Blue Gemini

by Mike Jenne

  As much as he hated to hear her ask it, it was a valid question, borne of her genuine concern for his well-being, and it could be answered on this very day. Tew had an appointment with his cardiologist this morning, who assured him that if there was no improvement since his last visit, his only remaining option was open heart surgery. The doctor had even scheduled the procedure in advance; based on the results from today’s exam, Tew would report to Walter Reed tomorrow and remain there until the end of the year. Except for Wolcott, no one on his staff was aware that he might be going under the knife. Even his wife didn’t know.

  Although he could not consciously acknowledge it to himself, last week’s foray was more or less a pre-emptive farewell tour, to finally witness the things that he had wrought. While his cardiologist was upbeat about his prognosis if surgery was necessary, Tew didn’t want to inadvertently slip away from this world without actually witnessing the launch vehicles, spacecraft, and secret launch facility that were the fruits of his relentless labors.

  Wolcott convened the meeting. “Gents, the boss and I are still a tad jet-lagged, so the swifter we gallop through this, the better.” He turned to the personnel officer and said, “All yours, pardner. Make it as painless as possible.”

  Thompson, the disheveled personnel officer, stated flatly, “General, there have been no changes in the headcount and I don’t anticipate any significant changes in the coming weeks. We stand a good chance of gaining the four pilots you interviewed last week, but not until they finish Phase Two of ARPS, so we won’t see them for at least another six months.”

  “Thanks, bub,” Wolcott said, nodding. “Intelligence?”

  “No noteworthy developments on the Soviet side,” asserted Colonel Seibert, the intelligence officer. “We’re aware that they’re preparing for another sizeable nuclear test. On the friendly side, NASA is still planning to launch Apollo 8 next Sunday, for a circumlunar mission. If it goes well, they’ll be orbiting the moon at Christmas.”

  “Men headin’ to the moon. Amazin’,” noted Wolcott. “I’ll cover operations and training. So that all you gentlemen are aware, General Tew and I dropped in at the HAF in San Diego last week. We have two complete mission-ready systems in the quiver, ready to launch. Two more launch vehicles are being processed, and two more Gemini-I’s are within eight weeks of completion. In February we’ll launch a boilerplate Gemini-I to validate the Titan II and PDF. If we’re successful, we fire a manned test shot in June.”

  “And the crew training?” asked Tew. “Are we making progress to the forty-eight hour mark?”

  “Dead on, boss,” Wolcott assured him enthusiastically. “And once we hit the mark in January, we can release Ourecky as per your guidance. My plan is to yoke up Carson with Ed Russo, so we’ll have three full-up crews ready for contingency missions.”

  Tew noticed the rest of the staff exchanging nervous glances. He looked directly at Heydrich, who was clearly distraught at the mention of Carson and Russo, and immediately knew that something was seriously amiss. “Do you have something to add, Gunter?” he asked. “I don’t like things being concealed from me. If there’s bad news, I want it now, not later.”

  “It’s nothin’, Mark,” declared Wolcott. “There was a little dust-up in the simulator facility last week while we were out west. Nothing significant. Just a slight misunderstandin’.”

  “Another incident? What exactly happened?”

  Wolcott started to answer, but Tew held up his hand. “What happened last week, Gunter?”

  Staring at the table, Heydrich took off his black-framed glasses and loosened his black tie. In a faltering voice, he concisely recounted last week’s incident.

  “Carson again?” bemoaned Tew, getting red in the face. “You’re telling me that Carson went berserk and came close to decking another officer?”

  “Sir, I don’t think we can lay all the blame at Carson’s feet,” Heydrich said.

  “And just how could that possibly be, Gunter? If what you’re describing is accurate, then who else could be at fault?”

  “Well, sir, I suppose I’m at fault, probably more so than anyone else,” Heydrich confessed sheepishly. “With the amount of stress that he’s under in the Box, it’s no surprise that Carson flew off the handle. The fact is that Russo had been acting very unprofessionally up to that point, and Carson just reacted to it. I should have been monitoring Russo more closely. And to Carson’s credit, sir, he didn’t exactly run amok; he was calm and collected through the whole episode, short of throttling Russo and threatening to pound his nose flat.”

