Blue Gemini

by Mike Jenne

  “It’s simple. I need you to feed the cat and pay the bills while I’m in Thailand. Anna will kill me if anything happens to that damned cat. Don’t let it out, no matter how much it cries.”

  Kroll continued. “There’s a shoebox with pre-addressed envelopes for all the bills, along with a check for each bill for every month. The rent will stay the same; the other bills might fluctuate a little. You’re welcome to stay over as often as you want, but make sure you turn down the thermostat and turn off the lights when you leave or my electric bill will be sky high. You’re welcome to anything edible in the refrigerator or cabinets; any chow after that is on your dime. Got it?”

  “I think I got it,” replied Yost. “And you’ll be TDY at Udorn for six months?”

  “At least. And Anna will be at her folks’ place in Oregon until I get back. Keep an eye on the mail; if you see anything that looks important, forward it to her. The address is taped up by the telephone. Okay, Eric, what’s the most important thing to remember?”

  “Feed the cat.”

  “Correct,” said Kroll. “And the Mustang is yours to drive until I get back, but I would really appreciate it if you kept it to a minimum. Premium gas only. It burns oil, so expect to put a quart in every week, unless you want to spring for replacing the rings. Rinse it off at least once a week, or more often if it starts building up a salt film. Please take good care of it.”

  “And you’re paying me fifty bucks a month on top of letting me stay in your place?”

  “Yeah,” replied Kroll. “Thanks. I almost forgot about that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the thick wad of cash that had been disbursed this afternoon as an advance on his TDY pay. Peeling off five twenties, he added, “Here’s the first two months in advance.”

  Wiping a tear from his eye, Yost said, “I can’t tell you how much this means to me, Dan.”

  “Well, you should know that it’s on the third floor and there’s no elevator,” replied Kroll, glancing down at the heavy cast that encased Yost’s right leg below the knee. “I hope you feel the same way after you’ve been up and down the stairs a few hundred times.”

  Apex Minerals Exploration Inc., Dayton, Ohio

  2:15 p.m., Monday, January 27, 1969

  “Here,” said Grau, handing Henson an envelope. “Plane tickets and instructions. I need you to go back to Gabon. You’ll leave in the morning.”

  “Already?” asked Henson. He had just been to West Africa in November, immediately after matriculating from Grau’s training course. “I thought that the earliest I would head back there would be in June. So I’m not scouting Brazil this month?”

  “Not now, Matthew. We’ve received instructions to activate the staging site in Gabon for the last week in February. I want you to head back over there to complete the preparations.”

  “Last week in February? Why?”

  “We don’t ask why, Matthew. We just do.” Grau reached into his desk and pulled out an old Florsheim shoebox. “Here are your operational funds. Same accounting rules as always.”

  Henson opened the box and pulled out a rubber-banded packet of 500-franc banknotes. The bills looked spanking fresh from the printing presses of the Banque de France. The grim face of famed mathematician-philosopher Blaise Pascal peered out from the front of every note.

  “Any questions, Matthew?”

  “No, sir.” Henson stood up to shake his hand and glanced at the picture of Grau, his African wife, and baby in Paris. “So did you talk?” he asked. “I think I probably would have.”

  “What?” asked Grau, closing his desk drawer.

  “Your eye,” said Henson, gesturing toward the picture. “When they tortured you.”

  “What? My eye? Hah! So when did I tell you that I lost my eye when I was tortured?”

  “Well, I just thought . . .”

  “You thought wrong. If you must know, I lost my eye at the hands of my wife’s family.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not in the least,” said Grau, self-consciously touching his black eye patch. “Her family didn’t take too kindly to her becoming involved with a white man. Her brothers caught us together in my room one night. They took me out to the street and beat me. My eye ruptured, and it became infected later, and then I lost it. I suppose I’m lucky, though, because they probably would have beat me to death if Aminata had not stopped them.”

  “So after that, her family accepted you and then you were married?”

  “No. We were already married. We had wed in secret a month prior to that. They stopped beating me because Aminata told them so and begged them to stop. Of course, they probably would have finished the job if they had known she was pregnant.”

