by Mike Jenne
“Russo?” replied Wolcott. Striving to keep a serious visage, he stifled an urge to chuckle. “Really, twixt you and me, pard, I don’t much suspect that he’ll make it down alive. We had to lend it the ol’ college try, though.”
The flight surgeon looked at him as if perplexed, and clarified, “I wasn’t talking about Russo, sir. I meant Major Ourecky. I just came from communications, where I talked with the other flight medical personnel by radio. We’re very concerned that Ourecky isn’t going to make it back.”
“How so?”
“Based on what Major Carson is reporting, Ourecky has apparently acquired a very significant respiratory infection. It could be just a really bad cold, but it also might be as serious as pneumonia or severe bronchitis.”
“I’m aware that he’s ailing,” Wolcott said. “I thought he was just a little under the weather, but is it really that bad?”
The flight surgeon adjusted his wire-framed glasses. “It is. We suspect that it’s some sort of bug that he picked up before flight. Uh, sir, was the crew not placed in quarantine before the flight? You know, NASA has some established protocols for—”
“This ain’t NASA and besides, we ain’t flyin’ to the moon,” said Wolcott impatiently. “Most of our flights are of such short duration that the boys don’t even have time to get sick. Besides, before they fly, they rarely spend too much time around very many people, so we ain’t yet seen the need to further isolate them. Besides, it doesn’t really matter at this point.”
“Sir?”
“If Ourecky’s that sick, the genie’s already way out of the bottle. Don’t waste my time or General Tew’s by tellin’ us what should have been done. It’s too danged late for that. Now, tell me, right now, you’re assumin’ that he brought the bug up with him, but is there any chance that he caught something up there?”
The young flight surgeon nodded. “It’s possible, but if that’s the case, it would have to be a very virulent strain of bacteria. But from what he has described, the MOL would be an exceptionally fertile environment for bacterial growth. To be honest, it’s a very confusing situation. If it’s an infection, the onset was extremely rapid, much faster than we would have ever anticipated.”
Wolcott scratched his head and asked, “How about the danged radiation? Could he have been exposed to radiation like Cowin and Russo?”
“It’s doubtful, sir. He has checked the monitoring instruments every hour since he’s been up there, and they are no greater than normal background.”
“Well, what if it’s some sort of super-bacteria?” asked Wolcott, conjuring up images from recent science fiction movies about deadly germs from outer space. “Radiation killed Cowin and has almost killed Russo. If there was already bacteria up there, could it have accelerated its growth? Could it have caused some kind of mutation?”
The flight surgeon shook his head and answered, “No, sir, we would expect exactly the opposite effect from the radiation. After all, as I’m sure that you know, irradiation is a widely accepted process to destroy bacteria in packaged food.”
“Well then, if it might only be a bad cold, Sawbones, why are you danged concerned about Ourecky not making it home?”
“He’s already very debilitated, sir,” answered the flight surgeon. “Both of them are. The heavy G-loading during reentry is traumatic enough for healthy subjects, but it could be even more detrimental for him. If he keeps coughing like he is now, and can’t clear his airway during reentry, he could aspirate sputum and choke to death. And quite simply, sir, he could be so weak that he just passes out. I guess I don’t have to spell out the consequences of him losing consciousness during or immediately after reentry.”
Wolcott shook his head. “Okay, doc. I’m just a mite perplexed here. What you’re describing seems to be entirely out of our hands. What is it that you would have us do?”
“We are almost positive that Russo won’t make it,” asserted the flight surgeon in a curt, matter-of-fact tone. “And considering his current medical condition, it’s a tremendous risk for Major Ourecky to attempt to reenter on his own. All things being equal, we think the most sensible option is for Ourecky to discontinue the rescue mission, suit up, and execute an EVA transfer back to the Gemini-I while he is still physically able.”
“And just leave Russo up there to die?”
Nodding his head, the young flight surgeon calmly uttered, “Speaking on behalf of all the physicians, we think it’s for the best. Better to conclude this mission with one fatality rather than two.”
