by Mike Jenne
He heard a loud noise from the parking lot and turned to watch Yost arrive in his flashy red Mustang. He couldn’t believe that the American could see fit to drive such a conspicuous vehicle.
Whistling, Yost shuffled in, wearing blue chino trousers, a white T-shirt, and new brown work boots. “How are you?” he asked, sliding into the booth opposite Morozov. “Long time, no see.”
“Hush! Pay attention,” urged Morozov quietly. “If anyone asks, we’ve just met. You answered a want ad for a part-time watchman job at Acme Tool and Die in Riverside. I am interviewing you for it. My brother—Sergei—owns the business. Do you understand?”
“Got it,” replied Yost quietly, grinning. “Cover story, right?”
Morozov nodded. He was beginning to doubt that this idiot was worth the effort. A waitress walked up to take their order. She was in her mid-thirties, slightly overweight, with curly auburn hair and sharp features. Morozov guessed that she was of Irish or Scottish descent.
“Alice,” said Yost cheerfully. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
Frowning, the waitress studied his face, as if trying to place him, and then grinned, revealing teeth long in need of a dentist’s care. “Oh, Eric! You’ve gotten so skinny that I barely recognized you. Where have you been lately?”
“I’m working night shifts now. I usually sleep during the day. Alice, you look like you’ve lost a lot of weight yourself. You look great.”
“Oh, you’re always so sweet. I could just bottle you up and pour you on pancakes,” she said, laughing as she retrieved a pencil from behind her ear. “So, what can I bring you, Eric?”
“You buying?” asked Yost, looking across the Formica table top at Morozov.
Morozov nodded reluctantly.
Yost perused a catsup-spattered menu. “Alice, I’ll have the Hungry Lumberjack breakfast. Eggs scrambled with cheese. Can I finagle some biscuits also? Along with the waffles?”
She nodded in assent. “Biscuits? Sure. Bacon, sausage or hash?”
“Yeah,” he replied.
She repeated the question. “Bacon, sausage or hash?”
“All three, darling. After a full night at the shop, I’m famished,” he answered, slowly standing up from the table. “And if you two don’t mind, I need to go wash up.”
Watching Yost limp away, Morozov asked, “So you know Mr. Yost?”
Still jotting down the order, the waitress answered, “Eric? Oh yeah. He’s in the Air Force. He works in some warehouse on the base.”
“Do you think he’s trustworthy?” asked Morozov. “I’m interviewing him for a part-time security guard job at my brother’s machine shop. Would you vouch for him?”
“Oh, I’m sure you can trust him. He’s as good as gold. He’s a real sweet talker, though. He always used to keep after me to go stepping out with him sometime.”
“And would you? Can’t you see he’s wearing a wedding band?”
“His wife left him. Poor thing, he just can’t bear to come completely to grips that it’s over. So the answer to your question is yes, I would go out with him, if he ever asks again. Who knows? It might be fun.”
“So you obviously trust him,” he observed, glimpsing Yost on the way back from the restroom. “This job is only part-time, and mostly he’ll just be sitting at a desk. It’s an unnecessary nuisance for us, but we’re working on a government contract and they insist we hire a watchman. But it’s still very important that we know he’s trustworthy.”
“If you say so,” she replied. “And what will you be having, sir?”
“Just coffee, please,” answered Morozov. “Black.”
“So where are you from? You have some sort of accent. Poland, maybe?”
Poland? Poland? Morozov wanted to guffaw. “I’m from Michigan,” he said. “My parents came here from Slovakia right after the First World War.”
“I suppose it’s all about the same thing, isn’t it?” she said, laughing. “We’re all kind of mutts in this country, aren’t we?”
Mutts? Truer words were never spoken, thought Morozov. As the waitress walked away, Yost slowly walked up, whistling the theme from Hawaii Five-O, and slid back into the booth.
“Do you have something for me, Mr. Yost?” asked Morozov, casually sliding his newspaper across the table as if to point out an article.
“Indeed, I do,” replied Yost, slipping a note under the newspaper as he feigned interest in a headline. “That’s contact information for a guy named Jimmy Hara. He’s an engineering technician who works in Hangar Three. He’s an airframe and power plant mechanic.”
