by Mike Jenne
“I should have left you high and dry north of the Yalu, Leon,” growled Wolcott, tapping the table with a wooden pointer. “Cryin’ and whinin’ and pissin’ your britches, begging for someone to chase that MIG off your tail. Here’s the durned thanks I get.”
“Enough,” said Kittredge, holding up his hand. “We will be civil, gentlemen.” One of his technical advisors, a civilian aerospace expert, leaned toward him and whispered through a cupped hand. Kittredge frowned, then said, “Dr. Rutledge, would you mind conveying that bit of information to our esteemed colleagues? Hopefully before this tiff devolves into a fistfight?”
Retaining his seat, Rutledge said, “Gentlemen, there’s no sense splitting hairs over the forty-eight-hour goal. It’s not germane; the actual number is really inconsequential.”
He continued. “When we wrote the benchmark requirements, we were concerned with your crews’ capacity to complete a long-duration intercept mission with minimal assistance. We had to quantify it, put a number to it, so we punted it around and arrived at forty-eight hours. So hitting that exact number wasn’t really important, since it was just an arbitrary figure.”
“Punted ? Arbitrary figure? Are you kidding me, pardner?” asked Wolcott. “Thunderation! We’ve been killing those boys for the past few weeks, and you’re telling me that you could have blessed off on any long simulation with the wave of your hand?”
Awkwardly smiling, as if he could somehow deflect some of Wolcott’s hostility, Rutledge nodded. “Forty-eight hours really means nothing. We just used it as a placeholder.”
“Bub, I should use you as a placeholder,” snarled Wolcott. “In a shallow grave.”
Tew glowered at Wolcott, hoping that he could silently persuade his grizzled friend to just shut up. From his perspective, even though Kittredge seemed to have come into the meeting pre-disposed to agree with Tarbox, it looked like all the chips were still on the table and no one had drawn a pat hand.
“So the forty-eight-hour requirement was always subject to interpretation?” asked Tew. “Why didn’t you clarify that?”
“Why didn’t you ask for clarification?” replied Rutledge smugly.
For a long moment, there was silence. At an impasse, both parties looked betrayed and disappointed. Then the phone rang yet again. Kittredge’s assistant picked up the receiver, listened, and then sprang up as if a powerful electric current had suddenly jolted through his body. Handing the receiver to Kittredge, he announced, “It’s the White House, sir. Secure line.”
Clasping the receiver to his ear, Kittredge listened intently. “Meet with who?” he asked. “When?” His face turned pale as he listened for a few more seconds and then hung up the phone. “Gentlemen, I’ve just been called away,” he explained, gathering up his loose papers and stuffing them into an attaché. “We’ll reconvene in an hour. If I’m not back by then, wait here until I return.”
“So do we have your decision, Ed?” asked Tarbox glibly.
“When I return. Mark, you and Virgil will come with me. Bring that chart. Leave the other one; my aide will see to its destruction.”
12:15 p.m.
Like a conquering hero of sorts, Ourecky was carried from the hangar floor into the suit-up room, hoisted on the shoulders of four technicians. Of course, triumphant heroes rarely doze in the midst of their victory parades. The men gently laid Ourecky in his recliner, and the suit technicians immediately started the intricate process of removing and storing the suit.
Unlike his groggy counterpart, Carson strolled into the suit-up room under his own power, to the applause of all gathered. Like a featured performer taking a bow at curtain call—selflessly acknowledging the contributions of the director, orchestra, lighting crew and other actors—the tired but euphoric Carson pointed to the snoring Ourecky, Heydrich, and the rest of the men present, and lightly clapped his hands.
Ourecky momentarily regained consciousness and gestured for Carson. “So we did it, right?” he asked.
“Yeah, buddy,” replied Carson, leaning over Ourecky’s recliner. “You did it.”
“Good,” mumbled Ourecky. He yawned widely. “Hey, Drew. Can you do me a big favor?”
“Anything for you.”
“Call Bea and tell her I’m not coming over tonight. I think I’ll just stay right here and snooze.” And with that, Ourecky lapsed back into deep unconsciousness.
