejection was not a viable option, was to retrieve their survival kits and position them so they were immediately at hand for an abandon ship drill. In addition to being crammed with essential survival goodies—emergency rations, drinking water, fishing kits, signaling devices and their all-important one-man life rafts—the bulky stowage bags also served handily as cushions to prevent them from slamming face-first into the instrument panels.
“Initiating contingency water landing checklist. Retrieve your kit,” said Carson, watching the magnetic compass as he kept them on heading.
Ourecky hurriedly popped the quick-release catches on the survival rucksack, disconnected the lanyard that connected it to his parachute harness, yanked it out from its storage compartment beside his seat, and wrestled it into his lap. “I’m up, Drew,” he announced, cradling the bundle like a small child.
Carson checked the compass, nudged the hand controller slightly, and then said, “Take the controls.”
“I have the controls,” answered Ourecky, slipping his hand under Carson’s to grip the center-mounted hand controller.
“You have the controls,” stated Carson, relinquishing the piloting duties to the right-seater.
He quickly retrieved his own rucksack and wedged the pack into place for landing. He verified their altitude—just a hair over four thousand feet—before resuming control of their descent.
Minutes later, he announced, “Passing through two thousand feet. Check your harness and brace for landing.”
Ourecky double-checked his harness and replied, “Two thousand feet. Restraint harness is tight and locked. I’m braced.”
“Harness is tight and locked,” stated Carson a few seconds later. “Passing through one thousand feet. Watch the contact light and stand by to jettison paraglider.” Peering through his window to gauge their height, he wasn’t too fond of the final landing phase. Their altimeter wasn’t particularly reliable. Neither was the contact light; the sensor, which closed a relay when it was immersed in salt water, worked roughly fifty percent of the time. Watching the rippling surface of the Gulf, he estimated that they were about two hundred feet up. He gently tugged the hand controller to begin flaring the paraglider in order to reduce their forward drive. Timing was crucial; ideally, if he managed the landing correctly, he should bring the paraglider to a full stall—with no forward movement—at almost exactly the time they made contact. If he stalled it too early, they would plummet straight down to a very hard landing. Too late, and the nose would plow under the waves.
“Stand by … stand by … stand by,” said Carson, manipulating the stick with a light touch. “Brace … brace … brace!” The two men were jolted forward as the skids collided with the waves. Grunting, Carson winced as his harness restraints bit sharply into his shoulders. The contact light blinked green. “Contact! Jettison paraglider!”
Ourecky threw a switch and responded, “Paraglider jettisoned!”
Carson knew that the trailing HH-3A helicopter was hovering nearby, about a hundred yards behind them, and four pararescuemen were already spilling out to act as lifeguards. Afterwards, it would pull away to orbit the landing site at a comfortable distance, ready to drop a flotation collar and other personnel if reinforcements were required.
Looking out his window, he saw that he had timed it almost perfectly. The nose was not awash and sinking; the mock-up spacecraft was afloat and stable, at least for the moment, so there shouldn’t be a pressing need to abandon ship.
Although the splashdown was certainly realistic, he reminded himself that if they had to flee over the side, an actual spacecraft would have an abundance of potentially dire hazards. Besides the ejection seats and various pyrotechnics, the RCS—Reentry Control System—thrusters could spew very toxic residual fuel. The Gemini-I’s exterior skin would be painfully hot to the touch, and if they went into the water, they had to be especially mindful to remain well clear of the heat shield, which would still be plenty hot enough to boil water and scorch flesh. The paraglider itself could become a treacherous hazard if it came to rest over the spacecraft; besides the potential danger of becoming tangled in various lines and cables, it would be as if they were suddenly draped with a wet, impermeable blanket of nylon fabric.
“Disable hatch pyro and seats. We’ll open the hatches manually,” declared Carson, unlocking his neck ring. “Helmets off.”
Ourecky threw switches on his panel before tugging a lanyard at the base of his ejection seat. “Pyro is disabled. Seats are disabled. Removing helmet.”
Carson paused as he watched Ourecky doff his helmet and stuff it down into his footwell, and then ordered, “Open hatches.” Ideally, to keep everything in trim, they would work in unison to swing open the hatches simultaneously. He smoothly unlatched his hatch and flung it open. Buoyed by a faint breeze, the cool salt-scented air quickly began to dispel the stale hot air of the cabin. Glancing to his right, he saw that Ourecky was having problems with this hatch’s ratchet locking mechanism.
“My hatch pawl is jammed!” blurted Ourecky, frantically straining at the hatch lever. “It’s not budging!”
“Keep working on it,” answered Carson calmly as he released his shoulder restraints. He leaned hard to the right to compensate for the slight shift in their center of gravity. “We’re stable. Relax. I’ll sit tight until you crack it open.”
Suddenly, everything went out of kilter as the capsule unexpectedly teetered to the left. Briny water sloshed in, tentatively at first, and then gushed in like a tidal wave.
