by Mike Jenne
“Right,” answered Ourecky, adjusting the radio controls. “We still have a few minutes. I’m going to switch everything on to make sure it warms up adequately. We’re not exactly lacking for battery power on this cruise, so we might as well take advantage of the surplus.”
“Sounds good in my book.” Carson gazed out the window and caught the fleeting green flash of light as the last vestige of the sun disappeared into the horizon. “Hey, Scott, you know that with this stack flying so early and with Parch and Mike flying the next one in March, we’ll be off the lineup for several months. Almost nine months, to be exact.”
“And?”
“I’m thinking about going back to Wolcott and Tew to ask for a combat rotation in Vietnam. Just a quick tour, two or three months, and I’ll be right back to fly the next hop with you. What do you think? Cool, huh? Surely they’ll let me go after we’ve nailed these first two.”
“Honestly?” asked Ourecky, adjusting the cryptographic gear. “I don’t see that happening, Drew. Don’t get me wrong, but I don’t think they’re willing to assume that kind of risk. Virgil might, but Tew would have to sign off, and I don’t think you’re going to convince him. You just won’t let this one go, will you?”
“I like this,” declared Carson, gazing out at brilliant stars in the darkness. “But this is never going on our records. I need combat time. There’s no substitute for combat experience.”
“If you say so. Hey, we should hear the Azores in another three minutes.”
“Got it,” answered Carson, adjusting his headset. “I’m ready.”
Anxiously standing by with a sheath of pre-printed note cards, Ourecky prepared to copy the normal onslaught of contingency reentry data. Unexpectedly, he heard distorted chatter in his headset and looked towards Carson.
Simultaneously, both men looked at the mission clocks in their instrument panels; their GET—Ground Elapsed Time—was 32:00:24. “If that’s them, they’re over two minutes early on the contact,” observed Ourecky. “They’re never early.” Although they were in adequate line-of-sight range to communicate with the island station, the established procedure was for the Azores to transmit at a reduced power setting, because of the potential of Soviet intelligence trawlers lurking offshore. What could be so important that they would risk breaking this protocol?
As a former fighter pilot, Carson was accustomed to extracting context and content from otherwise unintelligible fragments of garbled radio transmissions. “Scott, I’ll cover this one. Prepare to copy whatever they read up. Crypto ready?”
“Crypto’s loaded,” declared Ourecky.
“I know we’re early but go ahead and switch it on.”
Ourecky toggled the switch on the secure voice controller, and the power light blinked green. Immediately, the transmission was much clearer but still barely audible: “Scepter Three, this is Azores Station, over.”
Slightly baffled, Ourecky studied the mission clock again: GET 32:01:21. They still had over ninety seconds before the contact window. Why was Azores transmitting early?
“Okay, I’ll bite,” mumbled Carson. He keyed the mike and succinctly stated, “Azores Station, this is Scepter Three. Go ahead.”
“Scepter Three, bump immediately to VHF Four and disable your voice recorder.”
“Drew, what’s that about?” asked Ourecky. “What do they mean by bump?”
Carson laughed. “It’s fighter pilot lingo. Bump means to switch the radio to a bootleg frequency. Apparently, someone has some back-channel traffic for us.” Dialing the radio to Channel Four, he added, “Let’s see what they have to say. Turn off the tape recorder.”
They heard a voice over the radio: “Scepter, Azores, are you on Four?”
“Azores Station, this is Scepter Three on VHF Four,” said Carson.
“Roger, Scepter. I have orders directly from Tew. How copy?”
“I understand you have orders directly from Tew. Go ahead,” replied Carson. Raising his eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders, he looked at Ourecky.
At a rapid-fire pace, Azores transmitted: “Orders follow. On this contact, indicate that you are not receiving voice communications from ground and are transmitting blind. When I read up new instructions, disregard them. State that you will proceed with Disruptor deployment and remainder of proximity operations and mission as planned. Resume normal communications on your next scheduled contact window. How copy, over?”