Carson slouched into his waiting recliner and said, “Please shuck this thing off me.” A technician went straightaway to work, unzipping the suit and carefully pulling the top portion over the pilot’s head and shoulders.
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, gentlemen,” gloated Russo, strutting into the suit-up room and waving his silver stopwatch. “But you didn’t make the forty-eight-hour mark. It’s official; I verified my time against the master elapsed time clock on the computer. You came up exactly one minute and thirteen seconds short. I admire your effort, but it looks like that hard work was all for naught.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” demanded Carson. Yanking the recliner’s handle and standing up, he was half out of his suit; his arms and upper body were free, but he was still encased in the bulky garment from the waist down.
Heydrich stood beside Carson. “It’s just a minor misunderstanding, Drew. You gentlemen finished the forty-eight-hour scenario. That you came in under the clock is just not relevant.”
Russo snorted, wagging the stopwatch. “I beg to differ. Rules are rules, and the requirement was for forty-eight hours, not a minute less. Besides, I’ve already called my boss, Admiral Tarbox. He’s in the middle of a status briefing, as we speak, and he said Blue Gemini was already on the verge of being cancelled, so this is just icing on the cake.”
“Icing on the cake?” asked Carson angrily. “Cancelled?”
“That’s right,” answered Russo, a quizzical expression on his face. “I thought you would be happy, Drew. After all, didn’t you want to be released from Blue Gemini so you could fly overseas? I thought we were doing you a big favor.”
Carson’s face began to turn red. “Yeah, Russo, I do want to fly overseas, but not at the expense of all the people who worked so hard to make this happen. They don’t deserve this.”
“Well, Drew, it doesn’t much matter, since this project was on the chopping block regardless of this simulation’s outcome. This just makes it easier to swing the axe.”
“That’s it,” hissed Carson, throwing up his hands and moving toward Russo. With the pressure suit half-hanging off his torso and gradually sliding lower, he slid his feet in an awkward shuffle. “That’s it. Since you’ve already done your damage here, maybe you can fly back to California on the weekly medevac run.”
“The suit . . . Carson . . . the suit,” murmured one of the suit technicians. His voice was so soft that it was barely audible. He acted as if he sincerely intended to intercede, but he moved with the speed and intensity of a “B” movie zombie. “Be careful . . . not to get any blood . . . on the suit. It’s really hard to sponge out.”
Heydrich threw up his arm, momentarily halting Carson. “No!” he cried. “Carson, we’ve warned you about this. No more. You can’t solve all your problems with your fists.”
“This isn’t just for me, Gunter. This is for everyone,” Carson snarled. “Especially Scott and your guys.”
“Oh, in that case,” replied Heydrich, slipping off his glasses and handing them to Carson. “Why don’t you just let me handle this, since I’ll be out of a job tomorrow anyway?”
Raising his hands in panic, Russo was dumbfounded, not knowing what to make of the belligerent Carson, with his space suit now falling down around his knees, or the corpulent but uber-calm German engineer.
“Lichter aus, schiesskopf!” growled Heydrich, stepping forward and unloading a lightning-fast haymaker onto Russo’s chin. Reeling from the impact, Russo collapsed like a debutante swooning at a midsummer cotillion. Shaking his fist as he blew on his reddening knuckles, Heydrich proudly declared, �
�Technische Universität München, 1939. You weren’t the only one who boxed in college, Carson. You Americans had your heroes, but every good German boy ached to be Max Schmeling.”
29
OUT OF ASHES
Aerospace Support Project
7:55 a.m., Friday, January 24, 1969
Heydrich looked over his notes, making ready to report on the grisly aftermath of yesterday’s simulation debacle. Battling a pounding headache, courtesy of too much apple schnapps last night, he mentally prepared his case for the argument that was sure to come, that they had in fact accomplished the forty-eight-hour benchmark even though Ourecky had “landed” the simulator over a minute ahead of the requisite time. Heydrich sighed; he was prepared to leap on his sword if necessary, since he had been the one responsible for shaving the time so closely.
