by Mike Jenne
A brusque shout interrupted his romantic musings. “Hamburger, extra onions?” queried the short order cook, thrusting a paper plate toward Ourecky.
“Uh, yeah, that’s mine,” replied Ourecky. He reached out for the plate, but another hand darted in to swiftly snatch it away. Noting that the man wore a major’s oak leaves on the shoulders of his flight suit, he politely said, “Uh, sir, uh, I think that’s my . . .”
“You don’t mind, do you, Lieutenant?” asked the major, quickly wielding a plastic fork to scrape away the extra onions. “I have to be back out to the flight line in a few minutes. I’m a test pilot. No time to waste. Know what I mean?”
The broad-shouldered interloper was roguishly handsome, with dense brown hair and matching mustache. His eyes were a startling shade of crystalline blue, almost unnaturally so, as if glistening particles had been snatched from the sky and embedded beneath his brows. He looked like someone destined to fly, who could not be anything else but an aviator. It was as if Steve Canyon had somehow clawed his way out of the two-dimensional confines of the Sunday comics, arriving here to lay claim to Ourecky’s hamburger.
Like Ourecky, the pilot wasn’t particularly tall, but then Scott remembered that NASA’s astronauts—his heroes—were also short of stature. The pilot squirted catsup on the hamburger before cutting all the way to the front of the line, directly to the cashier’s station. After paying the check, he leaned toward Sara and said something quietly. Giggling, she nodded and then smiled broadly as she jotted something on his ticket. The square-jawed pilot casually tucked the slip of paper into his pocket, picked up his tray, and then strode away to enjoy his purloined lunch.
Ourecky sighed as he selected a cellophane-wrapped egg salad sandwich from a nearby cooler. A faded label indicated that it had been prepared last week and that it should be eaten or discarded by today’s date. There were about twenty men in line in front of him, so it took almost five minutes for him to make it to the cash register.
“Hey, Scott,” said Sara, smiling as she made change from his dollar. “How’s it going today?”
“Just busy,” he replied, looking at the floor as he stuffed the coins into his front pocket. “Really busy. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” she replied. “Guess so. See ya then.” Sara kept glancing toward the handsome pilot, who was seated at a table about thirty feet distant. Finishing Ourecky’s hamburger, he wiped his lips with a napkin and grinned at her. She winked and smiled back.
Ourecky found an unoccupied table in a far corner. After taking his seat, he placed the letter on the table, flat and unopened, and studied it as he slowly consumed his bland sandwich. He contemplated the envelope’s significance; in a sense, it contained all of his boyhood dreams and all that he had worked for.
After his graduation and commissioning nearly two years ago, he was posted to Eglin Air Force Base, where he worked in armament design. Located in the Florida Panhandle, Eglin was a sprawling expanse of pine thickets, swamps, and bombing ranges. Pilots trained here on their way to Vietnam, perfecting their bombing and strafing skills. The huge complex also provided a perfect environment for testing the cutting edge ordnance concocted by Ourecky and his peers.
Although his path to the stars had taken a detour, he fervently poured himself into his labors at Eglin. There could be no man more perfect for the tasks assigned to him. When it came to understanding trajectories, the paths that objects follow through the air, he was a computational machine incarnate. He could literally picture complex calculations in his mind to study their nuances. Capitalizing on these abilities, he became instrumental in designing “stand-off” weapons that would enable a pilot to safely attack a target from a considerable distance away.
He finished the sandwich, washed it down with tepid milk, crumpled the wrapper and gently nudged the plastic tray aside. Even though he diligently applied himself to his work at the Armament Lab, Ourecky still stubbornly clung to his dream of becoming a pilot and eventually an astronaut. But would the Air Force grant him a waiver to attend flight school? The answer obviously resided in the envelope.
He could barely contain his excitement. He had recently read a best-selling self-help book, The Power of Positive Thinking, so he had convinced himself that he knew exactly what the letter would state. It would declare that the almighty United States Air Force had come to its collective senses and now understood the necessity of his continued service as a flying officer. Now, it was just a simple matter of opening the envelope to confirm that its contents matched the reality within his thoughts.
