by Mike Jenne
“Thank you, sir,” said Ourecky.
“Well, gents, I don’t have anything particularly insightful or inspirational to say. Let’s saddle up and ride. I’ll see you two stalwarts in a couple of days.”
Carson smiled. “See you then, Virg.”
With Heydrich standing beside him, Wolcott watched as the two men ascended the metal steps to the Box. Technicians assisted them into their seats and connected various hoses and cables before closing the hatches. He turned toward Heydrich and asked, “Ready, pardner?”
“Ja. I think so,” answered Heydrich, using his hand to slick back his greasy shock of black hair. “If nothing else, Virgil, we’ll go out with a bang and not a whimper.”
“I know it, Gunter. I’m confident in you and your boys. Do us proud.”
Heydrich glanced around the hangar, stepped closer, and asked, “Is Mark Tew not coming down to lend those two a word of encouragement?”
“No, pardner. He’s still in D.C. and plans to remain there until after the Thursday meeting. Besides, he ain’t much for mixin’ with the troops before battle, if you know what I mean.”
“He’s still in D.C.?” asked Heydrich, quickly signing a document handed to him by a subordinate. “Virgil, hasn’t he been up there since . . .”
Wolcott nodded and then spat a stream of tobacco juice into a wastebasket.
“Virgil, is everything all right with Mark? He’s been looking rough these past few months.”
“He’s fine,” drawled Wolcott, tapping the metal lid of a puck-sized can of smokeless tobacco. “He’s just been dealin’ with budget and administrative issues, and it’s a lot simpler for him to contend with them down there than up here. Closer to the flagpole, you know.”
“They’ve finished their pre-launch,” announced a controller. “We’re ready to start.”
Heydrich nodded, took his seat, and adjusted his headset. The countdown proceeded through the last few minutes—and then it was time.
“Stand by for engine gimballing,” announced the CAPCOM.
“We are standing by for gimballing,” replied Carson over the intercom. For a man who would be lying on his back for the next forty-eight hours, he sounded upbeat, even cheerful. Mounted near the consoles, a large speaker piped the simulated pre-launch noises—the whirring of pumps, creaking, groans, and squeaks—that Carson and Ourecky currently heard through their headsets in the Box. They were the sounds of a dormant Titan II rocket gradually coming to life, preparing to convert its potential energy into barely bridled explosive force.
“T-minus one minute,” stated the CAPCOM.
“T-Minus one minute,” echoed Carson.
“Stage 2-P valves opening in five . . . T-minus forty seconds . . . T-minus ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four . . . first stage ignition . . . two, one, zero. Hold-down bolts are fired. Lift-off.”
“Hold-downs are fired and we have lift-off,” chimed Carson. “The clock is started.”
Standing behind Heydrich, Wolcott could not help but notice Russo punch the start button on his stopwatch as Carson called lift-off. If that’s how you’re going to play it, thought Wolcott, you’ve got a hard two days ahead of you. Knowing that Blue Gemini’s fate now rested in Heydrich’s hands—or perhaps in Ourecky’s head—Wolcott closed his eyes and sighed.
Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Washington, D.C.
8:35 a.m., Thursday, January 23, 1969
“So, Mark, you look like hell,” observed Wolcott, walking into the private hospital room and setting down a large gym bag. “Do you feel any better?”
“I do,” replied Tew, sitting up in his bed. “Good to see you, Virgil. Did you bring my things?”
“I did, pardner,” answered Wolcott. “Your street clothes and loafers are in the bag. Your uniform is hangin’ in my VOQ room at Andrews. A courier is totin’ the briefing charts and books; we’ll meet him at the Pentagon. We need to scoot, though. Time’s a’wasting.”
Tew slowly stood up and untied his blue hospital gown. Wolcott gasped as he glimpsed the massive surgical scar that ran from the top of Tew’s breastbone down to his navel. The swollen incision was closed with black sutures as thick as kite strings.
“It looks a lot worse than it feels,” noted Tew weakly. “Although it does feel pretty damned bad. Kind of like getting ripped open with a chainsaw. It’s funny, but hugging a pillow helps a lot with the pain, but I don’t suppose that would go over very big across the river.”
