Pale Blue

by Mike Jenne

  So, even if he was handed a golden ticket by Tarbox, was it even worth it to make the transition to NASA? Maybe it was just as well to leave things as they were and to never go to orbit again; by the grace of God or sheer damned luck, he and Ourecky had escaped the law of averages, so was it really worth it to take that chance yet again? With this cruise, Tarbox had granted him a unique opportunity to get his military career back on track. Maybe he wouldn’t have the opportunity to engage in the sort of hot air-to-air combat that he so craved, but at least his records wouldn’t reflect that he had just sat it out on the sidelines, either.

  Carson thought about his future. Maybe the time was right for him to move on with his life. Although he was sure that Wolcott and Tarbox probably had some grandiose scheme in store, perhaps his best bet was to ask Virgil for the squadron command that Tew had offered. Maybe it was time for him to finally grow up, abandon his playboy lifestyle, and build a future for himself. Carson really envied Ourecky for what he had with Bea; with a little bit more stability in his life, maybe he could finally meet someone worthwhile, get married, have kids and settle down. But as appealing as those things were, he still had to finish this cruise.

  To this point, his much anticipated combat tour had been much less than eventful. He had flown exactly nine times since arriving at Yankee Station. Eight sorties were orientation and training flights, but on the ninth mission, he and Badger had escorted an RF-8 Crusader on a photo recce run near Cam Pha. Although the mission had proceeded without incident, except for dodging a SA-2 surface-to-air missile on the way out, at least Carson had gone “feet dry” by actually crossing the coast and flying in North Vietnam’s airspace. In contrast, several of his squadron mates had yet to do even that. But although he had theoretically flown in combat, he wanted more. He felt as if he was being denied the experience that would indelibly define his generation of airmen. But maybe there was a chance: the current scuttlebutt was that the Paris peace talks were quickly unraveling, and that the Air Force had already dispatched a few B-52s to bomb targets north of the 20th Parallel. As anxious as he was to believe the rumors, Carson forced them from his mind.

  A hush fell over the wardroom as the squadron’s executive officer hustled in and switched off the cassette player. “No movie tonight, gentlemen,” he announced tersely. “Badger wants everyone in the ready room in five minutes. Full squadron muster.”

  “Everyone?” asked “Beans” Leesma, Carson’s RIO.

  “Everyone,” reiterated the Exec, stretching out the syllables. “All hands. That includes you, Beans.”

  As he navigated his way to the next deck, Carson heard an excited chorus of whoops and yells coming from the attack squadron’s ready room, which was adjacent to theirs. The Intruder drivers were usually a lot more subdued, so if the attack pukes were this wound up, then something momentous was obviously afoot. Moreover, Carson was thrilled because he would likely be smack in the middle of it, since A-6 strike packages were habitually shepherded by F-4 fighters.

  Usually more rambunctious, the twelve F-4N flight crews quietly entered the ready room, quickly took their seats and sat in rapt anticipation of Badger’s announcement.

  Carrying a large briefing binder, Badger strode purposefully to the metal podium. Holding the black book over his head, he declared, “This is Operation Linebacker II, gentlemen. The Paris peace talks have broken down, and the President is apparently anxious to motivate the North Vietnamese back to the table, so he has authorized the resumption of aggressive bombing operations above the 20th Parallel, beginning tomorrow.”

  As the squadron’s aviators clapped and yelled, Beans pounded Carson’s back. The scuttlebutt was true, he thought. Maybe there really was some hope.

  Badger shushed them and then launched into an hour-long overview of the operation, as well as the general missions assigned to the squadron. As Carson had suspected, the majority of their squadron’s sorties would entail escorting A-6 daylight strike packages on targets in the vicinity of Haiphong.

  After informing the crews that they would receive specific mission assignments tomorrow morning, Badger concluded the briefing by asserting, “The gloves are coming off, gents. It’s official: the MIG killing lamp is now lit. Get a good night’s sleep tonight, because it might be your last until this war is over.”