30
THE LONG WAY HOME
On Orbit
6:44 p.m. Friday, August 18, 1972 (REV 14 / GET: 20:29:00)
As it turned out, the extra twenty-four hours weren’t even necessary. Toiling relentlessly like a man possessed, shuttling back and forth through the station while snatching tape cartridges out of the reeking air, Ourecky had succeeded in recovering all the data, and had secured all four storage cases in the Gemini-B.
His next endeavor was to load Russo into the Gemini-B. None of the training at Buck Island or on the Vomit Comet had adequately prepared him for what he thought would have been the simplest chore of all. It took over an hour to negotiate the short tunnel between the MOL’s stern compartment and the Gemini-B reentry vehicle.
It took him three attempts to realize that the two of them could not transit the tunnel at the same time. After repeatedly banging his head—literally—he fastened a strap around Russo’s ankles, went up into the Gemini-B, and then dragged him upwards through the tunnel. Once aboard the Gemini-B, it took another thirty minutes to lash Russo’s swollen body into the left seat, using a collection of special webbing and friction buckles sent up in the transfer case.
Finally, he was faced with the moment of truth. Referring to a reference card detailing the procedures to restore power to the Gemini-B, he sucked in a deep breath, switched on the main batteries, and then depressed a series of circuit breakers. Without hesitation, the long dormant spacecraft quietly flickered to life. He slowly let out his breath, coughed several times, and then began the first phase of setting the controls for their reentry. And even though things had been hectic to this juncture, the next two hours would be a relentless race against the clock.
Satisfied that the Gemini-B was ready for reentry, he keyed the radio to speak to Carson. “Drew … I’ve loaded Russo and … powered up. Going back to … scram the reactor.”
“Wait,” replied Carson.
“Wait?”
“There’s a new development, straight from Tew and Wolcott. They want you to scuttle the rescue, suit up, lock out, and come back over to reenter with me.”
“What?” blurted Ourecky. His tormented body was overcome with spasms as he fell into another prolonged fit of coughing. He examined the resultant clump of thick mucus; alarmed, he saw that his phlegm was still marbled with specks of blood and bits of dark matter that he couldn’t identify. Obviously, something was seriously wrong with him, not just a simple cold or passing case of the flu.
“They’re sure Russo won’t make it, and they’re concerned that you’ll probably lose consciousness. How long will it take you to kit up? It will take me at least an hour to move into position, depressurize, pop the hatch, and be ready to receive you.”
He shook his head. After all the agonizing pre-mission preparations and all the work that he had already accomplished, they wanted him to abandon the mission? It was insane. He was this close. In just slightly more than an hour, the deed would be done.
Besides his unwillingness to throw in the towel, two very practical matters precluded locking out of the MOL and returning with Carson. If he expedited the process and cleared the airlock in short order, he could be back aboard the Gemini-I in a matter of minutes. Despite that, even after his umbilical hoses were reconnected, it would take at least thirty to forty-five minutes to close his hatch and repressurize the cabin. In his current state, that was an extremely long time to remain suited up; at the rate he was cou
ghing up fluid, he could literally drown in his hermetically sealed helmet.
More significantly, because he had already exhausted his ELSS’s supplemental oxygen tank to pressurize the airlock on his way in, he would be entirely reliant on the primary tank—rated at thirty minutes—to return to the Gemini-I. And he had already used some of the primary tank; for rough planning purposes, he estimated that he had no more than fifteen minutes remaining. He might make the transit with fifteen minutes of air, but that meant that there was absolutely no margin for error. It would be a huge gamble, since even the slightest fumble or misstep meant almost certain death.
Ourecky had been reluctant to disclose the incredible risk that he had taken in the airlock, even to Carson. He plainly knew that Tew and Wolcott would be furious with him if they even suspected it. If he stuck with the plan and returned with the Gemini-B, no one would ever be the wiser, since the only tangible evidence—the depleted oxygen tank on the ELSS—would remain in orbit.
Even though he had avoided it so far, he had to tell Carson. He coughed up another lump of bloody mucus, keyed the mike and stammered, “Drew … I can’t … lock out.”
