by Mike Jenne
So here they were. On the plus side, compared to their previous flights, it was a whirlwind mission. If Ourecky successfully boarded the MOL and if he completed his tasks as scheduled, he could theoretically reenter to the first available recovery zone—Patrick Air Force Base—at the conclusion of their twelfth orbit, in slightly less than twenty hours. Since the Earth rotated fifteen degrees under each orbital pass, there were three other opportunities for reentry—Scott Air Force Base in Illinois, White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico and Edwards Air Force Base—at ninety-minute intervals.
“Hey! Are you awake yet?” asked Carson. “Come on, Scott. This is no time to be goofing off. We have places to go!”
“Sorry,” replied Ourecky. “Wow. I was totally out of it.” Not sure of how long he had been asleep, he checked the clock. Only a few minutes remained until liftoff.
“I know. I only woke you up because I was afraid I wouldn’t hear the engines over your damned snoring. Not to worry, though. I’ve got everything covered.”
“Man, I’m parched,” commented Ourecky, looking longingly towards the water nozzle. His mouth was dry, like he had been gnawing on chalk. “I’d do anything for a shot of water right now.”
Carson chuckled. “You know the rules. We can’t crack open the bar until we reach orbit. Can you wait a few minutes?”
“I suppose I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” He hoped that he could remain awake as the mission got underway. His left thigh pocket contained a glassine bag of Dexedrine capsules. It was a common practice for the “go pills” to be issued to combat pilots. Although the flight surgeons insisted that he carry them just in case, Ourecky had resolved himself not to dip into the speed unless there was no alternative.
The next few minutes passed quickly. Ourecky heard the usual sounds and felt the familiar vibrations of the former ICBM coming to life. “Launch vehicle is switching to internal power,” reported the CAPCOM. “Stand by for engine gimballing.”
“Standing by for gimballing,” replied Carson. “Ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” muttered Ourecky.
“T-minus one minute,” announced the CAPCOM. “Stage Two valves opening in five seconds … T-minus thirty seconds … Have a safe trip, guys … T-minus twenty seconds.”
Carson tapped Ourecky on the shoulder, pointed at the mission clock, and said, “Yours.”
The CAPCOM’s litany continued: “T-minus ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four … Titan first stage ignition … two, one, Zero. Hold-down bolts fired. Liftoff! ”
“Liftoff and the clock is started!” exclaimed Ourecky. “Scepter Eleven is headed upstairs!”
On Orbit
4:58 a.m., Friday, August 18, 1972 (REV 5 / GET: 6:43:00)
They overtook the MOL in four orbits, nailing the rendezvous precisely as planned. Forgoing their normal station-keeping and approach procedures, Carson quickly coaxed the Gemini-I into a parking position roughly eighteen feet away from the MOL, directly above the airlock hatch, and then carefully nulled out any remnants of relative motion. By this time, he had the process down pat, like parking a car on a quiet suburban street.
“Time to gear up for your little jaunt across the void, Scott,” said Carson, unwrapping the foil from a stick of Juicy Fruit chewing gum. “I’ll prep your umbilical while you get dressed.”
“Man, Drew, I’m worn out and I haven’t even done anything yet,” replied Ourecky, yawning and stretching. He snapped some frames to finish a roll of film, changed it, and stowed the camera. He groped in his side storage pocket, fished out two pre-printed checklist cards labeled ‘ELSS Donning Procedures’ and ‘Pre-EVA Suit Integrity Check’ and secured them to his instrument panel with an alligator clip. “I would give anything to crawl into bed for a week.”
“Scott, are you sure you’re ready for this?” asked Carson, pulling the white umbilical from its storage pouch. Pinning it between his knees, he carefully “stacked” it in S-folds so that it would feed out cleanly. The twenty-five foot lifeline would convey oxygen, electrical power and communications to Ourecky during his abbreviated excursion. It was relatively easy to manipulate right now, but once charged with oxygen, it would take on a life of its own, behaving like a sluggish and inflexible anaconda.
“I’m just really tired,” replied Ourecky, rubbing his eyes. “But that can’t be fixed.”