  Tew looked at his watch and drummed his fingers on the table while staring up at the ceiling. “Virgil, I expect you to resolve this conflict between Carson and Russo, particularly if we expect them to fly together. Make it abundantly clear to them that they won’t be flying until they learn to behave like proper officers.”

  “I’ll ride herd on them, Mark,” asserted Wolcott. “There’ll be no more scuffles.”

  Heydrich loudly cleared his throat.

  “You have something to add, Gunter?” asked Tew.

  “I do, sir,” replied Heydrich. “I feel obligated to inform you that my personnel are exhausted and that most of them are angry about working over the holidays.”

  “Tarnations! We’re all workin’ over the dadburned holidays, Gunter,” Wolcott said, shaking his head. “I don’t know if you missed the telegraph, but we’re facin’ a hard deadline in January immediately followed by a launch in February.”

  “But that’s only part of the problem,” said Heydrich. “My men are hearing rumors that Blue Gemini will be cancelled anyway, so they’re questioning the logic of being separated from their families at Christmas since it’s almost a sure bet that they will be out of work in January.”

  Tew nodded. The men gazed toward him, as if he would confirm the prevailing scuttlebutt, but he was silent. He had heard the rumors, but was also aware that the leading Presidential candidates—Nixon and Humphrey—had recently received a series of classified briefings concerning ongoing Air Force activities, including a status report on military space operations. Blue Gemini wasn’t specifically discussed, but was lumped in under the MOL program.

  Afterwards, commenting on the briefings, both candidates made it explicitly clear that they only intended to launch men in space for peaceful purposes. They both believed that military space programs detracted from NASA’s efforts, so the MOL and all associated programs were expected to be cancelled early next year.

  While Tew was disappointed that Blue Gemini might be cancelled, he was just as angry that the MOL program would be scrubbed, even though he was no longer involved with that effort. Right now, thousands of workers were employed by the MOL program—including almost a thousand with the Aerospace Corporation in California—and if these rumors were true, most of them would be unemployed by this time next year. Granted, some would be absorbed into other aerospace contractors or NASA, but the drive to land men on the moon was well underway, with most of the heavy lifting already accomplished.

  On the other hand, cancellation of Tew’s secret program would barely be a blip on the budget radar; most of the personnel involved in Blue Gemini were Air Force blue-suiters, so they could readily be transferred to other endeavors. If the ceiling would soon collapse, what sense did it make to take these men away from their families during the holidays? “Gunter, what’s on your books until the end of the year?” asked Tew.

  “Carson and Ourecky go into the Box tomorrow afternoon for a forty-hour full-up run. They come out on Thursday morning. As for next week, they go into the Box on Christmas Eve for a forty-two hour run and come out the day after Christmas. And the following week . . .”

  “Stop,” said Tew emphatically. He looked around the table at the weary faces of his subordinates. “Gunter, proceed with this week’s plan, but we’re standing down for Christmas. No training or activities until the first of the year, except for absolutely essential functions.”

  Per
plexed, Wolcott’s jaw suddenly dropped as if he had been gut-shot. He muttered, “But . . .”

  “No buts. No later than close of business on Friday, I want everyone out of here. I want them to rest and spend time with their families. All hands, every man Jack, no exceptions.”

  “But, pardner,” Wolcott quietly coaxed, “we’re in the home stretch. We don’t want to abandon what we’ve accomplished, do we? Can’t we—”

  “No,” declared Tew, angrily glaring at Wolcott. “We’ll still have the first half of January. If we don’t make it, then we don’t make it. We’ll just accept the circumstances.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Heydrich. “I’m sure that the men will be most appreciative.”

  “I’m not done,” said Tew, turning to the personnel officer. “Thompson, assuming we might indeed be cancelled, I want you to develop contingency plans to protect our people. I want to know what we can do to get them transferred or shifted over to gainful employment elsewhere.”

  Suddenly energized, Thompson nodded and made notes. “Will do, sir.”

  “I also want you to make some quiet inquiries with aerospace contractors, to see what sorts of openings they’re anticipating in the coming months. It sounds like we have some lead time to cobble together a lifeboat for our civilian workers, so let’s do the best we can.” Tew put his hands flat on the table, took a deep breath, and bowed his head momentarily. “Unless anyone has anything tremendously pressing, we’ll end this meeting. Anyone?”

