by Mike Jenne
“We’ll have a more formal ceremony after you return, Major,” said Tew, shaking Ourecky’s hand. “Congratulations.” Carson and Heydrich reached out to shake his hand as well.
“This is going to be a hectic day for everyone, so let’s get right down to the brass tacks,” stated Wolcott. “Gunter, are you confident that this pair of stalwarts are ready?”
Without hesitation, Heydrich thumped his hand on the table and replied, “They are.”
“Drew?” asked Wolcott.
“I’m ready, sir,” answered Carson. “We’re ready.”
“And last but not least, our newly minted Major Ourecky. Are you ready, pard?”
“Yes sir, I am. We are.”
Wolcott spat a string of brown tobacco juice into a brass spittoon, and said, “Now, gents, we’ve done our utmost to resolve all the issues with this platform, but rockets are rockets and this is still a mighty risky endeavor regardless of how well we prepare. So I’m sure that you’ve heard it said, but I’ll say it again: Speak now or forever hold your peace. If you’re holdin’ back any concerns or reservations, now’s the time to air them out.”
Carson, Ourecky, and Heydrich were silent. Finally, Ourecky spoke. “Sir, I sure wish that we weren’t launching on Friday the 13th.” The five men laughed, but not very much.
“Your superstitions are duly noted,” said Wolcott, smiling. “Anything else?”
The men were quiet again.
“That’s it, then.” Wolcott turned to Tew and declared, “Mark, this crew is ready to go.”
Tew nodded. “Good luck to you, gentlemen. We’ll meet back here on Tuesday next week.”
Pacific Departure Facility, Johnston Island
9:30 a.m., Wednesday, June 11, 1969
The LST’s below-decks air conditioning system wasn’t adequate to keep pace with the tropical heat, so the air was uncomfortably warm and stagnant. The rhythmic clatter of sailors chipping paint reverberated through the steel bulkheads. Stripped down to his underwear, dripping sweat from every pore, Ourecky studied his flight plan for at least the thousandth time. To prevent it from getting damp with his perspiration, he held the dog-eared tome at arm’s length.
“Still lounging here in your skivvies? You had better jump into your coveralls,” said Carson, strolling into the tiny space. “We need to be topside in fifteen minutes. We have to go back over for another plugs-out test on the pad.”
Ourecky groaned. “How many times do we need to rehearse that until they realize that we have it down pat?”
“At least one more time, obviously. Feeling okay? Got the jitters?”
“No jitters, but I wish I could sleep,” replied Ourecky. “If the heat isn’t bad enough, it seems like these damned sailors can’t go five minutes without painting something. I’m afraid that if I sit still too long, they’ll paint me. Anyway, it’s not just the chinking noise all day; the fumes are just wearing me out. I just hope I can make it through the test today without falling asleep.”
“Then I have some good news for you. I convinced the flight surgeon to let us move onshore to the suit-up trailer. It’ll only be slightly cooler, but we won’t have to contend with the fumes and the noise. Maybe you’ll log some decent rest before we ride the rocket on Friday.”
“Man, thanks, Drew. Really. I’m indebted to you.”
“That’s not all. There’s more good news, hot off the presses.” Carson handed Ourecky a Teletype printout. He stepped back, smiled broadly, and folded his arms across his chest.
“What’s this?”
“That’s yesterday’s news,” stated Carson. “Literally. It’s headlines and news stories from the wire services. The comms guys at Wright-Patt sent it to the comms guys here.”
Ourecky skimmed through the news items and observed, “They’re still fighting for Hamburger Hill in Vietnam. Hey, this is interesting: Congress passed the funding bill for NASA, but it specifically restricts NASA from planting any flag on the moon but the United States flag. Apparently, NASA was actually considering putting up a United Nations flag.”
Carson grinned. “Uh, that’s just fascinating. Maybe you should just skip down to the fourth item, Scott; the one I marked with a star. It’s the real scoop.”
