by Mike Jenne
Arriving at the headquarters thirty minutes later, Henson forced himself to keep his head up and maintain his composure; regardless of what they told him, he would not lose his cool. If they sent him to guard penguins for the next three years, fine. At the end, there would be the GI Bill money that was his ticket back to school.
A sergeant ushered him into the Wing commander’s office. Although Colonel Fels had spoken to them at the beginning of the cycle, the candidates had not seen him since. The office was filled with awards and paraphernalia accumulated over the course of a long and distinguished career. A large framed picture of an F-105 Thunderchief fighter-bomber adorned the paneled wall behind his desk. The remainder of the wall space was almost completely covered by squadron photographs, plaques, and awards.
“Airman Henson reporting as ordered, sir!”
“Sit down, Henson,” answered Fels, returning Henson’s salute.
Henson took a seat as instructed. “Sir, I would like to request an appeal for . . .”
“We’re not here to discuss appeals,” Fels said abruptly, holding up a hand. “I know that you haven’t been in the Air Force very long, Henson, but I’m sure that you’re aware this is not a normal Air Force organization. We have a critical mission, and we operate worldwide. We can’t afford to have any personnel operating in the field unless we have absolute trust and confidence in them and their abilities. You understand me, son?”
Trying to restrain his anger, Henson nodded. At this point, if he was powerless to change the situation, he would’ve preferred that Fels shut up and send him on his way, wherever that may be.
“And that’s why we put everyone through a very stringent selection process. It might not be readily apparent, but this process is carefully designed to separate the wheat from the chaff.”
What is the point of this lecture? Right now, all Henson wanted to do was return to the billets so he could pack his stuff and slink away before the class returned from the Safety Range. He hadn’t made any close friends since he’d been here, so there was no one to say goodbye to. If he was going to leave in disgrace, he would just as soon be gone before the rest of the candidates showed up to offer their shallow attempts at condolence.
Fels smiled. “Henson, to alleviate any confusion here, you’ve been selected. We’ve been watching you closely since you’ve been here, and you’re just the kind of man we’re looking for.”
Henson was taken aback. Several seconds passed before the colonel’s words sunk in and he was again able to speak. “Sir, how about the rest of the course?” he asked. “Don’t I have to finish the course before I go to an operational squadron?”
Fels resolutely shook his head. “Henson, the rest of these candidates will continue through the wringer, and if they pass, they’ll be assigned to the squadrons. As for you, you’ve been selected for a higher calling, a more crucial assignment.”
“Sir, may I ask—”
“Henson, when you leave here, you’ll turn in your gear, and then you’ll be reassigned to the Logistics Support Office. Pending final approval of your paperwork, you’ll undergo some further interviews and psychological testing, and then you’ll start into your LSO training. Most of the technical training will be here at Aux One-Oh, but you’ll go to some special courses elsewhere.”
Logistics Support Office? Henson sighed in disgust; he wanted nothing to do with the LSO. Consisting primarily of washouts from the assessment course, the guys stuck in LSO looked as if they had been sequestered in hell. They plodded around the compound like sullen wretches who had been ripped from a life of constant excitement—tactical assault drills, range firing, explosives work, rappelling from helicopters—to a pitifully mundane existence of shuffling paperwork and filling in vouchers.
The LSO lepers were housed in their own billets, separate from the Training Flight and operational squadron, and they kept strictly to themselves. Henson could envision few fates worse than being assigned to the LSO. Even a five-year tour guarding sand piles in the molten heat of Saudi Arabia was preferable to life as a miserable outcast who couldn’t make the cut.
“Sir, begging your pardon, I didn’t volunteer to come here to work in Logistics Support. If there’s any way possible, I would prefer to finish out my cycle and then go to a squadron.”
“Son, maybe I’m not being clear enough. You’ve been selected for something very special. I know that duty with the squadrons looks appealing, but the fact is that I can fill those slots with virtually anyone who shows up at our doorstep, provided we give them sufficient training. I can promise you that your assignment will be considerably more rewarding and challenging than working in a squadron.”