“Look, no one’s heard a peep from Russo since we’ve been upstairs. We don’t know if he’s even alive. We can stall for another rev so you can grab a nap,” said Carson. “No one’s going to fault you for that, Scott. You’ve been burning the candle from both ends for the past ten days. I would feel a lot more confident if you logged some decent rest before you went over.”
“Me too, but I don’t think we have that luxury, particularly since this clock is ticking down from the other side. Anyway, I appreciate the offer, but there’s no sense delaying the inevitable.”
“Okay, but it’s your funeral.” Carson removed dust covers from the umbilical fittings and stowed the plastic caps in his thigh pocket.
“Thanks for reminding me, brother.” Ourecky reached back over his left shoulder to unstow the ELSS—EVA Life Support System—chest pack from its storage cabinet between their heads. The bulky ELSS contained a thirty-minute emergency oxygen supply, heat exchanger, back-up batteries and a carbon dioxide scrubber.
Connected to the umbilical, the ELSS functioned as an interface, not unlike a placenta between an expectant mother and fetus, to filter and condition the raw ingredients necessary to sustain life in the incredibly inhospitable environment of space. To prepare for this unique mission, Ourecky’s ELSS had been modified with quick-release fittings for the umbilical’s oxygen and electrical connections, so that he could undo them swiftly with his hands encased in the awkward pressure suit gloves. As an additional safety precaution, a supplemental thirty-minute oxygen tank was also attached to the bottom of the ELSS.
The ELSS chest pack was only one piece of a two-part EVA Support Package. The second component was a large MMU—Modular Maneuvering Unit—backpack, which would be carried aloft in the Gemini’s adapter section. Looking almost like a “Buck Rogers” contraption, the MMU contained a substantial supply of oxygen, more batteries, a UHF radio, and an integral set of small thrusters—powered by hydrogen peroxide—which would allow an untethered spacewalker to operate independently from the Gemini.
Originally designed for the Air Force MOL effort, the MMU was supposed to have been tested during NASA Gemini missions but was not. Since this mission’s EVA was of extremely short duration—hopefully—the MMU was not a viable option; besides, Ourecky had only trained with the ELSS, so the chest pack would have to suffice for their requirements.
As simple as this excursion seemed, it was not. After he entered the MOL’s airlock, Ourecky would disconnect the ELSS from the umbilical, temporarily becoming a self-contained one-man spacecraft. He dreaded that phase of the mission, mainly because the ELSS lacked a radio. There hadn’t been adequate time for the Blue Gemini engineers to jury-rig one, so he would be incommunicado until safely inside the MOL. Once aboard, he could talk to Carson and the ground over the Gemini-B’s radios, but in the interim, if he encountered a problem, he was entirely on his own, since he would no longer have the hard-wired intercom link in the umbilical.
As he fastened the ELSS’s connections to the matching fittings on his suit, he recalled that he had a back-up radio, a hand-held UHF transceiver that he could use to communicate with Carson, inside a transfer case that would accompany him. The hermetically sealed case, an aluminum-shelled container roughly the size of an overnight suitcase, contained medical supplies and other items. Ourecky would have preferred to bring a wider assortment of supplies and tools, but the amount of materials was constrained by the cubic dimensions of the airlock.
6:20 a.m. (REV 6 / GET: 8:05:00)
On orbit, nothing was simple. Even a seemingly mundane task like opening the door and venturing outside was a time-con
suming and intensive endeavor. After Ourecky donned and activated his ELSS, the two men spent over an hour crawling through pre-EVA checklists, inflating their suits, performing suit integrity checks, and depressurizing the cabin. Finally, they were ready to unlatch and swing open Ourecky’s hatch.
After struggling with it in the Tank, he found that the hatch was much easier to manipulate than he anticipated. Slowly standing up in his seat, he marveled at the partially obstructed view of the Earth passing by below. As he swiveled to look towards the rear of the Gemini-I, he saw long strips of expended primacord fluttering in the vacuum, flailing like a squid’s tentacles from the gleaming white rim of the adapter section.