Knowing Tew and Wolcott as he did, he also expected to be publicly drawn and quartered for punching out Russo. The story had obviously made the rounds; several staff officers knowingly patted him on the back as they entered the room. Self-conscious of his bruised knuckles, he slipped his right hand under the table.
Despite his personal gloom, it seemed like there were some grounds for optimism. For the first time in several weeks, everyone at the table seemed upbeat and galvanized. Certainly, the mandatory holiday break had boosted everyone’s morale, but Heydrich suspected that some momentous news was forthcoming, since Tew and Wolcott had flown back from D.C. last night instead of remaining over the weekend, as they were wont to do, and they had called for this uncustomary “all hands” staff meeting to convene on a Friday morning.
Searching for subtle clues, he looked toward the head of the table. Despite the pervasive rumors about his health, Tew looked none the worse for wear. Sipping coffee, which he had not done in months, the general flipped through a binder, pencil in hand, painstakingly checking columns of numbers. Wolcott offered no hints, either. With his pearl-buttoned gingham shirt and black bolo tie, wearing an expressionless face worthy of the most cutthroat riverboat gambler, he acted no different than usual.
Tew closed his binder, cleared his throat and spoke. “Without delving into minutiae of what was discussed in Washington yesterday, Blue Gemini has been deemed to be of great strategic importance. With some changes, we’ll continue on the path we’ve established. If anything, we’ll have more tasks to accomplish, but we’re going to receive additional resources commensurate with our priority and the extra work that’s expected of us.”
Wolcott grinned, thumped his Stetson, and added, “Gents, this train has left the station and it ain’t slowin’ down. We’re finally goin’ to space.”
Most smiling, the collected staff officers looked excitedly at each other and started shaking hands. Although he was thrilled with the news, Heydrich momentarily glimpsed into his future, seeing the massively increased workload that would certainly be his lot.
Tew loudly cleared his throat. “Settle down. In the coming weeks, our schedule will accelerate exponentially. Colonel Porter, can you update on activities at the HAF?”
“General,” said Porter, beaming, “I spoke with San Diego yesterday afternoon. The boilerplate Gemini-I mock-up has been mated with the Titan II launch vehicle. They will perform their final diagnostics tests early next week, then encapsulate the complete vehicle in plenty of time to ship it to the PDF in time to launch next month.”
“Any issues with the launch vehicle?”
“Nothing significant, sir. The testers kept bumping into a minor glitch with the feedback from the gimbal angle sensors, but they’re addressing it. It sounds like a faulty module.”
“Good work, Colonel. I want you to call the HAF straightaway after we’re done here and instruct them to immediately stop what they’re doing.” Tew reached for his coffee and said, “Virgil, would you convey the rest of the colonel’s instructions, please?”
“Gladly, boss. Porter, on Monday, you are to proceed to the HAF, where you will tell them to remove the boilerplate vehicle and place it in permanent storage and to then prepare the first Gemini-I for mating. I’m dispatchin’ the first flight crew out there at the end of next week for their initial work-up on the vehicle, along with weight and balance tests. Any questions, pard?”
“Flight crew, Virgil?” asked Porter as he scrawled notes. “The first shot is unmanned.”
“Not anymore,” interjected Tew. “The February shot will be our one and only pure training mission. The crew will intercept an Agena-D target vehicle left over from the NASA missions. They’ll test all the procedures, to include deploying a multi-function Disruptor.”
“Disruptor, sir?” asked a newly assigned officer.
“The Disruptor is a little surprise package that we intend to leave on the Soviet platforms we target,” replied Wolcott. “It can either blow the hostile satellite to smithereens, cause it to fall out of orbit, or just make it so unstable and jittery that the Russians will spend all their time trying to stabilize it. Plus they’ll be yankin’ their hair out trying to hash out the defects in their design.”
“Again, gentlemen, next month will be our one and only dry run,” said Tew. “We will launch missions at ninety-day intervals after that, with all subsequent flights to intercept live targets. Our primary focus will be to identify and disrupt their OBS platforms, but we are also authorized to pursue reconnaissance and military communications satellites.”
The staff officers gasped.