“Good copy, Azores,” replied Carson. “I will indicate that I am unable to receive, will transmit blind, that I am continuing mission as planned, and will resume normal communications on next contact window. These are orders from Tew? Over.”
“Roger. Direct orders. Switch back to VHF One and stand by for scheduled contact.”
Just as the Azores controller had alluded, they received an entirely new set of instructions after the usual glut of contingency reentry guidance. Just as he had been directed, Carson feigned that their receiver wasn’t functioning as Ourecky copied down the new information. For his part, the Azores mission controller did exactly what he should have done in such a situation; he continued to read up the instructions as if he could not hear Carson.
After the contact was over, Ourecky switched off the cryptographic equipment as Carson emitted a low whistle. “Well, isn’t this just hugely ironic,” noted Carson, unwrapping a stick of Juicy Fruit.
“Ironic? How so?”
“After the last go-around, General Tew was hell-bent to crucify the two of us for violating orders, and now he’s personally directing us to do the same damned thing.”
“Obviously, he had a good reason.”
“That goes without saying,” observed Carson. “I don’t know who cooked up this halfwit nonsense, but I don’t like it. I sure can’t picture Gunter and his guys foisting something this asinine on us. I’m glad that the boss told us to ignore it.”
“You and me, both.”
“So are you ready to snare this critter?”
“Ready.”
“Well, the sun will be up shortly, so let’s deploy the Disruptor and head for the house.”
Mission Control Facility, Aerospace Support Project
2:18 a.m., Thursday, September 11, 1969 (GET 51:18:06)
Hours later, as they waited for the news that the Gemini-I had successfully landed in California, Tarbox and Tew sat at the table inside the glassed-in back office. As he had been doing for over an hour, Tarbox crouched over a cassette tape recorder, listening intently to the radio communications between the Gemini-I and different communications stations as it passed overhead. Studying a hastily prepared transcript of the messages, he rewound the tape and played again the disjointed communications between the spacecraft and Azores Station.
“I don’t know what you’re struggling so hard to hear, but it seems fairly obvious that they had a communications failure,” observed Tew. “A simple equipment malfunction. With all your years of flying, Leon, you’ve never experienced that?”
Rewinding the tape yet again, Tarbox cursed under his breath.
“It happens, Leon. Carson couldn’t hear what was being transmitted up from the ground, so he did precisely what we had trained him to do. He continued the mission based on the last orders he had received. That simple. I’m woefully sorry that they weren’t able to execute your plan, Admiral, but they did deploy the Disruptor, and now they’re on their way home. Can you not just accept that? It was a successful mission. Let’s just leave it that way.”
“Sure,” sniffed Tarbox, switching off the tape recorder. “Their receiver conks out at precisely the right moment to scuttle my plan, but it’s miraculously resurrected in time for the next contact window? That’s just a bit hard to swallow.”
“You forget who’s up there,” answered Tew. “Those two are very adept at fixing things. It might have taken them a while, but they got the receiver repaired.”
“Yeah, right,” squeaked Tarbox. “Trust me, Mark, I’ll dig to the bottom of this in due time.”
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There was a knock at the door. “They’re down,” announced Heydrich, opening the door as he wagged a cigar. He handed each officer a fat Montecristo to match his own. “Textbook landing at Edwards. Mission accomplished, Admiral. We’ll fire the main charge at your order, on the next pass overhead, if you so desire.”
“Plan on it,” answered Tarbox, lighting his cigar with a wooden match. He puffed deeply, savoring the fragrant smoke. “But I’ll be the one to push the button. And I want some cameras in here when we do it, Mark, so we have a record for posterity.”
Tew set his cigar aside and looked out one of the windows to see Wolcott waving his cowboy hat, whooping it up with the jubilant mission controllers. “I’ll make that happen.”
“And just because your boys are safe on the beach, Tew, don’t think the debacle is finished,” said Tarbox, extinguishing the burning match head by squeezing it between his calloused fingertips. “Because our conversation is far from over.”
