by Mike Jenne
Rubbing her wrists together, she thought about the scrumptious pilot with the striking blue eyes. Sighing, she hoped that she could latch onto him before one of the O Club regulars managed to sink their feline claws into him. For a moment, she thought about just rushing down to the Club but knew that there were still chores to do, and that they had to be done right if she expected to be paid for her efforts.
She glanced at her Bulova wristwatch, remembering that it had been a gift from Astor before his wife became unduly suspicious of their working relationship, and saw that thirty minutes had elapsed since the general had left. First, she jotted their names—Andrew Carson and Scott Ourecky—on a scrap of paper, then tucked the note away in her purse.
She made a mental note to have two sets of prints made from the film in the Brownie. Finally, she opened the folder on Astor’s desk and examined the photograph inside. She had no idea of what she was looking at, but understood that it had to be important if Astor had asked the two men to autograph it.
She reached into a special pocket sewn into the bottom of her purse and pulled out a camera—a miniature Minox-B manufactured in West Germany—and made several shots of the photograph, taking care to line up everything just so, exactly as she had been taught.
As she tucked away the Minox-B, she looked at the photograph once more before closing the folder and placing it in the Top Secret safe. While she had no idea what the strange writing meant, she guessed that it had to be something important. That sweet old Jewish man would almost certainly be interested in it, just as he was normally always interested in the things that she sent him.
Certainly she felt a twinge of guilt for accepting money for spying, but she had long since grown comfortable with the notion that it really wasn’t spying if she was doing it for a country that was friendly to the United States. And Israel was their friend, wasn’t it?
21
EXORCISM
Rampart Air Force Base, Idaho
9:25 a.m., Thursday, November 5, 1970
Ourecky heaved his B-4 bag into the flight line van and scrambled aboard. It was standing room only, since the boxy passenger compartment already held a somber B-52 crew departing on a twelve-hour alert mission. Like a commuter headed towards a routine day of office work, he grabbed an overhead strap. Carson squeezed into a space on one of the benches, sitting next to the B-52’s enlisted tail gunner.
Watching Carson, he sighed; it was business as usual on their cross-country tour. Even though he had sworn a vow of virtual celibacy at breakfast, Carson dutifully transcribed the name and phone number of last night’s conquest—Phyllis?—from a crumpled cocktail napkin to his little black book. He double-checked the neatly printed entry before exchanging a knowing grin with one of the SAC pilots. After tucking the notebook into his sunglasses pocket, he tore up the napkin and stashed the shreds in the van’s ashtray.
After dropping off the B-52 crew, the van stopped to let out Carson and Ourecky where their T-38 waited on the parking apron. Carson deposited his B-4 bag under the starboard wing and then immediately went to speak to an enlisted man who was wheeling a cart-mounted “huffer” unit from a nearby maintenance hangar. Unlike most military aircraft, the T-38 trainer lacked an auxiliary power unit, so it relied on the huffer—technically known as a palouste—to provide compressed air to rotate the engines to facilitate starting.
Ourecky crammed their bags into the wing-mounted luggage pod and latched it shut. He normally climbed aboard the T-38 and buttoned in as Carson completed his pre-flight inspection of the aircraft. But today, for whatever reason, he lingered at the base of the ladder, pretending to adjust his parachute harness as he observed the pilot make his walk-around.
He gazed out at their surroundings. The desolate landscape was primarily arid hills of dismal brown earth. The morning sky was dreary gray. He could smell impending snow in the air. A steady cold wind blew in from the north. A B-52 lumbered down the runway and slowly took flight, spewing four parallel plumes of black exhaust as it strained under the weight of the thermonuclear weapons nestled in its metal belly.
He studied Carson. His friend had changed immensely since their last flight in space and the ensuing ordeal in Haiti. Much more lackadaisical than usual, he just didn’t seem to be as intently focused as he had been. Even though it was an overcast morning, he wore sunglasses to conceal his bloodshot eyes. His face was puffy and almost without color. And though Carson had once kept himself at the peak of physical fitness, he was developing a noticeable paunch.