“Airframes and power plants?”
“Yep. To be honest, he didn’t seem too enthusiastic about talking to you, but who knows? You should give him a ring sometime. I fed him the Israeli line, just like you told me.” Yost looked up from the tabletop and added, “You do remember our deal, don’t you? That’s a thousand dollars up front, and a bonus if he’s cooperative, right? You still pay me a thousand bucks regardless of whether he agrees to talk, right? Isn’t that the bargain that we struck?”
Sliding the newspaper back, Morozov nodded as he sighed. “Yes. That’s what I agreed to. I will leave your money folded in this paper, and I will leave first. Understand?”
Yost nodded and then casually touched a finger to his lips, as if he was scratching under his nose. Bearing a heavily laden tray, Alice walked up to the table, placed two large plates before him, and said, “Here you go, gentlemen. Hungry Lumberjack and two coffees. Catsup?”
Yost looked down, nodded, and exclaimed, “Man, that looks good and I am starving. Would you mind if we finished this interview after I’ve finished this grub? I don’t want it to get cold.”
“We will, Mr. Yost,” said Morozov, slipping out of the booth. “Enjoy your meal. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to call my brother, and I’ll be right back.” As he walked towards the pay phone located in the front of the diner, he glanced back over his shoulder. It was revolting, like watching a voracious swine feeding from a swill-filled trough. As he watched Yost slurp his coffee, Morozov longed for the day when he would no longer have to rely on the American sergeant.
7
BABY BLUES
Aerospace Support Project
9:30 a.m., Wednesday, September 3, 1969
Chewing on a well-frayed toothpick, Wolcott leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his narrow chest, and studied the men seated around the table. Waiting for Mark Tew’s final decision on the impending mission, Carson and Ourecky were obviously anxious to finish their final preparations before heading west on Saturday.
Heydrich looked bored, as if this was just another routine day back at Peenemunde. The three men looked to Tew. To Wolcott, it was painfully obvious that his friend was diligently searching for even the slightest excuse to scrub the flight. Tew believed the whole effort was a rush job to placate the Navy, and he didn’t like rush jobs.
Finally, closing a binder, Tew made his declaration. “Try as I might, I can see no reason that we can’t execute as planned. Gunter, are you confident that these two are ready?”
“I am,” said Heydrich.
“Carson? Ourecky?” asked Tew. “Are you up to this?”
“We are,” answered Carson. Ourecky nodded in silent agreement.
“Then we go,” stated Tew. “No monkey business this time. No arguments or discussion. Don’t expect me to be lenient if you feel compelled to violate orders again. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Carson and Ourecky in unison.
“Are we still good for launch next Tuesday, Gunter?” asked Wolcott.
“We are, Virg. Crew Three is at the PDF for the pre-launch checks. Major Jackson called me this evening and reported that everything is in line.”
“And the Navy?” asked Tew. “Are they happy with everything?”
“They are, Mark. They’re extremely anxious to see this new Soviet platform knocked out.”
“That’s fine, Gunter,” noted Tew. “But you need to make
it abundantly clear to them that we will do nothing to place our crew at risk to accomplish their objectives. We’re doing this in a hurry, but we won’t be in such a rush that we abandon safety and sound operating principles.”
“They understand,” said Heydrich, gathering his paperwork and maps.
“Okay, gents,” interjected Wolcott. “As the boss said, we go on Thursday. Anything else on the agenda?”
“Well, Virgil, Scott and I have a recommendation,” answered Carson. “We’ll write it up formally, if need be, but for future missions, we would like to fly in standard flight gear. No pressure suit, but just a regular Nomex flight suit and flight helmet. With an oxygen mask, of course.”
“No!” blurted Tew, vigorously shaking his head. “Out of the question.”
“I concur,” said Wolcott, spitting out his toothpick. “Shucks, Carson, I know you boys hanker to be as comfortable as possible, but we’re not ridin’ down that trail. The suits stay on.”
