by Mike Jenne
For the next twelve hours, the pilots would practice close-in maneuvers that would be used during later interception missions against suspect Soviet satellites. Then they would break away, gradually increasing separation, before attempting a second rendezvous, effectively an acid test of the procedures that they had refined during the past several months. It would be flown “closed loop,” with minimal support from the ground, and would culminate with the deployment of a hoop-shaped “Disruptor” device that would encircle and snare the Agena.
Afterwards, the pilots would power down the Gemini-I spacecraft for a six-hour “loiter” period. After resting, they would power up, reenter the Earth’s atmosphere and deploy their paraglider to execute a night landing at a remote dirt strip at Edwards Air Force Base, California.
The partially buried blastproof blockhouse wasn’t spacious, just barely large enough to house the twenty men who would oversee the launch and control the initial flight until the Gemini-I was successfully injected into low Earth orbit. At that point, control of the mission would transfer to Blue Gemini’s Mission Control Facility located at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base.
Carson manned the CAPCOM desk in the blockhouse. Russo served as the Range Safety Officer; one of his principal tasks was to destroy the Titan II rocket if it went astray. Wolcott and Tew were present, strictly to observe the momentous event.
The countdown went into its final seconds. Monitoring the status of the launch and taking cues from the various controllers over an intercom loop, Carson relayed critical information and instructions to the flight crew. “Mark. T-minus one minute. Stage Two fuel valves coming open in five seconds . . . T-minus thirty seconds . . . Everything is looking great . . . T-minus twenty seconds . . . T-minus ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four . . . first stage ignition . . . two, one, zero. Hold-down bolts fired. Lift-off.” He glanced up quickly to watch a television monitor; belching a thick cloud of billowing smoke, the rocket gradually rose on twin wisps of scarcely visible flame.
“Copy bolts! Lift-off! The clock has started and we’re on our way!” yelled Howard. His voice was barely audible over the roar. “This horse has left the stable!”
“Good luck, guys,” said Carson.
“Roll program started,” announced Howard.
“Roger roll program,” replied Carson. There was so much whooping and cheering in the room that he had to hold his hand over his earphone to hear Howard’s barely audible voice.
“Roll program is . . . complete!” declared Howard moments later. “Initiating pitch program!”
“Copy pitch program started. Looking good,” replied Carson. Several of the launch controllers were already peeling cellophane wrappers from fat cigars.
Twenty seconds into the flight, Riddle commented, “Clouds coming up. Beautiful! Wish you could see this, Drew.”
Yeah, I wish I could, thought Carson. “What’s your cabin pressure, Squeaky?”
“Cabin press is at five point nine,” answered Riddle.
“Be aware that we’re experiencing a lot of pitch oscillation,” said Howard. “Getting a bit rough. Should smooth out momentarily when we go supersonic.”
Over the intercom loop, the “FIDO”—Flight Dynamics Officer—announced, “We’re showing some erratic readings on the gimbal sensors.”
“How erratic, pard?” demanded Wolcott, stepping out of his role as a silent observer.
“Very,” replied the FIDO, an Air Force major. “But we can’t tell if we’re losing the gyro platform. For some reason, it’s overcompensating.”
“Thirty seconds on the clock. Be advised we are experiencing a slight pitch over,” reported Howard. “We’ll watch to see if it corrects itself. Right now, it feels like we’re porpoising.” The gyro’s overcompensation resulted in progressively increasing pitch oscillations, which caused the rocket to fly in a slowly undulating pattern through the air, like the rhythmic pattern of a porpoise breaking the surface of the water and then submerging, over and over and over.
“This stack is not going to hold together very long. Advise on abort,” demanded Howard.
“They don’t have sufficient altitude for a modified Mode II abort,” declared Russo. “And there’s no Mode I with this platform!”
For once, Russo was correct, thought Carson. Mode II—firing their retro rockets to escape the malfunctioning booster—was the crew’s only abort option, but it wouldn’t be viable for another twenty seconds. Mode I abort, which had been available to NASA Gemini astronauts, was not available on the Gemini-I since it wasn’t equipped with standard Weber ejection seats.
