by Mike Jenne
Over Wilber, Nebraska
10:30 a.m., Wednesday, November 4, 1970
“Hey, Scott, wake up!” announced Carson over the intercom loop. “Look over there to your right, about two o’clock. That’s your hometown, isn’t it? Isn’t that Wilber?”
Rudely snatched from a sound stupor, Ourecky glanced down at the snow-covered landscape as Carson pushed the T-38 into a descending right bank. Suddenly feeling queasy, he picked out the squat gray facade of Saint Wenceslaus as a landmark and confirmed their location. “Yeah, Drew, that’s Wilber. Home sweet home.”
“Hey, if you vector me in, we’ll bust a low pass on your parents’ farm. Wouldn’t that be a hoot? You can call them later to tell them it was you.”
“Not a good idea,” replied Ourecky, wiping drool from his chin. He took a swig of pink Pepto-Bismol and then stashed the empty bottle. He swung his oxygen mask into place and locked the bayonet clip to secure the rubber facepiece over his mouth and nose. Hoping to clear his head, he sucked in the cool flow for a few seconds before adding, “It would just scare the crap out of the cows. Papa would spend the rest of the afternoon collecting them out of the cornfields and herding them back into the pasture. Let’s just focus on getting to where we need to go, okay?”
“Okay,” replied Carson, resuming his heading as he put the T-38 into a gradual climb. “Still feeling under the weather?”
“Yeah. It’s been an excruciatingly long damned week.” Ourecky looked at a photo scotch-taped to his instrument panel; the Polaroid picture showed a beaming Bea holding Andy, their infant son, swaddled in a teal blue baby blanket. “I’m just anxious to come off the road, Drew. These junkets are just wearing me out.”
“I hear you. At least this is the last stopover before we head home. One more night of carousing, and it’s back to home and hearth. For you, at least.”
“Not a moment too soon,” Ourecky said, closing his tired eyes. “And Drew, please do me a favor when we check into lodging. Make sure that you don’t draw a VOQ room next to mine.”
“Why?”
“Why? You know why. Another stop, another girl. Please, Drew, please … give me a break. Just try really hard to draw a room down the hall or something.”
Carson made a radio call to the regional air traffic controller before answering Ourecky. “You never know, Scott. There might not be a girl on this stop. It sure wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Maybe, but it would sure be the first time since you and I started travelling together. I’m surprised you didn’t find one in orbit.”
After their harrowing ordeal in Haiti, Ourecky had thought that his most difficult days were behind him. He had been woefully wrong. Although the flight surgeons had not cleared his return to orbit, they had signed his “up” slip to fly with Carson.
The two had spent the past six weeks travelling cross-country, dropping in on base commanders. The overt purpose of their visits was to coordinate emergency landing contingency plans for the Gemini-I, but Ourecky was also very aware that they were conducting a subtle public relations campaign.
At higher levels within the Air Force, the scuttlebutt was quietly circulating about Blue Gemini, which led to considerable speculation and innuendo. Consequently, Wolcott and Tew had launched a protracted campaign of preemptive PR strikes, selectively spreading the word to influential players that the Air Force was in the manned spaceflight business.
Ourecky sighed, trying to remember their next destination, only recalling that it was a Strategic Air Command base in the Midwest. The world seemed to swish by in a constant blur.
Although the faces and real estate changed, the drill was effectively the same on every visit. After an incognito landing, they would change from flight gear into their dress uniforms to call on the base commander. Usually, there would be a reception where they would be introduced to the commander’s key staff, receive a short briefing about the base’s operations, and then be escorted on a tour of the base’s facilities. Yet another flight line, row after row of aircraft, runways, hangars, etc., etc., etc.
At this point, he was relatively sure that he had seen just about every airplane in the Air Force inventory, except for possibly the really spooky stuff kept stashed in secret bases in the desert Southwest. And although he flew in what was inarguably one of the most secret programs in the Air Force, even he didn’t have clearance to visit some of those places.
