by Mike Jenne
The suit technician nodded as he fastidiously laid out the suit in a full-length storage box. Wolcott couldn’t help but notice that the garment looked vaguely like a headless body in a coffin.
“Can you lend us a minute, Joel? Why don’t you grab a smoke or something?”
“Sure thing, Virgil. I need to write up my records on the fitting, so I’ll be in the office,” replied the technician. He handed Carson a set of fingernail clippers and an emery board. “I know you want to play with those gloves a bit longer, Drew. You should trim your nails so they don’t snag on the liners. I’ll fetch those mitts in a few minutes and pack them away when you’re done.”
“Here’s the deal, hoss,” said Wolcott, sliding into a chair next to Carson. “We need to make some significant adjustments over the next few weeks.”
Carson carefully pared his nails as he listened to Wolcott relate the details of his elaborate scheme to meet the January deadline. He set the clippers aside and eased his hands into the pressure suit gloves just as Wolcott described Ourecky’s role in the plan.
Stunned, Carson mumbled, “So I’ll be flying the Box with Ourecky from now on?”
“Just until January. We have to hit this milestone, hombre. Mark Tew and I have hashed this out seven ways from Sunday, and we don’t see a way to manage it without Ourecky. You do this thing for us, and we’ll fix you up with a new partner in ample time to make the big dance. You can take your pick from the other crews. I promise you can have anyone you want.”
“Anyone I want? Then why not just do that now? Sticking Ourecky in the Box is a huge waste of time, Virgil. He’s an engineer, not a pilot. He’s not going to fly. It sure seems more practical to assign me a right-seater who has some chance of making the trip.”
Wolcott was losing his patience. He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly and deliberately. Carson was an exceptional pilot, but he would argue the hide off a bull if granted an opportunity. “Look, pardner, we’re absolutely slap out of options. Yeah, you’re right: Ourecky ain’t goin’ to fly, but right now he’s your last chance to grab a ticket to orbit. I can assure you that Tew ain’t going to budge on this issue. We either hit the mark, or we don’t. I’m startin’ to believe that Mark would be just as happy if the whole program was scrubbed.”
Carson looked at the floor and shook his head. “Then maybe it’s just as well,” he muttered.
“Look, pard, if you have something on your mind, then just spit it out.”
Carson said, “To be honest, Virgil, I’m starting to doubt that we’ll ever leave the ground. I used to enjoy the training, but now it’s gotten to be so much drudgery. I joined the Air Force to fly, and now it seems like I spend most of my time trapped in a cage like a lab monkey, watching lights flash and pushing buttons. At least the monkeys are rewarded with banana pellets; my reward is being stuffed back into the Box.”
“But that’s part of the game, buster. That’s what you signed on for. We made it very clear that you boys would be in intensive training for up to two years before you made your first flight.”
Testing the gloves’ dexterity, Carson flexed his fingers. “I grew up in a boxing gym, Virg, so I know exactly how important training is. It’s just really difficult to maintain this pace when it just seems like I’ll never have a chance to climb into the ring.”
Sighing, Wolcott tilted his Stetson back on his head. As invaluable as he was to Blue Gemini, Carson could be painfully frustrating to deal with. He was like a mustang that rode well on the range, but couldn’t bear to be pinned up in a corral. But despite all that, Wolcott saw much of himself in the cantankerous test pilot. “Well, Carson, you can write it on the wall that you won’t be ridin’ a rocket unless we achieve this forty-eight hour mark. I can assure you that we can’t do it before January without you and Ourecky workin’ together. That’s the bottom line, pardner.”
Looking pensive, Carson peeled off the bulky gloves and laid them on the table. “Okay. Virgil, I’ll put forth my maximum effort between now and January. I’ll bring Ourecky up to speed, and we’ll make the forty-eight hour mark, if you’re willing to grant me something in return.”
“Go ahead, pardner. The sky’s the limit. Just ask away.”
“I want to fly in Vietnam, Virgil. In combat.”
It took a few seconds for Wolcott to compose himself. “Well, you can ask for danged near anything, pard. But that just ain’t goin’ to happen. Ever.”
