Blue Darker Than Black

by Mike Jenne

  “In a moment,” replied Anderson, wrinkling his nose as he switched on a small desk fan on his credenza. “I hate to be personal, Mr. Yost, but have you bathed recently? Assuming, of course, that you’re living somewhere with sanitary facilities. If you’re not, I can recommend a shelter for you where …”

  Yost interrupted him. “Thanks, but I’m fine. I was just in a hurry this morning and didn’t have time to jump into the shower.” He knew exactly the shelter Anderson referred to; it was a refuge of last resort for transients down on their luck, especially stranded gamblers who lacked the fiscal resources to leave town. It offered a shower, a clean change of clothes and a cot for one night and one night only.

  The shelter also endowed each guest with a one-way Greyhound ticket to Los Angeles, courtesy of the Las Vegas Tourism Office and various participating casinos. To this end, it employed a couple of hulking thugs who physically escorted their overnight guests to the bus station to forcibly ensure that the bus tickets were actually used. This pristine desert town held little sympathy for vagrants, wayfaring panhandlers, and their ilk.

  “Well, I’m obligated to offer that information. I sincerely hope you don’t take offense.”

  Yost shook his head, leaned to one side, and grunted. Without warning, an extremely noxious odor filled the confined space. As the invisible cloud wafted outside the door, he overheard muffled cursing from the hallway and adjacent offices. “Sorry,” he explained, fanning the air. “Pork and beans last night. The cheap store brand gives me a bad case of gas.”

  A distressed look passed over Anderson’s face. On the verge of turning green, he reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a small jar of Vick’s VapoRub, and daubed a tiny amount under each nostril. “I’m beginning to catch a cold,” he explained. “This will help me stave it off.”

  “If you say so. I’ll just have to take your word for that.”

  Loosening his tie, Anderson nodded. “Let’s discuss your claim, Mr. Yost. We asked the Air Force for your records so we could verify the nature and extent of your injuries, to ultimately determine if they were service-related. We were fortunate that your records were still on file at Nellis. That helped us to expedite your claim.”

  “Groovy,” commented Yost. “That makes sense. Can we get on with this?”

  “Now, uh, about your claim,” said Anderson, slipping on black-framed reading glasses as he flipped through the pages of Yost’s medical records. “According to the paperwork you submitted, you claim to have lost a finger to frostbite while stationed in Greenland.”

  “That’s right,” avowed Yost, holding up his left hand and pointing at the void once occupied by his index finger. “This finger right here.”

  “Interesting. Mr. Yost, before we delve deeper into your claim, I need to discuss something very serious with you. It’s absolutely imperative that you take heed. Okay?”

  “I’m all ears. Fire away.”

  “Mr. Yost, are you aware that filing a false claim with the VA is a serious federal crime?” asked Anderson officiously, placing both hands flat on his desk. “That said, would you consider amending your claim or withdrawing it altogether? If you do so now, willingly, we can just let this matter rest with no potential for legal action. No harm, no foul, you might say.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” demanded Yost angrily, sitting up in his chair. “It’s all there in black and white. I’m not trying to swindle anyone, least of all the damned government. Hell, I didn’t ask to go to Greenland to catch frostbite and have my finger sawed off.”

  Anderson subtly pushed a small button, like a doorbell, next to his desk, and said, “Here’s the problem. According to your medical records, you’ve never been treated for frostbite nor had your finger amputated. You claim that you were stationed in Greenland, but your official personnel file clearly states that you have been assigned to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio for the past four and a half years. So, as I indicated a moment ago, Mr. Yost, this is your last chance to withdraw your claim before we initiate a fraud investigation.”

