Pale Blue

by Mike Jenne

  “As you’re aware, we’re very concerned about the coverage of contingency landing zones in some areas of the world, particularly those regions which are predominately open ocean,” explained Tarbox. “And we’re also quite aware that the Gemini-I doesn’t usually fare well in water landings, so my staff has proposed a series of tests to determine if an aircraft carrier could be employed for contingency landings, if no land-based sites were readily available.”

  Landing the Gemini-I on an aircraft carrier? thought Carson. It doesn’t get much more far-fetched than that. While there might be some slight merit to the idea, Carson immediately recognized it as just another insidious scheme that would enable Tarbox to dig his claws deeper into Blue Gemini. Moreover, as Carson witnessed repeatedly in the past, this approach was Tarbox’s tried and true method for a hard sale; the Admiral obviously knew that he would have no success pitching such a notion to Tew outright, so he sold the idea to subordinates first, before approaching the General.

  “Honestly, sir, as interesting as this is, I really don’t foresee General Tew buying off on this concept,” said Carson.

  “He already has, buck,” noted Wolcott. “As a matter of fact, Mark bit on it hook, line and sinker. It’s a done deal.”

  Dumbfounded, Carson didn’t know how to respond. Tew had agreed to this? It made no sense. And what could this possibly have to do with Vietnam?

  “Son, we’re sendin’ you to Pensacola to get carrier-qualified,” said Wolcott. “You’ll leave tomorrow.”

  “But, sir, I don’t think…”

  “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, son,” replied Wolcott. “There’s a whole lot more to this story that you ain’t seen yet. You need to hush up and hear out what the Admiral has to say. Just lend him a minute, and you’ll see that you’ve won the danged jackpot. Savvy?”

  “I’m listening, sir,” said Carson.

  Tarbox cleared his throat and spoke. “In all sincerity, Carson, I’m indebted to you and I’m a man who makes good on my debts. I am very aware that you want to fly in Vietnam. While I don’t agree with you about many things, I do concur with your assertion that your Air Force career will suffer if you don’t have that experience, because you will be competing against thousands of Air Force officers who do. So, I’ve developed a plan to secure your wishes.

  “Let me make something abundantly clear, Carson: what we will describe stays in this room, between the three of us. If you discuss it with anyone, including Major Ourecky, then the entire deal comes off the table, and we will never make this offer again. Do you understand?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Good. You should be aware that the next six months are critical for several reasons, but three in particular. First, without delving into a lot of details, we are receiving very mixed messages from the intelligence community about what’s happening on the other side of the Iron Curtain, specifically whether the Soviets are ready to launch this new Krepost. After extensive analysis, we’ve reached the conclusion that it will be at least six months before they are ready for another launch attempt.”

  “So, Ourecky and I have at least a six-month respite?” asked Carson. “With the intelligence that we’ve received about this Krepost, I can’t see General Tew wasting the last stack on anything else.”

  “Correct,” replied Tarbox. “Second, mark my words, our nation’s direct involvement in the Vietnam War will end within the next six months. The peace talks are ongoing. Ground combat operations have already ceased, and air operations are being curtailed significantly. Air ops will continue to taper off, but it’s a foregone conclusion that they will end altogether by Christmas.”

  “Then as far as I’m concerned, it’s now or never, right?” asked Carson.

  “Affirmative,” replied Tarbox.

  “But I still don’t see how you can make this happen, sir.”

  “You’ll see in due time, Carson, and that brings us to my third point. Although General Tew has agreed with sending you to Pensacola to undergo carrier quals to support this bogus feasibility study we’ve cooked up, it’s a certainty that he would never agree to the rest of this plan. With that said, your deployment to Vietnam is contingent on his retirement. We are very confident that he will retire within the next six months, so we intend to assemble all the pieces of this plan so that the last phase can be executed on very short notice.”

  Carson swiveled to face Wolcott and asked, “Do you really think that General Tew will retire that soon?”

  “I do, son,” answered Wolcott. “Moreover, I sincerely hope that he does. His health is bad, Carson, much worse than you could imagine. He’s literally livin’ on borrowed time. And as much as I hate the notion that he might miss the last hurrah when we finally get to go up against this danged Krepost, he needs to make the most of what life he has left. All this stress is just killin’ him, bit by bit.”

