by Mike Jenne
He set aside his paper and looked out the window. Los Angeles International was one of the busiest airports in the world; every day, tens of thousands of people came and went from here. Everything seemed so orderly and efficient on this sunny afternoon, but Carson was well aware that the airport was associated with two fatal air crashes just over a month ago.
On January 13, while on landing approach, a Scandinavian Air System DC-8 splashed into the Santa Monica Bay roughly eleven miles west of the airport; fifteen people died but thirty survived. Less than a week later, after losing an engine and electrical power following takeoff, a United Airlines 727, on its way to Milwaukee, plunged into the same bay, killing all twenty-eight people aboard. As Wolcott had implied, flying airplanes could often be a perilous business, but not all the risk was assumed by the men behind the controls.
Rather than avoid the pervasive stench of the massive oil refinery in nearby El Segundo—a town otherwise known as “El Stinko” to LA residents—Russo remained out by the T-38, subjecting the aircraft to a cursory but superfluous inspection. He was clearly distraught after Tuesday’s incident but seemed determined not to show any outward sign of his distress.
Carson sipped a Coke as he watched a man on the other side of the lounge. Wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt, the man looked to be of college age. Likely a student pilot, he was engrossed in the busy work of assembling a flight plan. The table before him was covered with the brightly colored FAA sectional maps.
Measuring route segments, the man used an E-6B “whiz wheel” flight computer to calculate various elements—leg timing, estimated fuel expenditure, wind corrections—as he pieced the plan together. After a few minutes, he neatly folded his maps and tucked them into a binder, stood up, and walked over to Carson’s table. “Is that your Talon out there?” he asked, gawking out the large window at the needle-nosed trainer.
“It is,” replied Carson. “Actually, I’m just riding the back seat today.”
“Cool. I’m still learning to fly. Just soloed three weeks ago. I’m in the middle of a cross-country run. Just wish that I hadn’t landed here. I’ll be lucky to get out of this place, after they stack up everyone else in front of me. I’ll probably burn most of my fuel just taxiing and waiting.”
“Just be patient,” counseled Carson. “Are you flying that Piper Cub?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the man, donning a leather flight jacket that was much too heavy for the warm day. “Don’t NASA astronauts fly T-38’s like yours to maintain proficiency?”
Carson nodded.
“Cool. Would you mind if I went out and looked at it?”
“No problem with me. Just talk to the man out there. His name’s Ed Russo. It’s his plane.”
The man thanked him, pulled a baseball cap over his shoulder-length blonde hair, and walked out into the bright sunlight. Meeting him at planeside, Russo was obviously receptive to the interruption; the two walked around the T-38 for almost ten minutes, and Russo even let the neophyte pilot briefly climb into the cockpit.
After the man left to file his flight plan, Carson watched an official blue sedan pull into the parking lot. Three men—two wearing Air Force dress uniforms and a third in Navy whites—disembarked and walked toward the jet. Russo saluted one of the newcomers and then gestured toward the building. One man broke off and headed his way; spotting Ourecky’s distinctive gait, Carson stepped outside and called him over.
“Man, it’s good to see you, Drew!” exclaimed Ourecky. The two men shook hands and then embraced. Other than the flight suit the engineer had worn on hops or during training, Carson had never before seen Ourecky in uniform. The blue space above his left breast pocket was woefully bare, except for the red and yellow ribbon of the National Defense Service Medal, the “everyman award” given to all military personnel when they completed their basic training.
“Good to see you, too.” Carson pointed at a picnic table beside the building. “Let’s go over there, if you don’t mind, so we can have some privacy.” He looked back in the direction of the T-38. Russo’s hands were tracing a trajectory through the air, an arc that stopped abruptly and then plummeted toward the ground, so he knew precisely what he was describing to the two visiting officers. “Scott, who are those guys?”
“Those two? Talking to Russo? That’s General Stokes and Admiral Tarbox. They’re both bigwigs with the MOL office.”
