by Mike Jenne
Transfixed on the gauges, Russo was about to throw the switches to scram the reactor, but hesitated. In larger reactors, like those on submarines and ships, the scramming process could be reversed. But because of its unique failsafe design, once the MOL reactor was scrammed, it could not be restarted. They would still have the residual power and batteries, but the mission was over as soon as he threw the switch.
Clutching his throbbing right hand to his chest, he forced himself to stop. Up to this point, he had been reacting out of panic, and one lesson the Navy’s Nuclear Propulsion School had hammered into him was that while a malfunctioning nuclear reactor might eventually kill you, panic would do the job much faster. Panic and nuclear reactors just didn’t mix. While it was important to act quickly, the key to resolving their dilemma was incisive and deliberate action.
He painstakingly examined the reactor controls, but found no discrepancies. The reactor’s heat and pressure levels were well within normal limits. Every critical gauge was mirrored with a trend monitor that displayed the highest and lowest readings within the past twenty-four hour operating cycle. The trend monitors also showed that the reactor had been operating within normal limits; there had been no abnormal spikes in any of the critical indicators.
Russo knew that scramming the reactor was a swift ticket home. Because of the communications outage, there was no telemetry, so no one would ever know. Once the deed was done, he would be back on Earth in less than forty-eight hours, possibly much sooner.
Strangely, as he considered his circumstances, he remembered the praise heaped upon Ourecky for saving the paraglider trainer in Alaska. Ourecky had also been an outsider, but the close-knit Blue Gemini pilots readily accepted him after his decisive actions saved the ship. Would the same fate be his if he remained calm and saved the Navy’s vaunted MOL mission?
He slowly blinked and then focused on the radiation indicators. They still registered a dose rate of almost ten rems per hour. This did not make sense. All of the other instruments showed that the reactor was perfectly healthy. He was elated that the reactor was not malfunctioning, but he was also perplexed. It was abundantly clear that they were being bombarded by radiation, but the barrage apparently was not emanating from the reactor.
He audited the reactor’s vital signs yet again. Everything was well within acceptable operating boundaries. The reactor is healthy, he told himself. Where is this radiation coming from? Perhaps there is no radiation. Could the radiation detectors be defective?
Although the alarms were activated by the detectors next to the reactor console, two redundant detectors were located in the MOL cabin. He gingerly navigated his way forward to verify the mid-deck detector. Ten rems per hour. Good, the aft detectors were working correctly.
Next, he gradually drifted towards the forward end of the cabin to check that detector. Ten rems per hour. He breathed a sigh of relief; the aft detectors were definitely working correctly. But the readings still didn’t make sense; while the needles fluctuated slightly, the samplings were uniformly consistent throughout the MOL cabin, even though they should be theoretically weaker at mid-deck and weaker still at the stern end. Then suddenly it dawned on him. The readings made perfect sense. Despite all evidence to the contrary, they weren’t erroneous, and that indicated a problem much more serious than a crippled reactor.
Aghast at the potentially dire implications, fumbling with his one good hand, Russo scampered towards the airlock station. Shuddering with dread, he clumsily jammed his headset jack into the communications panel and blurted, “Chris! Chris! Jump back into the airlock now!”
“Huh?” grunted Cowin. He was breathing hard in his exertions. “Hey, don’t get your panties in a wad, flyboy. I’m still buttoning up this cover. I should be done in a few minutes.”
“No,” ordered Russo. “Drop what you’re doing and climb back in now. I’ll explain after you lock in.”
Aerospace Support Project
7:32 a.m., Sunday, August 6, 1972
Strumming his fingertips on the table, Virgil Wolcott gritted his teeth as he waited impatiently. He was absolutely confounded; even though they were scarcely a week into the month-long operational stand-down, a much-needed breather for all hands, Mark Tew had phoned him less than an hour ago to initiate an emergency recall of all key staff personnel.
