Blue Gemini

by Mike Jenne

  Wolcott took a long draw from his cigarette, exhaled, and continued. “To her credit, after she soldered in the wire, she immediately notified her supervisor. He was supposed to flag this gizmo for additional testing, but it happened at the end of their shift, right before a long weekend, so it fell through the cracks. Two quality control inspectors also missed it, and that Module 7651 was eventually installed in the rocket that Howard and Riddle strapped on.”

  “I can’t imagine a little piece of wire doing so much damage,” said Ourecky.

  “Yup. Neither could I, pard. Right now, our best guess is that the module made it through all the pre-flight tests, but the non-spec wire overheated and failed about six seconds after they cleared the pad. That’s probably what commenced the chain of events that led to the rocket being destroyed. But that ain’t the really ironic part, pardner.”

  “What’s that, sir?” asked Carson.

  “That particular Titan II was pulled out of a silo in Arkansas. Had it remained there, and if we had ended up in a thermonuclear shootin’ war with the Soviets, it probably would have performed precisely to spec. The irony is that Module 7651 was part of the man-rating modification package. Before we put folks on top of a former ICBM, we insist on the man-rating mods to ensure that it’s safer and more reliable. As you might guess, there are some very persnickety rules for fabricating and installing the parts associated with those mods.”

  “I would imagine,” noted Ourecky.

  “Well, pardner, we’re secretive to a fault. We’re so danged secretive, in fact, that although the primary contactor was aware that we were modifying the rocket under man-rated specs, and the first level subcontractor was also aware, no one bothered to notify the second level subcontractor. So that little lady had no way of knowing that the lives of two men relied on this hardware. Otherwise, the wrong wire would have never been used in the first place.”

  Wolcott tapped his cigarette in a glass ashtray and then added, “You can rest assured that everything will be in kilter before you go up. But I’ll tell you something that I learned when I was flying B-17’s in the War. What happened was terrible, but we can’t incapacitate ourselves by continuing to dwell on it. So, hombres, let’s set this issue aside and move on to June.”

  Wright Arms Apartments, Dayton, Ohio

  2:10 p.m., Saturday, May 10, 1969

  “Bea, I want us to get married.”

  “Haven’t we already covered this ground, Scott?” she asked, holding out her left hand. “You don’t remember giving me this at your parents’ house? Christmas? Ring any bells, dear?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Ourecky said. “I mean that I want us to get married as soon as possible. I’ve checked on it, and we can do it at the courthouse downtown on Friday morning, after you get home. Nothing fancy. Just a simple civil ceremony. When my schedule settles down, we can do a big church wedding back at home to make my parents happy.”

  “This Friday?”

  “Yes, Bea. We already have our blood tests, so all we have to do is pick up the license at the courthouse, and we’ll be set. Wolcott has given me and Drew off already.”

  “So it’s set? We go down to the courthouse on Friday morning? Why the rush, Scott? You rarely do things on a whim. What’s gotten into you?”

  “It’s just something I want us to do. Drew’s already agreed to be my best man. Cool, huh?”

  “So you’ve already set all the gears in motion before you sprung this scheme on me?” she asked, laughing. “Okay, but I insist on having a maid of honor if Drew is going to be there.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said, picking up the newspaper. “Got anyone in mind?”

  “Oh, yes, I do,” she replied.

  As Ourecky read the paper, Bea went into the kitchen and dialed a number. Speaking into the phone, she said, “Hey, I have some big news. We’re getting married on Friday, down at the courthouse. I guess that Straight Arrow Scott is embarrassed that we’ve been living in sin, so now we’re going to tie the knot and go legit. Anyway, Scott’s planning to have a best man. Could you be there for me as my maid of honor?”

  Coyly grinning at Ourecky as she twisted the phone cord in her fingers. “Oh, yeah . . . you know him. It’s Drew Carson . . . Really, Jill, I’m sure it will be all right. Drew’s really settled down recently. I think Scott’s been a positive influence on him.”

  Listening intently, Bea was quiet for a few seconds and then said, “Babysitter? I hadn’t even thought about that. I’ll pay for it, Jill. Really, I just want you to be there.”