After their tour, they would provide the base commander with a one-on-one briefing about the Project. The intimate briefing always concluded with Carson solemnly handing the commander a sealed envelope that contained detailed instructions for an emergency landing. Within the package were the communications and landing procedures, guidance for safely handling the Gemini-I’s pyrotechnics and other hazardous materials, security measures and other general instructions for safeguarding the vehicle until recovery specialists arrived.
As an unexpected consequence, after just a few weeks on the road, the pair had evolved into invisible celebrities on a tremendously exclusive circuit, with every base commander vying for one of their secret visits. But what was once a novelty was now just another grind.
Ourecky was not overly bothered by the flying aspect of the junkets. With few exceptions, conscious that his companion was still on the mend from multiple surgeries, Carson kept the T-38 straight and level for most of their cross-country segments. He still managed to accumulate plenty of “aerial combat maneuvering” practice, but typically logged that on short dog fighting hops with the hottest pilots and hottest planes available at the bases they visited.
And being away from home didn’t bother Ourecky. While he wasn’t fond of being separated from Bea and their new baby, a night’s slumber in a VOQ bed was a far sight more tolerable than trying to snooze in the Gemini-I or the Box.
In reality, it wasn’t the travel and official business that weighed so heavily on Ourecky; it was the incessant entertainment. Wolcott had insisted that it was just another part of their job, to establish rapport with the generals and other VIPs who might eventually hold sway over the Project’s budget and operations.
Within the military’s intensely structured environment, even schmoozing was a regimented activity. With few exceptions, every stop culminated with an interlude at the base Officers Club. Typically, they squeezed in two bases a day, so Ourecky could anticipate a heavy gut-busting lunch before cramming himself back into the T-38 to whisk off to the next base for the second round.
In the evenings, it was a foregone certainty that they would be feted with platters piled high with hors d’oeuvre, thick steaks and endless rounds of high-octane drinks. Invariably, the Officers Club function was an awkward event, since the base commander usually felt obligated to introduce the mysterious visitors to his more senior officers, even though he couldn’t provide any specifics about what they did or why they were visiting. He could only imply—in the vaguest of terms—that their importance far exceeded their relatively meager rank.
Out of a sheer need for self-preservation, Ourecky curtailed his alcohol consumption to the minimum number of drinks necessary to appear sociable. Besides trying to maintain a clear head, he was mindful that his liver was still healing, regardless of the doctors’ assurances that he was healthy. Additionally, he had just never developed the same degree of tolerance for liquor that Carson exhibited. So as the evenings drew on, he took it upon himself to be the lucid voice of reason to ensure that Carson applied the appropriate “bottle to throttle” time limitations on imbibing before flight. Of course, the testosterone-infused pilot usually found ample reason to abandon his bender and beat an early retreat to his VOQ room.
Another negative aspect of the travels was that their hectic schedule afforded scarcely any time to keep up with their physical training regimen. Besides, hitting the gym required the self-discipline to climb out of bed to actually go there. As a result of their largely sedentary existence and constant overindulgence, the two men were woefully out of shape. Both had
packed on at least ten pounds and just barely fit into their uniforms and flight suits.
So if every evening had its set rituals, every morning had prescribed rites as well. The dawn of their duty day normally saw Ourecky pounding on his fellow traveler’s door until Carson unpeeled himself from his bimbo du jour. And every morning, bolstered by a Spartan breakfast of black coffee and plain toast, Carson would soberly make penance, swearing that he would amend his ways and revert to a more austere lifestyle. And his word would stick, at least until the next stop in the itinerary, when the sirens of excess would beckon, and once again he would succumb to the pleasures of the flesh.
Yawning, Ourecky massaged his throbbing shoulders and reminded himself to let out his parachute harness before he put it back on. Months ago, when he had returned to the Project from his brief stint in California, he could never have pictured the way that things would turn out. Travelling with Carson was like being on a supersonic road trip with Hugh Hefner, where every night was another taxpayer-funded Roman bacchanalia brimming over with rich food and strong drink.
At first he felt that Carson was merely blowing off pent-up steam, particularly after their close call in Haiti, but now he was concerned that the pilot’s psyche might have been irreparably damaged by the traumatic interlude in the Caribbean.