Wolcott didn’t know if this was some sort of quick-reaction exercise, perhaps hastily conceived by Kittredge’s staff at the Pentagon, but he damned sure wasn’t in the mood for games or any other sort of asinine tomfoolery on a Sunday morning. He had planned to spend the entire day fly-fishing, a recently acquired distraction he found almost as relaxing and therapeutic as horseback riding. In fact, he would be probably casting on the lake right now if Tew had called only a few minutes later.
Resolving himself to set a good example for the others, Wolcott kept his mouth clamped shut and his temper tightly in check. After enduring long months in a pressure cooker environment, several of the men stumbled in looking as if they had spent a long night drinking before dutifully struggling out of bed to answer Tew’s impromptu reveille. No one looked too thrilled to be here.
Unshaven and obviously not yet entirely sober, Gunter Heydrich was the last straggler to appear. Severely disheveled, he looked to be suffering from the aftermath of serious bender. His greasy black hair was uncombed, his face was puffy and his eyes were swollen and bloodshot. His shoes were mismatched; one was black and the other brown. His haphazardly donned shirt was at least two buttons out of alignment. Reeking of schnapps and Jägermeister, he flopped into a chair, reached for a pitcher, and poured a tumbler. He dug two Alka-Seltzer tablets from his shirt pocket and plopped them into the water. The effervescent tablets fizzed and bubbled at the bottom of the glass. Rubbing his temples, he nodded towards Wolcott and grunted.
Wolcott returned Heydrich’s greeting, swiveled to face Tew, and announced, “The troops are assembled, boss. So what’s this all about?”
“I apologize for summoning you all on a Sunday morning, especially since we’re on operational stand-down, but we’ve received a warning order,” explained Tew. His faltering voice was weak, almost feeble, and his hands trembled slightly. His pale forehead glistened with a faint sheen of perspiration. “Gentlemen, we have been instructed to immediately develop a contingency plan to support a Navy mission.”
“Tarnations,” mumbled Wolcott, rolling his eyes. “Navy? Our friend Tarbox, again? I should have known. What celestial object does the Ancient Mariner want wrangled out of the sky this time? The moon? Pluto?”
Tew shook his head as he slipped a TELEX print-out towards Wolcott.
Wolcott’s eyes opened progressively larger as he scanned the flimsy paper. Flipping it upside down, he swallowed deeply and said, “Oh. Well now, ain’t this just a doggone corker? I wasn’t even aware they were up.”
“Do you see why I wanted everybody this morning, Virgil?” asked Tew.
“Yup, but is it safe to assume that everyone here has been cleared to clap eyes on this?”
“They have, Virgil.”
Wolcott slid the flimsy paper to Heydrich, who read it and gasped aloud. “Schiesse,” muttered the German engineer, passing the paper to the next man at the table. He gulped down his Alka-Seltzer cocktail, looked askance at Tew, and accusingly asked, “So, Mark, this is the secret you were keeping from me?”
Virtually all of the staff officers reacted in the same manner as Heydrich, outwardly expressing at least some degree of shock. And like Heydrich, some clearly resented the fact that they had been deliberately left out of the loop. But without exception, all of them snapped back to immediately focus on the problem as presented; without any prodding from Tew or Wolcott, they began assessing the situation from their unique perspectives. To a man, they made notes, sketched out simple diagrams, worked on preliminary calculations, and listed potential courses of action. Colonel Ted Seibert, Blue Gemini’s intelligence officer, scurried out of the room, returning almost immediately w
ith a ponderous sheath of papers.
After everyone had digested the initial information, Tew cleared his throat. Looking up, the staff officers set aside their pencils and notepads and the room fell deathly silent. He softly spoke. “We need to produce an initial feasibility assessment for General Kittredge within the hour. It doesn’t have to be detailed, mainly just a broad brush yes or no on whether we can conceivably execute the mission, and a rough timeline to show the earliest possible date we can execute. By the end of the day, we are to submit a more comprehensive plan. Understood?”
As most of the men nodded in affirmation, Wolcott spoke. “We understand, boss. Now, are you sure you’re up to this? You’re lookin’ a mite peaked.”
“Virgil, you’re right. I am feeling under the weather, so I would appreciate if you would lead the rest of this discussion.”
