by Mike Jenne
“So he’s clean?” asked Tew. “No problems? No outside commitments? Not married?”
Hara looked in the rear view mirror and smirked. “No distractions. And I don’t see him getting hitched anytime soon, General.”
“Excellent. Good job, Jimmy. As always.”
As he drove northwest along an isolated base road lined by pine forests, Hara looked back momentarily and said, “Virgil, even though it’s none of my business, Ourecky sure looks like just an ordinary lieutenant. He sure doesn’t seem to be anyone special, not like some of the pilots you’ve had me pull surveillance on.”
Chuckling, Wolcott said, “Quite the contrary, Jimmy. For starters, besides bein’ a crackerjack engineer, he’s a bona fide math genius with a practical background in ballistics and trajectories. Personally, I don’t claim to be too danged smart, but I can pick horses, and if my instincts are right, Ourecky is the best bet to solve our biggest problem.”
“He’s your fix for the Block Two computer?” asked Hara, adjusting his sunglasses.
“You’ve got your nose in everything, don’t you, Jimmy? Yup, I think he’s the man to fix it.”
“Let’s hope you’re right, Virgil,” Tew interjected, glancing up from his report. “This Block Two situation is starting to wear on me.”
“Yup, with any luck, this kid Ourecky could be our great salvation,” Wolcott said. “Hey, Mark, after we meet with Isaac Fels, how about we grab an early dinner? I know a great little rib shack over in Milton. Best danged fall-off-the-bone barbecue on the Panhandle. It’s just a few minutes away.”
“Sure, but can you make it back in time for the drops tonight?” asked Tew. “At least one of us should be there.”
“So ain’t you comin’ out to watch tonight?” asked Wolcott, removing his left boot and scratching his toes. “It should be a good show.”
“No. Paperwork, Virgil, always more paperwork. I have an all-nighter ahead of me.”
“Suit yourself. I’m hankerin’ to see the drops, of course, but I ain’t particularly relishin’ the thought of seein’ Agnew again.”
“Problem?” queried Tew, penciling notes in the margin of a budget summary.
“Yup. Agnew’s usual guff. Him and Carson didn’t exactly geehaw at the desert survival course out at Stead, and now Agnew’s spoutin’ off about a transfer out of the Project again. His bellyachin’ is really starting to dig under my hide, pardner.”
“You’ll handle it, Virg. You always do.”
Auxiliary Field Ten, Eglin Air Force Base, Florida; 5:45 p.m.
The waning sun hovered low over the horizon as Ourecky arrived at Auxiliary Field Ten. Towering pines swayed in the evening breezes blowing in from the Gulf of Mexico. He was surprised at the extent of activity at the field even this late in the day. A typical auxiliary field was just a patch of bare ground, with a rudimentary airstrip and little else, but this one was almost like a miniature airbase unto itself. Secluded on the distant fringes of Eglin, it contained an interlocking pair of paved runways, as well as a small complex of buildings and hangars.
As Ourecky got out of his car, a rangy man strolled out of the hangar to meet him. Wearing blue jeans, a faded denim jacket and a cowboy hat, the tall stranger looked like he was on his way to a rodeo or perhaps a cattle drive. “Lieutenant Ourecky?” he asked.
“Uh, that’s me. I’m Lieutenant Ourecky, sir.”
The man chuckled. “I’m Virgil Wolcott. Any problems drivin’ out here?”
Ourecky was taken aback; the rawboned, mufti-clad man standing before him was not at all what he had expected. “None at all, sir. It’s an honor to meet you, General.”
“Just call me Virgil,” drawled Wolcott, extending a hand. “The stars fell off when I shed the blue suit. Care for some coffee, Lieutenant? There’s a fresh percolator brewin’ inside.”
“Sir, I’ll pass if you don’t mind. It’s a little late in the day for me to be drinking coffee.”
“Suit yourself, pardner. We’re conducting some drop tests this evening, so it’s going to stretch into a mighty long night for me. Let’s head inside.”
Within the hangar, several men conferred beside the open rear ramp of a C-130 cargo plane. Most were attired in standard gray-green flight gear, but two wore pumpkin-orange flight suits and parachute harnesses.