  As he massaged the notch where his index finger had once been, Yost felt his pulse pounding in his temples. His teeth gnashed as he tightly clenched his fists. What is going on here? His missing finger was a legitimate injury, courtesy of the Air Force. What are they trying to pull? With all of his might, he resisted the pressing urge to stand up and pound some sense into Anderson. “Wait!” he uttered. “If I’ve been at Wright-Patt all this time, why did the Air Force fly me here to retire? Why didn’t they just discharge me in Ohio?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Anderson smugly. “Frankly speaking, Mr. Yost, I don’t care. It’s none of my concern. I’m tasked to evaluate your claim on its merits, and there’s no indication that you ever had frostbite or served in Greenland, so …”

  Yost reached into his duffel bag and tugged out his most prized souvenir, a large figurine of a walrus intricately carved from a whale’s tooth. It was the sole remaining artifact of his lucrative sojourn in the Arctic. “But look!” he argued, holding out the talisman. “An Eskimo gave me this in Greenland. Can’t you see …”

  Anderson shook his head and declared, “I don’t want to do this, Mr. Yost, but if you insist on pursuing this charade, then I’ll be forced to file formal charges.”

  As his eyes gradually lost focus, Yost no longer heard the bureaucrat’s grating voice. Years of frustration and anger welled up within him, boiling and seething, until he could no longer restrain himself. He lurched out of his seat, leaned over the neatly ordered desk, and swung the walrus figurine into Anderson’s temple. As blood spattered his desk blotter and meticulously collated stacks of claims paperwork, Anderson slumped unconscious to the floor.

  Yost sailed over the desk and continued to pummel Anderson with the ivory sculpture, swinging it like a police baton. In seconds, a security guard burst into the office and wrestled him into submission. Fifteen minutes later, he was fettered in handcuffs and jammed into the back of a Clark County Sheriff’s Department patrol car.

  After a month to the day that he had arrived in Las Vegas, he found himself in the next and possibly last stage of his metamorphosis. And just as a coin has two sides, so did his current circumstances; on the negative side, his departure from Las Vegas was probably delayed indefinitely, but on the plus side, he no longer had to concern himself with putting a roof over his head or a meal in his gut.

  Aerospace Support Project

  9:15 a.m., Monday, November 9, 1970

  Carson and Ourecky weren’t the only ones on the road during the previous week. Tew, Wolcott, and Heydrich convened to share notes on their recent ventures. “Gunter, tell us about your visit to MIT,” said Tew. “Any updates on the Block Two computer?”

  Heydrich nodded. “Ja, Mark, I have an update all right, but probably not the one you care to hear. The Instrumentation Lab people made it emphatically clear that there will be no new computer before Phase Two.”

  “Damn it!” grumbled Wolcott, slamming his coffee mug on the table. “I can’t believe that we threw in with those egghead varmints. They promised to deliver this damned machine months ago, and all we have to show for it is a bunch of plywood mock-up boxes and wiring diagrams.”

  “In MIT’s defense, Virgil, that’s not exactly accurate,” noted Heydrich. “They did deliver a flight-ready prototype, and it functions exactly to specifications.”

  “Oh, yeah, Gunter,” said Wolcott. “Shucks, I plumb forgot that we have that box out there at the HAF. Yeah, it’s certified flight-ready, but unfortunately it’s as big as a damned refrigerator, so it ain’t of much use to us if we can’t somehow shoehorn it into the spacecraft. But maybe I can ring up some of my buddies at NASA and talk them out of a Saturn V. It’s beginnin’ to look like NASA will be forced to close out Apollo with some extra hardware available.”

  “It’s a setback, Virgil,” commented Tew, pouring milk of magnesia into a shot glass. “It’s not a show stopper.”

 
“It ain’t? Mark, should I remind you that we still have six missions to fly and we only have two crews to fly them? And the harsh reality is that if we don’t get that new computer as promised, we really only have one crew to fly the remaining shots.”

  Tew downed the shot and nodded. “So be it. Tell me about your visit to San Diego.”

  Wolcott chuckled and said, “The HAF is operatin’ right on schedule. There are three stacks ready to fly, and one in the pipeline. The next flight-ready stack is already encapsulated and loaded on the LST. All we’re lacking is a couple of cowboys to saddle up and ride.”

  “And you also visited ARPS at Edwards while you were out in California?” asked Tew, using a handkerchief to wipe white crust from his lips. “Did you spot any prospective flight personnel?”

