by Mike Jenne
“Why train at this Buck Island?” asked Ourecky. “Can’t we just use the Tank in New Orleans?”
“There’s a full-scale MOL mock-up in the water at Buck Island,” explained Tarbox. “More importantly, we have a mock-up of the MOL’s airlock, as well as the Gemini-B. You’ll need to rehearse the transfer procedures a few times and practice closing the hatch, since it’s a reasonably safe wager that Russo will not be able to assist you with it.”
Tew cleared his throat and quietly said, “Although we should be able to execute in ten days, we will not launch until you two are ready to go. This is an extremely risky venture, so I want you to be entirely confident with your preparations. We have a great deal of flexibility, much more so than your previous missions. Because the MOL is in a well-defined polar orbit, we have a launch window once every twenty-four hours. So let me make this abundantly clear: we will not launch until you let us know that you’re ready. Agreed?”
“Yes, sir,” affirmed Carson and Ourecky in unison.
“Well, hate to cut this short, but if time is at such a premium, I suppose that we need to head right down to the Caribbean,” said Carson. “Virgil, I’ll call Flight Ops to expedite fueling and service on our T-38. We’ll patch a flight plan together and should be in the air in less than an hour.”
Wolcott shook his head. “Hold your horses, buster. I know you’re rarin’ to saddle up and go, but from now until the moment that your hold-down bolts crack, you ain’t flying anywhere. You and your cohort will be flown.”
“My T-39 Sabreliner and crew will be at your disposal for the duration of your mission work-up,” said Tarbox. “It’s configured for VIP transport, so you’ll have the entire back cabin to yourselves. There’s plenty of room to stretch out and rest.”
“You’re going to be training around the clock until you’re ready to go up,” said Wolcott. “So as long as you’re being chauffeured from one point to the next, I expect you to be sleeping.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” said Carson, nodding towards Tarbox.
“Anything else, Gunter?” asked Wolcott.
Heydrich shook his head, but quickly added, “Good luck.”
“Boys, we’ve been through this routine enough times not to get weepy or melodramatic,” said Wolcott. “You know what has to be done. Just come home when it’s over.”
Tarbox stood up, leaned over the table, and shook their hands. “Thank you both,” he said quietly. “Good luck to you.”
“Mark?” asked Wolcott. “Any parting words? We probably won’t see these two stalwarts until they land back here in Ohio.”
Slowly pushing himself out of his chair, Tew replied, “I’ll walk them out.”
“If we’re breaking up here,” interjected Heydrich, “I’m headed downstairs. There’s still much to be done.”
Tew accompanied Carson and Ourecky to the outside office. “We’re indebted to you both,” he said quietly. “Much more so than I can express.” With tears welling in his eyes, he embraced each man in turn, which took Ourecky aback; he had never witnessed Tew express any outward emotion, except perhaps anger. As Tew hugged him, it felt almost like when his father had dropped him off at his first summer camp.
In a voice barely above a whisper, Tew said, “Scott, you know …”
“I know, sir,” said Ourecky. “But I’m still going up.”
“Well, as I said, we’re indebted to you,” said Tew, nodding solemnly. “Is there anything I can do for you, Scott?”
Ourecky reflected on the question, hesitated, and then replied, “I guess not, sir.”
“I guess we’ll see you when we get back here,” said Carson.
“I hope so, gentlemen,” replied Tew.
Only Wolcott and Tarbox remained after the others filtered out. Tarbox spoke. “Virgil, we’ve not often seen eye to eye, but I appreciate your support on this. It means a lot to me.”
Wolcott chuckled, spit tobacco juice in a wastebasket, and said, “Don’t delude yourself, Leon. I ain’t supportin’ your effort. I’m only capitulating because I know Mark Tew won’t have it any other way. Personally, I think it’s a fool’s game to squander a danged stack to mount a rescue operation for a guy who’s probably going to be dead before our men even climb up there. And even if he’s not, it’s mighty damned doubtful he’ll endure the trip home. I’m just as danged sentimental as the next guy, but I don’t much cotton to fritterin’ away a vehicle that cost hundreds of millions of dollars on a high risk humanitarian gesture.”