Ourecky glanced inside the transport’s capacious cargo bay, and was surprised to see a full-scale mockup of a Gemini two-man spacecraft. Strapped down to a plywood skid resting on two parallel tracks of conveyor rollers, the capsule mock-up appeared ready for ejection from the C-130, in the same manner as vehicles or heavy equipment bundles dropped by cargo parachute. Since NASA’s Gemini program had ended two years ago, he was curious what system was being tested this evening.
The meeting broke up, and the C-130 crew went to their stations to prepare the plane for takeoff. “Let me introduce you to a couple of our top hands,” said Wolcott, leading Ourecky toward the men in orange. Both were deeply tanned, as if they had just returned from a prolonged vacation at the beach, and appeared to be in excellent physical condition. “This here is Major Drew Carson and Major Tim Agnew. Gents, this is Lieutenant Scott Ourecky. If the stars line up, he’ll be doin’ some special engineering work for us.”
Carson looked extremely familiar to Ourecky, and finally he realized where their paths had crossed. “Uh, Major Carson and I have already met.”
Momentarily puzzled, the pilot studied the engineer’s face. He grinned and noted, “Yeah, Virgil, the lieutenant and I shared lunch last week, down at the main base snack bar.”
“So you two are already acquainted?” asked Wolcott. “Ain’t it just an itty-bitty little world?”
Ourecky shook hands with both pilots. In contrast to the poster-perfect Carson, Agnew was plain-featured, about six feet tall, with thinning blonde hair. Strapping a navigation kneeboard to his right thigh, he appeared apprehensive about tonight’s planned activities.
Ourecky noticed that Agnew made a point to slip off his flameproof Nomex gloves to shake hands. On the other hand, the aloof Carson didn’t take off his gloves. He treated Ourecky with blatant disdain, like the subtle contempt that aristocracy reserves for the masses, as if he were of some servile subclass not worthy to rub shoulders with the likes of a vaunted test pilot.
“All up, gents?” asked Wolcott. “Ready to drop?”
Agnew frowned and answered furtively, “I would be lying if I told you I was thrilled to ride this sled again, Virgil. I’m just not entirely confident that all the kinks have been worked out. It’s only a matter of time before . . .”
Carson smiled and interrupted with, “We’re ready, Virg. Tim’s just experiencing a few butterflies. They’ll pass. He’ll be just fine.”
“Well then, time’s a’ wastin’. Let’s saddle up and drive this herd,” declared Wolcott. He glanced up at the cockpit, grinned, and flashed the pilot a thumbs up.
Carson tugged on his helmet and made some minor adjustments to his parachute harness. He turned to board the C-130 through the crew door, just aft of the cockpit.
“A moment of your time, sir?” asked Agnew sheepishly, donning his helmet.
“What’s on your mind, buck?” replied Wolcott.
“I was wondering if you’ve had an opportunity to consider my reassignment paperwork, Virgil. If you recall, I gave it to you right after we came back from Stead, about a week ago.”
“Yeah, I recollect you givin’ me that transfer request, pard.” Obviously perturbed, Wolcott spat tobacco juice into a nearby waste can. “But you need to come to grips with the fact that it ain’t happenin’. First, if you had trepidations about this business, you should have aired them before you signed on the dotted line. Second, you know danged well that we’re down to three flight crews, so you shouldn’t feel too offended if I ain’t overly disposed to hasten your departure. Now, mount up and ride, brother. That’s what you volunteered for, so snap to it.”
“If I can’t transfer, sir,” said Ag
new, snugging the chest strap of his parachute harness, “would you at least consider shifting me to another crew? Please?”
Wolcott’s face gradually took on a shade of red. “And break up another crew? Like I said, buster, we only have three crews. I can’t shift you without first wranglin’ someone to fly with Carson, and you know full well the likelihood of that happening. Look, Carson’s a tad obnoxious and a mite volatile, but he’s a danged good pilot. You couldn’t be in any better hands. Can’t you find a way to make peace with him?”
Agnew rubbed his left shoulder and replied, “I’ll try, Virgil, but you’re asking a lot. Maybe more than I have to give.” He pivoted away and climbed aboard the transport plane.
Turning to Ourecky, Wolcott said, “Sorry you had to witness that, son. Agnew’s a good hand, but he needs to learn that he can’t always choose who he flies with. In any event, I would appreciate it if you kept that little transaction to yourself.”