“USAF Manned Orbiting Lab Scrapped,” read Ourecky aloud. “Defense Secretary Melvin Laird announced Tuesday that the Air Force’s Manned Orbiting Laboratory program was cancelled. Pentagon officials stated that the objectives of the program, which would have launched a two-man space station for thirty-day missions beginning in 1972, could just as easily be accomplished by unmanned systems or planned NASA programs.”
“Can you believe that? Well, it looks like our friend Russo isn’t going to orbit after all,” gloated Carson. “That’s just too damned bad. And he had such lofty aspirations.”
“Wow!” Ourecky said. “I suppose I got out of there while the getting was good, huh?”
“Yeah, you definitely dodged that bullet. So long as our program isn’t cancelled between now and Friday morning, you and me are headed to orbit.”
“You don’t suppose that Russo might come back to roost here?” asked Ourecky. “After all, we’re still shorthanded on pilots and . . .”
“Honestly, I don’t think Mr. Russo will show his face back here. To be frank, I suspect February’s launch accident really made a lasting impression on him. At a minimum, I don’t think he’s too inclined to ride a second-hand ICBM without a full-bore ejection seat under his butt.”
Pacific Departure Facility, Johnston Island
3:30 a.m., Friday, June 13, 1969
Although it was still dark, their day of reckoning had arrived. Just less than two hours from a Pacific dawn they were destined never to see, one way or another, Ourecky and Carson were alone on the pad, perched atop a hundred-foot aluminum cylinder loaded with over 200,000 pounds of hypergolic propellants that were anxious to erupt.
The pad technicians had completed their chores, said their goodbyes, and sealed the spacecraft’s hatches before retreating to the steel-reinforced concrete safety of the blockhouse. The launch support ship—the modified LST landing ship where the pair had eaten their midnight breakfast—had long since sailed, joining the other ships on picket around the island.
With no television cameras, reporters, or swelling masses of the public on hand to observe the proceedings, their pre-flight activities were significantly more abbreviated than NASA’s protracted spectacle. The crew embarked with precisely enough time—two and a half hours—to execute their pre-launch checklist. For Carson and Ourecky, the familiar routine wasn’t much different than climbing into their T-38 at Wright-Patt.
For the launch crew personnel, the notion of firing a rocket was not at all unusual; most had spent years in underground silos, babysitting ICBMs, and they had the process down cold. The prevailing attitude, from the pair in the spacecraft to the men hunkered in the blockhouse, was that the Titan II was either ready to go or it wasn’t. If it was ready, the crew boarded, did their last-minute procedures and left the planet; if it wasn’t, there was little to be gained by putting them in early to agonize over details.
“Executing computer update,” said Ourecky. Reaching out to the computer control panel on the pedestal between them, he turned a knob to PRE LN. “Computer is in Pre-Launch Mode. Running memory and logic test from AGE.” Still connected to the pad by a cable umbilical, the onboard computer silently compared notes with the mainframe computers in the blockhouse.
“I confirm pre-launch computer check,” noted Carson.
“By the way, next time around, remind me not to get the French toast in the galley,” noted Ourecky, rotating the knob back to ASC. “Computer in Ascent mode.”
“You’re assuming that there will be a next time,” replied Carson dryly.
3:59 a.m.
“Vehicle is transferring to internal power,” stated the CAPCOM. “Stand by for engine gimballing.”
“Standing by for gimballing,” replied Carson succinctly
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“T-minus one minute and counting,” declared the CAPCOM. “Five seconds to Stage Two fuel valves . . . Thirty seconds . . . T-minus twenty seconds . . .”
While the Box did a passable job of replicating the sounds just prior to launch, it didn’t accurately capture the almost overwhelming physical sensations. As powerful turbo-pumps whirred to life, Ourecky felt their vibrations pulsing up through his back; the behemoth Titan II was like a living thing, quickly waking to undertake its singular mission of heaving the two men and their spacecraft into orbit.
After repeatedly watched the films of Crew Two’s demise, he could not dispel the feeling of impending doom that gripped his stomach. He thought of Bea and how the promise of their life together could be obliterated in the coming seconds. His eyes were fixed on the Abort indicator in the top center of his instrument panel. Of course, at this point watching the Abort light was essentially pointless; if it suddenly flashed red, it meant that he might have barely enough time to draw another breath before he was incinerated.