“But, sir, I . . .”
“Henson, I’ll make you a deal,” offered Fels. “If you finish your LSO training and you’re not happy with your assignment, then come back to me and I will personally stick you right back into a training cycle at the same place you left, and you can go to an operational squadron if you pass the course. But trust me, Henson, once you’ve got a feel for what the LSO really does, you won’t be back to finish the course.”
13
THE WRIGHT STUFF
Atlanta Municipal Airport, Atlanta, Georgia
9:05 a.m., Monday, July 15, 1968
Seated by the window, Ourecky was engrossed in a crossword puzzle. He was mulling over a clue, chewing on the eraser end of his pencil, when a black man took the seat next to him. The handsome man appeared to be in his mid-twenties, with an extremely athletic physique. His skin was so dark that it took Ourecky aback; he could not help but stare.
“Something wrong, mister?” asked the stranger, fastening his lap belt. “Am I in the wrong seat? This ain’t like the bus in Montgomery; I’m obligated to sit up here with you white folks.”
Ourecky shook his head and replied, “No, nothing’s wrong. Please don’t take offense, but you’re the blackest man I’ve ever seen.”
The newcomer laughed; his bright white teeth were a startling contrast to his ebony flesh. “No offense taken, baby. Yeah, I guess I’m just about as dark as they come. They shipped my ancestors out of Africa to chop sugarcane on a plantation in Jamaica, and my grandparents made it to the States later on. So I guess you could you could say I’m as close to pureblooded as you can get.”
“Well, I was raised in Nebraska. I never even saw a Negro until I went into the Air Force.”
Latching his seat belt, the man laughed so hard that he seemed on the verge of convulsing. “Negro? Negro? Oh, man, you just don’t hear that word much anymore. So you’re from Nebraska? Did they somehow beam you up out of the fifties? Well, I suppose you wouldn’t see too many brothers up that way, unless they were really lost. At least you’re honest, though. And you’re in the Air Force? I was in the Air Force. Are you still in?”
“I am. My permanent station is Eglin, but I’m working on a temporary duty project at Wright-Patterson. I’m Scott Ourecky, by the way.”
“Matt Henson. Yeah, man, I just got out. I was also at Eglin, at least for a little while.”
“So where are you headed now? Back home?”
“No, my home is New Orleans. I’m on my way to Dayton to interview for a job.”
“Really? Dayton? What kind of job?” Ourecky folded the crossword puzzle, and slid it into the seat pocket in front of him.
“I’m interviewing with a company called Apex Minerals Exploration. Mostly, they scout places where mining claims have been filed. They track down equipment, trucks for rent, local people to hire, stuff like that. Scut work, really. Nothing too exciting. They’ve been awarded some contracts in Africa and South America, so they need new people.”
“Sounds exciting to me,” Ourecky said. “So, how did you find out about this company?”
“I answered a classified ad. Apex hires people who speak different languages. From what I’ve heard, they don’t much care about the color of your skin so long as you can do the job.”
“Interesting. How many languages do
you speak?”
“Besides English, three: French, Portuguese, and some Spanish. English was really my second language. I grew up speaking mostly French at home and didn’t start into English until I went to first grade. My mother owns a little café in the French Quarter, and I picked up Portuguese from her cook. I guess I just naturally soak up languages.
“It’s really sort of funny,” continued Henson. “When I first hear a new language, I don’t even listen to the words. Initially, I just listen to the rhythm, and it seems like the words and context just sort of fill themselves in later.”
Ourecky looked up and saw Bea. She was slowly making her way through the plane, verifying that the passengers were buckled in. She stopped, smiled at Ourecky, and held out a magazine. “Here’s that Life magazine you wanted, Scott. I saved it for you.” The glossy cover showed President Johnson kissing his new granddaughter.
“Whew. Pretty girl,” commented Henson, watching attentively as Bea sashayed up the aisle toward the first class compartment. “She’s obviously got a thing for you, man.”
