by Mike Jenne
“Then we’ll be expecting your next call, Comrade General.”
Cap-Haïtien, Haiti
1:10 p.m., Monday, February 9, 1970
This was his third sortie into Haiti since August, and Henson had grown accustomed to the clamor of the airport. He had grown accustomed to the people as well; spotting familiar faces in the crowd, he waved and smiled. A wizened old vendor shoved a ripe avocado into Henson’s hand. “Pou nou manje midi,” she declared, displaying a toothless grin. “For your dinner.”
“Mèsi,” he replied, smiling. “Mèsi anpil.” In his earlier visits, he had come to learn that his first impressions were not entirely accurate. While most Haitians lived in desperate poverty, they were an inherently industrious people who made the best of their dire circumstances. Most were distrustful of outsiders; they still referred to Henson as a blan even though he was much darker than the average Haitian and now spoke a very passable Kreyòl.
Certainly, he still didn’t understand the Haitians’ tenacious attachment to voodoo culture, and he also had no theories about how a single island—Hispaniola—could be divided into two countries of effectively equal natural resources, and yet one nation prospered while the other seemed doomed to wallow in eternal wretchedness. And more than anything else—he could not fathom how these people could allow themselves to be constantly subjugated and exploited by one cruel dictator after another.
His tenure in Haiti had proven exceptionally lucrative. He had a sizeable amount of cash in reserve, primarily because he had been so successful in obtaining the requisite goods and services at bargain basement prices. He now suspected that his natural charm and practiced negotiating skills had little to do with it, but his success probably could be more attributed to the fact that he was often seen in the company of Colonel Roberto, and everyone was eager to please Roberto.
In any event, he had a rubber-lined canvas bag stuffed with cash—over $10,000 in US and other currencies—carefully buried near the shed in Morne Bossa where he lived and worked. Since he wasn’t sure when and if he would return to Haiti after this mission, he planned to excavate the bag and sneak the cash back into the States at the end of this four-week mission.
He heard a familiar voice call his name and turned to see Roberto approaching. As usual, his uniform was impeccable and not the tiniest droplet of sweat dared make an appearance on his brow. “Matthew,” he said. “Bonswa, zanmi mwen. Still searching for bauxite ore?”
“Bonswa, Roberto. But of course.” They greeted one other like best friends who hadn’t seen each other in decades. They chatted, casually alternating between Haitian Creole and French, and then Henson dug into his gym bag. “Here, I brought you something,” he announced, handing the Fad’H officer a small parcel neatly wrapped in brown paper.
Roberto excitedly tore at the wrapping like a child on Christmas morning, revealing a brand new copy of The Andromeda Strain by Michael Crichton. “Mèsi anpil, Matthew. I’ve been extremely anxious to read this. You’re very kind.”
Henson laughed. “I just wanted to spare you the effort of ransacking tourists’ luggage until you found a copy.” Strolling up to the Customs desk, he casually flashed his passport and smiled. The woman smiled back and waved him through the gate.
“So you want to deprive me of my simple joys? I only have so many distractions here.”
“Actually, I figured that if I gave you that, you might not feel so inclined to rummage through my luggage.”
Roberto grinned. “Oh, I’ll probably do that anyway, just to stay in practice. Matthew, do you have any plans for the evening?”
“Nothing significant. Do you have something in mind?”
“My wife wants to try a new recipe and insisted that I invite you.”
“A Haitian specialty?”
“Oh, no. Something from your hometown: shrimp etouffee.”
“Please tell your wife I would be honored to join you for dinner. And I’ll bring the wine.”
12
CONTINGENCY PLANS
Aerospace Support Project
4:50 p.m. Wednesday, February 18, 1970
“Gentlemen, we are done for the day,” announced Heydrich, staggering into the office as he unzipped his parka and removed his Bavarian alpine hat. Dog-tired, he slumped into a chair at the table and removed his condensation-fogged glasses. “I would have a nervous breakdown right now, but I just don’t have the time or the energy.”
