by Mike Jenne
Usually, both LSTs remained on site until just prior to the launch, but now only the LST that ferried the stack was still here. To accommodate the launch site workers who were normally quartered on the ship, a small tent city had sprung up. Gasoline-fired barrels burned human waste, and generators whined night and day.
After the first month, the launch support crew had been reinforced by twenty-five percent, which allowed for a quarter of the personnel to regularly rotate to Hawaii for R & R. But since there was no one to augment them, Carson and Ourecky remained on the Island for the duration.
The spacecraft mock-ups from the Tank had been flown in by C-141 from New Orleans, and a makeshift weightless training facility had been improvised in the dredged deepwater area beside the docks. Even though it allowed them to continue practicing EVA skills, they could use the facility no more than twice a week. The corrosive saltwater was incredibly harsh on the suits’ aluminum fittings and other hardware. For every day they trained underwater, the suit technicians required three days to rinse the suits in fresh water, meticulously clean the hardware, and then carefully air-dry the garments. But as much as Ourecky hated climbing into the suit, the EVA training was at least a break from the perpetual boredom.
Even as the Tank training suits required almost constant maintenance by the fastidious technicians, the two men donned their mission suits on a daily basis. Because of the oppressive heat and their lack of appetite, they constantly struggled to keep on enough weight to ensure that the suits fit correctly. They jogged daily and lifted weights regularly in the workout tent.
They had to be careful even with their exercise regimen, remaining vigilant not to bulk up with excess muscle that would alter the fit of their suits.
After watching the sun fall below the horizon, Ourecky went into the trailer to relax and read. He sat down on his cot and opened a dog-eared paperback. Realizing that he had read the book three times already, he set it on the wooden box that served as his nightstand.
The PDF director, Lieutenant Colonel Ted Cook, entered the trailer and sat down. Like most of the men on the launch support crew, he wore only khaki Navy dive shorts and flip-flops. Like Carson, Ourecky, and virtually every other man at the launch site, he was deeply tanned. He wiped sweat from his brow with a faded blue baseball cap and scratched his sharp-pointed nose. “Evening, gents,” he said, closing the door behind him.
“Beer, Ted?” asked Carson. He reached into a small refrigerator, extracted two glistening silver cans, and held one out.
“No thanks,” replied Cook. “And don’t bother opening yours, Drew.”
“What’s up, boss?” asked Ourecky, kneading a tennis ball. He had squeezed it so much that he had worn off the fuzz from the ball.
“Guys,” announced Cook, “we just got a hot cable from Wright-Patt. The Soviets are making final preparations to launch a UR-500. It’s going up within the next twenty-four hours. As soon as I leave here, I’ll give the order to break the stack out of encapsulation and erect it onto the pad. We’re launching, gents. You’ll be headed upstairs within the next forty-eight hours.”
Pacific Departure Facility, Johnston Island
8:15 a.m., Friday, July 28, 1972
With their launch imminent, Carson and Ourecky lingered in the communications section’s open air shed, anxiously awaiting more detailed instructions. Ourecky sipped coffee and worked a crossword puzzle as Carson read a week-old Honolulu newspaper. Trying to summon a three-letter word for “flightless bird,” his thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the loud chattering of a Teletype machine.
“That’s it,” noted Carson, setting aside his newspaper. “Ready for this hop?”
“I’m ready to be done with it,” replied Ourecky, thinking of Bea. “Should we call the blockhouse so they can start spinning up?”
“We’ll give it a minute. Really, Scott, there’s no sense in getting in a huge rush. It will still be at least a few hours before we can launch.”
The Teletype rattled on for a minute, spewing out a continuous print-out, and then suddenly stopped. A communications technician tore off the paper, verified some authentication information in the message header, logged the transaction, and then handed it to Carson.
Grinning, Carson read the print-out; in seconds, his expression changed to a frown and he hammered the table with his fist. “We’re scrubbed,” he declared angrily. “Wolcott’s ordered us to stand down. Damn it!”