Ourecky was concerned that Carson was gradually regressing into a weak shadow of his former self. He was afraid that if Carson wasn’t extricated from this perpetual stream of hedonistic distractions, it was only a matter of time before he devolved into a bloated shell of big talk and empty bluster.
Ourecky thought of the scores of former pilots they met while visiting the various O Clubs across the country. Seemingly affixed to their bar stools, only their faces changed from base to base, like an endless carousel where the snarling figures of lions and tigers had been replaced by sullen has-been warriors anxious to pounce on anyone who hadn’t yet heard their tales of past glory. He hoped that Carson wasn’t destined for the same fate.
Minutes later, Carson announced, “Scott, I’ve finished my pre-flight. Let’s strap in and launch before things get too hectic around here.”
Not responding, Ourecky strolled over to the huffer operator. The sergeant was attaching a flexible hose to a manifold port underneath the aircraft. The hose was stiff and unwieldy in the morning cold; it looked as if the man were wrestling a lethargic boa constrictor.
“Come back in ten minutes,” said Ourecky.
“But, sir, your pilot told me to start your aircraft as soon as you got aboard.”
“Come back in ten minutes,” repeated Ourecky. “Go take a break somewhere.”
“But, sir …”
“Are you questioning my authority, Sergeant?” snapped Ourecky. “Do you really want to make the mistake of disobeying my order? Make yourself scarce for ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Then you can come back out here, turn us over, and we’ll be gone. Is that too hard?”
“No, sir,” replied the sergeant. Leaving the huffer’s hose unconnected, he saluted, sharply pivoted about, and then walked towards the maintenance hangar.
“C’mon, Scott,” shouted Carson, clambering up the ladder and swinging a leg into the cockpit. “We’re burning daylight. Jump into your seat and strap in.”
“Did you say you finished your pre-flight?” asked Ourecky casually, as he noticed that the pilot had overlooked at least one serious discrepancy.
“I did. Quit stalling and let’s move.”
Ourecky walked towards the front of the aircraft. He removed a fist-sized locking device from the angle-of-attack vane and held it out accusingly towards Carson. “If you finished your pre-flight, would you care to tell me exactly when you intended to remove this and stow it? Maybe during our roll-out? Perhaps in flight? Or maybe you were just going to wait for the crash investigator to stow it later? Perhaps after our funerals?”
Chagrined, Carson slowly descended the ladder. “I … uh … uh …”
“I uh, what?” demanded Ourecky. “Just what the hell is going on with you, Drew?”
“I missed that. I’m sorry. It was a mistake.”
“I’ll say,” Ourecky said, frowning. “It could have been one mistake too many. Maybe you’ve lost your enthusiasm for life and no longer give a shit, but do you recall that I have a wife and child to go home to?”
“Yeah, I do remember,” retorted Carson angrily, coming to the foot of the ladder. “And you would have never even seen your child if it hadn’t been for me! I saved your life, Scott.”
“You think I don’t know that? I suppose that makes us almost even, doesn’t it? Now, again, tell me just what the hell is going through your mind. Something obviously has you rattled, Drew. Are you afraid of going upstairs again? If you are, at least that’s
something I could understand, because that’s the way I feel also. But what I can’t understand is how a guy like you can just slowly self-destruct in front of me.”
“I …”
“I … what, Drew? Spit it out!” snarled Ourecky, stomping his foot on the pavement. “Why are you losing your edge? Are you afraid to fly? If that’s why you can’t concentrate, then go talk to Virgil and have yourself grounded before you kill both of us. Hell, I signed on to fly into orbit, but I didn’t sign on to fly with someone who can’t keep a clear head.”
“That’s not it, Scott,” replied Carson quietly. “I’m not afraid of flying. I’m not afraid of going upstairs, either. I know it’s just a matter of time before we go up again. I’ll be ready then. I just need to work through some things.”