Tew looked up from a document and asked, “Care to render us a progress report?”
“Yeah, Gunter. Tell us,” asked Wolcott. “Did Jackson and Sigler put the horse in the barn?”
“Nein. Not even remotely close,” replied Heydrich, solemnly shaking his head as he toyed with the ivory edelweiss pin on his felt hat. “We flew five intercept profiles in the past two days, and they were zero for five. They really flubbed the last one. They were just about dead tired, so I sent them to the showers instead of running another profile. They should be headed for home just about now.”
“So, pard, who’s the problem child?” asked Wolcott. “Or is it both of them?”
“Both, but mostly Sigler. He just can’t keep pace, especially when the hours stretch out and he’s tired. He tries really hard, but he’s almost entirely dependent on what the computer spits out.”
“I thought that’s why the computer was in the cockpit,” observed Wolcott. “To relieve most of the calculating workload. Ain’t that the whole point, pard?”
Heydrich shrugged. “In a normal situation, if we were intercepting a target that remained constant, working off the computer would be fine, but this verdammt target is giving us fits.”
“How so?” asked Tew, not looking up as he scrawled his signature on several budget expenditure forms.
“This target’s maneuvering, much more so than what we’ve observed before. We think the guidance is shot up in increments, so they’re only making a slight deviation in any given orbit, and a whole change is typically executed over the course of six to eight orbits. It’s probably taking them roughly twelve hours to reposition to cover another target or swathe. So if our guys are unfortunate to intercept it during a shift, then they have to think far enough ahead to know where it’s going to be at least four orbits in advance.”
“The computer can’t do that?”
Heydrich shook his head. “The Block I computer was built for NASA’s requirements. It relies on tracking data fed up from the ground. If we were flying with NASA’s worldwide tracking and relay system, then we might be able to pull it off. But with our intermittent communications, we’re lucky if the timing is such that we tell our guys that the target is maneuvering and give them initial data on the increments and intervals of the shift. If there’s any saving grace, the target’s orbit stays almost uniformly circular, so at least we don’t have to factor in altitude.”
“Gunter, are you telling me that it just can’t be done?” asked Tew.
“No, Mark, I’m not. Carson and Ourecky pulled it off two weeks ago. In fact, they were successful three times out of four and probably would have pulled off the fourth intercept in another two to three orbits if we had left them in the Box.”
“Why are we having these problems, Gunter?” asked Tew, shaking his head in exasperation. “Why is it that Carson and Ourecky can do this, but Jackson and Sigler can’t?”
“Ourecky can work magic with just a few shreds of information, but Sigler is not in the same realm. It’s that simple. Like I said, Sigler relies on what the computer churns out. Ourecky stays ahead of the computer. Way ahead of it. And if the computer fails, Sigler crumbles faster than an oatmeal cookie. A computer failure doesn’t even faze Ourecky. He’s relentless; he just puts his head down and persists until the problem is resolved.”
Heydrich continued. “Beyond that, Carson and Ourecky are just an excellent team. They complement each other perfectly. Carson is an exceptional pilot, and Ourecky is … well, Ourecky. I know that you initially brought him in as another whiz kid
to work on the guidance system, but the fact is that he is the guidance system.”
“So what are our options?” asked Wolcott. “Short of sending the Dynamic Duo back up?”
“Honestly? If you still insist on not flying Carson and Ourecky?” asked Heydrich. “We should hand this target back and request another one.”
“So you want me to crawl to Kittredge and admit that this target’s too hard? That’s not a viable option,” replied Tew. “That would delay this mission at least a month, perhaps longer.”
“Mark’s right, Gunter. There are plenty of folks just waiting for us to stumble. They would swoop down on us and pick our bones clean, like starvin’ buzzards gnawing’ on a cow carcass.”
“Can I be frank, Mark?” asked Heydrich.
“Of course.”
