Blue Darker Than Black

by Mike Jenne

  “No,” she said, interrupting him as she put her finger to his lips. “A deal’s a deal. But, Scott, there’s something that I need to tell you.”

  “Is it about the baby?” he asked anxiously. “Is something wrong? I thought Doctor Blakely told you that everything was okay.”

  “He did. I’m sure the baby will be just fine,” she replied. “Here’s what I want to tell you: Scott, I love you dearly, but I deplore your job, even though I don’t have a clue what you do, and I hate the Air Force. I just wish that you were willing to walk away and leave all of it behind you.”

  “Bea, I’ve told you. I can’t just walk away. It’s not that simple.”

  “Well then, for my part, I’ll make it as simple as I possibly can for you: I will do anything you want. As much as I like my job, I would go to Nebraska if you wanted to take over your family’s farm. If you want to go back to school, then we’ll scrimp and pinch pennies, but if that’s what makes you happy, then we’ll do what it takes. Then you can go to work in the space program, if that’s still a dream of yours. We’ll find a way. I just want this baby to live a normal life, to grow up in a stable environment, to have the same friends from year to year to year, and not move from one corner of the globe to the next every time the wind blows.”

  He held her tightly, kissed her, gently stroked her hair, and said, “You’re right. I’m sure that things will settle down someday, and our lives will be normal. Bea, please be patient with me.”

  “I hope you’re right, Scott, because more than anything else, I want this baby to grow up knowing you, and not a picture on the wall.”

  13

  LABOR PAINS

  On Orbit

  8:18 p.m. Eastern, Thursday, March 12, 1970 (Rev 45 / GET: 66:52:35)

  Tick … tock … tick … tock. Ourecky gradually opened one eye and glanced up at the wind-up alarm clock fastened to his hatch with Velcro. Because there was an ever-present danger that they could oversleep, they had brought up the clock. For all the amazing technology crammed into this tiny space, there was nothing to ensure that they would be conscious at crucial moments, so they had to rely on a venerable old Westclox Baby Ben.

  When they slept in weightlessness, their relaxed arms naturally floated out in front of them. That wasn’t good, since their extended hands might inadvertently brush switches and circuit breakers. To prevent this, Carson had hooked his thumbs into his harness shoulder straps.

  Snoring loudly, Carson was obviously getting the rest he sorely needed and deserved. This had been a particularly nerve-wracking mission; they had intercepted the maneuvering Soviet satellite, but only barely so. A small glob of saliva formed at the right corner of his lips and slowly drifted away, a glistening orb hanging in the air before his unshaven face.

  On his side of the darkened cockpit, hands tucked under his thighs, Ourecky could not will himself to fall asleep. He had been in orbit for almost three days, and in just a few hours, his feet would be back on solid ground. His fitful mind was filled with thoughts of Bea, and he hoped that their baby would be patient just a little while longer so he could be there for the delivery.

  For whatever reason, Tew was going to extraordinary lengths to ensure that he would make it back to Ohio if there was even the slightest chance that the baby would not wait. Parch Jackson was standing by at White Sands—their planned touchdown site—with a T-38, fully fueled and primed for immediate takeoff, with no other mission than to deliver the expectant father. Sigler was on hand in New Mexico as well; he would assist Carson with the post-flight chores of off-loading exposed film and other mission materials from the spacecraft.

  The alarm sounded with the familiar jangle that had jarred many millions from their slumber. Ourecky pushed in the stop plunger, stowed the clock in a side pouch, and nudged Carson. “Time to get busy,” he announced, removing the cover from his window. “Rise and shine.”

  As usual, Carson’s eyes opened slowly, almost furtively so, as if he wasn’t certain whether he was awake or still dreaming. “Oh man, that snooze hit the spot,” he declared, unhooking his thumbs and carefully stretching. He smeared his dry lips with a Chapstick and grabbed a quick swig of water from the dispenser. “Boy, do I feel completely refreshed now. How about you, Scott? Log any Z’s? It seemed like you were just tossing and turning over there.”

  “I got plenty,” fibbed Ourecky. “Ready for power-up? We have a contact in fifteen minutes.”