“T-minus ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four . . . first stage ignition,” announced the CAPCOM.
Unable to breathe, Ourecky felt the Stage One engines rumble. With the rocket fastened to the pad by explosive bolts, a two-second delay passed as the two engines built sufficient thrust for lift-off. Running at full tilt, they generated a combined thrust of 215,000 pounds.
“Hold-down bolts are fired!” announced the CAPCOM. “Lift-Off !”
“We copy lift-off! This elevator’s going upstairs!” shouted Carson. “Whew! What a ride!”
Expecting much more violent agitation, Ourecky was amazed with the smoothness of the liftoff. It felt as if a massive hand suddenly scooped them upwards, progressively lifting them faster and faster. In an instant, his feelings of apprehension were displaced by a sense of urgency, and his thoughts of earthbound matters slipped away. If he was going to die today, he was going to die doing his job, so his mind no longer held room for distractions. With a start, he suddenly realized that Carson had neglected something from the checklist. He pointed at the clock display and quickly switched off the VOX loop. “The clock, Drew. Call the clock!”
“Huh? Oh!” As Ourecky toggled the comms back to open loop, Carson declared, “The clock is running! Four seconds into flight!”
“Good copy on your clock,” replied the CAPCOM. “Good luck, guys.”
“Roll program commencing,” stated Carson.
At twenty-two seconds into the ascent, Carson reported: “Roll program complete. Pitch program has initiated. Pitch is looking good.” The pitch program would automatically nose the rocket over in three gradual steps to minimize the angle of attack.
“Cabin pressure relief is normal,” said Ourecky. He continued to scan his instruments, looking for any discrepancies. Right now, he and Carson were along for the ride, monitoring their spacecraft and the Titan II to ensure that everything was performing within acceptable parameters. Otherwise, the rocket could have been lofting a thermonuclear warhead, as it had been designed to do, since it effectively flew itself during the ascent phase of the mission.
“Roger cabin pressure,” replied the CAPCOM. “Everything is looking nominal down here.”
“The ride is smoothing out considerably,” observed Carson. “We should be supersonic right now. Stage One fuel and oxidizer in limits. ENGINE II underpressure light is amber.”
At one minute and forty seconds into flight, the CAPCOM announced, “Mark at one plus four zero. You are Go for Mode Two.”
“We copy Go for Mode Two!” exclaimed Carson excitedly.
“Pilot copies Mode Two,” confirmed Ourecky. He breathed a sigh of relief. Now that the Mode Two abort option was viable, their chances for survival had just increased exponentially. There was still a long way to go, but it was less likely that they would suffer the same horrendous fate as Howard and Riddle, now that they had an escape option.
Ourecky peered at the DCS light in the upper right of his instrument panel. Watching the light blink on, which indicated that the onboard computer was receiving updated guidance data from the ground, he commented, “DCS Update received.”
“We copy DCS update,” confirmed the CAPCOM. “Your trajectory is still looking nominal.”
“Kind of bumpy up here,” commented Carson. “Some long axis oscillation, but otherwise looks good. Passing through eighty thousand feet right now. We’re really scooting on up.”
Two minutes and thirty seconds into flight, Ourecky watched the DCS light blink on again. The computer was automatically uploading guidance and initiation data for the Titan II’s second stage. They were now approximately at 250,000 feet in altitude, roughly twenty nautical miles northeast of Johnston Island, travelling at 9,800 feet per second. “DCS Update,” he stated.
“We have ENGINE 1 underpressure lights,” noted Carson calmly. As alarming as it sounded, it was nothing to be concerned about; the warning lights glowed red as the thrust chamber pressure dropped below sixty-seven percent, which meant that the first stage engines were automatically being throttled down. “. . . and ENGINE 1 lights are extinguished.”
“BECO!” announced Carson, acknowledging Booster Engine Cut-Off. The first stage had accomplished its task and was mere seconds away from its long plunge through the atmosphere and into the depths of the Pacific Ocean.