“What things, Drew? Right now I’m much less concerned about going back into orbit than I am making it from here to Ohio. Are you going to have your wits about you for that trip?”
Facing each other as if ready to fight, the men were silent as yet another B-52 roared off for a monotonous nuclear patrol. A tear welled in Carson’s eye and then streamed down his cheek.
Ourecky had never seen this side of the pilot before, and it disturbed him immensely. But now he felt like a priest called to perform some long-overdue exorcism, compelled to reach deep into Carson’s guts to wrench out a wriggling demon. “What?” he demanded, thumping his finger into Carson’s chest. “What is it? Tell me, Drew! Tell me now!”
“I don’t want to die alone.” Carson’s voice quavered and tears poured from his eyes.
“You don’t want to die alone?” replied Ourecky, with a sarcastic tone in his voice. “Well, Drew, you really shouldn’t lose any sleep over that. Because it’s about a ninety-nine percent certainty that we will die together. Of course, it’s also a question of whether we’re blown to smithereens by a malfunctioning booster or if we’re stranded in orbit because our retros won’t light or”—Ourecky wagged the wind vane cover in Carson’s face—“whether we’re killed because you overlook something trivial. So you shouldn’t worry about dying alone, because at the rate things are going, we’re probably destined to strum the same harp.”
“That’s not what I mean about dying alone,” said Carson, wiping his face with his Nomex flight gloves. “I’ll tell you, Scott, Haiti was hard on me. I didn’t know what the hell was going on, and I wasn’t sure whether we were going to make it out of there or not. You had it easy, because you were unconscious most of the time. Really, I’m not afraid of dying, and I’m not afraid of going back up, but it just terrifies me that I might die without leaving something behind. I guess I didn’t realize that until we got back and I saw your little boy. Does that make sense?”
“Sure it does. That’s natural. But if that’s what you really want, Drew, you need to make some drastic changes in your life. I know the mantra—work hard and play hard—but you have to realize that you can’t go on living a life filled with fast cars, fast women, and fancy watches if you really want something of permanence.”
“I know that. Scott, I promise I’ll change. I will …”
“Oh really?” snapped Ourecky. “Sorry, but I hear this same litany every morning, and by the time Happy Hour rolls around, you seem to have forgotten your promises. Do you think you can somehow make things better by jumping in and out of bed with an endless string of strangers? In the morning, you leave, and they’re just strangers again.”
Another B-52 took off and slowly climbed out to the northeast. As the noise abated, Carson said, “You’re right, Scott, but zooming around on this damned party circuit isn’t helping matters much for me. I’ve been killing myself for the past three years with no let up, and suddenly I’m pitched into circumstances where I’m able to let my hair down and blow off some steam. And it’s not like I brought this upon myself; Virgil ordered us to do this.”
“Virgil told us to be sociable with these people,” Ourecky said, zipping up his nylon flight jacket to ward off the chill. “If that means cozying up to them, going to the local O Club to partake in a drink or two, then fine, but he sure as hell didn’t order us to wallow in it.”
“Point taken,” said Carson. “When we get back home, we’re going to talk to Virgil and ask him to scale back on these junkets. Then we go back into the training routine to prepare for what comes next. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough. Now, do you think you can bring this crate back to Ohio in one piece?”
“I can. I will.”
Ourecky lightly punched Carson’s shoulder before beckoning the waiting huffer operator with a wave. “That’s my Carson, my brother. Let’s strap this thing on and launch.”
Disability Claims Office
Veteran’s Administration Office, Las Vegas, Nevada
8:25 a.m., Thursday, November 5, 1970
As he waited for his name to be called, Eric Yost watched the clock and tried to ignore the sappy Muzak spilling from a wall-mounted speaker. Listening to his stomach growl noisily, he wished he had some coins for the vending machine in the hallway. He reflected on the recent chain of events that had landed him in the Veterans’ Administration office.