  Grau continued. “Anyway, I lost my posting in Senegal and ended up in a hospital in Paris. By the way, French medicine leaves much to be desired. Maintaining sterile conditions is not their strong suit, not by a long shot.”

  “So this picture was taken after you got out of the hospital?”

  “Yes, but not for my eye,” replied Grau. He held up his left hand and wiggled the stump of his ring finger. “This was much later, after the Russians cut off the first knuckle of this finger and osteomyelitis set in. I ended up losing the whole digit. I was fortunate I didn’t lose the whole hand. French medicine again.”

  Henson cringed. “So, Mr. Grau, what happened to your wife? Aminata?”

  Grau closed his eye as a tear formed and ran down his cheek. “She died in childbirth, exactly two years after that picture was made. Our son died with her.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Grau. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  A quiet moment passed, and then Grau opened his eye and looked at Henson. “No. It’s painful, but I appreciate that you caused me to remember them. So I guess you’re still curious about the baby girl in the picture. My daughter, Adja.”

  “Adja?”

  “Yes. My brother and sister-in-law raised her in California since I was out of the country most of her life. She’s a sophomore at Kent State. I would like you to meet her sometime, Matthew, but I should warn you: she’s not a bit warm and cuddly like me.”

  “Well, that’s certainly disappointing, Mr. Grau,” replied Henson. “But I would like to meet her someday. Well, I suppose I have a plane to catch tomorrow, so I had better go pack.”

  “Bon voyage,” replied Grau. “And be careful in Gabon, Matthew. Keep your wits about you.”

  James M. Cox Municipal Airport, Dayton, Ohio

  7:30 a.m., Tuesday, January 28, 1969

  Standing at the gate, Ourecky checked his tickets. He heard the boarding call and turned to face Carson. “I suppose this is it, Drew,” he said. “Any idea where your next assignment is?”

  Carson frowned. “Not exactly. We’re not immediately closing down the office, Scott. There’s still paperwork to do. I’ll be at Wright-Patt for at least a couple of months, maybe even longer.”

  “Any chance that you’ll make it to Vietnam?” asked Ourecky.

  “I doubt it. Ol’ Cowboy Virg made it abundantly clear that I won’t be flying in combat anytime soon, if ever. I guess I had better just come to grips with that.”

  “Well, I would think they could make allowances for you. Look, Drew, I have something to ask you. Bea and I are planning to get married in June, in Nebraska. Our plans aren’t absolutely firm yet, but I would really like for you to be my best man.”

  Carson laughed. “Best man? I’m honored, but have you discussed that idea with Bea? I wouldn’t think she would be too enthused about it.”

  “I’ve talked to her about it. She’s warming to the idea. Why don’t you think about it, Drew?”

  “I’ll think about it, brother. It’s really going to depend on where I’m at, though. It’s kind of hard to see that far into the future, considering the circumstances.”

  The loudspeaker blared, announcing the last boarding call. “I guess I had better head out.”

  “Yeah.” Carson started to shake Ourecky’s
hand and then awkwardly hugged his shoulders. “It’s been an honor, Scott. Really. I would be happy to fly with you anytime. Sorry we had to do all of our flying in the Box, though.”

  “Not all of it,” said Ourecky. A gate attendant waved frantically at him.

  “We did have our moments, didn’t we?” said Carson, laughing. “Take care of yourself, Scott Ourecky. Tell Bea I said hello. She is coming out this weekend, right?”

  “Right. I’ll tell her. Take care of yourself, Drew. We’ll see each other again, soon enough.”

  “Yeah we will. Soon enough.”

  30

  FEBRUARY

  Simulator Facility, Aerospace Support Project

  11:35 a.m., Wednesday, January 29, 1969

  An additional procedures simulator had arrived from NASA, which required that the hangar door be opened so that Heydrich’s technicians could ferry in the pieces from the three tractor-trailer trucks parked outside. A small forklift was used to convey most of the larger apparatus, while a steady stream of workers wheeled in cabinets, consoles, and other smaller components.