  Montgomery County Courthouse, Dayton, Ohio

  1:30 p.m., Friday, May 16, 1969

  Acting in his quasi-official capacity of best man, Carson located a minister at the courthouse and negotiated the details on behalf of Ourecky. For fifty dollars, the clergyman was willing to perform the ceremony and endorse the marriage license, so the couple could be legally wed.

  The day was warm and the sun was bright, so Carson slipped on his Foster Grant aviator sunglasses as Jill Osborn practiced with her new Polaroid Swinger camera. In addition to being the maid of honor, she had volunteered to photograph the ceremony as well.

  Carson studied Jill as they waited. It appeared as if she had gained a few pounds recently, but otherwise still looked good in her purple miniskirt and white go-go boots. As they stood on the courthouse steps waiting for the betrothed to make an appearance with the appropriate paperwork, he tried his best to make small talk with Jill, but she was having none of it. She acted uncomfortable and distant, not even making eye contact with him. Although it had been well over a year since they had dated, he couldn’t remember doing anything particularly offensive during the few times they went out, so he was baffled by her glacial behavior.

  Finally, Ourecky and Bea came out of the courthouse. He wore a dark blue suit; she was attired in a simple white dress. “Ready?” asked Carson.

  “All up,” replied Ourecky, gleefully waving the embossed license. “Let’s light this candle.”

  “Wait, wait!” demanded Bea. “Scott, you’re so impetuous! We have to do this right. Now, let’s see: Something borrowed, something blue . . .”

  “Here,” said Jill, removing her sapphire necklace. “This should cover all the bases.”

  Bea entrusted her simple bouquet to Jill as Ourecky fastened the donated jewelry around her neck. “Okay. That’s taken care of,” said Ourecky. “Anything else?”

  “No,” replied Bea, shaking her head. “That should do it.”

  The minister arranged the wedding party and then proceeded with the service. Lasting barely more than five minutes, with scarcely enough time to cover the requisite “I do’s,” the ceremony was short and simple.

  Concluding the ritual, the minister declared, “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may now kiss your bride.” As the newlyweds shared a showy and passionate kiss, the minister turned to the Carson and Jill and quietly added, “Who God has joined together, let no man tear asunder.” Jill offered Bea her flowers and then stepped away to snap pictures. After signing the license, the minister congratulated the newlyweds, collected his fee, and went on his way.

  “Hey, Jill,” said Bea. “Set that camera down for a minute so I can do one of my ceremonial chores.” Turning away, Bea lobbed the bouquet over her shoulder; in what should have been a sure-fire “gimme,” the flowers went straight through Jill’s hands and plopped to the sidewalk.

  Afterwards, in keeping with tradition, the wedding party ate cake—in the form of Hostess Twinkies—after Bea shoved one of the gooey snacks into Ourecky’s face. Then Carson and Jill spattered the couple with Minute Rice as they ran towards Bea’s Kharmann Ghia.

  As he walked Jill back to her car after the impromptu ceremony, Carson glanced at her and said, “You know, I think we got off to a really rough start. Since you and Bea are obviously so close, it looks like we’ll probably be seeing each other a lot more often now. Do you think there’s any chance we can make amends? Make a fresh start?�
� Walking into the shade of a tall building, Carson slipped off his sunglasses and looked at her. “I was thinking that this weekend, maybe we could go out to dinner and catch up.”

  Jill stopped in her tracks and said nothing. Turning to him, she gazed deeply into his eyes and then immediately burst into tears. Then she spun away and all but ran to her car.

  Bewildered, Carson put his sunglasses back on and headed toward his Corvette. What did I do this time?

  Le Bourget Airport, Paris, France; 2:30 p.m., Friday, June 6, 1969

  Major General Gregor Mikhailovich Yohzin could scarcely believe his good fortune. The GRU sometimes still called him for mundane chores like analyzing technical reports or reviewing films of American missile launches. Such occasions usually entailed a short stint in Moscow, and although the work was typically boring, it did offer him an opportunity to see the sights of the Soviet capital and to sometimes take in a show or two at one of the prestigious ballet companies or orchestras. The GRU often allowed him to take his family, so it was a unique opportunity for a short vacation away from the dreary environs of Kapustin Yar. An opportunity to visit Moscow was grand, but this? This was like a dream come true. The GRU had dispatched him to attend the immense spectacle that was the Salon International de l’Aeronautique et de l’Espace—the Paris Air Show!