“I agree.”
“What?!” blurted Wolcott, sputtering and spraying brown-laced saliva over the front of his starched white cowboy shirt. “You agree?! Then why the hell did you slink in here, hat in hand, beggin’ for us to ride to the rescue?”
“I’ll explain,” replied Tarbox, gathering his papers. “Virgil, we don’t share much, but we’re both pragmatic men. Agreed?”
“Well, I reckon that you and I do have that in common,” Wolcott said. “We both call a spade a spade. And as much as I don’t like you, Leon, I have to admit that we’re pretty much cut from the same bolt of cloth.”
“Then I can be upfront with you. I could care less whether Russo comes home, but the fact is that there’s a virtual treasure trove of intelligence data up there. Even though their comms gear wasn’t working, they maintained their collection effort, so that platform has been sitting up there for a month, sucking up information like a vacuum cleaner. There’s the synthetic aperture radar data, and all the signals intelligence, all squirreled away on those tape cartridges. That’s what I want, Virgil.”
“Oh,” replied Wolcott. “Now things are much clearer for me. You had me pretty danged befuddled. It was sure out of character for you to act so sentimental, but I guess that’s what it was: an act. Ever the opportunist, eh?”
Tarbox nodded. “Look, Virgil, if you help me, then I think I can do the same for you.”
“How so?” asked Wolcott. “Maybe I ain’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but I’m obviously missin’ something. How could you possibly help me?”
“Virgil, it’s a virtual certainty that my program will be scrubbed after this incident. It was hard enough to sell putting a reactor in orbit, but now that we can’t guarantee that it can be safely returned to Earth, intact, without endangering anyone, I know that there’s not a chance in hell that we’ll send another one up.”
Wolcott laughed. “No argument there, pard.”
“On the other hand, you have an operational program that’s proven itself over and over,” said Tarbox. “I’m well aware that Tew has no desire to continue it, but there’s no reason why you couldn’t go forward without him. With me in your corner, it would be a virtual certainty. Plus, I can make arrangements to shift all of my funding and resources from my program to yours.”
Wolcott grinned. “You’re a wily varmint, Tarbox. Sure, I would appreciate your backin’ and cash, but since you ain’t the altruistic type, I’ll wager that there’s a hitch in this bargain of yours. What do you want in return?”
“I think it’s likely that Russo will stop transmitting before your men are ready to launch.”
“I suspect you’re right. I’m guessin’ he’s on his last legs as it is.”
Tarbox nodded and said, “If it’s apparent that he’s dead, Virgil, then I’m sure that you could present a very convincing argument against this mission. All I’m asking is that when and if the time comes, you set aside your reluctance. Fair enough?”
Wolcott thought for a moment, spat a sodden lump of depleted chewing tobacco into the trash can beside his desk, and replied, “Fair enough. I think we have a deal.”
“Thanks,” Tarbox said. “Virgil, could you clear up something for me? I’m trying to understand why Mark Tew is so insistent against Carson flying overseas. After all, the Air Force guys assigned to the MOL were only restricted for a year after that program was shut down. Some of them have already flown in Vietnam, and even though they never went to orbit, they
still had some incredibly classified information in their heads. You and I both know that if Mark Tew was willing to sign off on it, Carson could fly over there.”
“I agree, pardner. I’m sure we could abate the risks.”
“Then how do you explain Mark’s reluctance?”
“I’ll lend you my theory,” answered Wolcott, furrowing his brow. “He spent time in a POW camp right at the tail end of the War. I don’t think he’s willin’ to risk Carson being subjected to the same sort of ordeal. But before you pass judgment on Mark, you need to understand that the Air Force Chief of Staff has weighed in on this situation, so it’s really out of Mark’s hands.”
“How so?”
“The Chief is adamant that Carson not fly overseas. Carson’s records have been flagged so that even if he somehow finagles a way to Southeast Asia, it would not only be a court martial offense for him to climb into a plane for a combat mission, but also a court martial for anyone complicit in facilitating the hop. So, as much as Carson hankers to go, he ain’t goin’ to find too many Air Force folks inclined to aid and abet.”