“But I’m not asking for a full tour over there,” countered Carson. “Just a couple of weeks to log some combat time. Then I would fall right back into the training cycle. No one would miss me.”
Wolcott shook his head. “Maybe you’re just not takin’ in the whole panorama here, hoss. This is a seriously classified endeavor. We can’t ever risk puttin’ you in a situation where there’s even the slightest possibility that you could be shot down or captured.”
“But . . .”
“I know you hanker to fly in combat, Carson. That’s what all fighter pilots train for and ultimately live for, but you need to accept the fact that it ain’t ever going to happen. I feel for you, hoss, I truly do, but we told you this at the outset, and you still signed on.”
Wolcott’s answer didn’t appear to do much to alleviate Carson’s disappointment, but the pilot solemnly shook his head, as if resigned to his fate.
“One more thing,” said Wolcott, twirling a silver-tipped end of his bolo string tie. “You know we’re headed up to Alaska in October to do cold weather drops with the paraglider, correct?”
“I am. I’m looking forward to it,” replied Carson, turning to face Wolcott.
“Well, that’s good, particularly since I’m puttin’ Ourecky in your right seat for the drops. Gunter is working the bugs out of that new landing simulator. As soon as it’s ready, I want you to start workin’ with Ourecky on it whenever it’s available, when you two aren’t in the Box.”
“You’re kidding me, aren’t you, Virg?” asked Carson incredulously, shaking his head.
“Nope. I don’t know if you’ve caught on to it yet, pard, but we’re just fresh out of pilots here, and they’re just not offerin’ any more for sale down at the Base Exchange. We have to plant someone in the right seat of that paraglider rig, so why not Ourecky? Are you tellin’ me that you can’t train him to handle his side?”
“But it’s a live drop, Virg. It’s not a canned ride in a simulator. It’s a hazardous undertaking.”
“So is it any more danged hazardous than riding in the back seat of your T-38 when you’re flat-hattin’ and gallivantin’ your way across the country?” asked Wolcott, studying Carson’s reaction. “Huh, pardner? Think I didn’t know about your dogfighting shenanigans?”
His face reddening, Carson was silent. “So Ourecky finked on me?” he asked quietly.
Wolcott laughed. “He didn’t have to, pard. He kept his mouth shut, but you apparently forgot that we pay for your fuel tickets up here. You also must have forgot that I’ve flown more than a few times, and I know exactly how much gas it takes to fly from Eglin to here. So don’t be so durned anxious to blame Ourecky because you got caught with your pants ‘round your ankles.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“If you say so, pard. Shucks, you sure weren’t doin’ anything that the rest of us ain’t done in the past. Frankly, I would probably think less of you if I knew you weren’t out there mixin’ it up every once in a while.” Wolcott spit brown tobacco juice in a trash can, grinned, and asked, “So how did our young egghead take to dogfighting? One bag? Two? Three maybe?”
Carson shook his head. “None. Not a one.”
“None?”
“None at all. The guy must have an iron stomach. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Interesting,” noted Wolcott, scratching his chin. “Very interesting.”
8:30 a.m., Wednesday, August 21, 1968
“Hey Mark, the Democrats are kickin’ off their convention,” observed Wolcott, perusing the
headlines of the local newspaper. “Looks like they’re expectin’ a big showdown in Chicago, especially since LBJ won’t run and they can’t geehaw on their platform for Vietnam. The police are expectin’ a lot of trouble from Yippies and hippies and anyone else obligated to make a nuisance of themselves. What a dadblamed mess! Can’t people even act civil anymore?”
Tew didn’t look up but continued to read a technical report describing recent problems encountered with the Gemini-I’s landing gear. Their use of the paraglider hinged on the proper functioning of the landing gear, which were essentially simple skids that emerged from wells in the underside of the spacecraft after the paraglider was deployed. In recent tests, engineers discovered that the skid well hatches had a tendency to stick when the vehicle was subjected to the blowtorch heat of reentry and then immediately exposed to extremely cold temperatures.
