by Mike Jenne
“That’s great news!” exclaimed Carson, lightly punching the right-seater’s shoulder. “You’re going to be a father!”
“Great news? She could be having the baby right now. As a matter of fact, as slow as the news gets to us up here, she could have delivered hours ago. And if our afterburners don’t light, I may never see that baby at all.”
“Have some faith, Scott. We’ll get you home. In the meantime, let’s walk through the power-up sequence, step-by-step, and make sure we didn’t miss anything. While we’re at it, we’ll do a wiggle test on every switch and breaker to see if we can catch the one that’s bad.”
“Sure,” replied Ourecky. They had already gone through this process, and both men were confident that the instruments were good. He was virtually positive that the fault lay in one of the relays within the sequencer system, in which case there was nothing they could do about it.
They couldn’t exactly pull this jalopy over on the shoulder to pop the hood and ferret out a loose sparkplug wire. The all-important sequencer relays were inaccessible to them, so if the sequencer didn’t light the retros at the opportune moment, and they weren’t able to light them manually, there wasn’t much that could be done.
“On this next lap, I’m going to manually fire the retros in advance of the sequencer,” said Carson. “Maybe that will circumvent the problem.”
“I sure don’t think it could hurt. Look, Drew, I’ve got another idea, but it’s sort of out there.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Carson.
Ourecky explained, “I’m fairly sure that the problem’s in the reentry sequencer. We may not be able to work around that, but if we set the computer to Ascent mode and then reset the switches, we might trick the platform into thinking we’re lifting off instead of reentering.”
“Interesting notion,” replied Carson, scratching his forehead. “But I’m missing the point.”
“Drew, in order to reenter, we have to light the retros. This is an ugly fix for the problem, but if the platform thinks we’re deep into the boost phase and then you throw the abort lever …”
“It will start the sequence to salvo-fire the retros for a Mode III abort. Hmmm. Neat approach. You’re right. Prior to retrofire, we can have our angles set to at least come out of orbit. Do you think you can reset the computer in time to fly the rest of the reentry?”
“Probably not. But once the retros burn, gravity will pretty much take care of everything else. All we have to do is dump the drogue and deploy the paraglider.”
“Okay. Let me ponder this a while,” noted Carson. “You sketch it out and start tinkering with the numbers. I think it’s a good concept, but I see one glaring problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Just about all of our remaining reentry windows take us into an island of some sort. If we execute this plan, we can forget about any precision landing options. Going down in the drink is effectively committing suicide, so I wouldn’t want to try your plan unless we have a window that takes us into a major land mass, preferably the United States.”
“Our next window into the States is Edwards, on Rev 59,” stated Ourecky.
“Rev 59?” Carson was silent for a while, and then said, “Scott, let me ask you a couple of hypothetical questions. First, are you confident that your scheme could work?”
“Not absolutely, but if nothing else works in the meantime, I think we should try it.”
“Fair enough. Second question, if you had to, do you think you could set this up and fly it by yourself? No help from me?”
“I’m sure I could,” answered Ourecky. “Why would you ask that, Drew?”
“Because we’ll run out of air about an hour before we hit the retrofire mark on Rev 59. I would just like to be confident that you can drive yourself home, by yourself, if need be.”
A chill passed through Ourecky when he realized Carson’s implication. “We’re both going home,” he said emphatically.
Carson chuckled and said, “Brother, we’ll see. We’ll take this an orbit at a time, and we’ll make our best effort on every pass. But mark my words, Scott, my priority is to get you home safe. Bea and that new baby are waiting for you downstairs. There’s no one waiting for me.”
14
DESCENT
On Orbit
1:13 a.m. Eastern, Friday, March 13, 1970 (Rev 48 / GET: 71:47:05)
“Okay, here we go again, except this roll’s going to be the big winner,” declared Carson. “Like I told you, I’ll try the manual switch first. How do the squib batteries look?”
Ourecky verified the power settings. “All three squib batteries are reading rock solid. Hey, Drew, you have this, right? You can handle this next part by yourself?”