“Will do, sir.”
Wolcott walked over to a table and filled a Thermos from a large metal urn. “Let’s mosey on out to the strip, pard,” he said, screwing the lid on the insulated bottle. “We’ll watch the show from out there. We can chat on the way.”
The two men strolled out of the hangar as the C-130’s engines coughed to life. They walked along a grassy strip adjacent to a taxiway. By now, the sun had all but retired from the sky; the buildings and trees were bathed in the red-hued light of near dusk.
With turboprop engines groaning, the C-130 emerged from the hangar and rolled slowly along the taxiway. Doffing his Stetson, Wolcott waited for the plane to pass and for the noise to subside. He pulled a small envelope of chewing tobacco from a breast pocket of his denim jacket, spat out a depleted wad, and replaced it with another. “Chaw?” he asked, offering the pouch to Ourecky.
“Uh, pass, sir.”
“Son, I want you to know that Colonel Paster speaks very highly of you. As much as he doesn’t want to share you, it sounds like you’re just the man we’re lookin’ for.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I s’pose you want to know what you’re getting into. The official name for our outfit is the Aerospace Support Project. We run it out of Wright-Patterson, but we have facilities all over, like this field here. We have a big charter, and we’re always on the lookout for new talent.” Without elucidating, Wolcott walked on.
After a few minutes, Ourecky broke the silence. “Umm, that sounds very intriguing, sir.”
Wolcott chuckled and spat. “If I was walkin’ in your boots, Lieutenant, I would say it sounded a trifle vague. You ain’t inclined to nibble on the hook and ask what we do?”
Ourecky shook his head. “Sir, uh, I assumed you would tell me when you saw fit.”
Wolcott smiled. “Not askin’ a lot of questions is an admirable quality, son. Especially with the sort of chores we do. You might fit in just fine.”
At the end of the runway, the C-130 taxied into takeoff position and paused for several seconds as its engines roared up to full power. Gathering speed, the plane rolled down the runway, lifted off, and disappeared into the growing darkness.
Half an hour later, the two men reached the test site, a dirt “assault strip” that ran parallel to the main runway. Assault strips were commonly used by C-130 crews to practice the tactical landing and takeoff skills that would be so critical to them in Southeast Asia. Ourecky discerned the outlines of a pickup truck and a jeep, and heard the voices of several men.
“Excuse me, pard,” said Wolcott. “I need to go chat with these folks. I’ll be right back.”
Ourecky watched the angular general saunter away in the darkness and then lifted his eyes toward the heavens. The sky was startlingly clear, and he picked out familiar stars to orient himself. He quickly found his old friend Cassiopeia and used its lazy “W” shape as a guide to look down and to the right to find Ursa Major—the “Big Dipper”—and Polaris, the North Star. Looking toward the east, he found the two stars—Gomeisa and Procyon—that comprised the constellation Canis Minor, and then he glanced to the west to locate the four stars—Markab, Algenib, Scheat and Sirrah—that marked the corners of the big box in Pegasus. With his bearings fixed, he jammed his hands deep in his trouser pockets and waited for Wolcott.
A few minutes later, Wolcott returned. Obviously comfortable in the tranquil darkness, he guided Ourecky to the rear of the pickup truck, opened the tailgate, and sat down. “Hunker here with me, buckaroo,” he drawled. “Let’s jaw while we’re waitin’ for the festivities to begin.”
Ourecky sat next to Wolcott on the tailgate. Shuddering, he regretted that he hadn’t brought a jacket. The temperature had dropped at least five degrees since the sun had disappeared.
“I saw you stargazing over here,” noted Wolcott. “Your college transcripts said you took several astronomy courses. Ain’t that a might peculiar for someone majorin’ in engineering?”
Ourecky was taken aback. College transcripts? They’ve looked at my college transcripts? “Just something that I picked up back at home, sir,” he explained. “You can see a lot of stars in the sky out there on the farm, and I just wanted to learn some more.” He paused and added, “And I had wanted to eventually go to work for NASA, so I thought it might come in handy.”