  “Yeah, pard,” replied Wolcott, frowning. “I saw plenty of potential contenders, but ARPS ain’t coughin’ up any more pilots until our funding is formally approved for Phase Two. I tried to make an end run around them by going directly to the Personnel Branch, but I was shut down cold. The prevailin’ attitude is that it will take at least eighteen months to safely spin up any new guys to fly, and the Air Force big hats ain’t willin’ to lock down a bunch of high-dollar test pilots for that long if it ain’t entirely likely they’re going to fly. They’ve already been snakebit with the MOL debacle, and they ain’t going to let it happen again, so we fly the remaining six missions with the two crews we have.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s up to me to spread the icing on this cake,” said Tew. “I spent most of last week with Kittredge and his staff. Short of a miracle, there won’t be a Phase Two. Our only hope is if the current Administration remains in the White House.”

  “So we’re dead in the water?” asked Wolcott, frowning as he drummed his fingers on his white Stetson. “Six more missions before the curtain drops?”

  Tew nodded.

  “But why would they pull us off the trail just as we’re hittin’ our stride?” asked Wolcott. “Can’t they see what we’ve accomplished?”

  Tew replied, “Perhaps, but for them, the box score reads that we played six times. We’ve taken out three critical Soviet satellites, but we’ve also missed two and have lost a platform with its crew. Additionally, our original charter was to seek out OBS platforms, and all the intelligence we’re now seeing leads us to believe that they’re not out there.”

  “But …” sputtered Wolcott.

  “Virgil, listen,” said Tew softly. “There’s something important that I need to share with you.”

  “What’s that, boss?”

  “I plan to stick with you for these next six missions, but after that, I’m done. Personally, I have no desire to go on to Phase Two, even if it does come to pass. My cardiologist tells me that I’m living on borrowed time as it is, and this incessant stress isn’t helping matters much.”

  “You can’t go down to Walter Reed for another surgery? Is there nothing else they can do?”

  “Short of a heart transplant, no. Virgil, the docs tell me that my heart muscle is just worn out. There’s nothing that they can do about it. I’m sorry, but I would like to spend a few years relaxing and living a normal life before I give up the ghost. Can you understand that, friend?”

  “Yeah. You’ve certainly earned a breather.”

  “Look, Virgil, if you want to keep Blue Gemini alive, I’ll do everything within my powers to make it happen, but you just have to accept that I can’t continue on with you. As it is, I’ll be damned lucky if I make it through the next six flights. They really wear on me.”

  The intercom on Wolcott’s desk squawked. “Sirs, Major Carson and Major Ourecky are here to see you,” said the aide in the outer office.

  “Hold them out there a minute, buster,” said Wolcott, leaning out of his chair to press the intercom button. “I’ll holler at you when we’re ready.”

  “Virgil, Gunter, about my heart, I told you that in confidence,” said Tew, adjusting his tie. “I would prefer that you not share it with anyone else.”

  “I will not speak of it with anyone,” vowed Heydrich, clasping his hand over his heart. “You have my word, Mark.”

  “My lips are sealed, pard,” added Wolcott. “You have my word as well.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen. I know that I can count on you.”

  “But how about this other fly in the ointment? Ourecky’s wings?” asked Wolcott, waving a set of papers towards Tew. “Do I have your blessing to pursue this?”

  Glancing at a memorandum stapled to the papers, Tew reluctantly nodded. “You can ask him, Virgil, but ultimately it’s his decision. Fair enough?”

  “More than fair. I’m sure he’ll jump on this. Who wouldn’t?” Wolcott leaned back in his chair, jabbed the red intercom button and stated, “Send them in.”

  As Carson and Ourecky entered, Wolcott whistled and exclaimed, “Well, howdy, it looks like you two have been living high on the hog! We send you out on the road for a few weeks, and you come back bustin’ out of your britches. What have you gained? Ten pounds? Twenty?”

  “Eleven for me,” replied Ourecky, frowning as he patted his stomach. “It’s difficult not to pack on lard when every meal’s a feast and there’s no time to exercise.”

  “I s’pose so,” replied Wolcott, gesturing for the two to take seat at the tables. “Does that T-38 still fit you? We’re not going to have to let it out at the seams, are we?”

  “We can still scrunch into it,” answered Carson, easing himself into a chair before adjusting the collar of his Ban-Lon knit shirt. The shirt’s pale blue fabric stretched tightly to contain his stomach, like a canvas sail swelling in a stiff wind. “But just barely.”