“Why?”
“I … uh … accidently … vented my supplemental tank.”
“You what? How?”
“I triggered the emergency purge valve,” explained Ourecky. At least that part was factual, if not entirely revealing of the whole truth. Oddly, as he tried to paint the picture for Carson, he felt almost exactly as he did when he attempted to justify his strange conduct and prolonged absences to Bea. “Once the purge starts … it can’t be … stopped.”
“Oh,” answered Carson. “You still have some residual in your primary tank, don’t you?”
“Yeah … maybe … fifteen minutes.”
Carson was silent for over a minute, then stated, “Fifteen minutes? You can make it over, Scott. It will be tight, but you can do it. I’ll take you back.”
“No. I’m going to … stick it out,” vowed Ourecky, in a hoarse and raspy voice. “I’m bringing … Russo … home.”
Carson was silent again, but finally said, “I wish you would reconsider, Scott, but I understand. I don’t agree with you, but it’s your decision and I respect it. I’ll let them know downstairs. I’m sure they won’t be happy with you.”
Ourecky coughed several times and said, “I’ll … live with that. See … you … in a bit?”
“Yeah, you will. Be careful, brother.”
7:05 p.m. (REV 14 / GET: 20:50:12)
The reactor reentry vessel was endowed with its own computer. It was similar to the Gemini’s onboard computer, except that it bore a singular purpose: once the reactor was jettisoned from the MOL, the computer would guide its reentry to ensure a controlled descent into an unpopulated remote location on Earth. Like the Gemini’s computer, it was designed to automatically receive an updated navigational fix uploaded from a ground station. But since the MOL’s data uplinks were on the fritz, along with the rest of the station’s finicky communications gear, the positional data had to be updated manually before the reactor could be ejected.
Straining to remain conscious, Ourecky frantically punched in the last few sets of numbers. With two minutes to spare, he double-checked each entry against the data relayed by Carson. After suffering a protracted fit of coughing, he keyed the radio and said, “Drew, I’ve checked everything … let’s verify the touchdown point entries just to be triple-sure … uh, Address 10 is Neg 16. Address 11 is 98 … Correct?” If the numbers were entered correctly, the reactor vessel—which was packed with radioactive isotopes that would remain hazardous for thousands of years to come—would descend under parachute roughly 1700 miles west of Australia and then sink into the murky depths of the Indian Ocean.
“That’s affirm, Scott. Address 10 should read Neg 16 and Address 11 is 98. You’re set.”
Ourecky breathed a sigh of relief. The final step was to key the computer to accept a three-dimensional position in space, which he had previously entered, once Carson verified it with a star shot.
“Okay, Scott, I have my sextant up and I’m tracking my star now. Ready to lock in the fix and dump the reactor?”
“Ready.” Holding his breath, Ourecky threw the SCRAM switch; a light flickered, confirming that the control rods had slid into position to halt the fission process.
“Stand by … stand by … stand by … On my mark … Four … Three … Two … One … Mark.”
Ourecky methodically tapped the key sequence that obligated the computer to correlate the navigation fix. As a light flashed green, indicating that the computer had digested the data, he shoved the red plunger to jettison the reactor vessel.
The JETT REACT confirmation light blinked on; hopefully, the pod’s explosive bolts had fired and the reactor would soon be on its long descent into the atmosphere. In any event, as he hustled forward towards his own ride home, he realized that it was futile to continue contemplating the reactor’s fate, since that matter was now well out of his grasp.
Arriving at the transfer tunnel, he took a last look around and glimpsed Cowin’s swollen right arm poking through a gap in his sleeping compartment’s privacy curtain. Ourecky squeezed through the narrow tunnel for what seemed like the hundredth time today. Inside the Gemini-B, the accumulated data cartridges were safely stowed away in four boxes, and Russo was still blissfully comatose in the left seat. Ourecky wrestled the heavy heat shield hatch into place, locked it, and then swung the pressure hatch closed. It sealed with a satisfying click. He dogged the hatch secure, then squirmed into his own seat and fastened his restraint harness.