“Can’t argue that, pardner.” Wolcott reached into the gym bag and pulled out a knit shirt and khaki trousers. “And you’re absolutely positive that you’re cleared to leave the hospital?”
“Why, certainly, Virgil. I’ve been vegetating here for three weeks. I asked my doc if I could go visit some friends, and he said it was okay. We still have friends in the Pentagon, don’t we?” Tew tugged the shirt over his head and winced as the fabric brushed over the protruding stitches in his chest.
“Friends at the Pentagon? I guess we do,” replied Wolcott, handing Tew his folded khaki trousers. “I s’pose that we’ll know by the end of the day, pardner.”
Simulator Facility, Aerospace Support Project
11:05 a.m., Thursday, January 23, 1969
“Okay,” said Russo, yawning as he checked his stopwatch. “We’re drawing to a close here. Here’s what I think we should see on the reentry sequence. Start with a delayed retro firing, so they’ll be forced to divert to an alternate landing site, and then . . .”
“No,” said Heydrich emphatically, shaking his head. “That’s not how we do business here. We designed the scenario to plug in random events, but those events are generated strictly according to input from a random numbers generator.”
“Random numbers generator?” asked Russo. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Chris, hand me the random numbers generator.”
“Here you go, boss,” replied a sleepy controller, solemnly passing Heydrich a small black cylindrical object.
In a time-honored ritual, Heydrich shook the cylinder and then flicked it toward an open area on the table. Three dice rattled out, spun, and then came to rest between a chipped ceramic coffee cup and an overflowing ashtray. “Okay, Chris, tell the back row to load Post-Retro Scenario Five-Three-Two.”
“Five-Three-Two,” mumbled the controller, opening a binder and flipping through pages. “Five-Three-Two . . . here it is. Five-Three-Two. Uh oh. Gunter, you might want to roll again.”
“Why?” asked Russo, attempting to look over the controller’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“Among other things, Five-Three-Two calls for the command pilot to be incapacitated,” answered the controller, slowly shaking his head. “I don’t think we should . . .”
“Play it as it lies,” stated Heydrich firmly, looking squarely at Russo. “The dice have spoken, and we’re not going to argue. I am confident that Captain Ourecky can handle it.”
The controller nodded, and turned to face the third row of consoles, the domain of the computer specialists. “Five-Three-Two,” he announced.
“Retrofire,” declared Carson, punching the manual retro fire button and scanning the sequencing lights in the center console. The four retro rockets were programmed to “ripple fire,” igniting one at a time, rather than “salvo fire,” where they came to life at the same time. “Retro 3 is firing. Retro 2 is firing. Four is firing. All retros firing.”
“I copy that all retros are firing,” answered the CAPCOM. “Do you have your IVIs?”
Carson read the indicated numbers from the center of his panel: ““IVI read-outs are 269 aft, zero-one-zero left and 181 down. Everything is nominal.”
“I copied 269 aft, zero-one-zero left and one-eight-one down, Scepter One.”
“That’s a good copy,” replied Carson. Shuffling his feet in the narrow footwell, trying to improve his circulation, he looked to his right. “How are you feeling over there, buddy?”
“Not great,” groaned Ourecky. “I’m mos
tly just numb at this point. My skull feels like it’s packed with sand. I hope I don’t offend you, Drew, but I really don’t want to ever sit inside this thing again, ever, once today is over.”
“Understood. I think you’ve paid your dues, Scott, and I owe you.” Watching the sequencing lights, Carson announced: “Retro pack jettison.”
“Copy retro pack jettison,” replied the CAPCOM. “You guys ready to make the switch?”
“More than ready,” answered Carson. He stifled a yawn. “We’ll start disconnecting in here.”
At this point, the clock would temporarily stop as he and Ourecky would be transferred from the Box to the Paraglider Landing Simulator. Although the swap heralded that their ordeal was nearly over, riding the paraglider simulator, which moved in all axes, sometimes felt like sitting in an out-of-balance washing machine. He hoped that Ourecky—who was as close to exhaustion as any man could be—could handle the few minutes that remained.