He took in a deep breath and steeled himself for his big leap. Carson had maneuvered the Gemini-I to within five feet of the MOL, so Ourecky had to cross the gap between the vehicles, aiming for a handrail next to the MOL’s airlock hatch. The handrail was about four feet long, with approximately the same diameter as a large broomstick.
He knew that if he missed the handrail on the first attempt, Carson could reel him in by the umbilical for another try. That safety net was available on his short trip between the Gemini-I and the MOL, but he was painfully aware that if he experienced any setbacks in the airlock, after he had disconnected the umbilical, Carson could provide with him only very limited assistance.
A return trip would be a dicey undertaking, since if he misjudged the distances or inadvertently bounced without securing a handhold on the Gemini-I, he could readily find himself adrift with a limited supply of oxygen. Carson might successfully maneuver to catch him in time, but it was highly unlikely.
With just a gentle push, he launched himself and caught the MOL’s handrail on the first attempt. Gripping the bar tightly with his left hand, he popped the exterior hatch inwards with his right hand. The hatch was spring-loaded, with a catch to hold it in the open position. “Exterior hatch is moving smoothly,” he reported. “It’s holding just as advertised.”
“Excellent,” replied Carson over the intercom. “You’re looking good out there.”
“I’m poking my head in to eyeball the hatch seal,” stated Ourecky, edging headfirst into the airlock. He visually inspected the composite rubber gasket to ensure that it was still intact after prolonged exposure to temperature extremes and vacuum. He saw no obvious defects, but the moment of truth would come later when he attempted to pressurize the airlock. “The seal looks good. Ready with the transfer case?”
“Ready,” replied Carson.
With his upper body protruding into the airlock, Ourecky tugged on the case’s Dacron lanyard. It was another potentially dangerous move in this complex ballet. Slowly pulling hand over hand, like taking in a fishing net, he had to draw in the cord carefully to avoid snarling the case’s tether with his umbilical. The lanyard was routed through a D-ring attached to his parachute harness, so once he reeled it in, he had to transition it from the front of his body to the rear.
Encumbered by the stiff EVA suit and the unwieldy ELSS chest pack, he found that moving the case was much more awkward than he had previously anticipated. The effort expended at least fifteen minutes longer than planned. Finally getting it in position, he wriggled into the airlock. Tugging on its lanyard, he wedged the case snugly behind his thighs.
Since it was the only way to enter the MOL, the rescue effort was entirely dependent on the airlock functioning properly. The airlock was similar to the lock-out rescue chamber on a submarine. Its exterior hatch opened inwards. Once Ourecky entered and pressurized the airlock, the exterior hatch would seal itself. As more oxygen flowed in, the airlock pressure would equalize with the MOL main cabin, then he would be able to open the interior hatch. In simplest terms, the whole thing functioned somewhat like the flapper valve at the bottom of a toilet tank.
The fact that the exterior hatch was open was a tremendously good sign. According to Tarbox, Russo had been instructed to prepare the airlock for just such a contingency. If the airlock had been left pressurized, as it normally was, then Ourecky would have been unable to crack open the exterior hatch, and all of this effort would have been in vain.
To allow him adequate room to close and open the hatches, the airlock’s interior was three feet in diameter and roughly seven feet long, so he could shift back and forth as necessary. He could see a sliver of blue Earth below, and saw that it was quickly growing dim. Having lost track of time, he checked his watch and realized that they were going into their forty-five minute interlude of orbital darkness. That wasn’t good, since they had planned to complete the transfer and lock-in during the light phase. His wrestling contest with the transfer case hadn’t helped the situation.
“I know we’re dragging behind schedule, but I’m going to press on.” Situating himself in the airlock, Ourecky was the verge of becoming the loneliest man in the universe, if but only briefly. He opened the supply valve on a supplemental oxygen tank strapped to the bottom of the ELSS; the thirty-minute reservoir should offer him plenty of time to board the MOL. “Drew, I’m ready to chop the umbilical,” he said calmly. “Are you ready over there?”
“I am,” answered Carson. “Are you absolutely sure?”
Ourecky swallowed, blinked, and replied, “Yeah. Russo is waiting for me in there.”
“Okay, buddy. Good luck. Give me a five count when you’re ready for me to cut the cord.”