  No one spoke.

  “Then, gentlemen, if I don’t see you all before next week, Merry Christmas. And so there’s no question, your New Year will be much less than happy if I catch any of your personnel lurking in these halls next week. Understood?”

  All present nodded their assent and gradually started filtering out.

  “Virgil,” said Tew. “Stay.”

  “Not much choice, pardner. It’s my office, too.”

  “Then all the more reason.” Tew stood up and escorted Heydrich out.

  “Merry Christmas to you, gentlemen,” said Heydrich, pulling on a heavy gray wool Bavarian coat and fastening its bone toggle buttons. “And on behalf of my men, thank you again, Mark.”

  “Think nothing of it. Thank you for everything, Gunter. Merry Christmas,” said Tew, closing the door behind the German engineer.

  “Thunderation! What the hell has come over you, Mark?” demanded Wolcott. “These men didn’t sign on for a dadburned quilting bee! How could you?”

  Glowering, Tew shook his head. “Virgil, don’t you dare raise your voice at me. Of all days, I don’t need any more excitement today.”

  “Sorry. You’re right, amigo,” replied Wolcott, lowering his voice. “I apologize. But Mark, we’re so close. So danged close. Can’t you reconsider this?”

  “You know, Virgil, we’ve worked so closely over the years, but I think that our perspectives have changed. To you, this whole endeavor is like a religious crusade. You won’t be content until you set foot in the Promised Land or until everyone has perished in the process.”

  Tew continued: “I appreciate your ambition, but for me, this Project is not unlike any other mission. We do our utmost to achieve our goal, but we’re also obligated to take care of our troops. If this mission is so critical, then we’ll be allowed to proceed to its fruition, but we need to accept the fact that we may never leave the ground, regardless of how diligently we’ve worked.”

  “I s’pose you’re right, Mark,” muttered Wolcott.

  “I hope I’m right. Would you mind giving me a lift to the hospital, Virgil?”

  “As you wish.”

  Dayton, Ohio; 9:05 p.m., Tuesday, December 17, 1968

  Yost switched off the van’s lights, cut the engine, and coasted the last few hundred feet into the narrow alley. The brakes creaked slightly, but otherwise he was able to quietly park the vehicle behind his house. He was sure that if the loan shark’s thugs were staking out his home, they would be watching the front, where he habitually parked on the oak-lined street.

  He looked forward to a hot shower and a restful night in his own bed. He was on furlough until the warehouse re-opened after New Year’s, so he planned to stay here tonight, pack up a few supplies, and then hit the open road. Since he had evaded the enforcers for the past week, he managed to squirrel away a few hundred bucks, mostly from his last paycheck, augmented by loans from the few friends still willing to front him some cash.

  He intended to head east before the sun rose, toward the horse tracks of New Jersey. By carefully studying the racing forms and placing small bets, he would gradually amass enough cash to repay the loan shark and then build up a stake toward his future. Stay disciplined. Stay sober. Read the forms. Study the horses. Stick with the plan. Nothing risky. Just a little bit at a time, and he would be flush again before the champagne flowed on New Year’s Eve.

  Climbing down from the panel van, Yost smelled the pungent odor of stale urine. He had fumbled the milk can when emptying it earlier, completely soaking his shoes and his pants legs below his knees. He undid his belt as he considered taking the trousers off and sticking them in the trash before entering the house.

  The grime-covered crust of old snow crunched under his feet as he walked toward the back door. He heard leaves rustling. A hulking thug materialized out of the shadows, tapping a baseball bat in his palm. “Mr. Yost? We’ve been waiting on you.”

  Yost panicked, scuttling backwards like a crab seeking the refuge of a submerged rock. He made it all the way to the van, groping for his key ring in his pockets, before he heard someone loudly clearing their throat behind him. He glanced back over his shoulder, glimpsing a second enforcer stepping out from behind a large tree.

  The first thug paced forward, closing the gap. “Man, what the hell is that smell? Did you tinkle in your pants? Look, Yost, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Just pay us what’s due, and we’ll be on our way.” He gestured for the other man to search the van.