Frowning, Ourecky dismissively shook his head. “No. I just fly this route every month, so we’ve gotten acquainted a little bit. I’m sure she has a boyfriend somewhere.”
Henson chuckled. “You believe what you want to believe, baby, but you learn things growing up among voodoo people in New Orleans. I can assure you that girl is sweet on you.”
“Uh, I really don’t think so.” Ourecky opened the magazine in his lap and thumbed through the pages. Three rows ahead of them, a young couple tried to soothe their squawling baby.
“So you like Life?”
“Yeah. It’s okay, I suppose. Mostly, I like their coverage of the astronauts. Lately, though, it seems like all their stories have been about the Middle East.”
“Arabs and Israelis? Sounds to me like the Arabs bit off more than they could chew in that situation. You would think all those people would just learn to live in peace, since they’re jammed in there together so close.”
“Just like we get along here in this country?” asked Ourecky, scanning an article about racial unrest and riots in Atlanta, Boston, Buffalo, Cincinnati, and Tampa.
“Touché,” answered Henson, looking over his shoulder. “You got me on that one, babe.”
Aerospace Support Project
Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio
10:00 a.m., Monday, July 15, 1968
Unless there were more pressing matters to attend to, Tew’s key staff convened on Monday morning to compare notes. Out of Tew’s earshot, his staff jokingly referred to the weekly gathering as the “Joe Friday” briefing. Tew wasn’t a fan of small talk or conjecture; his dry style was more in line with Jack Webb’s painfully dour “just the facts” detective on Dragnet.
“Gentlemen, let me call this meeting to order,” said Tew. “First order of business is to introduce Major Ed Russo, our new liaison officer from the MOL office out in California. Russo, welcome aboard. I know a lot of our business is going to be new to you, so if you have any questions, don’t be bashful about throwing up a hand.”
“Thank you, General.” With broad shoulders and a medium build, Russo was a couple of inches shy of six feet. His black hair, flecked with premature gray, was cut in a short flattop. He was dark, almost swarthy, with aquiline nose and dark eyes reminiscent of a Mediterranean heritage. Unlike the others at the table, Russo was in uniform. His chest was adorned with three rows of ribbons, most earned during two tours in Vietnam.
“By the way, gentlemen, congratulations are in order,” stated Tew. “Major Russo was tentatively selected for the next group of MOL astronauts. That’s close hold information; it won’t be formally announced until next year. Until then, Major Russo will work here with us.”
“So, pard, I guess that makes you our resident Can Man,” said Wolcott.
“Can Man?” replied Russo. “What’s that, General?”
Wolcott chuckled. “Can Men is our little term of endearment for the MOL crews. After you’ve hung your hat here a while, pard, you’ll probably see it’s a completely different culture. To accomplish their mission, our pilots are obligated to fly their spacecraft. On the other hand, to do their job, the MOL crews have to sit in a Can.”
“I beg to differ, General,” said Russo. “The MOL . . .”
Tew curtly interjected, “Okay, let’s go around the table. Thompson? Personnel?”
Lieutenant Colonel Byron Thompson was Blue Gemini’s personnel officer. Short, thin, and balding, he was the only member of Tew’s staff who had not come up through the flying ranks. As a non-pilot, he had a tendency to overreach in his efforts to fit in with the rest of the staff. He inserted a cardboard-mounted chart into a large opaque projector. “General, these are our current personnel numbers, tabulated as of Monday last week. As you can see, our largest personnel investment is in the 116th Aerospace Operations Support Wing at Eglin. They have a total of 433 personnel assigned at Eglin and other locations.”
Thompson pulled out the chart and replaced it with another. He turned the projector back on. It buzzed loudly before its bulb blew out with a loud pop. The staff officers groaned. “So much for that, General,” he said. “May I continue, or do we wait for another bulb?”
“Continue,” said Tew. “Otherwise we could be here all day.”
“Yes, sir. The 116th currently has thirty-six personnel on temporary duty in Vietnam. The Logistics Support Office also has sixteen personnel forward-deployed in seven countries.”