  Granted, his family could not accompany him on this trip, and he couldn’t take a single step without being constantly shadowed by a pair of GRU thugs, but it was almost too much to hope for. At the US pavilion, the crew of NASA’s Apollo Nine flight—Jim McDivitt, Dave Scott and Rusty Schweickart—were present, standing before the Apollo Eight command module that had circumnavigated the Moon last December. Yohzin watched as the three astronauts greeted two cosmonauts—cosmonauts Vladimir Shatalov and Aleksei Yeliseyev—before giving them a tour of the spacecraft.

  A meeting of astronauts and cosmonauts! He could hardly believe that he was so fortunate to be present at such a historic occasion. Starstruck, Yohzin snapped pictures of the five space travelers before reminding himself that he was not here as a tourist, but was on a mission. Regaining his focus, he used his Leica to document details of the other spacecraft, hardware, and space-related artifacts in the pavilion. In particular, he had been instructed to concentrate his attention on assessing NASA’s spacesuits and related equipment, especially those intended for extravehicular activities.

  After he had spent over an hour in the US pavilion, he strolled by a massive exhibit associated with the supersonic Concorde. He paused for a moment to study the display and was momentarily distracted by a trio of French models, apparently part of the exhibit, scantily dressed in revealing outfits that looked barely like the uniforms worn by stewardesses. As he continued walking, a very attractive French model tripped, not too far from him, and tumbled to the ground.

  She had apparently snagged one of her absurdly high heels in a mass of television cables. As she fell, her futuristically themed metallic dress ripped up the side, immediately drawing the attention of the mostly male crowd. Not only was it obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra, but also that she wasn’t wearing much else, either.

  Just by happenstance, or seemingly so, she had plopped down next to Yohzin’s GRU handlers. In a clumsy gesture of chivalry, the GRU operative closest to her removed his suit coat and draped it over her shoulders, as the other goon sheepishly helped the woman to her feet. As the two escorted her to a nearby divider curtain, she thanked them effusively for coming to her rescue. She offered to buy both drinks in the executive lounge, but they begged off and returned to their shepherding duties.

  In the middle of the spectacle, in the few seconds that the GRU operatives were distracted, Yohzin felt someone brush against him from behind and felt a hand swiftly moving under his jacket. France was notorious for its pickpockets, so this thief was either grossly inept or he specifically wanted Yohzin to be aware of his actions. Angry, Yohzin started to pivot to confront the man, but heard a voice, speaking softly in German. “Guten Tag, Herr Yohzin,” said the man quietly. “Don’t be alarmed. Please consider our offer and contact us, at your convenience, if you are interested.”

  Yohzin did turn, but the man had faded into the crowd. The voice was familiar; he was almost positive that it was one of the German engineers he had supervised at Lehesten, perhaps even one he had known in Berlin before the War.

  6:30 p.m.

  After an early dinner, Yohzin settled into his hotel room, hoping to catch up on writing his reports. He was a little surprised that he had been granted his own room, but he could safely assume that his phone was tapped and that he couldn’t leave without being tailed by one of his handlers.

  He sat at the desk and prepared to make some notes concerning the Titan IIIC heavy lift booster he had studied at the US pavilion. As he looked for a pen, he found a folded scrap of paper in his pocket and remembered the odd encounter from earlier in the day. He unfolded the paper. In precisely written German text, the simple note read:

  We miss you and would like to work with you again. If you are interested, please call us the next time that you are in Moscow.

  Below the text was a phone number, which he recognized as a Moscow exchange. It was clearly an invitation he could never entertain. For a moment, he considered reporting the contact to his loutish GRU companions, but thought better of it; they would just suspect that he had somehow instigated the incident. Although he couldn’t contemplate ever calling the number or otherwise following up on the offer, he carefully refolded the note and jammed it into the torn lining of his suitcase.