“Screw the protocol! Abort!” yelled the launch control officer, punching the red abort button on his console. “Now!” The abort command coincided with an electronically transmitted tone signal that immediately shut off the first stage booster engines.
Barely a second passed before Howard calmly stated, “Abort Indicator and Engine I lights are showing red. Now attempting a modified Mode II abort. Abort handle to Shutdown.”
Carson unconsciously groped for a phantom abort handle at his left side as he reviewed the checklist in his mind. After five seconds, Howard would shove the abort handle from the Shutdown setting to Abort, which would initiate a swift chain of events that would hopefully save the two pilots. Explosive charges would sever the Gemini-I from the wobbling booster. Immediately afterwards, the spacecraft’s four retro rockets would fire in unison to blast the spacecraft from the doomed rocket. The purpose for the painfully long five-second delay was to allow the booster’s upward velocity to sufficiently dissipate so the retros would be effective.
Transfixed on the television monitor, which was linked to a telescope-equipped camera tracking the rocket’s ascent, the launch team anxiously watched for the flash of pyrotechnic line charges detonating. But the charges didn’t fire and the spacecraft did not separate; the nose of the Titan rocket was already keeling over rapidly, and the resultant sheering forces were too great to allow the Gemini-I to break away.
“We’re pitching over sharply, about to fully nose over,” reported Howard coolly, like he was sports commentator casually describing a line-up change in a baseball game. “Mode II abort is a No Go. This is not recoverable, gentlemen.”
Suddenly, as if all their eyes were linked by a common thread, the launch crew’s collective attention focused on a large red “Destruct” button on Russo’s Range Safety console. After first swiveling a lock-out key, Russo would press the button, which would initiate a radio signal, which in turn would detonate a series of explosive charges built into the Titan II booster rocket. The intent was to prevent an errant booster from accidently injuring anyone on the ground.
Of all the contingencies that they had rehearsed ad infinitum, this was the one scenario that no one has seriously contemplated. Frozen in place, with a terrified expression on his face, Russo desperately looked to Wolcott, as if silently seeking guidance at this awful moment.
Without speaking, Wolcott answered. He reached past Russo, calmly turned the safety lock-out key, and then quickly and deliberately pressed the red plunger once, then twice more for good measure. On the television screen behind him, the pin-wheeling rocket was disintegrated by a massive explosion, instantly rendered into a plume of cascading fire and smoking debris. Speechless, the men watched the rocket’s demise in stark black and white.
Picturing the faces of Howard and Riddle in his mind, Carson could barely breathe, but he continued to monitor the UHF channel as if they might have miraculously escaped their doom. Maybe they separated just before the explosion, he thought. Still watching the monitor, he studied the scattered chunks now spiraling down toward the sea, waiting for one to sprout a parachute. If anyone could keep their cool and pull out of this, Big Head Howard could do it.
Wolcott took his hand from the Destruct button and turned to face the others. Most were in shock, some looked ready to cry, two or three were already starting to sob. Wolcott’s weather-beaten face was implacable, like a stoic
cavalryman holstering his Colt after putting down a lame mule. “Is there some reason that you hesitated, pardner?” he asked Russo, speaking in a tone almost glacial in its detachment. “Surely you know the procedures.”
“But they were . . .” Russo stammered. “. . . they had no way to . . .”
“Eject?” asked Wolcott, drawing an unfiltered Camel from a pack in his pocket. He lit it with his Zippo held in an unwavering hand. “Correct, but what would have been gained by delaying the inevitable by just a few more seconds? Did you forget your job, Colonel? Did you forget that we have ships out there on picket? What if that rocket had remained intact and crashed down on one of them? Or what if it had made it to Hawaii? Have you considered that, pard?”
Silently sobbing, Russo despondently shook his head.
“Next time, pardner, do not hesitate. Do what has to be done.” Wolcott inhaled deeply from the cigarette, held it in for a moment, and exhaled through his nose. “Now, the rest of you, put down those damned cigars, snap out of your shock, and do your damned jobs. Let’s figure out the point of impact so we can get out there pronto to start fishin’ pieces out of the water.”