There were still many niggling details to attend to, but Ourecky was too tired and too busy to be apprehensive. He was now effectively on his own; Carson no longer flew in formation alongside the MOL. After the reactor was jettisoned, he had executed a minor burn to boost the Gemini-I into a slightly higher orbit. As a result of the maneuver, which was intended to create a safety margin as Ourecky made his final attitude adjustments for reentry, the Gemini-I now travelled marginally slower than the MOL. If everything went according to plan, Ourecky and Russo would touch down at White Sands less than an hour from now, and Carson would land at Edwards Air Force Base—approximately seven hundred miles to the west—roughly ninety minutes later.
Wheezing to catch his breath, Ourecky updated the Gemini-B’s computer with reentry data before talking himself through the sequence that fired explosive charges to physically separate the Gemini-B reentry vehicle from the MOL. A few minutes later, after orienting the spacecraft, he watched the clock, counted down, and jabbed the button to light the retros.
The familiar thump of the first retro reverberated through his back. Within seconds, all six of the Gemini-B’s retrorockets were burning exactly as designed. At this point, only one thing was absolutely certain: they might not make it home, but they were definitely leaving orbit.
After seven flights into space, Ourecky had never grown very fond of reentry, even though the fiery ordeal signified that the perilous journey was swiftly drawing to a conclusion. For the next few minutes, there was little for him to do except monitor the instruments, since the computer would control the different rolling maneuvers to generate lift. He thought of Bea and prayed that she would not make good on her ultimatum. He also prayed that he would complete his mission to ferry Russo home alive. For good measure, he prayed for Carson’s safe return as well.
Through his window, he watched the pinkish-red radiance steadily build as the heat shield absorbed friction. Soon, the rosy glimmer was replaced by a brilliant orange glow and finally by a dense rippling maelstrom of flame. A pervasive vibration set in; the shaking was so violent that it literally rattled his teeth. As the cabin heated up and the clamor rose, he continued to hack up crud. As the G’s piled on, he could scarcely draw a breath; it felt like a circus elephant was perched squarely on his chest. His head throbbed, his guts churned, and his heart pounded in his chest. Rivulets of sweat trickled from h
is forehead, stinging his eyes and clouding his vision.
He fought to summon all the tricks he had learned at the Wheel centrifuge in Johnstown; grunting loudly, he forced himself to maintain his lungs partially inflated so that they wouldn’t collapse altogether. As globs of mucus accumulated in his throat, he tilted his head to the side and choked them up. Barely lucid, he struggled to remain conscious. He knew that falling unconscious meant almost certain death, since if he failed to initiate the sequence to deploy the paraglider, the spacecraft would plummet to Earth and eventually bury itself in the desert.
Wheezing, compelling himself over and over to breathe, he focused on the instruments as he waited for the appropriate moment to dump the drogue chute. If he could remain conscious until then, just a little while longer, their chances for survival would be greatly enhanced. As a safety measure, the paraglider was intentionally rigged so that it would initially assume the “half-brakes” configuration after opening; at half-brakes, the paraglider had minimal forward airspeed, so it behaved almost like a conventional parachute, descending more or less straight down. So even if he passed out and wasn’t able to steer the paraglider to the landing strip, the fabric wing should deliver them to Earth intact, and with any luck, they would be quickly found and rescued.
Outside the cabin, the undulating flames gradually diminished and were finally snuffed out altogether as the Gemini-B plunged through the upper reaches of the atmosphere. Finally, the 60K telelight blinked on. Reaching out, with his arm as heavy as lead, Ourecky verified that the landing squib bus circuit was armed. Seconds later, he pushed the button to manually deploy the drogue. Through the window, he saw the parachute stream out and inflate. Without prompting, he completed the other busywork that was part of the frenzied post-reentry sequence. He switched off the Reaction Control System—RCS—thrusters, installed the D-rings for their ejection seats, switched the computer to the Rate Command mode, and verified that his restraint harness straps were locked. He was beset by another spell of violent coughing, but kept his eyes on the instruments.