  “Then let’s get cracking.” Consulting a checklist, Carson said, “Okay. Top breaker panel first. Maneuver drivers set to Primary. Set maneuver thruster breakers to closed.”

  “Maneuver drivers to Primary. Maneuver thruster breakers to closed,” replied Ourecky, throwing a series of switches over his head.

  On Orbit

  8:33 p.m. Eastern, Thursday, March 12, 1970 (Rev 45 / GET: 67:08:05)

  Carson finished a cheese sandwich on tortilla bread, chased it with water, and asked, “Crypto?”

  “It’s in,” answered Ourecky. “I verified the settings while you were stuffing your face.”

  “Thanks. Aren’t you going to eat something? Surely you have to be hungry right now.”

  “I don’t think I could eat anything if I tried,” replied Ourecky. “My gut’s full of butterflies. I’m not too fond of reentries, and at this point, I just want to make it home in one piece.”

  “I understand.” Carson adjusted his headset and turned up the volume. “It’s time. Go hot.”

  Ourecky switched on the cryptographic device, and the two men waited for the transmission to come up from the EC-135E tracking aircraft flying over a hundred miles below them. Several seconds passed before they heard the distorted voice in their headsets: “Scepter Four, Scepter Four, this is Indian Ocean Sentry on Channel Two … Do you read?”

  “Indian Ocean Sentry, this is Scepter Four,” replied Carson. “I’m reading you five-by on Channel Two. We’re standing by to copy reentry guidance.”

  “Scepter Four, here are your next three reentry shots. Your primary remains Zero-One on Rev 46, GET 68:49:04, 20 plus 18, 25 plus 12, roll left 50, roll right 45, more details to follow,” chanted the controller aboard the distant aircraft. “Zero-Two on Rev 47, 70:19:16, 20 plus 47, 26 plus 31, roll left 55, roll right 45. CRZ Three-Six on Rev 48, 71:49:12, 20 plus 18, 25 plus 56, same bank angles. How copy?”

  Ourecky jotted down the series of numbers and then read them back. The numbers represented the basic information they would need in the event they had to reenter without additional guidance. Each string of numbers told them the contingency site to steer for and the Ground Elapsed Time—in hours, minutes and seconds—at which they would fire the retros. The Gemini reentry vehicle had an offset center of gravity to generate aerodynamic lift during reentry. Controlling the lift enabled them to more precisely control where they would eventually land, so the other numbers told them when to apply bank angle and how much bank to apply.

  “Good copy, Scepter Four, stand by for DCS data upload.”

  Watching the DCS light blink on, Carson stated, “Uploading data now.” At this point, their onboard computer was automatically receiving detailed reentry data from the tracking aircraft.

  “We have the load,” observed Ourecky a few seconds later.

  In the next few moments, they verified some specifics concerning the reentry and got a weather update for the touchdown site at White Sands. Closing out the session, the Airborne Mission Controller said, “Good luck, fellas. Have a safe trip home. Indian Ocean Sentry Out.”

  10:15 p.m. (Rev 46 / GET: 68:49:18)

  “Thirty seconds to retrofire. Ready to head home?” asked Carson.

  “More than ready,” replied Ourecky.

  “Hey, brother, I told you we would get you back to the house before the baby came.”

  “I greatly appreciate it, Drew.”

  “Anything for you. Okay, retro squibs to Arm,” stated Carson. “Arm Auto Retro is amber.”

  “Arm Auto Retro is amber,” confirme
d Ourecky.

  Carson pressed three telelights in turn, watching them change from amber to green. “SEP OAMS is green,” he stated. “SEP ELEC is now green. Bye, bye, big guy. Nice knowing you.”

  Several feet behind them, mechanical guillotines sheared electrical cables and explosive shaped charges detonated, separating the adapter section from the spacecraft. The big adapter was essentially their life support module, containing the critical elements for an extended mission. Now, they were reduced to only that required for a safe return to Earth.

  “And SEP ADAP is now green. Adapter is jettisoned,” noted Carson. “Retros in fifteen.”

  “Adapter jettisoned. Fifteen seconds to retros,” replied Ourecky.

  “Count-down to retros, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one—Mark.”