After the transfer was completed, the clock was restarted; the cabin rocked back and forth slightly, simulating their descent into the atmosphere. Gazing through his window, Carson watched the simulated drogue chute unfurl and blossom. “Drogue deployed,” he stated. “Go to Rate Command.”
“Drogue is out,” confirmed Ourecky sleepily. “Switching to Rate Command.”
“Minor oscillations,” noted Carson. “Install your D-Ring.”
“D-Ring.” Ourecky fumbled the D-Ring into position and then locked it in place with a pip pin.
“Check your straps.” Carson pushed himself down in his seat and cinched his shoulder straps. “Sixty thousand feet. Thirty seconds to main chute.”
“Thirty seconds to main,” confirmed Ourecky.
At the appropriate altitude, Carson punched the button to deploy the paraglider. Both men studied the wing as it gradually took shape, recognizing that it was taking several seconds longer than normal. “We have a burble up there,” he observed. “It’s not deploying cleanly. Stand by to cutaway and eject.”
“Standing by to eject,” replied Ourecky, poising his finger over the switch to arm the pyrotechnic charges that would jettison the paraglider.
“Paraglider is out,” said Carson. “Looks like a good deployment, but we lost at least a thousand or more feet in the process. I think we still have enough glide slope to make it to the strip, though. Stand by to rotate to two-point landing attitude.” He hated the next move. He punched a button and quickly swung his forearms up to guard from smacking face first into his instrument panel. The cabin jarringly lurched nose over, replicating the change to landing attitude. Almost immediately, he heard a buzzing tone in his headset. “Damn,” he mumbled.
“What?” asked Ourecky.
Sitting quietly, Carson placed his hands in his lap, a subtle signal to Ourecky that he had been “incapacitated.”
“Oh,” replied Ourecky. Not missing a beat, he clutched the hand controller and immediately transitioned into the paraglider controllability checklist. “Stall check,” he noted, gradually tugging back on the controller. “Stall check is good.” He continued through the sequence and then switched on the TACAN receiver. Almost immediately, the TACAN acquisition light blinked on, indicating that they were locked on to a transmitter located at the landing site.
“Control, this is Scepter One, receiving TACAN on Channel Six,” said Ourecky.
“Scepter One, this is Control. I copy that you are receiving TACAN on Channel Six. Field elevation is two-one feet, current altimeter is two-eight-nine-three. Winds from Two-Seven-Five, three knots gusting to five. You are cleared for Runway One-Eight. Runway surface is packed earth. Recommend you form a right-hand pattern.”
With his hands still folded in his lap, Carson noticed that Ourecky seemed concerned about something. Finally, the engineer spoke: “Control, Scepter One, be aware that we had a delayed opening. I don’t think we have sufficient altitude to safely fly a pattern and land upwind on One-Eight. Since the surface winds are negligible, I would rather shoot a straight-in approach and land downwind on Runway Three-Six. Can you advise clearance?”
Several seconds of silence passed, as the controllers were obviously discussing Ourecky’s improvisation to resolve his shortage of operating altitude. “Scepter One, Control, Roger. You are cleared for a straight-in approach to Runway Three-Six. No change to winds or conditions.”
“Control, I copy that I am cleared to land downwind on Three-Six,” said Ourecky calmly. “Be advised that my command pilot is unconscious and I will need medic on field.”
“Scepter One, Control, I copy that you will need a medic after landing.”
Proud of Ourecky’s ability to make a tough choice in a moment of intense stress, Carson grinned. We’re going to make it after all, he thought, the kid is going to put her down safely.
Then, just by chance, Carson glanced at the mission clock on the upper right corner of his instrument panel, and was momentarily overwhelmed by panic. Ourecky had made a solid decision, but not flying the pattern would shave at least two or more minutes off the elapsed time at the end of the mission. Running the numbers in his fogged thoughts, Carson realized that it was very unlikely that they would actually achieve the requisite forty-eight hours.
Transfixed on the mission clock, frantically hoping that Ourecky will notice the time and recognize the problem, Carson watched the seconds painfully click by. But Ourecky didn’t look at the clock, because he was doing precisely what any good pilot should be doing at this stage of the mission: he was focused entirely on safely landing the ship, and the elapsed time was not a variable that he need be concerned with at this moment.