Through the tiny window, Ourecky witnessed a brilliant flash of reddish-orange light. Initially thinking that something might have gone awry, he remembered that most of the NASA astronauts reported seeing the same sight when the first stage shut down.
“Just saw a big flare over the nose at BECO,” noted Carson, observing the same spectacle. The rocket’s upward velocity slowed immensely; the acceleration forces immediately diminished from 6 G’s to 1.5 G’s, jamming the two men forward against their restraint harnesses.
Immediately, a chain of events was initiated; the now-depleted first stage was literally sliced away by a string of shaped charge explosives, and the second stage engines were ignited. The ENGINE II underpressure indicators illuminated briefly and then flickered out as the engines developed full thrust to take the spacecraft the remainder of the way to orbit.
“Staging is good,” grunted Carson against the heavy pressure on his chest.
“We copy staging good at two minutes and forty-one seconds,” stated the CAPCOM.
Ourecky was pushed back down into his seat as the G’s built again. They had picked up a slight amount of vibration after staging, but nothing to be overly concerned about; a little bumping and shimmying was entirely acceptable.
“Stage Two fuel and oxidizer reading within limits,” reported Carson. “Accelerometers looking nominal. Slight yaw to the right, less than a degree.”
“We copy that your Stage Two is running smoothly,” answered the CAPCOM.
“Guidance initiate,” stated Carson.
“Copy guidance initiate,” replied the CAPCOM. “Still tracking well.”
“Almost five minutes,” noted Ourecky, glancing at the clock. “Coming up on Point Eight.”
At slightly more than five minutes into flight, the CAPCOM stated, “Point Eight. Mode Three.” They were now cleared for the Mode Three abort protocol. They were roughly 522,000 feet in altitude, travelling at approximately eighty percent of the velocity required for orbital insertion.
“Copy Mode Three,” said Carson.
At five minutes and forty-five seconds into the flight, the SECO light blinked on, signifying that the second stage engine was shutting down. “SECO,” reported Carson brusquely.
Carson reached out and toggled the OAMS PROPELLANT switch. OAMS was the Orbital Attitude Maneuvering System, which was used to maneuver the Gemini-I in orbit. He waited for twenty seconds, allowing the upward thrust of the second stage to decay, and then pushed in the SEP SPCFT telelight, starting a chain of events that would result in the firing of explosive charges that would separate the Gemini-I spacecraft from the Titan II’s second stage.
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Immediately after the charges detonated, the SEP SPCFT light illuminated green, indicating that they were free of the booster. The depleted booster gradually tumbled away behind them; having spent most of its existence buried under an Arkansas pasture, its useful life was over.
“We need your IVI’s,” said the CAPCOM.
In the bottom-center of Carson’s control panel, directly below the “eight-ball” attitude indicator, was the Incremental Velocity Indicator, which displayed the corrections automatically derived by the onboard computer. The corrections were displayed in three axes—Forward/Back, Left/Right, Up/Down—which would zero out as Carson applied the appropriate amount of OAMS thrusters during the IVAR—Insertion Velocity Adjust Routine—as well as subsequent computer-generated maneuvers during the flight. Reading the numbers, Carson reported, “IVIs are 49 Forward, 26 Right and 79 Down.”
“Roger,” replied the CAPCOM. “You’re go for IVAR.”
“Thrusting forward,” stated Carson, deftly nudging the maneuver controller. After a few moments of subtle maneuvers, he reported, “IVIs are nulled. Showing zeros in all axes.”
“Roger your IVI’s are zero’ed,” stated the CAPCOM. “We’re showing you in an 88 by 125 orbit. Congratulations, guys.”
“We copy 88 by 125 orbit,” said Carson. “We’re just now seeing the horizon. We haven’t lost the window covers yet, but we do have a horizon out there.”
“Good job, Drew,” commented Ourecky. “Much better than the Box.”
“We’re here!” exclaimed Carson gleefully, reaching over to excitedly tap his gloved hand on Ourecky’s. Even though they had reached orbit, that was the extent of their celebration. They had rehearsed this process enough times to know that there was no time for festivities or even to glance out the window at the Earth below; there was work to be done, and plenty of it.