  Holding his breath, Ourecky waited for that inevitable solid thump of the first retro firing, but it didn’t come. For whatever reason, the retros had failed to ignite.

  “No joy,” stated Carson bluntly. The retro rockets were set to fire automatically at a pre-set time. Not wasting a moment, he punched the manual fire button, but there was no response from behind the spacecraft’s ablative heat shield. He tried again, and then a third time. “Manual activation is not working, either. Man, this isn’t good. This is not good at all.”

  Exhaling, Ourecky scanned the instruments, looking for some clue to the retros’ failure, but there was nothing out of the ordinary.

  Both men were quiet for several seconds, and then Carson broke the uncomfortable silence. “Okay. Obviously, we’ve suffered a setback. Let’s try to resolve the problem before we come up on our next reentry window. What’s our next shot? Patrick Air Force Base?”

  Ourecky cleared his throat, then answered, “Right. Zero-Two. Patrick on the next rev.”

  “Okay. Go ahead and load the data for Patrick.”

  “Got it,” replied Ourecky.

  “Scott, I don’t have to tell you that with the adapter gone, our consumables are at a premium. We hope for the best but plan for the worst. Hopefully, we’ll fix this situation and scrape the runway in Florida shortly, but regardless of what happens, we’ll keep calm, keep working the issues, and keep flying the machine until the bitter end.”

  Bitter end, thought Ourecky. Only minutes ago he had been concerned about making it home on time; now it was a question of making it home at all. He was painfully aware of their limited supplies. With the adapter gone, they were entirely reliant on their secondary oxygen system—just two 6.5-pound cylinders—which was intended to sustain them through reentry.

  Since the average human consumed eight pounds of oxygen a day, the two cylinders equated to roughly nineteen hours, or approximately twelve and a half orbits. Most of their contingency recovery zones were scattered around the Equator; on average, they had one reentry window per orbit, two at most, and rarely were they located in prime real estate.

  To make the prospects even more ominous, they had reentry windows on the next two orbits, and then they were stuck for three orbits—four and a half hours—until the next window, which would take them into Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines in broad daylight.

  A bright light flashed in Ourecky’s face; startled, he looked out his window and realized that it was sunlight reflected off the white paint of the adapter. The adapter flew alongside them now, a few hundred yards away, like a giant Dixie cup hovering nearby. Seeing it reminded him that not only were they disconnected from a plentiful supply of spaceflight essentials—oxygen, water, maneuvering fuel and electrical power—but they were also separated from another key piece of equipment. The DCS—Digital Command System—was located in the adapter.

  The DCS was the electronic conduit that received updates from the ground and loaded them automatically into the computer. From this point on, Ourecky had to cross-reference his notes and painstakingly type in their reentry data into the MDIU—Manual Data Insertion Unit—keyboard. Since the computer had little tolerance for errors, plugging in the data would be trying in even the best of circumstances, but now, operating under a severe time crunch and groggy from sleep deprivation, the crucial task would require every last bit of his attention.

  Dayton, Ohio

  11:04 p.m., Thursday, March 12, 1970

  With Scott out of town, and the prospects of his timely return gloomy, Bea was staying with her friend, Jill, and her mother. Unfortunately, Jill’s infant daughter was suffering from colic, so no one was getting much restful sleep. Only an hour ago, the little girl had quit screaming.

  Wide awake, watching the luminous hands of the alarm clock on the nightstand, Bea realized that everything was going to happen much sooner than expected. She finally decided that there was no sense trying to wish away what was obviously inevitable. She shoved aside the heavy quilt, sat up in the bed, and pulled on her flannel nightgown.

  She stood up slowly and groaned as another strong contraction hit. Striving to keep her balance, she let it pass and then navigated her way into the living room. The television was still on, displaying a flickering test pattern. Bea switched it off, turned on the lamp, and nudged Jill, who was sleeping soundly on the couch. “It’s time,” she quietly announced.

  Rubbing sleep from her eyes, Jill sat up quickly. “The baby’s coming? I thought you still had another week,” she said excitedly. “Okay. I need to brush my hair and I’ll—”

  “There’s no time,” urged Bea. “We have to leave now. Stay calm and just do what we planned. Take my suitcase down and start the car. I’ll call the doctor, and then I’ll wake your mother to let her know to take care of Rebecca until you return. Then I’ll come down to the car.”