“It’s not a matter of comfort, Virgil,” claimed Ourecky. “The suits are restrictive and awkward. We have to move around a lot more than the NASA crews did, especially when we unstow and re-stow equipment in the storage bays behind the seats. It’s hard to swivel around to reach stuff without inadvertently bumping into switches and instruments. That could be disastrous if we’re operating in close proximity to a target.”
“Well, pardner, I concede that’s a valid point,” noted Wolcott.
“Not so fast,” snapped Tew. “How about an ejection scenario?”
“General, our low-velocity seats are only viable during the post-reentry phase,” asserted Carson. “They’re of absolutely no use on the pad or on the way up. Mode Two—salvo-firing the retros and coming down on the paraglider—is the only abort mode available during boost phase. Since we’re remaining in the vehicle, one way or another, standard flight gear should suffice.”
“Okay,” replied Tew, wringing his hands. “Then let’s focus on post-reentry. You’re implying that you wouldn’t need the suits if the paraglider failed and you had to punch out?”
“That’s correct, sir,” interjected Ourecky. “With a normal paraglider deployment, we’re already sufficiently low that we wouldn’t need a pressure suit.”
“There’s still a possibility we would need oxygen if we went out too high,” said Carson. “But all that would require is a modification to the existing oxygen flow manifold block on the seat, so that it feeds the oxygen to a mask rather than the suit. And there’s more. The suits could be extremely dangerous if we go down over water. If they take on water, regardless of whether we eject or evacuate the spacecraft after landing, they’re dragging us under.”
“Good point. But what about a micrometeorite strike?” asked Wolcott. “If you’re in orbit and your pressure vessel was perforated, hoss, you ain’t survivin’ without a suit.”
Ourecky answered, “Virgil, the Apollo astronauts fly to the moon and back without wearing their pressure suits. I doubt that anyone is going to convince me that that they would fare any better or any worse than us if they caught a micrometeorite.”
“Okay. I’ll cede that, hoss,” replied Wolcott. “Sounds like you’ve pondered it thoroughly, but I’m still straddlin’ the fence. Gunter, what’s your take on this?”
“I agree with them,” replied Heydrich. “If they’re not leaving the spacecraft for extravehicular activity, the suits are more of a hindrance than anything else. There’s still a risk of the spacecraft being damaged while they’re maneuvering during close proximity operations, but if the vehicle’s pressure vessel is punctured, it’s highly unlikely that they’ll survive reentry.”
“Personally,” said Carson. “I would much rather have my lungs sucked out through my nose and die instantly instead of being slowly broiled alive.”
“Duly noted, Major Carson,” said Tew. “We’ll consider your idea. I’ll talk with the Life Support people to see if it’s a viable option. Even if they concur, the earliest we could fly in shirtsleeves would be Mission Four. That’s still a long way down the road, gentlemen.”
“Sir, speaking of Mission Four, aren’t Jackson and Sigler still slated to fly it?” asked Ourecky. “It’s none of my business, but will they be ready to launch in March?”
“Since you’re so concerned, yes, we’re fairly confident that they’ll be able to fly the next sortie, pardner,” said Wolcott. “We’re anxious for them to jump in the saddle, especially if it’ll take some of the pressure off you two, particularly since Four is stacking up to be a relatively simple flight. Now, Ourecky, would you care to tell me why it’s any of your concern?”
“Uh, it’s a personal issue, Virg, but I would rather not fly in March or April, if possible.”
“He’s going to be too busy handing out cigars.” Carson smirked.
Tew looked up from his paperwork, and his jaw dropped abruptly. “What?” he blurted.
“Major Ourecky’s going to be a father,” announced Carson. “Bea’s pregnant.”
“When?” demanded Tew, reaching for a nearby desk calendar.
“Her doctor says that she’s due towards the end of March,” answered Ourecky.
As Tew traced his finger on the calendar, his eyes opened wide and he swallowed deeply.
“Is there a problem, sir?” asked Carson.
Pushing aside the calendar, Tew slowly shook his head and declared, “Virgil, I want you and Gunter to absolutely ensure that Crew Three is prepared to go up in March.”
“Will do, boss,” replied Wolcott, stubbing out his cigarette in a glass ashtray.
“Thank you, sir,” noted Ourecky gratefully. “I really appreciate it.”