“I know Stokes. What about the Navy guy? Tarbox?”
“Tarbox? Eventually, there will be some Navy-specific MOL missions. Admiral Tarbox oversees the preparations for those. He apparently has some potent political connections. Definitely not someone you want to cross.”
“I’ll make note of that,” Carson said. “Thanks.”
“So what brings you and Brother Ed to sunny California?” asked Ourecky, sitting down at the picnic table. “Seeking gainful employment with us Can Men? Are you guys preparing to lock the doors back at Wright-Patt?”
“I can’t speak for Russo, but I’m definitely not here to look for a job,” said Carson abruptly. In fact, he had been here just over two years ago, to interview for the third group of military astronauts who would eventually fly on the MOL. Four Air Force pilots were later selected; Carson did not make the cut.
“This isn’t a casual visit, is it? You’re not just passing through, are you?”
Shifting his eyes to the sun-warped redwood boards of the picnic table, Carson avoided Ourecky’s ever-inquisitive gaze. “No, we’re not just passing through, Scott. The truth is that I have some really bad news: Tom Howard and Pete Riddle are dead.”
Ourecky swallowed. “Oh, man. Big Head? Squeaky? How did it happen? T-38 accident?”
“No, Scott. I feel terrible having to break it to you like this, but they died in a launch accident. Blue Gemini wasn’t cancelled when you left. Tew just wanted you to believe that. Tom and Pete drew the first practice mission. Tuesday morning, they launched from the PDF, but they apparently had some sort of gyro failure. The rocket had to be destroyed, and we lost the guys in the process. I was there, on CAPCOM, so I saw and heard it all.”
Ourecky suddenly looked like he was in shock. “They couldn’t execute a Mode II?”
Carson shook his head solemnly. “Not enough altitude and the platform was already too unstable. At least it was quick for them.”
“I suppose that there’s something to be said for that.”
“Well, they signed on for the job,” observed Carson. “It’s not like they were coerced. Look, Scott, I didn’t come here just to dump bad news in your lap. I came here to ask you something.”
“What is it, Drew?”
Carson started to open his mouth, but was waylaid by an overwhelming sense of trepidation. He knew plainly what he was here to do; the question was foremost in his mind, but his mouth was not willing to form the words. For a fleeting moment, it was if he was drawn up into the imaginary submarine he had invented to insulate himself from pain and stress. The hatches were sealed tightly behind him, and he was isolated in the conning tower, looking out through his periscope, separated from his present reality so that he could reflect on the potential consequences of his actions. He knew what he had to ask Ourecky, but he was very conscious that when he asked the question, both of their lives could be indelibly altered by the outcome.
“What is it, Drew? What do you want to ask?”
How can I do this? thought Carson, as if he was trying to reach out telepathically to Ourecky. Scott, how do I ask you to do something that will likely kill both of us? Finally, the words poured out of his mouth, in almost a jumbled stutter, like he was an awkward adolescent asking the prettiest girl in class to accompany him to the homecoming dance. “Scott, I came here to ask if you might want to fly. To orbit, that is. With me.” At that moment, a heavily laden TWA 727 took off, punctuating Carson’s question with the roar of its three engines.
Ourecky looked skyward and gasped. “Are you serious?”
“I am serious. More accuratel
y, we’re serious. Tew and Wolcott granted permission for me to ask you, but you’re not under any obligation one way or the other.”
“But I’m not a pilot,” declared Ourecky.
“Scott, you probably never dreamed that you would hear these words from me, but that doesn’t matter in the least. You and I both know that.”
“But why me, Drew?” implored Ourecky, looking toward the T-38. “Even with Tom and Pete gone, there’s still Parch Jackson and Mike Sigler on Crew Three. And last but definitely least, there’s Ed Russo. Wasn’t Wolcott going to team you with him?”
“Yeah, I was supposed to fly with Russo, but the generals finally realized that it wasn’t going to pan out. They’re allowing me to choose who I want to fly with, and I choose you. Of course, that’s contingent on your decision. If you say no, then I’m back on square one.”