But opening the envelope wasn’t a simple matter. He just couldn’t will himself to do it. As strange as it might seem to others, mathematics had a calming effect on him, so he worked a few equations in his head to settle down. Slightly more focused, he decided that it was time to know the truth.
His fingers trembled as he slowly tore open the flap. He held his breath as he unfolded the crisp white paper, then forced himself to read the dispatch. The very first sentence curtly summed up the Air Force’s decision: “The applicant’s waiver request for flight training is hereby DENIED.”
As if to heap burning coals on his scorching disappointment, the letter succinctly added: “This office considers this matter CLOSED. In the interest of effective stewardship of the Air Force’s limited resources, this office admonishes the applicant to make NO subsequent attempts for similar waivers. Any future waiver attempt will be immediately referred to the applicant’s chain of command with a recommendation for potential disciplinary action.”
Tears welled in his eyes as he barely resisted the urge to curse out loud. As his face burned with anger and embarrassment, the paper slipped through his fingers. Like Icarus falling into the sea after flying too close to the sun, the single page—bearing Ourecky’s dreams of flight—slowly fluttered to the scuffed linoleum floor. He glanced up to see the handsome pilot, now standing at the register, chatting with Sara as he bought a slice of apple pie. Swaggering back to his table, the aviator winked at him.
He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He couldn’t remember when he had suffered so much humiliation in a single day. A few minutes passed before he felt someone tapping on his shoulder. He turned to see a heavyset man with features that were slightly Oriental, maybe Japanese or Korean or partly so. The man looked vaguely familiar; Ourecky was sure that he had recently seen him around the base.
“Lieutenant, I think you dropped this,” stated the stranger quietly, handing Ourecky the letter. “I thought it might be important.”
“Uh . . . thanks,” mumbled Ourecky, regaining his composure. He took the paper and turned away. He stuck the letter back in the envelope. Now that his fate was effectively sealed, his choices were much plainer. Since he could not be a pilot, it made little sense for him to remain in the Air Force. He would serve out the remainder of his term, complete the projects he was working on, and then apply for an advanced degree program, perhaps at MIT. Afterwards, he would submit an application to work at NASA; if he could not ascend into space himself, then perhaps he could help others to get there.
5
NIGHT DROP AT EGLIN
Armament Evaluation Range Three-Alpha
Eglin Air Force Base, Florida
11:45 a.m., Monday, April 15, 1968
Crouched in a heavily fortified bunker, Scott Ourecky listened to the F-4 fighter make its run-in to the bombing range. Muffled by his earplugs and several feet of tightly packed dirt, the jet’s roar was barely audible. Looking out through an observation port, he gazed at a rusted tank hull—the target of today’s test—through a set of massive binoculars.
A radio speaker squawked: The pilot announced that he was thumbing the “pickle” switch to release the prototype robotic bomb. If all went well, the bomb would sail through the air on a pre-set trajectory, automatically adjusting its course with slight flicks and twitches of its tail fins.
Seconds later, the derelict tank disappeared in a sudden wa
sh of flame and smoke. Whirling like a child’s toy, its decapitated turret sailed several yards into the air. Ourecky winced as the bunker was rocked by the shock wave of the bomb’s detonation. A cloud of fine dust quickly saturated the air; he covered his mouth and nose with a white handkerchief. Clods of dirt and chunks of scrap metal spattered the bunker’s reinforced earthen roof like hail. It took a few minutes for the smoke and dust to clear, and for the world to settle back to normalcy.
“Excellent!” declared the man standing next to Ourecky. “Dead on!”
“Huh?” asked Ourecky, cupping his ear as he swiveled around. “Sir, I can’t hear you.” Then he remembered the waxy cotton plugs jammed in his ears and tugged them out.
“Dead on,” repeated the man. He was Ourecky’s boss, Colonel Ron Paster, the director of Advanced Armament Design at Eglin Air Force Base. He was a tall man and had to stoop to fit inside the confined bunker. “I don’t think we could have nailed it any closer.”