NASA had originally considered using the paraglider to land the Gemini after returning from orbit but had abandoned the scheme in favor of a much simpler parachute splashdown at sea. Tew pondered whether they should have taken the same path, except that the splashdown recoveries required the deployment of a massive armada of ships and aircraft girdling the globe.
As an alternative, the paraglider would allow them to quietly return their Gemini-I spacecraft without fanfare. Moreover, avoiding exposure to the highly corrosive effects of saltwater would permit the spacecraft to be re-used, while NASA’s Gemini capsules were effectively ruined at splashdown.
But despite the paraglider’s benefits, Tew was immensely concerned that they were staking the lives of these pilots on too much untried and inadequately tested technology. Of course, on the plus side, the long-awaited Paraglider Landing Simulator had finally been delivered by the contractor two days ago and was currently being assembled and tested in the simulator hangar. According to Heydrich, it should be in operation within a month or so.
“Whew. Looks like ol’ Ike ain’t goin’ to make it,” proclaimed Wolcott. “Sounds like his ticker is just about ready to give out. Can you believe this? Twenty people have offered to donate their heart to Ike. Do you suppose that maybe they just don’t understand the consequences?”
Tew was not in the mood for Wolcott’s recitation of the morning’s news. His stomach was a churning cauldron of bile and acid, and his heart thumped heavily in his chest, even though he wasn’t exerting himself in the slightest. His stomach growled audibly. He was hungry, but detested the notion of yet another bland meal of melba toast dunked in buttermilk.
Looming on the desk before him was a four-inch stack of proposed expenditures that required his approval, five thick binders of test results, and a draft plan for the recovery network that had to be in place for the first three missions. Tew was weary of the incessant paperwork, and weary of this project in general. His wife had long since grown tired of his routine, and had returned to their home in California several months ago.
“And if that isn’t enough, hombre, just take a gander at this one,” exclaimed Wolcott, pointing at an ominous headline. “Warsaw Pact invades Czechoslovakia. I just can’t believe it. They crossed the border with nearly a million troops. Chisel my words in stone, amigo: this will continue to escalate and we’ll be in a shootin’ war with the Russians before this decade is out. No more of this danged proxy business. It’ll be standin’ room only at the O.K. Corral.”
Tew sighed and then looked up to see Ourecky standing in the doorway. “You wanted to see me, sirs?” asked Ourecky.
Wolcott greeted him. “Come on in and have a sit-down, brother. Coffee? I think Stan just brewed up a fresh pot. Strong, though. Stout enough to float a colt.”
“No thank you, sir,” answered Ourecky, taking a seat at the conference table. Attired in black slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt with a dark blue tie, he had apparently adopted the de facto uniform of Heydrich’s simulator staff.
Tew set aside the landing gear report and said, “We have a rather awkward situation to contend with.” As Ourecky listened intently, Tew described the absolute necessity of completing a forty-eight-hour simulation by January. “And so that’s it,” he concluded. “We need you to go into the Box with Carson between now and then so we can hit this milestone.”
Ourecky said nothing, but just gazed down at the table, as if he was taking a moment to process the new information.
“I know that’s a lot to think about,” said Tew. “Do you have any questions, Captain?”
“Well, uh, sir, we’re way behind on preparing the formulas to integrate into the new computer, and I still have at least two months of work yet on the terminal guidance controller project back at Eglin. General, I’m not questioning your plan, but are you sure that Major Carson couldn’t work with one of the other pilots? After all, if you ever have to execute this contingency to intercept a satellite, they’ll be the ones to actually fly—”
“We’re sure, pardner,” interjected Wolcott. “Absolutely sure. You’re it.”
Tew opened a manila folder and then slipped some papers across the table. “Those are amendments to your orders, Ourecky. You won’t be going back to Eglin, except to pack up your belongings and move up here. As of this morning, you are permanently assigned to this effort, so you needn’t be concerned about juggling your time between projects.”
“Son, we’re askin’ you to make some huge sacrifices for the team, but we ain’t offerin’ you anything but long hours and misery,” confided Wolcott. “The Box might be a novel experience for you right now, but I know you’ll dread it in time. But I also know you’re aware of the importance of Blue Gemini.”