  “But, sir, even if General Tew retires in the next six months, the Chief of Staff of the Air Force has flagged my personnel records to prevent me from flying overseas. I don’t see…”

  “In due time, Carson,” interjected Wolcott. “You’ll see in due time.”

  “When and if you do fly in Vietnam,” explained Tarbox, “and I am confident that you will, you will not fly as an Air Force officer. During that timeframe, you’ll be a Naval aviator. Afterwards, we’ll talk to the Chief and have your records amended accordingly, but all of this will be under the pretense that it’s easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission. After all, Carson, once this final mission happens, we all know that you can’t be readily replaced, so the Chief may rap your knuckles, but there’s little that he can do otherwise. And as for me and General Wolcott, there’s not a lot that they can do to punish us.

  “Major Carson, you should be aware that this will not be a casual endeavor by any means, and an abundance of people are working diligently on your behalf.” Tapping his finger on an inch-thick stack of paperwork before him, Tarbox said, “I am working with some of my confederates at the Bureau of Naval Personnel. They’re going through a fairly extensive paper drill to create a new set of records for you. Once we execute the final phases of this plan, as far as the Air Force is concerned, you will remain assigned here at Wright-Patterson. On the Navy side, you will be ‘sheep-dipped’ so that you’ll undergo the remainder of this exercise as a Naval aviator.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Carson.

  “Provided that you submit to my terms, Major, this venture will take place in four evolutions,” he stated concisely. “First, as we’ve already indicated, you’ll proceed to Pensacola Naval Air Station in Florida for temporary assignment with Training Squadron VT-4 to undergo carrier qualifications. During your carrier quals, you will be certified to land and take off from a carrier at sea.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Carson.

  “Before you get too enthusiastic, Major, let me explain a few things. You shouldn’t expect any special treatment at Pensacola or anywhere else. At Pensacola, even though you’ll be under an abbreviated syllabus, you will be training alongside brand new ensigns in Florida, and won’t be treated any differently from them. And just so you’re aware, when you report to Pensacola, you’ll be in the guise of a Naval aviator, so we can establish your story for later on.”

  Tarbox continued. “You should be aware that virtually all Naval aviators undergo carrier quals during their initial flight training. In your case, we have worked out a logical exception for this lapse. According to your personnel binder, you graduated from West Point, and then went to Army fixed-wing flight training. After flying OV-1 Mohawks for a year, you transferred to the Navy where you went directly into the P-3 Orion program, and now you’re moving from P-3’s into fighters.

  “The instructors at Pensacola will probably be a trifle curious about your background, but they know enough about Mohawks and P-3’s to assume that you were probably involved in some sort of spook work, so they’re not likely to ask too many questions. If they do, you’ll refer them
to my office, and they will be strongly encouraged not to be too inquisitive.”

  Frowning, the lanky admiral said sternly, “Let me warn you: Pensacola will offer plenty of distractions and opportunities to get neck-deep into trouble. You need to focus on your training. No hot dogging, no womanizing, no colorful antics, no flat hatting, no special treatment, no nothing. If you break character, or if you stand out too prominently from the background, the deal is off. Understood, Major?”

  Nodding, Carson replied, “Yes, Admiral.”

  “Good. If you successfully complete your carrier quals, you’ll come back here. Once General Tew retires, you’ll immediately move on to Miramar Naval Air Station in California for the next evolution, where you will attend “Top Gun,” the Navy Fighter Weapons School. The Fighter Weapons School is more or less a graduate-level course in air-to-air combat skills.”

  “Begging your pardon, Admiral,” interjected Carson. “I’m not one to toot my own horn, but I do keep my hand in, and I’m already very proficient in air-to-air combat. Now, I understand the necessity of the carrier quals, but since time is of the essence, wouldn’t it make more sense for me to skip Top Gun and jump into the fight as soon as possible?”