“Not a problem,” said Tew. “And how is your wife, Ourecky? Bea, right?”
“Oh, she’s fine, sir, but she had some questionable results on some initial blood work and other tests, so the doctors are monitoring her closely. They were initially worried that she might miscarry, but it looks like we might be beyond that.”
“So the pregnancy is proceeding normally?”
“I hope so. We have an appointment tomorrow, so we should know more then, but it seems like everything is going normally. She’s sick a lot in the mornings, but apparently that’s very common, and she doesn’t like being stuck on the ground, either. Delta has her working a gate at the airport until she’s able to fly again.”
“She’s seeing a doctor at the base hospital?” asked Tew.
“No, sir. Her doctor’s at Grandview Hospital, in Dayton.”
“Grandview?” asked Tew. “That’s in midtown. Don’t you live closer to Wright-Patt? Wouldn’t it make sense for her to see a doctor on base?”
“Agreed, sir,” replied Ourecky. “But she’s been seeing this same doctor since she’s been working for Delta. On top of that, sir, I don’t think she’s too keen on using the base hospital.”
Sighing, Tew placed his hands flat on the table. “Ourecky, we’ll do our utmost to make sure you’re here when she goes into labor, but you know we can’t make any promises. If you’re out of town when that day comes, then I can send someone to fetch her to the base hospital. Talk to her, and see if you can’t persuade her to see a doctor here instead of at Grandview.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Ourecky. “I’ll do that.”
Wolcott waited until the others filtered out before he confronted Tew. “Okay, Mark, do you care to tell me what that was all about? Since we’ve been hangin’ around each other for the past couple of decades, I know when you’re antsy about something. So what are you frettin’ about?”
Tew spun the calendar around so that it was facing Wolcott. “Look,” he said, jabbing the calendar with his finger. “If Bea’s due at the end of March, then she probably got pregnant …”
Wolcott looked at the calendar. Immediately grasping the potentially dire ramifications, he groaned. “… at the end of June, right after Ourecky got back. Tarnations! I can’t believe we ain’t caught this sooner.”
“Well, Virgil,
how could we? For starters, we never anticipated that we would have any married men flying, so we never considered this potentiality. On top of that, if she had been going to an OB/GYN here on base, we would have known immediately.”
Shaking his head, Virgil muttered, “I can’t believe that this slipped by us.”
“I’m hoping for the best, but who on earth can know what will happen?” asked Tew. “How could we have been so naive? This is uncharted territory. Ourecky spent time in weightlessness, was exposed to cosmic rays and God only knows what else, and there’s not sufficient research to know what’s going to happen to that baby. It’s as if we’ve found ourselves in the middle of a giant science experiment, only it’s been going on for a few months.”
Grandview Hospital, Dayton, Ohio
10:45 a.m., Friday, September 5, 1969
“So you leave tomorrow morning?” asked Bea, trying to make herself comfortable in one of the awkward plastic seats in the crowded waiting room. Musak played quietly in the background, barely audible over the voices of expectant mothers and anxious teenagers.
“I do,” replied Ourecky.
“How long this time?” she asked, fanning herself with her hand. “Or should I even ask?”
“Oh, I think we won’t be gone much more than a week. We’ll do our prep work, then we do the flight testing later in the week. I anticipate that I’ll be home on Monday or Tuesday of the following week. Will you be okay?”
“Of course,” she replied.
“Look, I know that you’re happy with Doctor Blakely, but have you considered seeing a doctor at the base hospital? I’ve checked into it, and they have a couple of really qualified obstetricians there. We could book you an appointment, and …”
“No,” she said adamantly. “You’re right. I’m very happy with Doctor Blakely and I’m not going to see anyone else.”
“Well, the subject came up earlier in the week, and General Tew mentioned that he would prefer that you saw a doctor at the hospital on base.”
Rolling her eyes, Bea asked, “Since when is our baby General Tew’s business?”
“It’s not. He was just concerned about your welfare. The base hospital is a lot closer than this one. There’s always a remote possibility that I won’t be here when you go into labor, so he wanted to make sure that you got to the hospital safely.”