“Oh.”
“But you have to hand it to that hardheaded sumbitch. Carson won’t ever let the matter die. He’s always wanglin’ for a shot. He’s nothin’ if not persistent, but they’ll be openin’ a new Disneyland in Hanoi on the day that he’s allowed to fly in Vietnam.” Wolcott spat tobacco juice in the wastebasket. “He’s pretty slick, and I’m sure that if he was left to his devices, he would sneak over there, but the reality is that there’s no Air Force squadron commander dumb enough to put him in a cockpit. Not unless they want to accompany him on the next lift to Leavenworth.”
Tarbox looked towards the ceiling, as if reluctant to express his thoughts, and finally said, “Virgil, if Carson’s that damned insistent, then maybe there’s a way …”
Shaking his head, Wolcott tore the filter from a cigarette. “Not even in the realm of possibilities, Leon. I don’t want to discuss it.”
“But I think Carson deserves something for his sacrifices, especially this one. Both of them do.”
“Agreed.” Wolcott deftly flicked open his Zippo to light his cigarette. He drew in deeply, leaned back, and puffed a smoke ring towards the ceiling. “Leon, while we’re plumbing such deep and dark mysteries, how would you like to answer one for me?”
“What do you want to know?”
“I happen to know that you sit on the critical personnel assignment committee for Hugh Kittredge. And one of that committee’s chores is allocating flight personnel for the different classified programs.”
“That’s correct.”
“If that’s the case,” growled Wolcott, “would you care to explain why the hell all of our requests for additional pilots have been bounced back?”
Contemplating the question, Tarbox was silent for a moment. In his high-pitched voice, he replied, “Virgil, we both just agreed that we’re very pragmatic men, right?”
“We did.”
“Then I’ll answer in that light. Virgil, there are four reasons that we did not grant you any more pilots for your first phase. First, Carson and Ourecky are obviously the most perfect combination to fly your missions. They’re just an extremely unique fit.”
“No argument there,” affirmed Wolcott. “Especially with a string of seven successful missions under their belts. Hard to top that record.”
Tarbox continued. “Second, we clearly knew that there were no candidates in either test pilot training pipeline, at either Edwards or Pax River, even remotely close to replacing either one of them. And that includes the current roster of all active test pilots as well.”
“They are an unusual pair, like you said,” noted Wolcott.
“Third, regardless of your past successes, it is an absolute certainty that your project would be curtailed if you had another fatal accident.”
Wolcott took a deep draw from his cigarette, exhaled, and said, “I s’pose I can guess your fourth reason, Leon—you folks never really expected Carson and Ourecky to beat the odds and live this long, did you?”
Fanning away a cloud of pale gray smoke, Tarbox shrugged his narrow shoulders, nodded gravely and muttered, “Correct.”
29
CAN SHOT
Aerospace Support Project
2:25 p.m., Wednesday, August 16, 1972
“Well, I have good news and bad news, buddy,” observed Wolcott, ambling into the office. He took off his white Stetson, placed it on his desk, and took a seat.
“Bad news? Can it be any worse than George McGovern running for president?” replied Tew, folding his newspaper and taking off his reading glasses.
“Doubtful. Anyway, I’ll share the good news first. The stack arrived at the PDF late last night and has already been installed on the pad. They erected it this morning and it’s already topped off with fuel. Carson and Ourecky should arrive this afternoon. We should be able to launch as early as tomorrow.”
“Then what’s the bad news, Virgil?” asked Tew.
“I’ve been up in the intel shop, monitoring the weather. I have an update on Hurricane Celeste. It was a Category Four storm when it passed south of the Hawaiian Islands yesterday.”
“I know. Is it something I should be concerned with?”
“Yup. It was scootin’ west-southwest at about ten knots, but a few hours ago it veered onto a west-northwest track, and it’s presently headed smack dab for Johnston Island.”