Scribbling notes on the test, Ourecky nodded in agreement. They had refined the steering system just about as much as it could be refined; soon, the new bomb would make its lethal debut in the skies over Southeast Asia.
Smiling to himself, he reflected on how suddenly things had changed since receiving his rejection letter last Thursday. An opportunity had arisen that caused him to question his decision to leave the Air Force. Unbeknownst to him, at least until late Friday afternoon, he had been the subject of some intensive negotiations between his boss and an influential retired general at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio. The former general wanted to shanghai him for a highly classified research project but was meeting significant resistance, since Ourecky’s current work was deemed vital to the ongoing war in Vietnam.
Eventually, Paster and the general hammered out a time-sharing agreement in which Ourecky would spend two weeks here, then the following two weeks at Wright-Patt, alternating between the two bases until at least one of the crucial projects was completed. Of course, all of this was contingent on whether he made it through his initial interviews and tests in Ohio.
Ourecky didn’t savor the notion of shuttling between projects and bases, but he was a miniscule cog in a large and complex machine. Besides, they promised to pin captain’s bars on him—over a year ahead of his peers—so there was something to be said for the deal. If nothing else, perhaps there was a remote chance he could etch out a career in the Air Force without ever wearing the silver wings of a pilot.
As Paster, Ourecky, and three other officers emerged from the bunker, momentarily dazed birds and shock-addled squirrels looked on in confusion. The acrid scent of cordite wafted heavily in the air, and the budding leaves of scrub oaks were coated with a patina of powdery brown dust.
The range phone jangled in a plywood shed. A sergeant answered it and called for Colonel Paster. After a short conversation, Paster spoke to Ourecky. “Scott, you’re supposed to meet Virgil Wolcott out at Auxiliary Field Ten this evening. He’s visiting the base for some sort of test. He’s expecting you out there at eighteen hundred. You need to wear civilian clothes suitable for being outside.”
Eglin’s expanse was dotted with outlying sub-bases called auxiliary fields, and Ourecky really wasn’t sure where Aux Field Ten was or how to drive there. In any event, he thought, he had a few hours to find out. “I’ll be there, sir,” he answered.
“Colonel, is that General Wolcott?” asked a major standing next to Paster. The major’s face was a mixture of surprise and confusion. The other officers appeared perplexed as well. “Ourecky is meeting General Wolcott? The General Wolcott?”
Paster nodded. “One and the same,” he answered, patting dust from his khaki uniform. “Except ol’ Virgil is no longer a general. He retired last year, and now he’s working on some hush-hush project up at Wright-Patterson. And gentlemen, let’s exercise a little discretion and keep this matter among ourselves.”
Eglin Air Force Base, Florida; 2:35 p.m., Monday, April 15, 1968
The hop from Ohio to Florida was exactly the kind of whirlwind hell-for-leather jaunt that Virgil Wolcott relished. Although he had retired over a year ago, the Air Force had granted him special authorization to continue flying, so long as he maintained proficiency and received his annual “up” slip from a flight surgeon.
Remaining on flight status was only one of several concessions he had been given to stay on as the deputy director—as a government civilian executive—of Blue Gemini. When he filed his retirement paperwork last year, he intended to spend the rest of his days riding horses and mending fences back on the family spread in Oklahoma, but a chance to jump behind the controls of a T-38 Talon whenever he desired was just too tempting to pass up. He and his back-seater, Mark Tew, had flown the T-38 down from Ohio to inspect some facilities at Eglin.
Following the ground marshaller’s signals, he deftly taxied the supersonic trainer to the spot where a transient alert crew awaited their arrival. Their Plexiglas canopies whirred open as the ground crew positioned ladders to facilitate their descent. Wolcott peeled off his damp flight gloves and dug a foil-lined packet of Red Man chewing tobacco out of a breast pocket of his flight suit. As he tucked a damp lump of tobacco in his mouth, he heard a rustling noise from the back seat. “Are you still doin’ paperwork back there, pardner?” he asked. “You couldn’t just relax and enjoy the scenery for a change?”