“Drew, this is an awful lot to absorb at one sitting,” Ourecky said. “To be honest, I’m still stunned that Blue Gemini wasn’t discontinued.”
Carson nodded. “If you decide to fly, you’ll find out more about what had happened. Blue Gemini wasn’t cancelled; it was accelerated. That’s why Tew and Wolcott agreed to let me talk to you. Regardless of which crew goes next, they have to know the spacecraft and procedures absolutely cold. Just by circumstance, Scott, you may not be a pilot, but you’re far more current and knowledgeable than anyone else, especially on the computer and calcs. Besides that, the two of us have more training as a crew than Jackson and Sigler. And with the launch schedule as it is, there’s no possible way to bring them to the same level in the time that’s available.”
“And Russo? What about him?”
“I won’t even discuss Russo,” answered Carson flatly. “Flying with him is not an option that I’m willing to entertain. I would rather fly with an airsick chimpanzee.”
“Gee, thanks, Drew.” Ourecky pointed at his heart. “As Bea’s fond of saying, that just makes me feel warm right here.”
“That’s not what I meant.” An orange-painted Coast Guard HO-4S rescue helicopter clattered by, low overhead, on its way to the Coast Guard air station located on the airport.
“I know. Just kidding. So when is the next launch?”
“As early as April, but we still have to work around NASA, and their flight schedule is up in the air. They’re gunning hard to land on the moon this summer, but in order for that to happen, everything has to run smoothly next week, provided those guys are healthy in time to launch.”
“And after Apollo 9, then everything has to function on Apollo 10,” interjected Ourecky. “What a huge gamble they’re making.”
“Right. In any event, Scott, I really can’t discuss any more specifics unless I know that you’re even slightly open to the possibility of flying. If you’re not, then we need to end this conversation now, and you need to focus your energies on what you’re currently doing and forget about Blue Gemini and forget about me. Are you even interested?”
At this point, Carson almost wished that he hadn’t come here in the first place. He felt terrible about putting Ourecky on the spot and almost hoped that his friend would say no.
“I’m open to the idea, but I haven’t made up my mind,” replied Ourecky hesitantly. “It’s a lot to absorb. So, how many missions?”
“Eleven more, at least. They plan to launch every three months, all against live targets.”
Ourecky whistled quietly. “Eleven missions? What’s the plan to divvy them up? Assuming that I fly with you until a replacement comes along, would we alternate missions with Crew Three?”
Exhaling slowly, Carson shook his head. “Nope. Scott, it’s unlikely that the Block Two computer will be delivered before the fourth mission, as it’s currently scheduled. Gunter and his guys are working hard with Crew Three, but it’s doubtful that they would be able to fly a closed loop profile without the enhanced computer. And to be honest, everyone is more than a bit skittish about following Tom and Pete.”
Carson pointed toward the three men standing by the T-38. “If you can believe it, Russo was jarred so bad he couldn’t even speak for two days. At least Parch and Mike weren’t there to see it in person. They were working in Mission Control back at Wright-Patt, but that doesn’t make them any less reluctant to jump on top of a rocket.”
“No kidding.”
“That said, if you choose to come back, it’s virtually certain that the first four flights would be ours. Assuming that they adhere to a ninety-day cycle, that’s a minimum of a year.”
“How about MIT and my PhD?” asked Ourecky. “Did Tew say anything about that?”
“No, he didn’t say anything specific, but obviously it’ll be delayed. Scott, as much as I want you to fly with me, I have to be honest enough to tell you that if you decide to come back, you can probably kiss your PhD goodbye, particularly since the funding flows out of the MOL’s spigot. I don’t think the Can Men will be willing to invest any more money in you if you’re no longer on their books, regardless of Tew’s influence.”
“Okay. I can live with that. But what am I supposed to say to Bea? Right now we’re planning to get married in June. And regardless of what happens, I still want you there.”