  “Okay,” said Jill, slipping into the jeans and sweatshirt she had laid by the couch. She slid into her clogs, grabbed her hairbrush, and headed for the door.

  Bea woke Jill’s mother and then called the hospital. She was sure she had time for one more call, so she dialed the number. When he finally came to the phone, she said, “Hello? Yes, I know you’re probably busy, but it’s time…. Yes, right now. Please tell him if you can. Bye.”

  She gasped as another contraction gripped her. Panting, she sat down until it passed and then went to the crib. Rebecca had been roused by the commotion; she was awake but barely so. “Wait here, little girl,” said Bea softly, bending over to adjust the baby’s plush covers. “And I’ll bring you a friend to play with. Maybe you can grow up together.”

  On Orbit

  11:44 p.m. Eastern, Thursday, March 12, 1970 (Rev 47 / GET: 70:19:01)

  With the data loaded in the computer and retrofire just a few minutes away, Ourecky and Carson checked the switches and breakers yet again. Everything was set properly, but there was always the possibility that something unseen was amiss, maybe a miniscule glob of solder that had broken free behind an instrument panel, or a fickle relay that just refused to relay.

  Ourecky thought about reentry. The process of leaving orbit was an incredibly complex undertaking. It was as if their lives depended on an enormous and complicated slot machine, where hundreds of cherries, lemons and oranges had to spin into exact alignment when the handle was thrown. The one potential jackpot garnered a terrifying ride earthwards in a flaming meteoric chariot; the infinite multitude of losing chances would result in a slow death by asphyxiation, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in a dark and cold capsule, staring out into the harsh void.

  At a minimum, a retro failure meant waiting for the next available window; in this case, that would entail sweating through another agonizing ninety minutes, fixated on the gauges that displayed the slow but steady depletion of their oxygen supply.

  “Thirty seconds to auto retro fire,” stated Carson. “Time to head for those beautiful Florida beaches to eyeball all of those hot bikinis. Hey, I know a great little Tiki bar over in Cocoa Beach. Maybe if we’re down there …”

  Frowning, Ourecky double-checked the computer as he said, “Good for you, Drew. Personally, I would rather get home as quickly
as possible.”

  “Oh, man, I forgot about Bea!” exclaimed Carson, slapping his forehead with his palm. “Look, buddy, I’m sure that Parch is in the air, already halfway there from White Sands.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Auto retro in ten,” noted Carson. “Five, four, three, two, one, Mark … retrofire!”

  There was silence. “Manually firing retros,” said Carson, stabbing a button with his finger. Still nothing. “Okay, Scott. Dump the computer and load for Three-Six. Haiti, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Keep your chin up. We’re going home on this next go-around.”

  On Orbit

  12:30 a.m. Eastern, Friday, March 13, 1970 (Rev 48 / GET: 71:04:23)

  They had a brief commo window as the spacecraft passed over Patrick Air Force Base. There was little said, mostly because there had been virtually no changes in the situation. It was obvious that the mission controller was painfully aware of their bleak outlook, and did his best to remain upbeat yet professional.

  At least they didn’t have the nuisance of the cryptographic equipment; the mission rules prescribed that once the adapter was separated and battery power was at a premium, all communications were conducted in the clear.

  “Everything is still on track for CRZ Three-Six,” stated the controller succinctly. “Retrofire at 71:49:12, 20 plus 18, 25 plus 56, roll left 55, roll right 45. All other guidance remains in effect.”

  “Roger,” said Carson. “We’ll shoot for Three-Six. Let them know to expect us.”

  “I’ll make sure that they leave a light in the window and the welcome mat on the front porch. Good luck, guys. Fifteen seconds to loss-of-signal … Hey! I almost forgot, Scepter. I have a message for your right-seater. Task 99 is in progress. I say again, Task 99 is in …” As the signal swiftly faded, the controller’s voice faded into a nonsensical warble and then died altogether.

  “Task 99?” asked Carson. “Scott, is that what I think it is?”

  Ourecky glumly replied, “Yeah. It means Bea went into labor. I guess she’s at the hospital.”