“We’re scrubbed?” asked Ourecky. “For today?”
“For a month, at least,” replied Carson, handing the paper to Ourecky. “The Soviets launched a UR-500 about three hours ago, but its second stage malfunctioned. Our target went to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. So much for Virgil’s big shindig.”
“So what happens now?”
“Our stack will be shipped back to the HAF for its ninety-day work-up, so Ted and the PDF crew are going to catch an extended breather,” said Carson. “As for you and me, we’ve been summoned back to Wright-Patt. After that, it’s anybody’s guess.”
Ourecky smiled. Although he wanted to fly just to put this mission behind him, the timing was fortuitous. According to Blue Gemini’s safety mandates, an assembled stack had to undergo a detailed maintenance overhaul every ninety days. The overhaul procedure compelled that the Titan II be returned to San Diego, where it would be partially disassembled to facilitate intensive inspections of critical components. So, although their PDF ordeal was not yet entirely over, the overhaul granted them at least a thirty-day respite. Hopefully, it would be an opportunity to catch up with Bea and Andy, and return to normalcy, if only temporarily.
Aerospace Support Project
9:25 a.m., Monday, July 31, 1972
Ourecky tapped lightly on the door before entering the office. Only Tew was present, seated at his desk and immersed in paperwork. He had not seen Tew since departing for Johnston Island three months ago; appalled, he now barely recognized the ailing general. Tew was drawn and gray, like a shadow on a late afternoon in winter. Tew had once confided to him that the immense stress of each mission aged him five years, and now Ourecky definitely believed him.
Announcing his presence, he softly cleared his throat. “You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked politely.
Tew signed a few more papers, then looked up and smiled. “Yes, I did. Come on in, Ourecky. This will only take a minute. Have a seat over there, son.”
Taking a seat at the conference table, Ourecky looked towards Wolcott’s empty desk and asked, “Is Virgil not here today, sir?”
“He’s up flying. He took one of the T-38s on a cross-country hop,” answered Tew, joining him at the table. “But what we have to speak of doesn’t concern him. I suppose that you’re aware we’re seeking an extension for Blue Gemini?”
Ourecky cringed at the thought of more flights. He swallowed deeply and apprehensively replied, “I am, sir. Six more missions?”
Tew gravely nodded his head. “Ourecky, I ask that you hold this in strictest confidence, but I want you to know that when and if the Project is extended, I don’t intend to continue on with it. I think that I’ve contributed all that I can contribute, so I’m planning to file my retirement paperwork immediately after we finish our last mission in the first phase.”
Ourecky was speechless for a moment, since this was the first indication he’d seen that Tew intended to retire. Finally, he exclaimed, “That’s excellent, sir. Congratulations. We’ll sure miss you here, but I’m happy for you.”
Tew smiled feebly. “Thanks. I’m more than ready to retire, but I’m not leaving until I’ve accomplished all that I’ve set out to do, and there’s still some business yet unfinished. Moreover, it’s a loose end that concerns you.”
“How so, sir? Have I done something wrong? Does Virgil still want me to earn my wings?”
“No. None of those things. Look, you’ve done your part, Ourecky, and we are incredibly indebted to you. I’m sure you know that we’re not receiving the new computer before Missio
n Twelve, so we definitely need you to fly the next two missions. I’m sorry for that, but there’s no other way, since we’ve grown so reliant on you and Carson. But after those two missions, you’re done. I promise you that I will not submit my retirement paperwork until your transfer is complete and you’ve departed from here, preferably to earn your doctorate at MIT, assuming that’s what you still desire.”
“It is, sir. Very much so, but you shouldn’t be so concerned with me.”
Shaking his head, Tew said emphatically, “Ourecky, on my honor, I am obligated to make sure that you get completely clear of this place and that you never return.” He looked askance towards the blocked white Stetson cowboy hat on Wolcott’s desk, grimaced, and added, “Unfortunately, since I cannot trust anyone else to act so altruistically on your behalf, if it takes me a few extra weeks to close that transaction and run you out of here, then so be it. The golf courses will just have to wait.”