Carson was still an excellent pilot, but even Ourecky noticed that he was allowing little details to slip. And while it was likely they would fly Mission Seven in February—provided that Ourecky was cleared in time to participate in pre-launch training—Carson rarely spoke of it, and when he did, it was seldom with any degree of fervor.
Ourecky suspected that Carson had lost confidence in the equipment, even though the Titan II and Gemini-I had both functioned flawlessly during the last two missions. If only Jackson and Sigler had performed to a similar standard, then maybe they would be considered for Mission Seven and subsequent flights, but they had flubbed both Five and Six.
Rampart Air Force Base, Idaho
5:55 p.m.
“And subject to your questions, that’s all, General,” said Carson, concluding the deskside briefing. He solemnly handed General Dale Astor—a distinguished-looking tall man crowned with a dense mane of silver-gray hair—a sealed envelope bearing the emergency landing protocols.
“Great presentation, guys,” declared Astor. “Thanks so much for enlightening me.”
“There’s something else, General,” said Carson. “General Wolcott wanted you to have this, with his compliments.” Carson proferred a circular embroidered patch to Astor. “It’s our mission patch.”
Astor examined the souvenir like it was a rare artifact from ancient times. In a sense, thought Ourecky, it was almost that rare. Unbeknownst to Tew, who would certainly not approve of such a thing, Wolcott had ordered the production of a very limited number of the patches. Carson and Ourecky had never worn the insignia on their uniforms when they rocketed into orbit, and never would; the cloth emblems were intended strictly as “gimme” tokens, to curry favor with high-ranking officers and officials who might eventually influence the future of Blue Gemini. The design of circular patch was intentionally vague; it depicted two lasso-wielding horse-mounted cowboys, superimposed above the earth, as if chasing wayward cattle over the horizon. Like similar patches produced for classified programs, there was no text or other explanation embroidered on the emblem.
Astor chuckled. “I can definitely see Virgil’s hand in this,” he said. “It reminds me of that song ‘Ghost Riders in the Sky.’”
Ourecky nodded. Astor was right, probably in more ways than he realized. The cowboys of the song and Western legend were doomed to ride forever in the sky, perpetually chasing the Devil’s herd. As it was, he and Carson seemed destined to the same fate.
“Hey, look, I’m going to haul you two boys down to the Club and treat you to the hugest corn-fed porterhouse steaks you’ve ever laid eyes on,” said Astor. “But before we do that, I have a little favor to ask of you.”
“Certainly, sir. What do you have in mind?” asked Carson.
Picturing a massive slab of beef worthy to be served on Fred Flintstone’s plate, Ourecky cringed at the thought of consuming yet another gigantic meal. It was shaping up to be another one of those nights.
Astor opened a red-bordered folder and extracted a black-and-white glossy photograph. Ourecky recognized it immediately. After all, he had snapped the picture himself; it was the infamous image of the brass data plate on Object 2368-B, the objective of their first mission.
“Virgil Wolcott slipped me this a few months ago, when I caught his briefing at the Pentagon,” explained Astor. “Of course, I never knew who took it or how it was taken, but now I do. I sure would be honored if you two heroes would grace it with your John Hancocks. Of course, I’ll put it away for safekeeping, but it would sure be a real hoot to have it autographed by the men who were actually responsible for taking it. Would you mind?”
“Certainly, sir,” replied Carson, taking the black Skilcraft pen proffered by the general. “We would be honored.” Ourecky followed suit.
“Phyllis!” said Astor, returning the photograph to its Top Secret folder and pushing a button on his desktop intercom. “Could you come in here please?”
The general’s secretary, a slender attractive blonde in her early thirties, sashayed into the office. She wore a white mini-skirt, a tight-fitting purple blouse, and a matching kerchief tied around her neck. “Sir?” she asked.
“Phyllis, we’re headed to the Club for dinner and drinks. Get on the horn and tell Tech Sergeant Cramer to bring my car around.” He gestured at the red-bordered folder and emergency landing protocols envelope on his desk before adding, “And stick these jewels in the Top Secret safe.”