  Within a few moments, the second enforcer emerged from the van, whistled, and tossed a small packet to his cohort. “Taped under the dashboard,” he commented, in a high-pitched squeaky voice. “How original! If only I hadn’t seen that damned gimmick a thousand times, I might have overlooked it. Hey, man, it’s freezing out here! Can’t we speed this up?”

  Yost trembled uncontrollably, partly from the cold and partly from abject terror. His heart pounded like a struggling steam engine on the verge of blowing apart at the seams. An expanding stain of fresh urine supplemented the old. A sudden gust of wind tore through his clothes, chilling him to the marrow. “That’s all I have,” he pleaded, barely coherent in his fear, pressing his hands tightly together in a praying gesture. “If you let me keep it, I’ll roll it up and be able to pay you in full. I know it’s not much, but it’s really all I have.”

  The thug removed his woolen mittens, wetted his fingertips, and quickly counted the cash. “Well, maybe you’re right. Not much here. It doesn’t seem right to deprive you of it,” he noted, stashing the envelope in his jacket pocket. “But I can’t grant you any leeway, Yost. Sorry, but I just can’t budge. It’s money owed.” He directed the other man to continue searching the van.

  As he searched, the thug heaved the milk crates out onto the driveway; Yost’s binoculars, notebook, camera, prized collection of spy novels, and other sundry belongings plopped into the mud at his feet. Minutes later, the man re-emerged, shaking his head. “Nothing up here, boss, and if I stay in here a minute longer I’m going to barf.”

  The first thug signaled for him to climb down, and then turned his attention back to the cowering Yost. “You do know that we’ll be back, right? You still owe a lot, and the interest is growing daily. And do me a favor. I’m not too fond of hiding out in the dark, so don’t try sneaking in here again. Got me?”

  Yost nodded fervently. “Look, I’ll get your money. Just be patient with me, please.”

  “Oh, sure, Yost. I can be patient. But the problem is that my
boss isn’t so willing to be patient, and I have to answer to him, not to you.”

  “But I’ll have the money! All of it. Just give me some more time.”

  “We’ll be back, Yost. In the meantime, you probably want to get that foot looked at.”

  “Foot? There’s nothing wrong with my . . .” muttered Yost. And then he felt the baseball bat thwack against his ankle from behind, brutally smashing tiny bones and ripping connective tissue. Toppling to his side in musty leaves and dirty snow, gasping in agony, he watched as the two men casually strolled away into the darkness. Before they disappeared from view, one turned back and hissed, “Merry Christmas, schmuck.”

  Waffle n’ Egg Diner, Dayton, Ohio

  7:18 p.m., Thursday, December 19, 1968

  “Thanks for the lift, Drew,” said Ourecky. “I’m sure that Bea can drive me back on base in the morning, and I’ll look at my car then. I’m guessing that the battery crapped out, or maybe the alternator. Not too hard to fix, but I just don’t want to fool with it right now.”

  “That’s Bea’s car, isn’t it? Didn’t you say she had a red convertible?” Bea’s Kharmann Ghia was parked in front of the diner. The restaurant was decorated for Christmas, with strings of garish colored bulbs encircling the window frames. A painted silhouette of Santa Claus stood by the entrance, its plywood feet buried in dirty packed snow.

  “Yeah, that’s hers. She just flew in from Atlanta. We’re going to grab a burger here and then head back to her place.”

  “Hey, Scott, if you do go back on base, you do know to stay out of the building, don’t you? Ol’ Cowboy Virg told us if he caught us in there before January that he would skin us alive.”

  “I’ll steer clear.” Ourecky scratched the two-day growth of beard on his chin. “I appreciate the break, but how will we make forty-eight hours? We’re going to miss two entire full-up runs. I just don’t see how we can recover the lost ground.”

  Carson cut off the lights and let the Corvette idle. “To be honest, Scott, it may be the best thing that ever happened. Lord knows Gunter and his guys need a break, probably much more so than us. Anyway, I don’t think it matters how many times we go into the Box between now and the last run. We already have the procedures down absolutely cold. Now, we just knuckle down and grunt through it. We either make it on the last go or not.”