  Shaking his head, Tarbox reached across the table, abruptly snatched the paper from Carson, and crumpled it. He turned towards Wolcott and said, “Did I not tell you that this was just a waste of time, Virgil?” He swiveled his head towards Carson. “The offer is withdrawn, forthwith. You are dismissed, Major.”

  “But, sir,” muttered Carson.

  “You are dismissed, Major,” reiterated Tarbox. “If I am not mistaken, and I doubt that I am, ‘dismissed’ connotes exactly the same thing in the Air Force as it does in the Navy.”

  Wearing an expression of shock, Carson slowly rose from his chair and saluted.

  “Let’s not be too hasty, Leon,” said Wolcott. “Couldn’t you see fit to afford Carson another pass?”

  “Do you honestly think that this headstrong major can be patient enough to even listen to all the provisions of this plan before he sees fit to disagree with them?” growled Tarbox.

  “Carson?” asked Wolcott. “Tarnations, son, can you not behave? The Admiral is really tryin’ to do you a danged favor here. Can you at least hear him out?”

  “I can, sir,” said Carson meekly, still standing at rigid attention.

  “Then have a seat, Major,” ordered Tarbox.

  As Carson settled back into his chair, Tarbox continued. “As I said, your first evolution is at Pensacola for carrier quals. Later, you will go to Miramar, where you will learn to fly and fight the Navy way. If you matriculate from Miramar, you’ll proceed to a carrier-based fighter squadron, and then—if the squadron commander signs off on your aptitude and attitude—you’ll be allowed to proceed to the fourth and final evolution: combat air operations in Southeast Asia.”

  Grinning, Carson replied, “Yes, sir.”

  “Before you get too excited, let me caution you that if you’re expecting to jump into some hot dogfighting action, then you will be sorely disappointed. At this point, you can safely assume that your combat tour will probably be entirely uneventful, because frankly, Carson, the war is over. It’s merely a formality that the North Vietnamese haven’t signed the treaty in Paris, but that could literally happen any day now. In any event, I have it on the highest authority that US combat involvement will conclude on December 31.

  “Fortunately for you, even though this boondoggle will be nothing more than a milk run, you will receive legitimate credit for flying in a combat zone. Initially, this will be reflected in your Navy personnel file, but once things settle down adequately, your official Air Force records will be amended to reflect that you served an exchange tour with the Navy, with the appropriate references to flying in an active combat zone.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Carson. “I promise that I won’t disappoint you.”

  “See to it that you don’t,” said Tarbox sternly. “And Carson, one more thing…”

  “Sir?”

  Tarbox opened a folder, removed a black-and-white photograph, and held it out for Carson to view. “Do you recognize this man?”

  Carson examined the official portrait from a personnel file and recognized the stern-faced Navy officer as one of his erstwhile dogfighting adversaries from a few years back. “Yes, sir, I know him. That’s Lieutenant Commander Steve Billingsley. His call sign is…”

  “Badger,” interjected Tarbox in his squeaky voice. “Correct on all accounts, except one. Billingsley is no longer a Lieutenant Commander; he was just promoted to full Commander.” Tarbox reached into his folder, pulled out a document, and slid it across the table to Carson.

  Carson glanced at the paper; it was a set of promotion orders, elevating him to the rank of lieutenant colonel. He had been eligible for the promotion since July; it was about time that the orders were formally cut. “Thank you, sir!”

  “Don’t be too quick to thank me,” said Tarbox, reaching over the table to pick up the orders and return them to his folder. “Your promotion will have to wait until you complete this assignment. Badger—Commander Billingsley—will be your squadron commander when you deploy overseas. If we promote you now, you two will be of equal rank, although only Badger and you will be aware of that fact. So, in order to make it absolutely clear who is in charge, we’re holding your promotion. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Carson. At this point, he would gladly accept a bust back to second lieutenant in exchange for the opportunity being presented to him, so waiting on the promotion to lieutenant colonel certainly wasn’t a deal breaker by any means. Besides, an opportunity to fly beside Badger? What could better than that?” But still, something was missing. Tarbox would never make such a grand offer without expecting at least something in return.

  “This is excellent, sir, but I have to believe that you will want something from me in return,” said Carson.