9
IN DEEP
Dayton, Ohio
6:30 p.m., Thursday, October 2, 1969
Standing outside an Esso gas station, Hara sipped coffee from a paper cup and checked his watch as he waited for one of his operatives, Terry Smith. Smith and one of his men had been pulling surveillance on Yost’s disused house on Elm Street and wanted to talk to Hara about recent developments.
After correctly identifying Yost as a security threat back in August, Hara had taken a close look at his personnel file. His records indicated a recent spate of disciplinary problems, most stemming from a propensity towards excessive drinking. Oddly though, even though knocking him down two pay grades, his commander had neglected to submit the paperwork to downgrade Yost’s security clearance. Yost had once been hailed as an outstanding performer, so maybe his boss clung to the thought of reforming him. But since he held a Top Secret clearance, mostly by virtue of handling cryptographic equipment, he could potentially cause some damage if he was not adequately monitored.
On a positive note, Yost’s current assignment, effectively a punishment tour driving a forklift in a warehouse at night, lent him no routine access to any classified materials. Beyond his work, Yost lived a bizarre and rather miserable existence. He spent virtually every waking hour on base, either at work or camped out in his van in Parking Lot 20. As best as his surveillance team could determine, Yost stayed at Kroll’s apartment long enough to sleep and clean up, and that typically was just a few hours at most. His behavior puzzled Hara. It seemed as if he was hiding from something, and Hara was curious to find out what that might be, since that might offer some insight as to why the sergeant was so willing to betray his country.
Smith arrived in his dark blue Impala. “What’s up?” asked Hara, sliding into the passenger seat and shutting the door. He handed the coffee to Smith, who gratefully accepted it.
“We’ve been watching Yost’s house for the past week. We have it entirely wired. To be honest, Jimmy, I think it’s a dry hole. Yost hasn’t set foot in the place in months.”
“Interesting. I assume that you’ve also checked his van on base. Find anything?”
“Just a grubby damned mess. We did find exposed film that he hasn’t processed yet, along with a handwritten log of when he watched the hangar. Wait’ll you read his notes. He believes that old Dyna-Soar mock-up was some sort of captured UFO, and that the hangar is in someway associated with Project Blue Book. I know that you suspect he’s some sort of spy, but he could just be a harmless nutcase.”
“Okay, Terry,” replied Hara. “So if there haven’t been any substantial new developments, would you mind telling me why you called me out of the office? I have reports stacked to the ceiling, and they’re not going anywhere right now.”
“Because I think I know why he’s so shy about leaving the base,” explained Smith. “Two guys have been lurking around his house for the past couple of days, one in a car in front and one on foot in back. We’ve called the plate in to the locals.” Smith handed Hara a slip of paper with a name and address. “We also checked with federal and state law enforcement, and I also called my private eye contacts. Nothing. These guys appear to be hooligans of some kind.”
“Well, that would certainly explain why Yost isn’t returning to this neck of the woods,” observed Hara. “My guess is that Yost owes someone big, and they’re looking to collect. Tell you what, Terry, why don’t you drop me a block away? I’ll check them out.”
“Sure thing,” replied Smith. “Hey, Jimmy, I don’t want to make you feel self-conscious, but you haven’t been looking so hot lately.”
“Well, I don’t feel that great, either. I’ve lost my appetite, I’ve been shedding weight, and I keep getting nosebleeds. I’ve been going to the doctor for the past two weeks, and they don’t seem too damned inclined to tell me anything conclusive. They think it’s some sort of blood disorder. They sent blood specimens down to Walter Reed, so right now they’re waiting on the results. In the meantime, they have me choking down vitamins and iron pills.”
“Sorry to hear that. I’m sure that you’ll snap out of it soon enough,” said Smith, sticking the key in the ignition. “Ready to roll?”
Hara nodded.
7:05 p.m.
Remaining cautiously out of sight, Hara observed the late model Dodge Charger for several minutes before making his approach. He stood by the driver’s side door, but the man inside ignored him.
Hara loudly cleared his throat, and the man slowly swiveled his head to look at him. With greasy black hair tied back in a ponytail, he was clean-shaven and wore a black leather jacket, a black T-shirt, and black-framed sunglasses. The bucket seat next to him was littered with food wrappers, soft drink cans and empty coffee cups. “What?” he demanded.