“Control, this is Scepter One,” announced Ourecky. “Field in sight, on short final.”
Moments later, Carson heard a loud scraping sound—the simulated noise of the three skids making contact—in his earphones. Ourecky had pulled off the landing. He looked to the right to congratulate Ourecky, but heard snoring and realized that the engineer had fallen asleep. He suspected that he might be the only one aware of the time glitch, so he decided to keep his mouth shut and not broach the issue. This long-dreaded ordeal was over, and what happened afterwards was entirely out of their hands.
The Pentagon, 11:45 a.m.
Wanting desperately to rip off his uniform so he could scratch the relentless itch of the sutures poking out through his skin, Tew pretended to listen intently as a budget analyst pontificated about various current and proposed anti-satellite programs.
Droning on, the analyst asserted that deploying an unmanned anti-satellite system was more cost-effective than following through with Blue Gemini’s satellite inspector/interceptor. Striving to present an aloof persona, Tew looked at Wolcott seated to his left. Wolcott was clearly fuming, seemingly ready to explode.
Tew looked to the head of the table, where General Hugh Kittredge was seated. Kittredge would ultimately make the recommendation on Blue Gemini’s fate. To his right was Admiral Leon Tarbox, who headed up some secretive aerospace projects for the Navy. Currently, Tarbox was assigned to the MOL program, where he oversaw the Navy’s participation in the effort. Coincidentally, as the MOL liaison to Blue Gemini, Russo worked directly for Tarbox.
The budget officer finally completed his pompous speech. Tarbox thanked him and then moved to stand at the head of the table. “So, gentlemen, I think it’s clear that continuing with this project is far too expensive and too risky, and it’s an opportune time to cut our losses. We’ve certainly learned a lot, and for that we’re indebted to Mark Tew, Virgil Wolcott and their men.”
Tarbox continued: “So, General Kittredge, our recommendations are as follows. First, shut down this program as swiftly as possible, but not before mothballing the launch vehicles and spacecraft to allow their use in short order, should a contingency arise. Second, reallocate Blue Gemini’s remaining funds, hardware, and personnel resources to the MOL program. And third, transfer control of the 116th Aerospace Operations Support Wing to the Aerospace Rescue and Recovery S
ervice, with the specific mission of direct support to the MOL program.”
“Good points, Leon, and I concur with most of them,” noted Kittredge. “But in fairness, let’s make sure we hear both sides of the argument. Mark?”
Tew rose slowly out of his chair. As he did, Wolcott stood up to place a briefing chart on a tripod. Seeing that the chart was the version that reflected a successful completion of the forty-eight hour intercept simulation, Tew slowly shook his head, almost imperceptibly. In response, Wolcott grudgingly swapped out the briefing charts.
“Gentlemen,” he said. The word was barely out of his mouth when a phone quietly buzzed on the table. One of Kittredge’s assistants picked up the phone, listened, and then handed it to Tew. Tew put the receiver to his ear, listened, smiled broadly, and then motioned for Wolcott to swap out the briefing charts yet again.
“Good news?” asked Kittredge.
Handing the receiver back to the Major, Tew nodded. “Excellent news. I’ll cover it shortly.”
Just as the assistant replaced the phone, it buzzed again. Like a déjà vu scene, he picked it up and then handed the receiver to Tarbox. Smiling slightly, Tarbox listened and then declared, “No need to continue, Mark. It’s a dead issue. Your guys just failed to hit a critical benchmark.”
“What?” demanded Wolcott. “We’ve hit them all, including—”
“The forty-eight-hour intercept simulation?” smirked Tarbox. “Sorry, Virgil. Your guys came up short. I’m sure that they gave it their best, though.”
“Wait,” demanded Tew. He tasted bile rising in his throat, and suppressed the urge to throw up. Covering his options, he slid two steps closer to Tarbox just in the event that he couldn’t hold it back indefinitely. “I just talked to Gunter Heydrich. He clearly said that they just completed that requirement.”
“Maybe that’s what Heydrich’s claims,” countered Tarbox. “But our auditor—Major Russo—monitored the whole show from start to finish. He kept precise track of time, and he reported that your guys missed the mark.”