  Several minutes passed as the men gradually filtered out of the ready room to return to the wardroom or their cabins. Every few minutes, the ready room reverberated with the resounding sounds of the steam catapults on the flight deck overhead; launch operations were in progress, probably for night strike packages on their way to targets inland.

  “Drew,” said Badger, pointing toward the front row of chairs. “Hang back after everyone leaves.”

  As the last men departed, Carson took a seat beside Badger. “What’s up, boss?”

  “I guess you know that Admiral Tarbox gave me some very specific directives about how to handle a situation like this,” said Badger quietly. “His instructions were to bench you if things started getting hot over here.”

  Carson’s heart sank in his chest.

  “Hey, I have absolutely no idea what you did to grab this ticket,” said Badger. “But obviously whatever it was, it must have been something truly significant, because Leon Tarbox doesn’t dole out favors lightly, and he’s also not one to bend the rules or allow others to bend them. As far as I’m concerned, Drew, you must have done something of an extraordinary magnitude. So, whatever that was, I will never ask, but you obviously earned this ride. Moreover, you complied with every measure that Tarbox prescribed, and you’ve done your utmost to assimilate yourself into this squadron, so not only did you earn your ticket from the Ancient Mariner, but you’ve earned your ticket with me as well.”

  “Thanks,” replied Carson. “But…”

  Badger yawned, held up his hand and said, “You’re welcome to sit this one out, particularly since that’s precisely what Tarbox ordered. I’ll talk to the flight surgeon, and I’m sure that he can come up with some phony baloney excuse to ground you, so there won’t be any sort of stigma or shame attached. We’ll shoot you off the boat on the next COD Greyhound, and then zoom you back to the States.”

  Grinning, Badger continued. “But even though Tarbox clearly told me to bench you, he’s not here and I’m commanding this squadron. This is war, my brother. I need all hands on deck, and I’m damned sure not too enthusiastic about leaving one of my hottest hands back on the boat when we go feet dry tomorrow. So, Drew Carson—I mean, Drew Scott—do you want to fly or ride wood?”

  “Fly,” answered Carson excitedly.

  “Good. Pre-mission brief at Zero-Four and cats at dawn. Go get some sleep.”

  Flight Crew Office, Aerospace Support Project

  Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio

  4:04 p.m., Monday, December 18, 1972

  Ourecky threaded a strip of 16-mm film into a Bell and Howell reel-to-reel projector, locked the door, adjusted the screen, switched off the lights, and sat down to peruse yet another classified Navy training movie. This particular reel described the fundamentals of synthetic aperture radar technology, but most of the movies were part of a lengthy series on nuclear propulsion systems. In the past week, he had watched enough Navy films about nuclear reactors on submarines that he felt sufficiently qualified to set sail on the USS Nautilus for a submerged voyage under the North Pole. He had to endure the training films as part of his theoretical training for the upcoming MOL mission. While he actually enjoyed the technical information, the voice-over narrations—typically a lecturer droning on in a tedious monotone—could readily be used as a cure for insomnia. Struggling to remain awake, he sipped from a cup of lukewarm coffee and periodically splashed his face with cold water.

  He was fifteen minutes into the somnolent feature when the phone rang; Admiral Tarbox’s administrative aide, an Air Force captain, tersely stated that the admiral demanded Ourecky’s immediate presence.

  Concerned that it migh
t be bad news about Carson, he shut off the projector and rushed down the stairs. As he entered the external office and was waved on by the aide, he heard Tarbox screaming at the top of his lungs.

  “Authority?!” screeched Tarbox. “Authority?! Who the hell are you to tell me that I don’t have authority in this situation? He’s my officer, and I can order him back any time I damned well please! Damn it, Commander, count yourself fortunate that this isn’t the old Navy, or I’d boil your head and serve it at evening mess with black pudding and toasted cheese.” Tarbox’s hand trembled as he slammed the receiver down on the telephone.