“Thank you, sir. I greatly appreciate it.”
“You’re more than welcome.” Changing the subject, Tew asked, “So, how is Bea? How is your son? Andy, isn’t it? Isn’t he about two years old by now?”
Forcing a smile, Ourecky replied, “Oh, they’re doing great, sir. I just got back into town yesterday, but they’re doing super. We have a lot of catching up to do, but …”
Tew leaned forward and looked directly in Ourecky’s eyes. “Son, don’t try to lead me down the primrose path. We’re placing you under a huge amount of strain, and I’ve seen plenty of very strong marriages disintegrate under far less trying circumstances. So, tell me: How are things really going between you two?”
Hanging his head as he stared at the tabletop, Ourecky truthfully confided, “Not great, sir. Not even good. I thought that Bea would be thrilled that I was home again, but I think that she just expects the phone to ring and for me to leave again. I’m not sure how much more of this we can take before things just spin out of control. I’m just not sure that I can keep making things work.”
Tew put his hand on Ourecky’s shoulder and said, “I know it’s just a distant glow right now, but we’re starting to see the light at the end of tunnel. Please try to hang on, son. Don’t lose what you have.”
Tears welled in Ourecky’s eyes, and he fought hard to contain them.
“Son, how much leave time do you have saved up?” asked Tew, placing his hands flat on tabletop. His desktop intercom buzzed, but he ignored it.
“Uh, right now I’ve accrued about three weeks’ worth,” replied Ourecky. “I burned a lot of it last Christmas, when Bea and I went out to Nebraska to see my parents. We try to do that every year. Pardon my curiosity, sir, but why do you ask?”
“Because I want you to go home and spend some time with your wife and child,” declared Tew. “Do you understand me, Major Ourecky? Take Bea and go far away from here. Take a trip to California or Hawaii or Florida or somewhere, but take advantage of this time. And I don’t want you hanging around with Carson. I know you two are friends, but I’m confident that Carson can fend for himself for a few weeks.”
“A few weeks, sir?”
Tew nodded. “Your stack is en route to San Diego for maintenance overhaul. Consequently, since we’re at a lull, I’m ordering an operational stand-down for all non-essential personnel. We’re going to keep some of the key players here, but otherwise we want everyone to take advantage of this break. I know that you have been under considerably more stress than anyone else in this Project, so I wanted to tell you personally.”
“That’s great, sir, I’m sure that everyone …”
Holding up his hand, Tew interrupted. “We’re going to be on hiatus for at least a month, so I don’t want to see you for another thirty days. Don’t worry about your leave time. I’ll handle it with the personnel people so your furlough is not charged to your account. Just go, Ourecky. Do we understand each other? Am I making myself sufficiently clear?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Ourecky, we may still have two more missions to fly, but I want you to put all of that out of your mind until you return. Focus on your family. That’s what’s really important. Don’t make the mistake of losing them.
27
STORM
On Orbit
7:25 a.m., Friday, August 4, 1972 (GET: 16:04:23:00)
As the result of a rather strange chain of coincidences, Lieutenant Colonel Ed Russo was one of two human beings orbiting the Earth on the morning of August 4, 1972. Ironically, considering how long he had aspired to fly in space, his extraterrestrial experience hadn’t been particularly pleasant; more accurately, he hated it and was desperately anxious to return to the surly bonds of Earth. And although he anticipated that this would be yet another painfully long and agonizing day, he had no way of knowing that it would also be one of the longest days in his life.
Pondering his circumstances, he glanced at his mission clock. He sighed; he had been in orbit for sixteen days, four hours, twenty-three minutes, and six seconds. If the mission proceeded as planned—which was tremendously doubtful at this juncture—he would remain up here for twelve more days. He really wasn’t sure that he could bear twelve more days aloft.