“No rest for the weary, Virgil,” replied Tew, hurriedly jamming a stack of documents into a leather attaché.
A tech sergeant climbed the ladder and threw Wolcott a salute almost as stiff as his starched utilities. Ticking off the last items on his post-flight checklist, Wolcott glanced up and casually returned the salute.
The tech sergeant related further instructions. “General, you can change clothes in the locker room in the Operations shed. My people will secure your flight gear. There’s a sedan and driver waiting at Operations that will take you on to your destination.”
Wolcott allowed the sergeant to unfasten the last few connections that secured his parachute harness to the ejection seat and then pushed himself up out of the narrow seat pan. His body ached like he had spent the past few hours tossing hay bales. He had always been a bit too tall for jet cockpits, and the T-38’s was no exception, but now he was starting to face the grim truth that he was getting a little too old for demanding cross-country flights.
Trying his best to appear fresh and nonchalant, he clattered down the ladder. While Wolcott flew every chance he had to keep current, Tew wasn’t that familiar with the T-38 and took slightly longer to disembark. As Tew gingerly descended, Wolcott opened an under-wing luggage pod and wrestled out the canvas kit bags that contained their clothes and sundries.
Half an hour later, they had doffed their flight gear and were in civvies. With the exception of flight gear and when he was summoned to the Pentagon, Tew rarely wore any semblance of a uniform. The same was true of the other military personnel assigned to Blue Gemini.
Wolcott stepped out from behind his locker door. He was dressed in starched blue jeans, a white shirt with pearl snap buttons, and well-worn cowboy boots. His neck was adorned by a bolo string tie bearing a gaudy slide fashioned of silver and turquoise. His slender waist was encircled by a brown leather belt fastened with a massive hand-tooled silver buckle.
In contrast to his compatriot, Tew had packed more conventional garb in his kit bag. He wore tailored khaki trousers, a light blue knit sport shirt, and brown penny loafers. “I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy,” chided Tew, paraphrasing Marty Robbins. “Virgil, do you suppose that there will ever come a day when you don’t dress like an extra in a spaghetti Western?”
“Mi amigo, now that I’m retired, I don’t much give a hoot what anyone thinks,” replied Wolcott, donning a genuine white Stetson hat to complete his ensemble.
3:15 p.m.
In front of the Operations building, Master Sergeant Jimmy Hara patiently waited beside an official blue Ford sedan. Short, bulky, with a crew
cut and sparse moustache, Hara was a Japanese-American counter-intelligence specialist with eighteen years experience in the Air Force. He slid in behind the wheel and donned sunglasses as Tew and Wolcott quickly took their places in the car’s back seat.
“So, Jimmy, you’ve been keepin’ a watchful eye on this kid Ourecky?” asked Wolcott, rolling down his window before lighting a cigarette.
“That I have, Virgil,” replied Hara, yawning as he pulled away from the curb. “Care for a report?”
“Sure, pard,” answered Wolcott. “What sort of skeletons did you find rattlin’ in his closet?”
“None. Not a single bone. If you must know, Virgil, this has been the most boring two weeks of my life. I’ve known Shinto monks who lead more exciting lives than this egghead.”
“How so, Jimmy?” asked Tew, opening a spiral-bound report in his lap.
“Well, sir, he usually works at least twelve hours a day, seven days a week. If he’s not at work, he’s at his room at the BOQ. He doesn’t hang out at the Club and rarely goes off base. Quiet as a church mouse. I’m not even sure that he drinks.”
“Girlfriend?” asked Wolcott.
Hara shook his head. “Not that I can tell. This guy is definitely not a social butterfly. Very much the loner. It looked like he had his eye on a little local number who works at the base snack bar, but I think she’s a lot more interested in pilots than engineers.”
“And what red-blooded American woman wouldn’t be more partial to pilots, pard?” asked Wolcott, cupping his hand around his cigarette to shield it from the breeze. “Anything else?”
“Not really, Virg. I’ve had his phone tapped for the past two weeks, but he’s only placed two calls. Both were to his parents in Nebraska.”