“As you wish, Mark,” replied Wolcott. “Okay, gents, I’m woefully sorry that we kept this little nugget from you, but we’re all in cahoots now. Since there obviously ain’t no time to dawdle, let’s settle down to the brass tacks, startin’ with the most fundamental stuff. How about flight hardware? Can we even support this contingency?” He turned towards Grady Rhodes, Blue Gemini’s chief logistics planner.
“It would be a big stretch,” replied Rhodes. Once grossly overweight, the colonel was now a gaunt shadow of his former self; constant stress, combined with a strict diet, had caused him to shed pounds like a sick bird molting feathers. Apparently, he had no time to shop for a new wardrobe to accommodate his altered physique; his oversized clothes hung loosely off his skinny frame, almost comedically so. “We have the flight hardware, but the problem is where it’s at.”
“How so, pard?” asked Wolcott.
Rhodes explained. “After the Krepost mission was scrubbed, the PDF crew encapsulated and loaded the Mission Eleven stack to be returned to the HAF. Right now, it’s at sea, on the LST. It should be just a hair over 600 miles out of San Diego, as we speak. This is an older generation landing ship, so it can only make twenty knots headway at full steam. That puts them back in port in two days. It will take at least a day to safely unload the Mission Eleven stack, and then another day to load the Mission Twelve stack, then ten days at sea to transit back to the PDF, plus two days to offload, break encapsulation, refuel and conduct critical component testing. That’s sixteen days minimum.”
“And if we just turned the LST around right now?” asked Wolcott. “Instead of swappin’ out stacks, could we not just send Eleven back to the PDF?”
Rhodes shook his head as he replied, “I hadn’t even considered that as an option.” He jotted a few notes, checked some figures, frowned, and noted, “Theoretically, Virgil, we could launch in ten days, but the Eleven stack was already scheduled for its mandatory ninety-day maintenance overhaul. It’s still in date, but only barely. If we go in ten days, its maintenance paperwork will expire the day before launch.”
Scratching his nose, Wolcott leaned to his right, glanced at the logistic officer’s figures, and then pivoted towards Tew. “Your call, Mark, but I would turn the LST.”
“Considering the circumstances, that’s a risk we’re going to have to accept,” noted Tew. “Virgil, after we’re done here, pass word to have that ship turned about.”
Rhodes nodded. “Virgil, we also can’t forget about the servicing LST. It’s still loaded with fuel, and is presently anchored off Hawaii. The crew is on liberty call in Honolulu.”
“Then tell them to round up their hands, saddle up and skedaddle towards the PDF as well. Is that copacetic with you, Mark?”
Lightly clutching his abdomen, Tew tacitly acknowledged by weakly nodding his head.
“Done,” vowed Rhodes.
“There’s another issue,” stated Seibert, the dapper intelligence officer, quickly shuffling through a batch of current weather forecasts. “There’s an ugly tropical disturbance brewing about six hundred miles off Mexico. It appears to be moving west and gaining strength. They anticipate bumping its status up to tropical storm by the end of the day. They already have a name for it: Celeste. Our ship’s course should keep well north of it, but it might cause problems later.”
“Well, Ted, thanks, but obviously we hold no sway over Mother Nature,” Wolcott said. “Instruct your weather folks to keep an eye on it and keep us well posted. Unless things take a significant turn for the worse, we ain’t changing our plans. Savvy?”
“We’ll continue to monitor,” replied Seibert. “There’s something else, though. We always have a security picket encircling Johnston Island when we’re conducting pre-launch operations. I’m sure that you’re aware that the Soviets have been sniffing around for a while, and they’ve intensified their surveillance operations. We’re fairly sure that they’re aware of the Project 437 Thor launches, but I don’t think that they’ve caught on to what we’re doing.”
Seibert continued. “If we’re seriously looking to launch in ten days, we won’t have sufficient time for the Navy to shift their forces to establish their perimeter. At one end of the scale, we may end up with an intelligence trawler in the neighborhood, but in the worst case, a Soviet submarine loaded with frogmen commandos could wreak havoc on the island.”