The novelty of weightlessness had evaporated early on his first day. Seemingly always in motion, his stomach did more somersaults than a troupe of circus tumblers. He had no appetite and was constantly nauseous. The disorienting sensation of floating really unnerved him, so he strived to keep a handhold on the nearest solid object as he compelled his mind to establish a firm “up” and “down” even when there were none. Despite his efforts to adapt, his confused vestibular senses could never reconcile themselves with the paradoxical reality.
Although he had no means to weigh himself, he was woefully aware that he was losing considerable muscle mass and growing progressively weaker by the day. He rarely got any decent rest; his sleep was often disturbed by sporadic flashes in his eyes, which were apparently caused by stray electrons jostled by cosmic rays. To make matters even worse, the environmental heat exchanger wasn’t working to capacity, so the cabin’s sweltering heat kept him perpetually drenched in sweat and did little to help his sleep situation or lack of appetite.
Life in space was far less glamorous than he had bargained for. He longed for gravity’s familiar pull. He wanted things to fall when he dropped them. He wanted objects to stay put where he laid them. Despite an abundance of Velcro to anchor loose items in the cabin, things constantly drifted away and became lost. He lost his sunglasses the first day and hadn’t seen his toothbrush in over a week. Strangely enough, more so than anything else, he had an intense desire to pour water in a glass and watch it remain there.
Russo inhabited an enormous metal cylinder—the Manned Orbiting Laboratory—that whirled around the world every ninety minutes in a polar orbit. As he reminisced about how he came to dwell in these miserable circumstances, he was painfully conscious that the MOL’s sides were emblazoned with bold white letters that spelled out “US NAVY” above the familiar stars and stripes of the American flag.
Years prior, five interlocking variables contributed to the MOL’s radical transformation from a marginally public Air Force program to a highly secretive Navy endeavor. First, the Space Task Group had successfully argued that the MOL was little more than a duplication of NASA’s manned space efforts. Moreover, they contended that most unique Air Force requirements could be undertaken by unmanned satellites currently in development. These arguments, among others, led to the public cancellation of the Air Force’s MOL program on June 10, 1969.
The second variable involved the difficulties of performing surveillance on ocean-going targets versus land-based targets. A Soviet armored division couldn’t rush out of its barracks to arbitrarily arrive at the Fulda Gap the next day. Its deployment was limited by terrestrial transportation networks—highways and railroads—which greatly simplified the task of tracking its progress from garrison to the battlefield. On the other hand, a Soviet fleet was not so cons
trained, since the seas literally provided a fluid medium on which to chart a course.
The third factor was that the United States was on the cusp of losing the controversial war in Vietnam. More accurately, senior leaders had concluded that investing more American lives and treasure was a losing proposition, so prosecution of the war was gradually being handed over to the South Vietnamese, making it their war to lose. Equally inevitable was the notion that they would lose the war, probably sooner than later. And when this defeat occurred, the Soviets—the patient benefactors of the North Vietnamese—would finally gain access to an immensely valuable strategic resource: an all-weather, deep draft port—Cam Ranh Bay—from which they could readily project power into the Pacific.
The potential consequences of a Soviet warm water port on the Pacific were staggering, easily rivaling the massive Japanese naval buildup in the years prior to Pearl Harbor. A space-based ocean surveillance sentinel was essential in expectation of the time when—not if—the Soviet Navy could slip quietly into the trackless waters of the Pacific to threaten the Philippines and other previously invulnerable strategic locations.
Fourth, the Air Force envisioned an MOL launched atop a Titan IIIM booster, manned by two military astronauts who would return to Earth in a Gemini-B reentry vehicle. The missions were expected to be no more than thirty days in duration, after which the MOL would be discarded. The Navy’s ocean surveillance MOL would remain in orbit indefinitely, which would entail swapping out crews, as well as replenishment of oxygen, water, food, and other staples.
A power-hungry synthetic aperture radar—SAR—was the keystone of the ocean surveillance systems. A nuclear reactor was the only viable option for providing reliable power to the SAR. While NASA used small reactors to power experiment packages flown on Apollo lunar missions, their plutonium-fueled generators weren’t of sufficient magnitude to sustain the SAR and other functions of the MOL.