“Okay. Five … four … three … two … one … mark.” As he counted down, with his gloved hand poised on the umbilical’s quick disconnect, Ourecky stared apprehensively at the small instrument panel on the top of the chest pack, focusing his attention on an indicator marked “ELSS BATT.” The rectangular light blinked on, indicating that Carson had switched off power and oxygen flow. Ourecky disconnected the umbilical’s oxygen and electrical connections and then unsnapped the restraint tether attachment on his parachute harness.
Except for the sound of his breathing, it was eerily silent. With his link severed, Ourecky was alone. Moments later, tugged by Carson, the umbilical slowly receded through the exterior hatch opening like an albino eel disappearing into an underwater cave. Once he was confident that there was no danger of the umbilical fouling the hatch, Ourecky shoved himself down in the airlock and used his booted feet to push the spring-loaded exterior hatch closed against its seal.
He adjusted his position to prepare for the next phase, pressurizing the airlock. If all went well, that would be just a simple matter of opening the flood valve to allow oxygen to flow freely into the space. Recessed into a pocket, the oversized valve was made to operate with unwieldy gloves. Ourecky twisted it open.
He watched the airlock internal pressure gauge next to the valve; its needle should fluctuate as oxygen surged into the small space, but there was nothing. Then he realized that the flood valve had two stages, with a safety shut-off inside the MOL. Russo should have left that safety valve open, but apparently had neglected to do so.
Ourecky groaned; it was an extremely disheartening turn of events. The consequences of the simple oversight would quickly cascade. If the airlock was not filled with oxygen to equalize the pressure, the exterior hatch would not seal, the interior hatch could not be opened, and this rescue mission would be all for naught. Ironically, Russo might be only a few feet away from the airlock, but without a radio or other means of communications, short of frantically banging on the interior hatch in the hope that he would realize his dilemma, Ourecky had no way to urge him to simply twist open the safety valve.
Striving to remain calm, he wiggled his fingers and then tried the flood valve again. It swiveled freely; he twisted it completely shut and then rotated back to the full open position, but there was still no outflow of air. In anticipation of this very contingency, he and Carson had sketched out a “crawfish” emergency withdrawal plan.
To signal that he was in trouble, he would open the exterior hatch and then push down so that his legs protruded from the airlock. Carson would then maneuver as close as he could and blink t
he floodlight twice, indicating that he was ready to receive Ourecky back into the Gemini-I. Ourecky would then launch himself, climb back into his seat as swiftly as possible, and wait for Carson to reattach the life-giving umbilical. Afterwards, they would wrestle the hatch closed, re-pressurize the cabin and prepare for reentry. It was an extremely risky maneuver, and the potential danger would be greatly compounded since they would be forced to execute it in orbital darkness.
Meditating on his circumstances, he closed his eyes and did some quick volumetric calculations on his mental blackboard. If he was right, his supplemental tank would fill the airlock to yield sufficient pressure to open the interior hatch. If he was wrong, he could be trapped in the airlock with no means of communication, with less than thirty minutes of air to breathe, doomed to die in soundless solitude. The only sane recourse was to cut his losses and return to the Gemini-I to head home, damning Russo to oblivion.
The only sane recourse? If only it was that simple. He flew up here to help Russo, and the only thing that separated them was a mere eighth-inch thickness of titanium. Of course, it was an eighth-inch of titanium drawn snugly in place by a brutally perfect vacuum.
Ourecky also suspected that Tew had reluctantly dispatched him to the MOL with the knowledge that once he was here, he would not turn back. And for whatever reason, he thought of Haiti; he knew little of what had transpired there, except that he was painfully conscious that men had risked their lives to save his, and now he felt compelled to settle the balance.
Even with the oxygen flow shut off, his suit still contained a couple of minutes of breathable air. With no time to waste, he decided to go for broke. He closed the supply valve on the supplemental tank and disconnected its short hose from the ELSS’s MMU oxygen fitting. He mashed in the Oxygen Flow selector knob on the ELSS’s instrument panel and rotated it to the ‘Off’ position. Then he twisted the supplemental tank’s valve open again and triggered the emergency purge device to more swiftly vent the cylinder.