“Intelligence,” stated Tew succinctly. “Our first training shot was supposed to launch in June. Using our current catalog of targets, I want your people to determine our next three available flight windows. I want a preliminary assessment this afternoon and a complete report by mid-week.”
“Will do, sir,” replied Seibert. “A question, sir, if I might?”
“Go ahead.”
“I assume that you’re aware that peace talks are scheduled for tomorrow in Paris,” stated Seibert. “The US is supposed to meet with the North Vietnamese and the Viet Cong. I have to assume that the war is rapidly drawing to a conclusion, and our troops will be coming home, most likely by next summer. How will this impact our project?”
“Not in the least,” answered Tew.
“Well, pardner, that ain’t absolutely true,” interjected Wolcott. “If the war in Vietnam ends that quickly, then I won’t have to listen to Carson and the other pilots continually whinin’ about not being able to fly over there. Maybe for once, Carson will focus on the matters at hand.”
“And finally,” said Tew. “Virgil and I have a belated Christmas gift to present. Virgil, if you would do the honors.”
“Gunter, considering recent events in your hangar, the boss and I were planning to install a boxing ring over yonder. But, pardner, there won’t be enough room in the barn, because . . .” Like a television game show host awarding the grand prize, Wolcott declared: “NASA is transferring a Gemini procedures simulator—complete with all the bells and whistles—which we should start receivin’ next week.”
Heydrich somberly stared at the table, rubbed his throbbing temples, and sighed.
“So, Gunter, why so glum?” asked Wolcott. “After you’ve whined for months about your hand-me-down equipment and lack of resources, I expected you to be thrilled, but you look like a kid who just dropped his lollipop in the mud.”
“Well, borrowing from your parlance, Virg, I hate to look a gift horse in the mouth. You can jam my hangar with simulators, but I still don’t have sufficient manpower to keep them running.”
“Not to worry, Herr Gunter. As part of the new personnel package we’ve been authorized, you’re slated to receive a minimum of thirty bodies, split between blue-suiters and civilian contractors. Ain’t that what you wanted, pardner?”
Later, after the staff officers filtered out, Wolcott leaned back in his chair, cleared his throat, and said, “Mark, we have another issue to discuss: our young stalwart, Captain Ourecky. With all these new developments upon us, friend, I want to keep him here. W
e need him.”
“No, Virgil,” replied Tew, shaking his head. “We’ll follow through on our commitment to Ourecky. He goes out to the MOL office initially, and then to Cambridge for his PhD.”
“But Mark, the MOL office is just plain saturated with eggheads as it is. Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep him here? He’s sure proven himself.”
“That’s precisely the point, Virgil. He’s proven himself, time and again, and it’s time that we pay what’s owed. The MOL program has the resources, funds, and wherewithal to send him to grad school; we don’t. So, just this once, let’s do what’s right. Okay?”
“Done, pardner.”
“So where’s Ourecky right now?” asked Tew, checking his watch.
Heydrich answered: “Sir, he stayed in the simulator hangar until about midnight, according to my guards, and then left the base. We don’t expect him to come back until Monday morning.”
“Fine. Where’s Carson right now?”
“He’s probably in his VOQ room, still asleep,” observed Heydrich. “He was pretty beat yesterday. If he’s not sleeping, he’s probably working out.”
“Locate Carson,” said Tew quietly, turning to Wolcott. “I want to talk to him, as soon as possible. And just in case Ourecky shows up, tell the guard at the front desk to send him directly up here. Put an escort on him if necessary; I don’t want him wandering around anywhere else in this building. And I don’t want him talking to anyone. Period.”
“As you wish, jefe,” replied Wolcott. “Gunter, you probably want to pass the same guidance over to your guards in the hangar.”
“Good point,” noted Tew. “I want to see Carson now, and I want Ourecky in here this afternoon. Make it happen, gentlemen.”
An hour later, Tew caught up with Carson at the base boxing gymnasium, where the pugilistic pilot was doing his utmost to pulverize a canvas punching bag. Pausing to admire his footwork, Tew was impressed with Carson’s compact but powerful physique. For a relatively small man, Carson’s shoulders were broad and his arms heavily muscled; his chest and abdomen seemed chiseled from the hardest stone.