“The safe with the attack codes, General?” she asked, smiling at Carson. He smiled back.
He nodded. “Yes. Hey, Phyllis, do you still have that Brownie camera stashed in your desk? Why don’t you bring it in here and take a picture of me and … Carson and Ourecky here.”
“I would be glad to, sir,” she replied, walking out the door. In a few moments, she returned with the camera. “Just two pictures left, sir. Will that do?”
“Oh, sure.” Astor waved the men over to stand beside him behind his huge mahogany desk. “Smile, boys.”
“Uh, General,” muttered the secretary, pointing at Ourecky. “He’s missing his wings.”
Astor swiveled to look at Ourecky’s chest. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed. “We can thank our lucky stars that Phyllis caught that. We sure can’t set foot in the Club with you not wearing your wings. You’re my guest, so I would be buying drinks all night if you’re out of uniform.”
“I think I may have an extra set in my desk,” noted Phyllis, gazing at Carson. “And if I don’t, I’m sure that Captain Williams is still working down in the Operations section. If I don’t have a set, maybe I could borrow his wings for the major?”
“Excellent idea!” blurted Astor. The secretary scurried out the door. Astor nudged Ourecky, winked and quietly said, “I hope she was worth it.”
“Sir?” asked Ourecky.
Astor chuckled and quietly said, “Hell, son, don’t play dumb with me. I was young once, and I did more than my share of TDY junkets. I know the routine. You wouldn’t be the first pilot to employ your wings as a skirt-removal tool in a difficult encounter.”
“Uh, sir,” stated Carson. “Major Ourecky doesn’t wear wings because he’s not a pilot.”
“He what?!” bellowed Astor. “Please tell me that you’re pulling my damned leg, son. That isn’t the least bit amusing.”
“Sir, it’s true,” said Ourecky. “I’m not a pilot. I’m an engineer. I don’t rate wings.”
“But you did this?” sputtered Astor, stabbing his finger at the red-bordered folder that held the photograph.
Ourecky and Carson nodded together. “Major Ourecky actually shot that photograph himself,” stated Carson.
“Phyllis, disregard the wi
ngs. Just come back in here and take our picture,” snapped Astor, jabbing the intercom button. “I cannot believe this! With all the pilots who would gratefully give their eyeteeth to fly this thing, Virgil Wolcott had the audacity to send up a non-pilot engineer? You two had better believe that I’m going to be on the horn to Virgil in the morning, and if this is another one of his damned practical jokes, you had better hope that you’re already clear of my runways. This is not funny.”
Seeing Phyllis returning with the camera, Astor pulled the two men close to his flanks and smiled broadly. “Say cheese, boys.”
Phyllis snapped the picture and then took a second shot. Advancing the film, she looked towards Carson again and smiled slyly.
“We’re leaving now,” said Astor, picking up his hat from his desk. Mindful of the silent interaction between the secretary and the pilot, he added, “Phyllis, if you’re free this evening, why don’t you come down to the Club and have a drink with us?”
“Why, that sounds keen, sir,” she cooed, sharing a grin with Carson. “But I need to lock your things in the safe and then tidy up a bit. Can I join you after dinner? Maybe in an hour or so?”
“Splendid,” said Astor. “Come on, boys. There’s some prime Midwestern beef anxious to make your acquaintance. Let’s not keep those steaks waiting too long.”
“We’re with you, General,” said Carson.
Astor frowned and said, “Ourecky, don’t think for a minute that you’re completely off the hook with me. I will call Virgil Wolcott tomorrow, and if you two are yanking my chain about your wings, then I will take it personally. I’ll be coming after you, and I’ll be wearing my golf shoes.”
After the three men departed, Phyllis sat in Astor’s chair to relax and freshen her makeup. She switched on his small television, waited for it to warm up, and then adjusted its rabbit ear antennas. The evening news was on; most of the stories concerned the day’s elections all over the country. Not caring much about political events, she switched the TV off. She applied fresh lipstick, an alluring shade of red not appropriate for the office, and then sprayed her wrists and cleavage with just a slight hint of Arpege perfume.