Tew watched for Ourecky to react, but the young engineer seemed to take it all in stride. Although he had set aside his reservations when he deferred to Wolcott’s plan, Tew didn’t think it was fair to subject Ourecky to the mental and physical agony of the simulator for the next few months, especially since he didn’t stand to reap any of the rewards. And if the Box wasn’t stressful enough, just coping with Carson could be an ordeal in itself.
Tew suddenly felt as if he had been slammed in the chest with a sledgehammer. His vision was blurred, his fingers were numb, and he couldn’t catch his breath. These spells were becoming more common, but he didn’t want to tell his doctor about them because he knew the doctor would advise him to slow down and get more rest. If only he had those options.
“Mark, buddy, are you okay?” asked Wolcott. “Should we drive you over to the hospital?”
“I’m fine,” croaked Tew, sipping from a glass of water. “Really, Virgil, I’m fine.”
“Can this wait, sir?” asked Ourecky. Wide-eyed, he looked like a kid at the movies who had his first glimpse at Superman’s vulnerability to green kryptonite. “I can come back later.”
“No, I’m fine,” said Tew weakly. “Captain, you’ve done excellent work for us so far. We just need you to shift your focus for a few months so we can transition from the theoretical to the practical. Can you do that for us, son?”
“I will, sir.”
“And that’s just what we wanted to hear, pardner,” noted Wolcott.
10:30 a.m.
There was a knock at the door. Tew and Wolcott looked up simultaneously and saw Jimmy Hara standing there.
“Busy, sirs?” he asked. “Virgil asked me to do a follow-up on Ourecky’s lady friend, sir.”
“And what did you find out?” asked Tew.
“As best as we can tell, they’ve been dating for about the past month. She’s a stew for Delta airlines. She did a year of junior college here in Dayton and then went to work for Delta three years ago. Her usual schedule has her flying down to Atlanta late Sunday afternoon, and then she does a cycle of morning flights from Atlanta to Dayton, then evening flights from Dayton to Atlanta, remaining overnight in Atlanta at one of the hotels near the airport. Normally, she gets back into Dayton on Thursday afternoon.”
“So does she have a name, Hara?” asked Tew impatiently.
“Yes, sir.” He handed Tew a folded s
crap of paper. “A friend of mine at Delta’s staffing office gave me a peek at her file. She’s a dependable worker but looks to be a bit promiscuous. I guess it comes with the territory, doesn’t it? Coffee, tea, or me?”
Tew casually unfolded the paper and read the name. The color quickly faded from his face. “Did you happen to glean any other information from her records, Hara?” he asked.
Hara nodded. “General, I did. Are you looking for something specific?”
“Did her records indicate where she was born?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Hara, referring to his notebook. “Molesworth, England. July 15, 1944. I’m guessing that her father was an American serviceman of some sort.”
“Someone you know, pardner?” asked Wolcott.
“Something like that,” replied Tew. He handed the scrap of paper to Wolcott and then fumbled in a desk drawer for his ulcer pills. Over the course of the past few weeks, the drawer had taken on the appearance of a well-stocked pharmacy.
Wolcott read the name aloud: “Beatrice Anne Harper.” He closed his eyes, apparently trying to divine why the name was so familiar. “Bea Harper? Now ain’t this just a grand coincidence?” he exclaimed, laughing. “Surely there ain’t too many women out there with that handle.”
Tew nodded, choked down a couple of ulcer pills, and chased them with a glass of tepid water. “Very true. And I doubt that you’ll find many born at Molesworth in 1944.”
“Jimmy, you reckon Ourecky and this girl are serious?” asked Wolcott.
“It appears that way, Virgil.”
“This could be a major problem, Mark,” Wolcott said, addressing his concern to Tew. “We made danged sure that our pilots weren’t hitched and didn’t have any serious attachments. Right now, we have too many chips riding on Ourecky to treat him any different. Well, it looks like I’ll just have to head this one off at the pass. That shouldn’t be too hard to do if Miss Bea is only in town three nights a week. I’ll just make some adjustments to Mr. Ourecky’s training schedule that interfere with his social calendar, and this fire should die out just as just as quickly as it flared up. Just that simple.”