“I’m looking for Elm Street,” said Hara, stamping his feet. “Can you help me?”
“Sorry. I’m not from around here,” replied the man, obviously agitated by the interruption.
“Not from around here?” Hara spotted a blood-spattered baseball bat in the car’s back seat. “So what are you doing? Something going on? Are you a cop? Maybe I can help you if you’re working a case.”
“Nothing’s going on,” replied the man. “Just waiting on a friend to come home.”
“So where does your friend live?” asked Hara, pointing at Yost’s house. “That one?”
“Okay, buddy, I’m busy here, so I think you need to make yourself scarce,” said the man, pulling back his open jacket to reveal the butt of a revolver protruding from a tan leather shoulder holster. “Am I making myself clear?”
In the blink of an eye, without the slightest hesitation, Hara leaned into the car window, reached into the man’s leather jacket, unsnapped the holster, and snatched out the gun. With his left hand, he grabbed the man’s ear and twisted it sharply.
“Nice,” commented Hara as he examined the blue steel revolver. “Smith and Wesson Chief’s Special. Not my personal choice, but very reliable and simple. You definitely look like the sort of man who favors simplicity.”
Hearing the cartilage in his ear pop and tear, the man grimaced.
Hara thumbed back the revolver’s hammer and slowly pulled the trigger as he pointed it at the man’s forehead. He caught the hammer just before it fell on a cartridge. “Wow, man, this action is smooth as glass. You must have filed it down. Nice work.”
Mashing the gun’s snub barrel against the man’s sternum as he thumbed back the hammer again, he asked, “Care to explain what you’re doing here, friend?” To punctuate the question, he applied a few more foot-pounds of torque to the man’s ear.
“I’m here to collect some money,” divulged the man, now considerably more attentive to Hara’s inquiries. Fifty feet away, a rotten tree branch snapped loose from a dying oak and crashed to the pavement. Startled, the man jumped like he was coming out of his skin.
“Collect money? From who?”
“A guy named Yost. Eric Yost. He owns that ratty little dump over there.”
“Twelve thousand bucks,” muttered the man.
“Huh?” asked Hara incredulously, forcing the pistol harder against the man’s chest. “What did you say?”
“Twelve thousand bucks.”
“Oh. That’s what I thought you said. Twelve thousand dollars? Sorry, man, I don’t carry that kind of cash on me.” With his left hand clamped like an unyielding vise on the man’s reddening ear, Hara slipped the revolver into a pocket of his old field jacket and then yanked off the man’s sunglasses.
“Ow! Man, don’t break those shades! They’re real Foster Grants.”
“Shut up. I want you to take a look at something,” said Hara, holding out the slip of paper bearing the driver’s name and address. “Does this information look familiar?”
“Yeah,” uttered the man, squinting to view the paper. “That’s me. You a cop?”
“Nope. But I’m going to offer you some advice. You need to make yourself scarce. As of right now, Yost is off limits to you. He owes me big, much bigger than he owes you, and he pays me before he pays you. After that, I don’t much care what you do with him, but if you touch him before I collect, twelve thousand dollars will seem like a very paltry sum when you’re trying to catch your breath at the bottom of the Great Miami River. Understood?”
Grunting, the man nodded compliance.
“Here,” said Hara, thrusting a small notebook and a pencil towards the man. “I’ll make you a deal. Jot down a phone number or two where I can call you, and I’ll let you know when Yost and I are squared up. Once he’s settles up with me, it’s open season. Got it?”
The thug nodded and furiously jotted down a phone number in the notebook.
“Thanks. I’m a man of my word, so I’ll ring you up when the time comes. To make life even easier for you, I’ll even tell you where I find him. In the meantime, don’t ever let me catch you lurking around here again,” hissed Hara, releasing the man’s ear as he simultaneously drove the heel of his right hand into the man’s chin. Unconscious, the thug lolled in his seat, with his head coming to rest against the doorframe.