  “And you would be correct, pard,” said Wolcott, twisting the silver tip of his bolo tie. “After you return from Pensacola, you’ll go into a holdin’ pattern here at Wright-Patt, until the stars align and we can launch you towards Vietnam. Admiral Tarbox here has been kind enough to lend us the services of one of his flight crews, since they are not gainfully employed. As you’re waiting, you and Ourecky will work with that crew to bring them up to speed. With any luck, they will be proficient in time to fly the last mission. Savvy?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Carson. As much as he dreaded flying yet another mission, he wasn’t exactly keen about handing the reins to a Navy crew, since he and Ourecky had done all the hard work to bring them to this place.

  “And one more thing,” said Wolcott. “I’m sure that you’re aware that Blue Gemini might be extended for a second phase. That ain’t exactly a sure thing by any means, but if it happens, I want you to stay on. If you do, it’s obvious that you’ll be flyin’ at least one or two more missions, but your main role will be to train the new crews that we’ve been promised.”

  “That certainly seems like a fair trade,” noted Carson.

  “Moreover,” said Tarbox, “since Ourecky is such a critical part of this Project, we ask that you persuade him to stay on as well.”

  And there’s the hook, thought Carson. “I’ll talk to him,” he said. “But you have to know that he wants to leave after the last mission, don’t you? General Tew has already promised him that he will be transferred.”

  “True,” observed Tarbox. “But we really don’t expect that Mark Tew will still be here then, particularly if we don’t get a shot at this target for another six months. As I said, son, I’m a man of my word, and I’ll honor Mark’s promise to Ourecky, if that’s what Ourecky really wants. All I am asking of you is to talk to him, when the time comes, to persuade him to stay on. Is that not fair?”

  “I suppose that it is, Admiral.” Carson reviewed the developments in his mind. Tarbox was offering an opportunity to fly in combat, in exchange for him rema
ining at the Project and nudging Ourecky to do the same. It was a no-brainer. What could he lose?

  Tarbox’s high-pitched voice interrupted Carson’s thoughts. “I’ll need an answer today. Any questions?”

  “Just one, sir,” replied Carson, anxiously drawing a Skilcraft ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket. “Where do I sign?”

  As if by deft sleight of hand, with a speed perhaps only surpassed by Mephistopheles sealing a deal with Faustus, Tarbox produced a contract. “Here,” he said. “On this line.”

  Grinning, Carson abruptly sealed the deal.

  “You’ll report to Commander Billingsley—“Badger”—at Pensacola tomorrow morning, Carson,” said Tarbox, slipping the executed document into a folder. You’ll undergo accelerated training for carrier procedures under his supervision, and then you’ll fall in with a group of new pilots undergoing carrier quals in the Gulf.”

  “Thank you, sir,” replied Carson. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this opportunity.”

  Wolcott cackled. “I admire your gumption, pard. I ain’t never seen anyone so anxious to jump into a fight. I just think it’s pretty danged ironic that we have to move heaven and earth to sneak you into a war zone when so many young folks are dodgin’ the draft and runnin’ to Canada to avoid it.”

  2

  WALKING THE DOG

  Residential Complex # 4

  Znamensk (Kapustin Yar-1), Astrakhan Oblast, USSR

  6:45 p.m., Friday, September 1, 1972

  Relaxing in his favorite chair, Yohzin lit a cigarette, donned his reading glasses, and perused the document that Abdirov had given him yesterday. The translated report described the ambitious American endeavor to build a space transportation system—a “space shuttle”—to deliver heavy payloads to orbit. The shuttle program was only a few months old—President Nixon had officially announced it in January—and already NASA scientists were making tremendous headway.

  Right now, Luba was in the kitchen, clearing the table and washing dishes, while his two sons applied themselves to their academic studies. Yohzin glanced up from his papers to observe Magnus lying by the front door, waiting for his evening walk. Staring at the door, the dog squirmed and fidgeted, as if silently pleading to go out. Yohzin examined his wristwatch as he jabbed his partially smoked cigarette butt into an ashtray. “Not yet, hund,” he said sternly. “Ten more minutes. Can you not be patient until then?”