  “What’s on your mind, gentlemen?” asked Tew. Sour bile and stomach acid surged up in his throat, and he gagged slightly as the acrid taste settled on his tongue. Coughing, he filled a glass from a pitcher of water, and quickly quaffed it.

  Leaning forward, Carson placed his hands flat on the table and answered, “Sincerely, sir, we’ve enjoyed the break, but the fact is that we’re losing our edge. We understand the need for these visits, but we want to know if we can scale them back or even curtail them altogether.”

  “You’ve gobbled your fill of the fatted calf, pard?” asked Wolcott, grinning.

  “We have,” replied Carson. Ourecky nodded in agreement.

  “Excellent,” declared Tew. “Perfect timing.” Outside, a pair of fighters screamed off the runway.

  “Sir?” asked Carson.

  Tew turned to face Ourecky. “The flight surgeons want to take another look at you, just to be absolutely sure, but they assure me that you are physically ready to go back into orbit. The only question that remains is whether you’re ready to go back up. Are you, young man?”

  Hesitating momentarily, Ourecky shot a nervous glance at Carson. “Yes, I’m ready, sir.”

  “That’s what we wanted to hear, pard!” exclaimed Wolcott, slapping Ourecky on the back.

  “Unless the flight surgeons stamp you with a bad report, Ourecky, the two of you are going up in Mission Seven. You’ll launch in January.” Expecting to see a smile or at least some positive acknowledgment from Carson, Tew noticed that the pilot’s expression did not change in the slightest. “Are you ready to go back up, Carson?” he asked.

  Carson paused, looked towards Ourecky, swallowed deeply, and then replied, “I am, sir.”

  “Good,” said Wolcott. “You two gents work with Gunter to hammer together your training program. Whatever you want, within reason, we’ll make it happen.”

  “Our facilities are at your disposal, gentlemen,” noted Heydrich. He looked immensely relieved, as if he were thrilled to finally have a break from perpetually coaching Jackson and Sigler.

  “I’m delighted to have you two back in the line-up,” noted Tew.

  “Ourecky, son, I have another pressing issue to discuss with you,” said Wolcott, looking anxiously towards Tew. “I’ve worked out a special deal for you. After you com
e back in January, I want you to take a few weeks to earn your wings. With the deal we’ve worked out, you’ll be able to nail all the requirements and still be able to cycle back into training for the next mission.”

  “Next mission, sir?”

  “Yeah. You two gents will fly Eight in May. And unless things change drastically in the coming months, there’s a danged good chance that you will fly all of the remaining six missions.”

  Twisting the wedding band on his finger, Ourecky swallowed nervously. “All of them, sir?”

  “Probably,” replied Wolcott, using a folder to swat a fly on the table. “But we’re drifting off the trail here, Ourecky. Did you not just hear me say that we’re granting you a special opportunity to earn your wings? You’ll be able to skip most of the stupid time-wasting crap that most guys go through and focus just on the important stuff. What do you say, pard?”

  “I’ll pass, sir.”

  As his face turned red, Wolcott groaned and fanned himself with his Stetson. “You’ll pass?”

  “Yes, sir. I appreciate the opportunity, but I would rather focus my time and energy on preparing to fly these other missions.”

  “Maybe you’re missin’ something, hoss,” said Wolcott, reaching for a glass of water. “We’re offerin’ you a chance to earn your wings and you won’t have to leap through a bunch of stupid hoops to get them. It’s all but a damned gimme. I might as well just stick them on your chest right now. We’re giving you a golden opportunity, son. Are you really that inclined to fritter it away? Just a few weeks, and then you can have those wings!”

  “I’m still going to have to pass, sir.”

  “Ourecky, do you recollect when we first met, and I asked you why you hadn’t become a pilot?” asked Wolcott. “As I recall, you said that you had applied four times.”

  “Five, sir.”

  Frowning, Wolcott rolled his eyes and slapped his hand on the table. “Whether you had been turned down four or five or a hundred times over, that ain’t the danged point, pard. You’ve more than demonstrated your aptitude to become a pilot. I’m tryin’ to slip you through the formalities so we can pin those wings on you. How can you treat this offer so lightly?”