In an exceptionally short span of time, his life had undergone a radical series of transformations. Just slightly more than a month ago, he had been sequestered at a snowbound radar site in the wastelands of Greenland. After arriving in Las Vegas and retiring from the Air Force, he took a taxi to the renowned International Hotel. After lugging his cash-jammed duffle bag to the concierge desk, he was swiftly installed in a swanky high roller suite on the thirtieth floor.
His winning streak followed him from Greenland. He almost doubled his stake of over four hundred thousand dollars in the first week, to a high water mark of seven hundred and six thousand dollars. Every amenity was at his fingertips. Anything he desired—expensive meals, booze, cigarettes, clothes, hookers—was comp’ed by the casino. With glitzy women at his sides, Yost occupied a front row seat whenever Elvis took the stage at the International.
He was living high in seventh heaven until right into the middle of the second week, when his winning ways were suddenly reversed. Fourteen days after setting foot in Las Vegas, with his cash entirely depleted, the casino’s hospitality abruptly dissipated. Yost learned a harsh lesson of how the casinos classified visitors. All casino guests occupied a specific rung in a three-tiered taxonomy; they were either Winners, Losers, or Soon-to-be-Losers. After he was refused a marker for ten thousand dollars, primarily because he had no collateral and no visible means of income, he was ejected into the streets with his nearly empty duffle bag.
In short order, he hocked everything of value, including his Timex watch, wedding band, and most of his souvenirs from Greenland. He bought a cheap poly-filled sleeping bag at an Army surplus store and presently made his home in a storm drain culvert in an industrial area. He plainly knew that he had to get out of town since there was nothing left for him here, but making his escape was a bit more difficult than he had anticipated. In fact, he had barely enough cash to buy food.
On his retirement paperwork, he had entered his sister’s Minneapolis address as his permanent place of residence. He was due a check at the end of the month, but she would have to wire him the funds via Western Union. To make matters more awkward, she no longer accepted his collect calls. He had decided that when he finally got his hands on some cash, he was taking a Greyhound bus to Minnesota to resolve the situation.
In desperation, he recalled something a doctor had told him as he underwent his retirement physical at Nellis. The doc advised Yost to file a claim with the VA for his missing finger. Yost dismissed the idea at the time, but he quickly reconsidered after spending his first night in his dank abode of concrete pipe. After all, it was a cut and dry case, a no-brainer; he had lost his finger courtesy of the Air Force, so he was clearly entitled to the monthly disability stipend—roughly a hundred dollars—as a result.
Moreover, once the compensation was approved, he could spe
cify that the checks be held for him at the VA office. All he needed was one measly check and then he would head north to settle the score with his no-good alcoholic sister. Then, he could resume a normal life, not having to worry about where his next meal would come from or putting a roof over his head.
After filing his claim two weeks ago, Yost dutifully stopped by the VA office every day to see if there might be any progress. Initially, he noticed that people went out of their way not to sit next to him in the waiting room, and as the days passed, many made excuses to wait outside to be called or even come back on another day. Watching them as they scuttled outside with their upturned noses, he laughed to himself; if skipping a bath or two allowed him to advance to the head of the queue that much faster, then so be it.
Barely awake, he heard his name called. “Eric Yost? Eric Yost?” asked the raven-haired young receptionist, as if she didn’t already know who he was. “Mr. Yost, Mr. Anderson will see you in Room Six. Right down that hall and to the right, please.”
Following her directions, Yost carried his forlorn duffle bag down the hall and entered the specified office.
“Have a seat, please, Mr. Yost,” said the claims officer, a heavyset man in his early fifties. “I’m Seth Anderson. Before we discuss your claim, I would like to thank you for your military service.” In front of Anderson was an antique ship’s bell clock of gleaming brass, mounted in a walnut cradle bearing a small metal plate commemorating his service in the Navy. The brass and wood were highly polished; Anderson obviously took great pride in the memento.
Yost plopped down into an uncomfortable plastic-backed chair and said, “Uh, thanks, but can we not just get down to business? I filed a claim for my finger, and I want to draw my disability check as quickly as possible.”