Carson rolled his eyes and groaned. “Bea? Oh man, I haven’t even thought about Bea yet. I’m sorry, Scott, but I can’t lend you any suggestions on that end. If you’re looking for advice about women and how to deal with them, I’m the last guy you should ask. I can fly supersonic airplanes and rockets, but I’m absolutely mystified by women,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “Look, as much as we’re going to be on the road in the coming months, does Bea really have to know that you’re going to be back at Wright-Patt?”
Ourecky laughed nervously. “It’s not quite that simple. First, she’s been flying out here every other weekend, so it wouldn’t take her too long to figure out that I’m not here.”
“Ouch. Is she coming out this weekend?”
“No. She’s staying back in Ohio. Besides, Drew, it’s been hard enough on me to mislead her about what we were doing the past few months. I wouldn’t feel right about going back to Wright-Patt without letting her know.”
“Hopefully, she’ll understand. It sounds like she’s been around the military long enough to understand that things are always subject to change.”
“She definitely knows that.”
Carson glanced out at the T-38. Still chatting with the VIPs, Russo had already started his pre-flight inspection so they could make their scheduled takeoff window. “Scott, Russo and I have to zoom back to Ohio. I don’t need an answer now, but I want you to think about it.”
“Well, it’s a lot to think about,” Ourecky said.
“I know. Whatever you choose to do, I’ll respect your decision,” said Carson, scratching the left side of his moustache. “I don’t want to get all weepy here, but I’ve realized something in the past few weeks since you’ve been gone. Just so you know, I generally don’t share much about my personal history, for good reason.”
Carson explained, “My dad died in a training crash in Idaho when I was three. My mom never recovered from that. She died in a car wreck when I was eight. She was drunk, cruised out over the white line, hit another car head-on and killed two other people besides herself. I was sent to live with my uncle. Uncle Jack was so busy climbing his career ladder that he didn’t have much time for me, so he packed me off to a military boarding school in Alabama, then I went to West Point, then the Air Force, and now I’m here.”
“I didn’t know any of that,” said Ourecky. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. Anyway, although I’ve been surrounded by people all my life, I’ve really been on my own. I think that’s why boxing always appealed to me, because it was just me against some poor schmuck who was unfortunate enough to land on the same card. The coaches liked me because I was small, fast, and powerful. They always loved that I could pound an opponent into oblivion without mercy, but all I was really doing wa
s unloading all the anger and frustration I felt.”
Ourecky rubbed his left shoulder. “Gee, Drew, that explains a lot.”
Carson smiled. “Scott, what I’ve come to recognize is that I’ve never really gotten close to anyone. I’ve never had a steady girlfriend, mostly because most women are smart enough to sense that I have no intention of becoming too attached, or because I punch out of the relationship when a woman starts pressuring me for a commitment.
“I have never learned to function as part of a team, because it’s just not been necessary. When I climb into the ring, I know that the only person I can depend on is myself. It’s the same with flying fighters; yeah, they beat it into us to always trust and rely on our wingman, but the reality is that I always fly by myself. But this business is entirely different, and the past few weeks have made me realize two things. The first is that I can’t go up there by myself.”
“And the second?”
Hesitant to answer, Carson was silent for a moment. “Scott, I can’t go up there without you. I don’t trust anyone else enough to make that trip. For my part, I have to go and I want to go. Please go with me.”
33
THE BIG WHEEL
Aerospace Support Project
8:30 a.m., Wednesday, March 5, 1969
“I’m sorry that we had to be so deceptive, Ourecky,” said Tew. “I hope that you can understand the circumstances. We’re just thrilled to have you back.”
“Ditto for me, hoss,” added Wolcott, grinning as he patted Ourecky on the back. “Welcome to the brethren. You have reached the inner circle, and now you are one of us.”
“Gentlemen, if you will excuse me,” said Tew. “I have an appointment at the hospital. I’m sure that we’ll chat later.”
“Anything . . . new?” asked Wolcott.