  37

  GOING UPSTAIRS

  Wright Arms Apartments, Dayton, Ohio

  2:54 p.m., Sunday, June 8, 1969

  Ourecky perched on the edge of their unmade bed. Captivated, he watched Bea dress for work. On the nightstand, a small fan labored to dispel the heat, gently riffling the disheveled sheets with every sweep. Try as he might, he could not escape the notion that this could be the last time he would ever see her. In the months they had known each other, he had almost come to take her for granted; now he struggled to memorize every curve, line, and subtle nuance of her sinuous body, as if he could somehow stamp an indelible image in his mind.

  He was still coming to grips with the notion that they were married, even though almost a month had elapsed since the hasty ceremony on the courthouse steps. As she buttoned her uniform blouse and straightened her wings, he reviewed his personal pre-flight preparations. He had left an envelope in care of Mike Sigler, the right-seater on Crew Three, accompanied by strict instructions to hand-deliver it to Bea if he didn’t return from the mission.

  The stark white envelope contained paperwork for two life insurance policies—one naming Bea as a beneficiary and the other his parents—and little else. He had thought about writing her some form of farewell letter, but could not think of the appropriate words to say without also conveying that he was conscious of the incredible risk that he was about to undertake.

  Hoping for the best but anticipating the worst, he had left his freshly pressed dress uniform hanging neatly in a suit bag in the closet. His black uniform shoes were carefully spit-shined and tucked neatly in their pasteboard box, along with his socks, belt and tie. At this point, he was just as prepared for failure and death as he was for success.

  “As hot as it is in here, it has to be sweltering outside,” she said, wiping stray beads of sweat from her forehead. “I hope I don’t melt before I make it to the airport.”

  “I hope so, too,” he said, standing up and holding her waist. “Sorry we couldn’t spend more time together this weekend. We’re still working on a crazy schedule.”

  “Well, baby, we had last night and most of today,” she replied, checking her hair in the dresser mirror. “I just wish that things would settle down for you. Here we are, a married couple, and we see less of each other now than when we first met.”

  He kissed her lightly and said, “Sorry. It’ll be better someday, Bea. I promise.�
�

  “So are you going to fly much this week? With Drew?”

  “Oh, yeah. We’re running some tests at high altitude,” answered Ourecky truthfully, at least to a certain extent. “So Drew and I will spend a lot of time in the cockpit together.”

  “Well, you two boys be extra careful. Try not to come home with any new scars.” She looked at the alarm clock. “Well, honey, gotta go. Walk me down to my car?”

  “Gladly,” he said, picking up her suitcase.

  Aerospace Support Project; 8:35 a.m., Monday, June 9, 1969

  It was their final meeting with Tew and Wolcott prior to Friday’s scheduled launch, a last chance for Carson and Ourecky to voice their concerns before the point of no return. Immediately afterwards, once they received the generals’ nods, all that remained was to change from their civilian clothes into flight gear, climb aboard their aircraft, and fly west to North Island Naval Air Station near San Diego. They would leave their T-38 there, board a C-130 with the remainder of the launch crew personnel, and head onwards to Hawaii and Johnston Island.

  “Gents, before we settle down to the boring formalities,” drawled Wolcott. “We have some critical business to attend to. Mark?”

  “Captain Ourecky,” said Tew solemnly. “I regret to inform you of a very awkward situation. Just yesterday, I was briefing the Secretary of the Air Force on your impending mission, and while he was happy with what we’re doing, he was rather stunned that we’re sending a captain up in a spacecraft, particularly since most of the NASA astronauts are the equivalent of majors or greater. Since NASA has already established the precedent, he was insistent that we will not launch a captain into space. Virgil and I argued on your behalf, but it was to no avail.”

  “But, sir,” uttered Carson. “We’re supposed to . . .”

  “Hold your horses, son,” interjected Wolcott, grinning as he reached into a drawer to pull out a manila envelope. “Seein’ as how we don’t much cotton to elaborate ceremonies here, I’ll just cut to the chase. By express order of the Secretary of the Air Force, Captain Scott E. Ourecky is hereby promoted to the rank of Major, effective 9 June 1969.” Wolcott handed the official orders to Ourecky, along with a pair of the gold oak leaves that signified his new rank.