Thompson continued. “Sir, as for the rest of your numbers, we have ninety-seven personnel currently working here at Wright-Patterson. There are thirty-two men presently committed to the PDF construction project. Additionally, we are due to receive twenty-eight launch support and flight control personnel from the 6555th Aerospace Test Wing. General, your total headcount—excluding personnel on loan from other organizations—is 590. Any questions, sir?”
“No. Good job. Russo, did you get all that?”
“I did, sir, but what’s the PDF project he mentioned?”
“Pacific Departure Facility,” answered Thompson. “It’s our launch site on Johnston Island, near Hawaii. It’s currently under construction.”
“Anything else, Thompson?” asked Tew.
“One item, sir.” Thompson opened a folder, removed a form, and handed it to Tew. “Major Agnew submitted another transfer request.”
“Really?” asked Wolcott, picking up the request. “Shucks, I just talked to him about that a couple of months ago.” He crumpled the form into a ball and added, “You can tell Mr. Agnew that we contemplated his request, but it ain’t happenin’.”
“Intelligence?” asked Tew.
The intelligence officer, Ted Seibert, was a studious lieutenant colonel who dressed and acted like an Ivy League college professor. Handsome, with a thick mane of blond hair, he wore a suede-elbowed tweed jacket over a blue oxford shirt. Cupping a briarwood pipe in his hand, he cleared his throat and said, “Sir, things are not looking very good in Southeast Asia. All indications are that Westmoreland will request another 200,000 troops. On another note, the Soviets are very focused on the Chinese right now, since the Chinese detonated that hydrogen bomb last month. There are still fears of a nuclear confrontation between those two.”
“And not a minute too soon,” noted Wolcott, slapping the table. “Good riddance to both.”
Seibert drew on his pipe and then continued. “Concerning the Soviets, there’s also a new wrinkle, sir. We’re hearing murmurs that the Soviets are aggressively developing a new anti-satellite system, and they intend to start live testing as early as next year. If our information is accurate, theirs is a co-orbital system, not unlike our old SAINT satellite interceptor concept.”
Tew nodded, made a note, and asked, “Anything new concerning orbital bombardment systems? Any developments with their UR-500 heavy lift booster?”
“No news on either, sir. They’re obviously holding those cards very close to the
vest.”
Frowning, Tew nodded. “Anything else?”
“That’s all. That concludes my briefing, General. Nothing else significant to report.”
“Thanks,” said Tew. “By the way, I want your Special Security operatives to keep tabs on someone for me. One of our temporary workers.” Tew wrote a name on a slip of paper, and then held it out for Wolcott to read.
Wolcott chuckled. “Jimmy Hara’s boys will have an easy time with that one,” he observed. “As far as I know, he ain’t even set foot off the base.”
Tew handed the note to Seibert. He read it and said, “General, we’ll cover this for you.”
“Thanks. Virgil? Operations and Training?”
Wolcott parked his cigarette in the ashtray and then leaned back in his chair. “I want to remind all present that our first unmanned mission is still scheduled to launch in February of next year and our first manned shot is still in June. Unless there’s some kind of miracle and the PDF is ready, pardner, we’ll fire the first shot from the Slick Four-W pad at Vandenberg.”
“The PDF will be ready, General,” insisted the logistics officer, Grady Rhodes, a portly Colonel. Rhodes was obviously peeved at Wolcott’s persistent implications that the new launch facility would not be finished on schedule.
“If you insist, pard,” commented Wolcott. “Beyond that, our simulator facility is still runnin’ full bore. Crew Two is in the Box today. Afterwards, they head to Johnsville for reentry runs on the Big Wheel centrifuge. Crew One goes into the Box tomorrow for a twenty-four hour full-up. Crew Three is in Connecticut, at Hamilton Standard, getting measured for their new suits. One item for your approval, Mark: we want to move that old Dyna-Soar mock-up out of Gunter’s shop to make room for the new Paraglider Landing Simulator.”