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, I know you’re not the religious sort, but if you don’t mind, I’m going to say a prayer.”
“Sure. At this point, any and all options are welcome.” In the center console, an indicator flashed yellow. “There’s the ARM AUTO RETRO light. Thirty seconds. Scott, if you’re going to chuck up a prayer to the Almighty, you had better make haste.”
Ourecky closed his eyes. He didn’t opt for a Hail Mary or any of the ritualistic recitations he’d learned during his childhood of catechism at Saint Wenceslaus, but instead silently said a simple and heartfelt prayer: God, please let us return safely to Earth so that I can see Bea and my child. Then he sucked in his breath, clenched his teeth, opened his eyes, and waited.
“I will manually fire retros,” stated Carson, almost officiously. “Auto retro fire in five, four, three … manually firing retros.” He calmly and firmly pressed the MAN RETRO FIRE button.
Ourecky exhaled sharply as the first retrorocket roared to life.
“And there’s One,” exclaimed Carson. “I think you can quit praying now, Scott. We’re going home. We are going home!” Separated by intervals of five and a half seconds, the remaining three retros joined the welcome chorus. After the retros had served their purpose and the retrograde section was jettisoned, the spacecraft began its long plunge into the atmosphere. It didn’t take long for the G’s to build and the vibrations to commence.
Although he might eventually become accustomed to the tense moments of takeoff, Ourecky wasn’t sure that he would ever become entirely comfortable with reentry, even though it meant that they were returning to Earth. They entrusted their lives to the heat shield, a relatively thin slab of ablative materials that was designed to literally burn and flake away to dissipate the heat that would otherwise incinerate them in an instant.
Outside his window, an undulating orange glow gradually built up, eventually replaced by a raging inferno, like they were being held at the sharp end of the Devil’s poker and dipped into a roaring blast furnace. The cabin interior heated up quickly, and soon Ourecky was drenched in sweat, listening to the rattle and hum as he tried to focus on his instruments.
This must be what it feels like to descend into Hell, mused Ourecky. He could not know just how right he was, and as he fell into the unknown, he also could not know that almost half a world away, at the very same moment, Bea was delivering their child into the world.
Morne Bossa, Haiti
1:25 a.m. Eastern, Friday, March 13, 1970
Ten minutes prior to his scheduled contact time, Henson clamped the earphones over his head and listened to the shortwave radio. His instructions were simple. At pre-set times, he was to monitor the radio and have his recovery equipment prepared to function at a moment’s notice. He had positioned railroad flares to outline the designated touchdown area. Outside his simple shed, the portable generator was fueled and running.
As he waited for his appointed window, Henson dialed the shortwave to the BBC World Service and listened to the news of the day. There wasn’t much good news to be heard. A series of bombs had been detonated in schools, shopping centers and office buildings in New York City, Pittsburgh and Appleton, Wisconsin. In Laos, Communist Pathet Lao forces were stead
ily advancing on the capital city of Vientiane.
Speaking in a clipped British accent, the news announcer droned on, relating the events of the day. The Cambodian government ordered North Vietnamese and Viet Cong forces to immediately leave their country. Angry Cambodian mobs burned and pillaged Vietnamese neighborhoods in Phnom Penh. On a bright note, Expo ’70, the latest incarnation of the World’s Exposition, opened in Osaka, Japan. Henson chuckled at one of the last news items, a quick tidbit from America. Although North Carolina schools had been ordered to desegregate, the state could not afford the buses required by the new integration plan.
Checking his watch, he saw that his contact window opened in one minute. He spun the shortwave’s channel knob to the prescribed frequency and waited; exactly on time, the message came through. It was a seemingly illogical string of numbers, but Henson knew that each sequence of numbers held a specific meaning. He listened intently for his station number: Three-Six; repeated three times, it would precede the sequence meant especially for him.
And then he heard it—Three-Six Three-Six Three-Six—and he rapidly jotted down the series of numbers and letters that followed: Zero Seven Zero Four Zero Six Four Six Tango One Two Echo Romeo Yankee Lima. The sequence was repeated three times before the distant operator requested that Henson acknowledge the message by repeating it back.