“True,” replied Wolcott. “But since this is an effort requested by the Navy, I would sincerely hope that they would move heaven and earth to do what has to be done to post that danged picket.”
Heydrich belched loudly, excused himself, and then observed, “We’ll also need to set the tracking and communications assets.”
“We should be able to work with the Navy to integrate with their network,” answered Tew. “They’re strictly using ground-based and ship-based relay sites. I suppose we should make a plan to incorporate some of the ARIA aircraft as well, to cover dead spaces.”
“We will also need to contact General Fels at Eglin,” said Heydrich. “So he can begin making preparations to deploy his teams to all of the equatorial Contingency Recovery Sites.”
“Isaac’s teams are already deployed to those sites, Gunter,” interjected Tew.
“Oh. Ja, obviously,” noted Heydrich, rubbing his eyes. “I should have guessed that.”
“Virgil, I think that everyone has the sufficient information to work up the feasibility assessment,” stated Tew. “We only have an hour, so let’s focus on that.”
“Will do, but there’s still a loose end,” replied Wolcott. “The stack is already configured for Carson and Ourecky. Their seats and gear are on board, and the vehicle has already been swung for weight and balance. Do you want me to call them in here?”
Tew shook his head, clenched his fists, closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Wolcott was concerned at his friend’s uncharacteristic behavior; Tew seemed to have lapsed into some sort of unresponsive daze.
A painfully long and awkward moment passed before Wolcott asked, “Uh, Mark, do you want to call them or no?”
Tew opened his eyes, drew in a deep breath and replied, “Carson’s in town, but Ourecky is on leave in … Nebraska?”
“Yup,” replied Wolcott, nodding.
“Well, since this is just a feasibility study, let’s not jump ahead of ourselves. Those two deserve a break. When and if we receive the execute order from Kittredge, we’ll recall them. Until then, let’s leave things just as they are.”
28
BACK TO OHIO
Ourecky Homestead, Wilber, Nebraska
7:30 a.m., Monday, August 7, 1972
Ourecky sat in the kitchen, drinking strong coffee with his father, planning the repairs they would be making to the pasture fence this morning. Bea and his mother were busy making breakfast. Little Andy scampered about, chasing after a ponderously overweight calico cat.
Ourecky looked towards Bea. The past few days had been a wonderful break for them. The underlying tension between them seemed to just vanish entirely. It was as if a gloomy spell had been lifted, replaced by a glowing mantle of happiness and hope. By far, the past few days had been the happie
st time in their lives together.
Bea had spent hours with his mother, poring over photo albums, soaking in the Ourecky family history, seemingly absorbed in the happy childhood she had been deprived. Ourecky watched as his mother became Bea’s, not just because of the formal prescripts incumbent with welcoming a daughter-in-law into the family, but because Bea found in her the mother that she so desperately needed.
Their angelic bubble was resoundingly shattered when the phone rang in the kitchen. Before answering it, Mama Ourecky wiped her flour-covered hands across the front of her gingham apron. She listened intently, smiled, and then proclaimed, “Scott, it’s for you. Some Virgil somebody wants to talk to you.”
Bea was removing a pan from the oven when she heard Virgil’s name. Hot biscuits flew in every direction as the aluminum pan clattered to the hardwood floor. “How clumsy of me,” she muttered, glaring at Ourecky. She stooped down to gather the scattered biscuits, but the calico cat beat her to one. Yowling, the cat deftly batted the hot biscuit into a corner to allow it to cool.
Ourecky took the phone. The call was decidedly one-sided; he spoke little, except to occasionally utter, “Yes, sir.”
He hung up the phone and turned to his mother. “Sorry, Mama, but we’re going to have to skip breakfast. I have to go.”
“I thought you were on furlough, son,” observed Papa Ourecky.
“I was. Something came up. I have to drive to Offutt Air Force Base as quickly as possible.”
“Offutt?” said Papa Ourecky, sticking his thumbs in the frayed bib straps of his denim overalls. “That’s just south of Omaha, near Cleveland. It’ll take at least two hours to drive.”