“I know that this is a terrible thing to say, but in retrospect, our current situation would be a lot less precarious if you had assigned Jackson and Sigler to the first launch. After all, it was a simple practice mission and well within their level of competence,” stated Heydrich coldly. “At least right now, we would have two crews on relatively equal footing, instead of one varsity crew and one that’s barely marginal.”
“Gunter, you’re probably right, but I’m going to ask you to never air that thought again.”
“Ditto, pardner,” added Wolcott, wringing his hands together.
“So is there anything to add?” asked Tew.
“There is. If there’s no recourse but to stick with this target, at least yank Jackson and Sigler off this mission. Crew One can continue to train with the old Block I hardware, since Ourecky doesn’t require the new computer, and Crew Three can work exclusively with the Block Two training machine when it arrives. But in the meantime, we have to fix what’s broken.”
“Gunter’s right, as usual,” noted Wolcott. “Mark, pardner, I think it’s high time you realize that we’re obliged to bite the bullet. It’s time to gnaw lead and saw some bone.”
Examining his desk calendar, Tew grimaced and nodded. “Drag Carson and Ourecky in here first thing in the morning.”
Wolcott shook his head. “I don’t know if you remember, but Ourecky’s taking a couple of days off, pard. Him and the missus are pulling up stakes and moving into their new domicile.”
“It slipped my mind. Gunter, if you lock Carson and Ourecky in the Box on Monday morning, will they be ready to launch on the tenth?”
Heydrich nodded. “Launch on the tenth? Without a doubt.”
“Okay. Call Carson here in the morning,” said Tew. “He can quietly pass the word to Ourecky. And let’s all pray that Bea doesn’t fly into a hormonal rage and kill us all.”
Dayton, Ohio
3 p.m., Friday, February 20, 1970
Wearing Scott’s old turtleneck sweater, Bea lounged on a bare mattress laid on the hardwood floor of the living room. With her sock-clad toes almost brushing the metal grate of the electric space heater, she mused on impending events.
Sears was scheduled to deliver their new furniture—a couch, chair, bed, and dining room set—on Tuesday, the heating oil truck would come around on Monday, and the telephone company was supposed to install their phone sometime during the week. Gently patting her swollen belly through the stretched wool cable knit, she kept time with the song—“Eli’s Coming” by Three Dog Night—pouring from a transistor radio perched on the window frame.
She liked their new place, a comfortably quaint two-bedroom house, especially after her cramped apartment. The neighborhood was a mix of well-established families and young couples, so she was confident that there would be an ample supply of playmates and babysitters for … who would the baby be? They had yet to settle on names, and that was an issue Scott wanted to resolve long before the baby arrived. She didn’t understand why he was so insistent, and the more they discussed the subject, the further they were from resolution. Besides, there was still plenty of time; the baby wasn’t due until the middle of next month.
The door swung open, accompanied by a gust of cold air, as Ourecky lugged the last cardboard box from the borrowed truck outside. “Where?” he asked, nudging the door shut with his hip. “Front bedroom?”
“That’s pictures mostly. Just set it down right there.” She pushed herself up and padded into the kitchenette. “Here. You’ve earned it, baby,” she said, handing him a cold Schlitz. “Wow. At least we know the icebox works. We don’t have heat, but at least our food will be refrigerated.”
“And how,” Ourecky said, levering off the cap with shiny can opener. White foam spewed from the bottle’s neck; the beer was more icy slush than liquid. They plopped down together on the mattress and basked in the radiant orange warmth of the gently buzzing space heater.
“I’m anxious to start on the nursery. We can pick out some colors and then go by the hardware store to buy paint and brushes tomorrow afternoon. We can start painting next week.”
Swallowing, he shook his head. “Bea, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be able to paint next week. I’m going to be busy. Something came up. We have a high priority flight test in the middle of next month. There’s all the prep work and late hours, and I might not be here when …”
“The baby comes? Is that why Drew came by yesterday?” She felt like she had been punched in the stomach. Her lower lip quivered and tears started to well in her eyes.