  Ourecky was taken aback by Tarbox’s behavior. He had seen the Ancient Mariner angry, but never this angry. In stark contrast to his closely cropped shock of white hair, Tarbox’s face was almost crimson red. Veins visibly throbbed in his neck and temples. His eyes bulged out so far that Ourecky was concerned that the orbs might pop out and land on the floor.

  After taking a series of deep breaths, Tarbox asked, “Major Ourecky, have you had any contact with Major Carson, official or otherwise?”

  “Affirmative, sir. I talked to him last Sunday, right after his carrier arrived at Yankee Station. He called on MARS.”

  “MARS?” growled Tarbox. “Is there any possibility that you might converse with him again in the near future?”

  Ourecky was extremely reluctant to reveal that he and Carson already had plans to talk on Christmas Eve. “Possibly, sir. Am I to assume that you want me to convey some sort of message to him, Admiral?”

  “Yes, Major. If you do talk to him, then you need to make it abundantly clear that he is to return here by the most expeditious means available. In lieu of that, if he is not able to return here quickly, for operational or other reasons, then he is to physically remain aboard that aircraft carrier until I expressly authorize him to depart it. Is that clear, Major?”

  “Yes, sir, but didn’t you authorize…”

  Tarbox glowered menacingly, as if he were looking for a convenient puppy to strangle. “Tell Carson to get back here immediately. You are dismissed, Major.”

  Aerospace Support Project

  Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio

  9:15 a.m., Tuesday, December 19, 1972

  The projector’s take-up reel clattered as the film ran out. Ourecky reached out to switch it off, stood up and stretched. He was distressed about Carson, so much so that he could barely concentrate on the subject matter in the training films. The news coming out of Vietnam was scant and contradictory; the Air Force had admitted to some aircraft being shot down, but the North Vietnamese made it sound as if planes—especially the big B-52s—were raining out of the sky over Hanoi. Ourecky craved more detailed information, and especially wanted to talk to Carson so that he could pass on Tarbox’s directive to come home.

  He went downstairs to the communications room to see if there was any up-to-date news coming through on the classified Teletype, but the big machine was silent. He cursed under his breath; he wanted to know that Carson was safe.

  He decided to take a break before watching yet another Navy film, so he headed across the parking lot to see Gunter Heydrich in the simulator hangar. The lot held very few cars; compared to Blue Gemini’s heyday only a couple of years ago, the asphalt expanse was effectively deserted. Most of Project’s Wright-Patt operations were closing, with only a small liaison office slated to remain. Ourecky would remain here until Carson returned, and then the two of them were likely to be transferred to California. This was Gunter Heydrich’s last week; like most of the other civilian workers, he was being laid off.

  Ourecky strolled into the hangar and watched several technicians disassembling the simulator systems. The infamous “Box”—the upright procedures simulator—in which he had spent many hours and days in seemingly endless agony, was destined for permanent storage in Arizona. He wasn’t surprised; the simulator’s technology was dated when he had first started in it, and now it was downright obsolete. On the other hand, the Paraglider Landing Simulator was being dismantled and crated so that it could be moved to Vandenberg Air Force Base.

  As if he were locked in a time machine stuck in 1968, Heydrich still dressed in a white button-down dress shirt, black tie, and black dress slacks. His black hair was still greasy and largely unkempt, and he wore the same black-framed eyeglasses made popular by Clark Kent.

  “Guten Tag, Gunter,” said Ourecky, walking up and extending his hand.

  “Und Guten Tag to you,” replied Heydrich, standing up and taking Ourecky’s outstretched hand. He sat back down and consumed the last two bites of a glazed doughnut. “Are you all right, Scott? You don’t look very well.”

  “I’m a little concerned about Drew,” replied Ourecky.

  “Ja. I’ve been watching the news. I thought the war was supposed to be over by now. Who could have possibly foreseen this turn of events? I can see why you would be alarmed, but are you really sure that he’s even flying in that operation?”

  “Am I sure that he’s flying missions? Gunter, he’s Carson. Need I say more?”