Wolcott continued. “They’re plannin’ to evacuate all the permanent party off the whole dadburned island. Apparently, they hadn’t considered the weather when they yanked all that mustard and nerve gas out of Okinawa and stashed it in igloos on Johnston. Someone must have realized that it might not be a safe place to be in a hurricane. Right now, they’re battening down the hatches and flyin’ nonessential personnel to Hawaii. That’s close to five hundred folks.”
Tew closed his eyes and groaned. “Then we won’t be able to launch?”
“We can still shoot,” answered Wolcott. “But we’ll have an extremely tight window. Celeste ain’t projected to hit Johnston any earlier than Saturday. Our first launch window opens tomorrow night. The second window is the followin’ night, but Seibert’s meteorological folks tell me that the conditions will be too dangerous by then.”
“So we launch tomorrow night or not at all?” asked Tew.
Toying with the silver and turquoise slide of his bolo string tie, Wolcott nodded.
“I had told Carson and Ourecky that we wouldn’t launch until they felt they were ready,” stated Tew. “I guess that I’ll have to break that promise.”
“Not necessarily, Mark,” replied Wolcott. “If they’re goin’ to launch tomorrow night, they need to declare their decision by tomorrow morning. If they tell us that they’re ready, good. If not …”
“I order them to go.”
“Right. It ain’t like you have another choice.”
Tew grimaced and asked, “What else needs to be done?”
“We need to move the LSTs out of harm’s way, posthaste,” answered Wolcott. “We should also stage a C-130 out there to snatch out our launch crew shortly after the rocket has cleared the pad.”
“Is anyone from the permanent party staying behind?”
“Yup. As it stands, a skeleton crew of ten folks will remain on the island to do damage assessment after the storm passes and to run a bulldozer to clear debris off the runway. Ted Cook and four of his guys have volunteered to hunker down and stay with them.”
“I guess that it goes without saying that we’ll lose our security picket.”
Wolcott nodded. “The Navy has already flashed them their orders. The ships are steaming out of there as we speak, but one destroyer will hold on station to monitor the island during the storm. I would hate to be sittin’ on that tin can.”
Pacific Departure Facility, Johnston Island
10:05 p.m. Thursday, August 17, 1972
Happily dreaming of his carefree childhood days in Wil
ber, Ourecky sputtered awake with a start. Fully expecting to glimpse Bea’s face and the familiar surroundings of their bedroom in Dayton, his eyes instead came to focus on a gray instrument panel several inches before him. For a moment he thought he was hallucinating, but then reluctantly accepted the unpleasant reality that he was strapped into a Gemini-I atop a Titan II rocket, yet again, awaiting liftoff. He grimaced, flexed his fingers and yawned broadly.
The last ten days had been a virtual blur of frenzied preparations interspersed with infrequent catnaps and meals grabbed on the fly. After flying to the Caribbean, they had initially spent three days training underwater at the Navy’s Buck Island facility, where he and Carson practiced EVA procedures to enter the MOL’s airlock. Then it was on to Patrick Air Force Base in Florida, where he received an intensive three-day crash course in medical procedures.
Leaving Patrick, they boarded a KC-135 to endure weightlessness training parabolas as they flew across the Gulf of Mexico on their way to California. During the single longest Vomit Comet sortie in history, Ourecky practiced everything from initiating intravenous lines to donning his EVA equipment. Although they were granted an extended nap during the last hours of the flight, the grueling experience had all but wiped him out. After he was poured off the plane at San Diego, Navy nuclear personnel spent three days schooling him on reactor fundamentals and the shut-down procedures necessary to safely send the MOL’s power plant back to Earth.
Right now, he felt absolutely saturated with information. The numbing ordeal was like a hyperkinetic college cram course, except that the final exam bore life-and-death repercussions. But as much as he wanted more time to prepare, there was no more time; the clock was running out on Russo, if the minutes and seconds had not already ticked away. Since Tew decreed that they would not fly until they felt ready, their only recourse was to declare their willingness to crawl aboard a rocket bound for space. Early this morning, they did just that.