6:10 p.m.
Carson stood by the pier, watching the sun going down in the Pacific sky. It was a beautiful evening, with a gentle breeze blowing in from the ocean. He heard a steady drone from the north and realized that it was a contract passenger plane, ferrying back the first contingent of the island’s regular workers from Hawaii.
Wolcott walked up. Waving, he beckoned Carson. “Hey, Carson, would you mind giving me and Mark a lift to the other side? We’re on the first shuttle back to Hickam Field.”
“Sure, Virg.” The two of them walked to the far side of the blockhouse, where Tew waited with two B-4 suitcases. Carson helped them load the bags into the back of the Willys jeep and then climbed behind the wheel. He awkwardly shifted the open-topped jeep into gear, grinding some metal in the process, and they jolted to a start and headed north along the airstrip. He thought Wolcott seemed amazingly calm and collected for someone who had lost a rocket and two pilots less than twelve hours before. But then he realized that the retired general had cut his teeth in a generation where death and destroyed aircraft were daily occurrences.
As for himself, he had personally witnessed ten fatal crashes, including two where he had been piloting a chase plane close enough to see the doomed pilots’ faces when they died. But something about this morning’s incident had unnerved Carson, and he hadn’t realized what it was until late this afternoon: it was the very first time that he had ever witnessed an intentional act that had resulted in someone’s death.
“So, pardner, I s’pose you’re havin’ some second thoughts after this morning, huh?”
“We wouldn’t think any less of you, Carson,” interjected Tew. “That’s human nature.”
“I’m not afraid, sir, if that’s what you believe,” replied Carson. Trying to keep this morning’s events in proper perspective, he remembered that men climbed into cockpits every single day in Vietnam, not knowing what the day held. But despite the uncertainty of their circumstances, at least they had some limited means of escape if their aircraft was shot down or otherwise disabled. “I just wonder if it was really such a good idea to pull out those Weber seats.”
“There’s really no way of knowin’,” replied Wolcott. “After all, NASA launched this same rocket ten times with men on top, and never once did they have to rely on the ejection seats. They came awful close that one time, and even then it’s questionable if those boys would have made it through. So, pardner, you could say it all comes down to a toss of the coin.”
“True,” said Carson. Yeah, but with the ejection seats Big Head and Squeaky would have at least had that coin to toss, he thought. But on the plus side, at least they died with three hundred pounds of additional mission gear inside the pressure vessel.
“Pardner, what happened this morning was a tragic loss, but a harsh reality is that airplanes and rockets will never be an absolutely safe means of travel,” commented Wolcott.
Carson pulled up to the terminal building and switched off the jeep’s engine. He watched for a moment as the incoming passengers disembarked from the arriving plane. Dressed in gaudy Hawaiian shirts, they laughed and joked, oblivious to this morning’s tragedy. Carson thought about the next launch, when he would be riding the rocket, and wondered if he could be nearly as calm and professional as Howard if he found himself in similar circumstances.
“Son, I would be lyin’ to you if I told you that we weren’t in a pickle,” said Wolcott, swinging his B-4 bag out of the jeep. “I know that you and Russo ain’t geehawing, but the fact is that we can’t possibly get this next rocket off the ground without you sittin’ on top of it. I want you to know that, Carson. The fate of this project is very much in your hands.”
“Aptly stated,” added Tew. “We are relying on you, Carson.”
“Sirs, I appreciate your candor. I don’t have any intention of backing down. I’m planning to ride the next rocket out of here, but you need to know that I can’t go up with Russo.”
“Major Carson,” said Tew flatly. “We have no other options. Are you telling me that you would rather go up with one of the men from Crew Three?”
“No, sir. I just have to ask you both if you are men of your word.”
“Pardner, that goes without sayin’,” replied Wolcott.
“And you kept your word to Ourecky, right?”
“We did,” answered Tew. Removing his Stetson, Wolcott nodded solemnly in concurrence.