Ourecky nodded again. Setting the beer on the floor, he put his arms around her shoulders. “Really, I should be back in plenty of time before the baby …”
“Don’t!” she snapped, pushing him away. “You promised.”
“I didn’t promise, Bea. I said I would do my utmost to be here, and I will. You know damned well that I can’t make any promises.”
“Obviously. Do you suppose you can at least be in town to give her away at her wedding?” Watching his face, she saw his jaw tighten and his brow furrow and knew that he was just as frustrated as she was angry. As much as she loved him, she could not comprehend what it was that he could not tell her. What could be so damned important that he couldn’t offer even the slightest clue? Why must so much of his life remain a mystery to her?
“Give her away? You’re still assuming that it’s going to be a girl.”
“I’m desperately hoping that we’ll have a girl. Surely you know that by now. A girl would suit me just fine. Not an engineer and definitely not a pilot.”
“Okay, if we’re discussing what this child will be, then let’s talk about something else, another topic we’ve been avoiding lately.”
Here we go again, she thought, whirling round and round the mulberry bush, and never making any progress towards a decision. She just couldn’t fathom what was to be gained by revisiting this subject until the conversation deteriorated into yet another quarrel. Not wanting the first night in their new home to be spent in angry silence on distant sides of this mattress, she calmed herself and said, “Baby, there’s still time. Why do we have to be in such a rush?”
“Because we’ll be coming into the window soon. I want us to be prepared.”
She laughed softly, hoping to dispel the lingering tension between them. “Coming into the window? You make it sound like I’m launching a rocket to the moon instead of having a baby. Okay, honey, do you have any new ideas? Clearly, we’ve exhausted just about all of the possibilities, and it’s obvious that voting isn’t an option since there’s two of us.”
“Then how about your plan that you name her if it’s a girl and I name him if it’s a boy?”
“I thought you were still opposed to that idea. What’s caused you to change your mind?”
“It’s grown on me,” he replied. “So it is a deal? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
“Deal.” She extended her hand out of the sweater’s enveloping sleeve, and they linked pinkies. “I’ve already got mine picked out. How about you?”
“Yeah,” he replied. He sipped from the beer and drew a folded-up index card from his shirt pocket. “Ladies first, dear. W
ho will our little girl be?”
“I want to name her after my grandmother, on my mother’s side: Anna Katherine.”
“Anna Katherine? That’s pretty formal, isn’t it?”
“We’ll call her Anna Kate,” she replied, grinning. “Won’t that be sweet? Can’t you just picture her in ribbons and bows, in a dainty little First Communion dress?”
“That’s good. I like it. Anna Katherine it is. Anna Kate she’ll be, if …”
“Okay, Scott Ourecky, spill the beans. Who will our little boy be?”
He handed her the folded card. She opened it, read the name, groaned, and rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, please, please, anything but this. Wouldn’t you be happier with a little Scott Ernst Junior romping around the house? I’ll even let you raise him to be an engineer. We could buy him his own pint-sized slide rule. Please, Scott, wouldn’t that be better than this?”
“No. I want this, Bea. It’s important to me.”
“Well, since you’ve obviously taken leave of your senses, let’s explore some other possibilities. How about naming the baby after your father?”
“My older brother has already done that. It would be awkward to do it again. Anyway, I thought we had a deal, Bea. I’ll concede to Anna Katherine if it’s a girl, but if it’s a boy …”
“Fine. You’re right; we agreed. But I wish you would reconsider.”
“Why are you so opposed? It’s a good name.”
She drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and answered calmly, “Scott, I’m in this for the long haul. I want us to grow old together.” She held out the card to him. “You’re right; it’s a good name, but no matter what happens, it will always remind me of these days, waiting for you and not knowing where you are or what on earth you’re doing. I know that someday we’ll grow past this phase, and things will eventually become more normal, but when that time comes, I just don’t want to be reminded of these days. Does that make sense?”
He nodded, and said hesitatingly, “Bea, you’re right. If you want to change …”