  “Really, Scott, you needn’t be so fretful. I have it on good authority that Admiral Tarbox set some provisions on Carson’s deployment to preclude him from engaging in any serious combat actions. Of course, Carson didn’t know about it, but…”

  Heydrich’s words were little solace to Ourecky. “But I’m sure that he found some way to skirt around any traps that Tarbox may have laid,” he interjected. “After all, he’s Carson.”

  “He’ll be fine. Regardless of what’s he’s doing, he’s an excellent pilot.”

  “Yeah. Hey, I understand that you’re leaving soon, Gunter,” said Ourecky, changing the subject. “Any plans?”

  “Ja. In fact, we’ll probably see each other someday soon. I interviewed last week with the Instrumentation Labs at MIT, and they offered me a position. We’re still discussing salary, but I intend to take it. Aerospace jobs are scarce now; I would be a verdammt fool to pass this offer by. After all, MIT is a very prestigious institution.”

  “Agreed. Anyway, I wanted to tell you that it was truly an honor to work with you, Gunter. I don’t think we could have done it without you.”

  Heydrich laughed. “If you say so, Scott, but the honor is mine, and I know that we couldn’t have accomplished what we had without you.”

  “Thanks,” replied Ourecky, taking a seat. “That’s very kind of you.”

  Heydrich glanced from side to side, apparently making sure that no workers were within earshot, and quietly confided, “Virgil told me about the MOL mission, Scott. Congratulations. I’m glad that you and Carson will finally get the recognition that you deserve.”

  Surprised that Heydrich knew about the pending MOL flight, Ourecky said, “I wish that I was as enthused as you are. To be honest, I’m a lot less than thrilled about it, but I’m still obligated to crack the books until Carson comes home. At this point, I have resolved myself to abide with his decision, whatever that might be. If he wants to go, then we’ll go together. As for myself, I could certainly live the rest of my life without the recognition, but it’s very important to Carson, so I will let him decide.”

  “Do you really think there’s even the most remote possibility he might turn it down?” asked Heydrich.

  Ourecky shook his head. “No. It’s a no-brainer. Carson will leap on this opportunity like a glory-seeking Marine jumping on a hand grenade. But to be frank, Gunter, I’m a little perplexed why Tarbox would offer this mission to us. Even though I’m leery about strapping on another rocket, I have to hand it to the Ancient Mariner for even coming up with an idea like this. It’s certainly changed my impression of him.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Heydrich chuckled and said, “Scott, do you really believe that someone as manipulative as Tarbox would ever make such a magnanimous gesture without some sort of ulterior motive? Do you really think that he would send you and Carson on this MOL mission, with public exposure and media attention, instead of one of his Navy c
rews? After all, his Navy guys have been training for this mission for the past three years, so he’s going to willingly give it to you gentlemen just because he says that you deserve it?”

  In the process of removing one of the hatches from the Gemini-I mock-up, a worker clumsily dropped a socket wrench, which clattered from the raised platform to the concrete floor. Startled, Ourecky and Heydrich both jumped out of their chairs.

  “But what does Admiral Tarbox stand to gain, Gunter?” asked Ourecky, sitting down as he regained his composure.

  “Everything,” answered Heydrich, slipping a Dietzgen slide rule into cordovan leather case. “More specifically, he stands to gain everything if he sends you and Carson. Conversely, he’s subject to lose everything if he doesn’t send you.”

  Heydrich continued. “The joint Air Force-Navy merger has always been tenuous. Tarbox knows that in order for the joint program to go forward, he has to be in good graces with the Air Force’s senior leadership. I don’t know if he bothered to inform you, but his MOL program was on the verge of being cancelled altogether after the incident in August. The Navy was still supportive of it, mainly because they have such a pressing need for the ocean surveillance system, but the Air Force leadership was dead set against it, particularly because they thought it was too risky to put a nuclear reactor in orbit. To keep the program going, Tarbox had to convince the Air Force of the MOL’s viability. Additionally, he had to provide them with plenty of incentive to put their chips on the table to back it.”

  “But what does that have to do with me and Carson?” asked Ourecky.