“Then, Virgil, I’m going to ask you to recall a conversation that we had a few months back, when you asked me to work with Ourecky on the forty-eight-hour simulation. All I ask is that if you kept your word to Ourecky, then you keep your word to me as well.”
“I know where you’re going, pardner, but we ain’t sending you to Vietnam, so don’t ask.”
“That’s not it,” said Carson. “Virgil, you told me that if we made the forty-eight hour mark, then I could have my choice of right-seaters.”
“I do recall that,” said Wolcott. “But it ain’t particularly relevant right now, since we’re runnin’ short of options. But out of sheer curiosity, pardner, who exactly do you have in mind?”
“I want to fly with Ourecky. I trust him. I can’t trust Russo.”
“No!” barked Tew. “I won’t allow it. Besides, Ourecky would never agree to it anyway. He’s just a few weeks away from going to MIT. He’s not a pilot, and he’s not going to agree to some harebrained idea, particularly after what happened this morning.”
“Well, you’re probably right, sir,” said Carson. “But would you at least grant me an opportunity to ask him? If he refuses, then what harm could come of it?”
“No!” reiterated Tew, pulling his B-4 bag from the jeep. “And besides, we don’t even know if he’s even physically qualified for the project. It makes no sense to invest a lot of thought on this if it eventually turns out that he can’t pass the medical exam.”
Looking out to sea, Wolcott was silent for a long moment. Then he looked back to Tew and said, “Mark, just by happenstance, I do know the answer to that particular question. When he went through his flight physical to fly back-seat with Brother Drew here, Ourecky got the full work-up. The bottom line is that he’s medically qualified for space flight. I’m sure that the docs would want to give him another once-over just to be absolutely sure, but he’s good to fly.”
Tew shook his head. “I can’t believe we’re even entertaining this as a serious notion. It’s a long trip back to Ohio, Major Carson. I won’t promise you anything, but I’ll think about it.”
32
EL SEGUNDO
Los Angeles International Airport, California
2:15 p.m., Thursday, February 27, 1969
Sitting in the pilot’s lounge of LAX’s general aviation facility, Carson perused the morning newspaper as he waited for Ourecky. Ironically, tomorrow’s scheduled launch of Ap
ollo 9 was delayed because the astronauts—McDivitt, Scott and Schweickart—had caught colds earlier in the week. If cleared by NASA physicians, the trio would launch on Monday. President Nixon, who would be just returning from his trip to Europe, would be in attendance to view the lift-off.
Closing his eyes, Carson wondered if the President would ever witness one of his launches. Certainly, the President was cognizant of Blue Gemini and its implications. He had to be aware of Tuesday’s incident at the PDF, and perhaps that’s what compelled him to travel to Cape Kennedy. It would be only the second time that men rode a Saturn V rocket into space, and even though the behemoth was designed by the brilliant von Braun and his stellar coterie of German rocket scientists, there was still a possibility that something could go awry.
Perhaps the President’s media-savvy handlers surmised that there could be no better place for him to be. If events proceeded as planned, the President would be there to witness history in the making and assume ownership of it. But if the Saturn V faltered on lift-off, he would be perfectly positioned to call attention to the tremendous risks undertaken by previous Administrations—Democratic, no less—as he consoled the widows and asserted personal leadership in the aftermath of a national tragedy. Either side of the coin was a winning toss.
Carson’s mouth felt dry as he reflected on why he had called Ourecky to meet. He unwrapped a stick of Juicy Fruit gum and stuck it in his mouth. This was a hastily planned stop on their trip back to Wright-Patt, so he didn’t have an abundance of time. The Manned Orbiting Laboratory Project Office, where Ourecky worked, was located immediately south of the airport at Los Angeles Air Force Station in El Segundo.
Wolcott had called last night, granting Carson permission to invite Ourecky back into the fold. Without disclosing his true intent, Carson approached Russo to ask for the short layover. Much to his surprise, Russo had not resisted his plan; of course, although Russo worked at Wright-Patt, he was still assigned to the MOL office here, so he likely harbored his own agenda.