  Despite all the bustling activity associated with the new arrival, a simulated mission was underway, with Crew Two preparing for next month’s launch. With the wintery weather blowing in through the gaping entrance, the temperature inside the hangar hovered in the low teens.

  Normally, the hangar’s interior was all but sweltering, since the poorly ventilated structure retained the heat collectively generated by several large computers and a multitude of various electronics. Heydrich’s men usually worked in shirtsleeves, but today they were clad in cold weather gear—bulky Arctic parkas, wool watch caps and gloves—on loan from the supply room.

  When they weren’t lugging gear or engaged in the ongoing simulation, the technicians clustered around several strategically placed electric space heaters. Hot coffee and cocoa were in great demand, and the usual stockpile of glazed doughnuts was exhausted in short order.

  Pondering whether it was sufficiently cold to induce frostbite, Carson rubbed his tingling nose. This was the first time that he had worked on this side of the magic curtain, and he wasn’t fond of it. Although it was cramped and miserable inside the Box, he had been constantly busy in there and—moreover—had been the center of attention. Right now, in his role as CAPCOM, he was just another cog in Gunter Heydrich’s diabolical machine. Granted, he was a cog of slightly more importance than most, but a cog nonetheless.

  Two of Carson’s flight school classmates had been killed in Vietnam yesterday. The shoot-downs were so frequent now that he wondered how many months would elapse before his class was winnowed down to nothing. Of course, even when all of his classmates were sleeping in Arlington or cemeteries elsewhere, he would remain, since he could not be killed in combat, and it was unlikely that he would die atop a rocket. So he was stuck with the unenviable task of calling the wives and girlfriends of the dead and captured to offer his condolences. As uncomfortable as he was in attempting to assuage their grief, he most dreaded the inevitable moment when they asked when he would finally be going overseas himself.

  As for his present circumstances, things were as bad as they possibly could be. Russo had received his promotion orders for lieutenant colonel yesterday, so the issue of seniority was no longer in question. To more effectively cement them together as a team, Wolcott had decreed that they would work together in the Simulator Facility, training Crew Two—Tom Howard and Pete Riddle—to fly Blue Gemini’s first mission.

  This morning, the insufferable Russo had blasted into the facility like the bitterly cold gusts now pouring in from the windswept parking lot. An unusually strange tension had set in between Russo and Heydrich. After last week’s melodramatic episode, Heydrich was reluctant to be seen as provoking any form of confrontation, so he wandered around the hangar like a gun-shy pointer hound, afraid to openly challenge Russo on any issue. Russo, exploiting the vacuum, swiftly sought to establish dominance, sticking his nose everywhere that it didn’t belong, and dictating things that he had no business dictating.

  As the CAPCOM, Carson was obligated to remain at his station for the duration of his twelve-hour shift, unless a suitably qualified replacement could stand in for him. Presently, the only qualified replacement was Russo, and Carson was not about to subject his friends in the Box to even a second’s worth of Russo’s pestering voice, regardless of the circumstances.

  Since there were no unfilled electric sockets anywhere near his console, the glowing red warmth of the nearest space heater was over fifty feet away, so Carson sat at his console, headset clamped on his skull, encased in a parka, with teeth chattering. Although his bladder felt ready to explode and he desperately wanted a hot cup of coffee, he was determined to keep at his station. At least the guys in the Box were warm right now, and they were allotted a latrine break every six hours, whether they needed it or not.

  Deep in his control panel, a failing capacitor buzzed persistently, like a pesky fly that needed swatting. As he shivered, Carson looked to his left; Heydrich sat motionless at the next station, with his head and face hidden by the hood of his ancient but heavily insulated Luftwaffe parka. Only an occasional cloud of steamy breath, puffing from the luxuriant wolf fur that lined the hood, lent any tangible evidence that he was still animate.

  To Carson’s right sat Russo, who had talked almost non-stop for the past two hours. Paging through the “glitch book,” a three-ring binder that contained the multitudes of assorted problems that could theoretically befall the Gemini-I as it orbited the Earth, Russo relentlessly called out malfunction after malfunction. Each simulated discrepancy resulted in the simulation crew twisting the knobs or throwing the switches that caused displays and instruments to subtly change within the Box, which in turn required immediate and diligent action on behalf of the two-man crew.