Confirming receipt, Henson swiftly tapped out the Morse code authentication, and then examined the message. The first part of the message was two sets of four numbers; the first set represented the time, stated in “Zulu” Greenwich Mean Time, that a “vehicle” was theoretically supposed to touch down on his dirt strip, the second time was when he was most likely to establish radio contact with the new arrivals. The next segment, preceded by the letter “Tango” told him to set his portable TACAN beacon to transmit on channel twelve.
The last segment caused his heart to skip a beat. He had been through this routine innumerable times, but this was the first indication that this was not just another inane drill, but the real thing. “Echo Romeo Yankee Lima” was shorthand for “En route Your Location.” Whatever it was that was due to fall out of the sky, it was going to fall out of the sky here.
Henson tugged off his headphones, set aside his Morse key, and reflected on what was to ensue. At long last, his curiosity would be satisfied; he would finally know what all this fuss was about. Calmly and deliberately, he made the last preparations. He switched on a UHF band radio, went outside, checked the generator’s fuel level, and powered up the TACAN beacon.
He checked the winds with a handheld anemometer/wind vane and verified the current pressure with a lightweight field barometer. Now he would wait for the crew to announce their approach; then all that remained was to light the flares that marked the touchdown pattern and talk the crew in. Then he would help them conceal the vehicle, whatever it was, and hide them while waiting for a recovery team to arrive.
It surprised him that they were coming here. Haiti was such a low priority site that he hadn’t even been assigned an assistant to help him with the task. He hoped that everything was all right, and that the men—whoever they were—would arrive safely.
1:35 a.m., Friday, March 13, 1970 (GET: 72:10:05)
The sky was pitch dark as they plummeted to Earth. “Sixty thousand feet,” announced Carson. He pushed the HI ALT DROGUE switch. “Manually deploying drogue … Drogue’s out. 60K light is lit also. Man, it really stinks in here!”
Just a few moments later, the paraglider opened flawlessly. “Oh man,” exclaimed Carson. “That was the slickest, smoothest opening ever. This is stacking up to be a cakewalk. We’ll have you home in no time. Okay, Scott, hang on tight. I’m going to two-point suspension.”
Ourecky checked his harness, made sure he was square in his seat, and braced his hands on either side of his window. “Ready for two-point.”
Both men were jolted forward sharply. “Ouch!” declared Carson. “Sorry. That could have been a lot smoother. I’m going to do my control checks. You stay with the post-retro checklist.”
“Okay. I’m still working the checklist. RCS Control circuit breakers open. RCS Control is off. ACME Control One through Six breakers off.” Ourecky went through the rest of the checklist, then asked, “I’m going to raise the recovery crew on the UHF. Sound good to you?”
“Go for it.”
Ourecky keyed the mike and spoke. “Three-Six, Three-Six, this is Scepter Four, transmitting in the blind. We are en route to your location. Over.”
There was no reply. About a minute later, he tried again. “Three-Six, Three-Six, this is Scepter Four, en route to your location. Over.”
The voice on the other end was reassuringly calm. “Scepter Four, I have you loud and clear on UHF Two. TACAN is transmitting on channel twelve.”
Ourecky selected the TACAN channel; immediately, the indicator bulb lit. In the DME—Distance Measuring Equipment—portion of the TACAN panel, two arrays of digital numbers—like matching odometers from a car’s dashboard—started clicking into place to indicate the direction and distance from the landing site. Laughing, he couldn’t contain his sense of relief.
“Hey, let’s maintain a sense of decorum over there,” said Carson, punching Ourecky lightly on the shoulder. He grinned, keyed the radio, and transmitted, “Three-Six, we have a solid TACAN on channel twelve. DME is showing slant-range eight point three miles out Zero One Zero degrees from your location. Please state field conditions for arrival.”