The vehicle was foundering, much faster than Carson had witnessed on previous runs. An orderly exit was no longer an alternative. “We’re taking on water, Scott,” he declared. “We have to egress now.”
Coughing and sputtering, Ourecky defiantly persisted at the hatch lever even as the water surged over his face. He sucked in a deep breath at the last second, but was off slightly on his timing; he obviously drew in a considerable amount of salt water as he inhaled.
As the mock-up rolled completely underwater and started sinking, Carson glimpsed a SCUBA-equipped PJ swimming into view. Clad in khaki UDT shorts and a dark blue T-shirt, the wiry PJ braced himself in the hatch opening, reached in, snatched him by the shoulder harness, a
nd started tugging him free of the vehicle.
The PJ obviously expected Carson to panic, but the pilot was not so easily rattled. With the mock-up capsule sinking, this was definitely an emergency situation, but since they were here to train for emergencies, Carson decided that there was still training yet to be done. After all, what would they do if this happened after an actual flight and there were no PJs to lend a helping hand? He flashed the “okay” sign to the PJ, which was intended as a signal for the rescue swimmer to back off, but the tenacious PJ continued his aggressive extrication efforts.
Carson vigorously shook his head at the SCUBA-equipped PJ, reached up, and broke his grasp on his shoulder harness. Relinquishing his grip, the PJ apparently got the message and retreated slightly to observe. Leaning to the right, Carson tugged Ourecky’s survival rucksack out of his lap, heaved it overboard, and then wrestled Ourecky out of the seat and through the open hatch. The kit was positively buoyant, so they would find it on the surface when they got there.
Ourecky was limp and virtually unresponsive; Carson was sure that he had likely swallowed a lot of seawater when the mock-up keeled over unexpectedly. Kicking with all of his might, he made sure the right-seater was clear of the mock-up before groping for the short lanyard to inflate his life raft. Since he was supporting Ourecky, he could only search for the lanyard with his one free hand. Unable to immediately find it, he decided to just swim for the surface.
After a few seconds of concerted stroking, he felt cold water flowing in around his neck and into the suit; his rubber neck dam had probably been displaced either by increasing water pressure or his physical exertions or both. Hugging Ourecky tightly around the waist, he kicked—hard—but realized that he just wasn’t making any headway towards the surface. He recalled the oft-repeated mantra from their Dilbert Dunker training ordeal: Just relax and follow the bubbles to safety. Unfortunately, as much as he wanted to just chill out and casually follow the bubbles, they were rising and he was sinking. This really wasn’t good.
At least two minutes had elapsed since he had sucked in his last breath; the burning sensation in his lungs and pounding sensation in his temples were really disconcerting. Most people would become frantic at this point, but as Carson knew from extended training sessions in the Pensacola pool, as anxious as he felt right now, he could stay under for at least another two minutes before he blacked out. He had learned that little tidbit through painful experience; to reinforce their teaching point, as they timed his endurance with a stopwatch, the Navy survival instructors had physically held him at the bottom of the deep end until he passed out.
Now, as he slowly descended past the cold thermocline, still kicking vigorously, he tilted his head back and looked at the rippling surface; about five feet above him, the PJ hovered, obviously ready to respond if he saw any indication of distress. With a start, Carson suddenly realized that they were making upwards progress towards the surface. The saved had become the savior: Ourecky was now supporting him with one arm around his waist, flailing wildly with the other, and kicking like Johnny Weissmuller as Tarzan, on his way to rescue the toothsome Jane from a toothy crocodile. Carson smiled to himself. He shook his head at the patiently hovering PJ, flashed an okay sign, and allowed Ourecky to drag him to safety.
Sputtering, they broke the surface and gasped for air and then finished the drill by inflating their little one-man dinghies and climbing aboard. As a team of frogmen brought the mock-up to the surface and rigged it for recovery, the two men gratefully clambered into a net-sided “Billy Pugh” basket dangling from a hovering HH-3A helicopter. The helicopter flew for just a short distance before depositing them on the deck of a Boston Whaler safety boat.
2:10 p.m.
Later, stripped out of their waterlogged spacesuits, the two men reclined in the spare shade of the Boston Whaler’s center console and lunched on Army C-rations as they reviewed the exercise. Soaking wet but obviously dehydrated, Ourecky guzzled water from a green plastic Army canteen.
“Thanks for hauling me up out there,” noted Carson. A flock of petrels flew by, low over the waves; apparently spotting a school of fish close to the surface, two of the birds broke off from the formation and dove into the water.
“You’re welcome, but I’m sure you would have done the same for me. Besides, I owe you for yanking me out of that damned can.”
“A team effort, so I suppose we’re even,” replied Carson, furtively sampling a C-ration officiously labeled “Chopped Ham and Eggs.” Deciding that it was edible, if not half-bad, he dug into the remainder with a white plastic spoon. “Hey, you remember how we wanted to approach Tew and Wolcott to convince them to let us fly stripped down, in regular flight suits instead of the pressure suits?”