  “Scenario item number 674,” chimed Russo cheerily, like he was reading the name of a tow-haired tyke from Santa’s “nice” list. “Computer start circuit failure.”

  The controllers anxiously looked to Heydrich for guidance. Although he was supposed to set the tone and tempo for the entire exercise, Heydrich had the authority to veto Russo at every turn, but he said nothing. A silent puff of mist through wolf fur signaled his tacit consent.

  Knowing that Russo could not see them, the bewildered workers shook their heads as they tweaked their dials and threw their switches. Seconds later, through the intercom speaker, they overheard Howard and Riddle curse as they grappled with the error.

  “And now item 312,” said Russo, placing a gloved finger on yet another discrepancy. “Continuous yaw-left condition due to excessive steam venting.”

  “They’re still working 674,” observed Carson, nudging Heydrich’s elbow.

  “That’s my point,” replied Russo. “Item 312. Continuous yaw-left condition. Now!”

  Minutes passed before a technician in the second row reported that the crew had successfully addressed both glitches. “Then hit them with item 1425, Primary horizon sensor failure,” ordered Russo. “Then wait two minutes and throw them item 551, OAMS helium pressure indication zero.” He stood up from his console and yawned. “I’m going to grab some coffee and then go outside to stretch my legs for a minute or two. Can you cover for me, Gunt?”

  A wisp of vapor puffed out of Heydrich’s fur-lined hood. He was silent even as the frustrated technicians behind him scurried to comply with Russo’s directives. As Russo walked away, with the heels of his insulated boots clicking on the concrete floor, Carson heard Heydrich’s muffled voice, softer than even the quietest whisper, counting his steps: “. . . acht, neun, zehn, elf, zwölf, dreizehn . . .” Then the engineer held up a finger and asked, “He’s by the coffee urn, ja?”

  “Right,” replied Carson.

  Heydrich slowly flipped back his parka hood, adjusted his glasses, and smoothed his awry mop of black hair. “Gunt!” he cursed. “Where does that verdammter dummkopf come off thinking that he can call me Gunt?”


  “Gunter, why on earth don’t you say anything? Why are you letting him do this?”

  “What good will come of challenging him?” responded Heydrich. “If he wants to believe that he walks on water, then let him, at least until he sinks in over his damned head. Maybe then Virgil will come to his senses and yank him out of here!”

  “I guess you’re right, but I don’t know how much more of this I can stand,” noted Carson. “Spending the next few years at some Arctic outpost is really starting to look like an appealing option. At least I’m dressed for it.”

  “Ja,” muttered Heydrich, nodding his head. “At least you have that option, Drew, but I don’t. But I’ll tell you this: if you suddenly hear a thunderclap, smell sulfur, and see that imp burst into flame, you’ll know that Satan has granted my wish. I may spend eternity in hell afterwards, but at least I’ll get some work done today.”

  A green light blinked on Carson’s console; it was an indicator for the private intercom loop, a subtle signal that the men inside the Box wanted to discuss an administrative matter. Simultaneously, in his earphone, Carson heard Howard’s voice. “Scott, I’m on Loop Four. Can you switch to the same so we can chat?”

  “Give me a second, Tom,” replied Carson. Pretending to stretch, he stood up and looked around. He glimpsed Russo standing at the hangar’s open entrance, sipping coffee as he watched some of Gunter’s technicians unloading one of the flatbed trailers. Waving his arms in sweeping gestures, as if to tell them the optimal way to carry each console and computer cabinet, Russo seemed intent on infringing on their business as well. “Okay, coast is clear. I’m on Loop Four. What’s on your mind?”

  “Drew, we’re working this intercept scenario, but you guys keep chucking glitches at us like we don’t already have enough crap to keep us busy. Between you and me, I think we have a pretty damned tight handle on glitch management. What we really need to practice is working together as a team to fly the intercept, and this damned malarkey isn’t helping that process.”