“Scepter Four this is Three-Six. Field is packed earth. Land heading one-eight-zero. Winds are currently eight knots out of the southeast, gusting to twelve. Current altimeter reading is 29.90. You have about a quarter moon out there. Read back, please.”
“Three-Six, I copy that field is packed earth. Will land heading one-eight-zero. Winds are eight out of the southeast, gusts to twelve. Current altimeter is 29.90. Quarter moon. Are your marker lights on? I see the beacon for Cap-Haïtien Airport to my right front, but I don’t see you.”
“Scepter Four, field is currently lit. You should see red flares shortly. I am located four and a half miles south-southeast from Cap-Haïtien airport. Also, be advised that there’s a big storm brewing to the north, back behind you, but you should arrive well in advance of the rain.”
“Good copy,” answered Carson, peering through the window. He dimmed the cabin lights to see better. “Thanks for the warning, Three-Six. We’ll put on our galoshes and rain slickers.”
“Roger. Be advised that I’m running this station by myself, so I will be off the air for about a minute. I need to call my headquarters on my other radio.”
“You’re there by yourself?” answered Carson, almost incredulously. “Roger. We’ll keep an eye out for your lights while you tend to your other chores.”
As they crossed the coastline, Ourecky noted, “We’re at six miles straight-line. We should be over land right now.”
“Feet dry,” observed Carson, breathing a sigh of relief as he recalled their experiences training in the Gulf of Mexico. He reached out and threw a series of switches. “Opening skid bay doors and lowering skids.” He heard a hissing noise just below their feet; the landing skids’ extension was powered by compressed gas. The hissing ceased, and three green lights glowed on his instrument panel. “All three skids are down and locked.”
Humming in exuberant glee, Carson kept a disciplined scan between the dimly lit instruments and the window. In the distance, slightly off to the right, he could see the twinkling lights of Cap-Haïtien. Far to the left of the port city, slightly beyond and to the left of the airport’s rotating marker beacon, he picked out a pattern of red pinpoints arranged in a box configuration that marked the landing site. He made slight adjustments to steer towards it and then held a steady course, reminding himself that they were mere minutes from being safely back on Earth.
Then his humming abruptly stopped as his hackles went up. He realized that the red pinpoints were coming much too fast. Years of flying had taught
Carson to trust his gut instincts, and right now his gut was screaming to him that something was considerably out of kilter.
Since it was designed to fly in the vacuum of space, the Gemini-I was not equipped with an airspeed indicator. Carson might well have been born with accelerometers in his butt, because he sensed that they were moving fast—very fast—and even though the paraglider lent them some considerable forward speed, he could not account for why they were moving so swiftly.
“Something’s wrong,” stated Carson, nudging Ourecky. “Really wrong. Time that DME and give me a rough estimate of our ground speed.”
Watching the sweep second hand of his watch, Ourecky timed the digital numbers rapidly clicking away on the TACAN DME display. After thirty seconds, he declared, “This can’t be right!” According to this, our ground speed is over fifty miles an hour!”
Carson was perplexed. It was as if a giant hand had grabbed them and was shoving them inland at a prodigious rate of speed. Suddenly, the dark countryside was illuminated by a tremendous flash of lightning; he momentarily glimpsed a castle—the Citadelle—in the mountains overlooking Cap-Haïtien and the northern coast. They were in big trouble; at the rate they were going, they would quickly overshoot the forgiving plains of the coast and soon be over the mountainous terrain of the central highlands.
As a second brilliant flash lit up the land, Carson realized the source of their dilemma. The controller had warned them about impending bad weather. Obviously, a powerful thunderstorm was arriving from the north, and it wasn’t going to let them down easy. Remembering the story of a Marine F-8 pilot who bailed out over a thunderstorm—ejecting over Virginia and eventually landing in North Carolina roughly forty minutes later—the question was whether the storm was going to let them down at all. When and if it did spit them out, it was doubtful that they would come to rest in safe terrain. For all of the carefully deliberated preparations, it was obvious that Mother Nature had not been consulted, and now she was demonstrating her intense discontent.