“Sure,” replied Ourecky, twisting the lid closed on the empty canteen. “But I seriously doubt that they will ever buy off on it.”
“Well, I think we have another strong argument to support our case.”
“If you say so, but I doubt that they will approve it. So, any chance we can grab a little time off? It’s been a mighty hectic week.”
Stripping off his soaked T-shirt, Carson replied, “Time off? Nope. Let’s zoom back to Wright-Patt, grab a night’s sleep, and spend the weekend tuning up our procedures in the Box.”
“But we’re solid on procedures, Drew,” grumbled Ourecky, slowly shaking his head.
“Getting a little cocky, are you? We still have plenty of work to do and not much time to do it. Anyway, what’s gotten into you lately? I’ve never had to kick you in the butt to train before. This is no time to be loafing, Scott. What’s up? What’s with all the sniveling?”
“It’s Bea,” replied Ourecky, staring at the decking.
“Hey, I get it, Scott,” said Carson, wringing out his white undershirt. “I’m not the smartest guy in the world, particularly when it comes to women, but you want to log some time with Bea. That’s natural, but we still need to be ready. We’ve got just a little more than three weeks. You kids will have plenty of time to get reacquainted after we return from orbit.”
“Look, Drew, there’s more to it than that,” answered Ourecky. “Bea’s in a pretty fragile emotional state right now. She needs me to be there for her, but she begged me not to say anything to anyone until she was further along …”
“Further along? Further along with what?” demanded Carson.
“Bea’s pregnant,” confessed Ourecky quietly.
“Well, congratulations!” Carson slapped Ourecky on the shoulder. “You two kids didn’t waste any time, did you?”
“We sure didn’t plan it this way. We really wanted to wait a couple of years. Personally, I wanted to hold off at least until we were done flying missions.”
“With things as they are, that might be quite a while,” replied Carson. “And I guess that you’re aware that Virgil is pushing hard to have the program extended for more missions.”
Ourecky nodded glumly. “Anyway, I’ve known for a few weeks now and I really wanted to tell you, but Bea was having a lot of complications, and the doctors were really concerned that she was going to have a miscarriage. As it is, she’s not entirely out of the woods.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“So, can you cut me a little slack, Drew? Do you understand why I need to spend this time with Bea?”
“Sure,” answered Carson. “I fully understand.”
“So since we’re so solid on procedures, can we take the weekend off?”
“Nope. I can sympathize with your plight, Scott, but since I’m still the boss on this mission, and I think we need some additional polish, then we’re spending the weekend in the Box. No questions, no ifs, no buts, and no whining. I promise you that I will cut you loose as soon as I can, but not until we’ve dotted all the i’s and crossed the t’s. Okay?”
Ourecky nodded.
“Besides, now that Bea has a baby on the way, you have that much more reason to knuckle down and train. It may be a pain in the ass, Scott, but training ge
ts you home.”
“I know you’re right, Drew,” admitted Ourecky, dipping a cracker into a flat can of C-ration peanut butter. “But that sure doesn’t make it any easier. Look, can you do me one favor? Can you keep a lid on this thing until I tell you otherwise?”
“Done, but in the meantime, let’s keep our focus on flying. Fair enough?
“Fair enough.”
The Falcon Club, Dayton, Ohio
9:32 p.m., Saturday, August 16, 1969
As he strolled through the poorly lit entrance of the Falcon Club, Jimmy Hara had a lot on his mind. For one thing, his health had been off lately. For the past several weeks, he had been suffering frequent headaches and sharp pains in his joints. His wife finally convinced him to see a doctor at the base hospital, so he went on Thursday and was subjected to a regimen of tests that showed nothing conclusive. The docs had drawn a significant amount of blood, which was being tested for various conditions; the results were supposed to be back this coming week.
If his health issues didn’t concern him enough, there was also a significant development in the Project’s security operations. Only twenty minutes ago, Hara had been comfortably parked on his living room couch, eating popcorn and watching Adam-12 with his wife and kids. Then he received a call from his office notifying him that a Blue Gemini worker had filed an urgent report from a payphone in the Falcon Club. During their monthly counterintelligence briefings, the Project’s personnel had been primed to aggressively report any suspicious activities, particularly anything that might involve a suspected magazine or newspaper reporter.
The concerned worker was Stan Hubbert, an aerospace engineer who worked for Gunter Heydrich in the Simulator Facility. In his terse call, Hubbert conveyed that he was being approached by someone who expressed more than a passing interest in his workplace. Hara and his counter-intelligence operatives had already prepared for this contingency and were now putting their plans into play. So they could better understand the potential threat, Hara’s intent was to gather more information on the curious interloper, ideally before handing the case over the OSI and FBI. After all, the man might merely be collecting scuttlebutt for a local newspaper or—worse case—gathering hard news for one of the national weekly magazines.