“Well, hoss, believe it or not, we might be able to put that knowledge to use.” Wolcott’s cigarette glowed bright red as he drew in deeply; his crinkled face was illuminated in the dim glow. “Hey, Ourecky, if you know your stars, maybe you could help me out. As far back as I can remember, even when I first started ridin’ the range as a young buck, I used to spy an itty-bitty group of stars and always thought it was the Little Dipper.” Wolcott pointed out into the night sky. “Right over there, just above the trees. What’s that constellation?”
“Uh, that’s the Pleiades, sir. It’s not really a constellation; it’s a star cluster. It’s my favorite.”
Wolcott smiled. “Your favorite? Really? It’s pretty durned bright, ain’t it?” He looked at the luminous dial on his watch, spat a long string of tobacco juice into the darkness, and then took a sip of coffee. “Now, Ourecky, I can’t really tell you much about what you’ll be doin’ up at Wright–Patt, but I did want to chew the fat before you came up for your formal interview. Next week, you’ll be meetin’ with me and my compadre, Mark Tew. I want to caution you that Mark’s still on active duty, and he’s a lot more formal than I am, so don’t let my behavior be your guide.”
“I appreciate the heads up, sir.”
Wolcott topped off his cup from the Thermos. “Paster tells me that you’re interested in going back to school after your Air Force stint is up. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Ourecky. “I did some independent study on orbital mechanics while I was earning my undergraduate degree, and I would eventually like to go back for a PhD. Hopefully, I’ll go to work with NASA after that.”
“Well, I sure ain’t going to fault you for wanting to hitch a leg up, pardner. Do you have any particular school in mind?”
“Uh, I’m looking at MIT, sir. That’s where Colonel Aldrin did his thesis on rendezvous. Are you familiar with Aldrin? He’s an astronaut now.”
In the darkness, Wolcott grinned. “Yeah, pard, I’m familiar with Buzz. Quite a thinker, that one. Have you pondered about possibly seekin’ your PhD on the Air Force’s nickel?”
“Sir?”
“Look, son, if you do a good job for us, then we can certainly exert some influence on your behalf. The Air Force has plenty of money to pay for advanced degrees, and Mark Tew has the connections to loosen those purse strings. Of course, that would mean remainin’ in the Air Force for a few more years before you have an opportunity to work for NASA, but the Air Force also has space projects you might be able to work on. You ever heard of the MOL?”
“MOL? Uh, the Manned Orbiting Laboratory, sir?”
“One and the same,” replied Wolcott. He finished his coffee and screwed the plastic cup back onto the to
p of the Thermos. “I have some friends workin’ on it. If you’re hankerin’ to do space work, I’m sure that we could wrangle you a slot there later.”
A man walked up and spoke. “Virgil, we’re just about to open the curtains. Taco Two Six should be closing in on the communications checkpoint at any moment.”
Wolcott buttoned up his denim jacket and said, “Well, it’s time for me to earn my paycheck.”
Not too far from the rear of the truck, a technician shined a flashlight on an instrument and fidgeted with some dials. The device was about the size of three footlockers stacked atop one another, crowned by a round object that looked like a large hatbox. “That’s a portable TACAN beacon,” explained Wolcott. “We’ve been workin’ on it for quite a while. With that critter, our boys can set up an instrument approach on just about any airfield in the world.”
Ourecky heard the faint drone of the C-130 in the distance. The radio crackled. “Taco Two Six is at CCP.”
“Taco Two Six, this is Exercise Control. I copy you are at CCP,” answered a sergeant monitoring the radios. “Sir, they’re at the communications checkpoint. Five minutes to drop.”
“Thanks, Jack,” Wolcott said. He turned to Ourecky. “Just so you know, we’re runnin’ a night flight test on a Rogallo paraglider. You ever heard of a Rogallo wing, son?”
“I have, sir. It’s kind of a cross between a parachute and a glider, isn’t it? I think NASA considered them for the Gemini program. But didn’t they abandon the whole concept?”
“NASA dropped it, but the Air Force didn’t,” replied Wolcott. “We’re still lookin’ at the paraglider for the MOL, among other things. We’re really trying to avoid having our Gemini capsules splash down at sea. For one thing, the Air Force doesn’t own fleets of ships that we can scatter all around the world, and we would just as soon limit our reliance on the Navy.”
“Good point, sir,” noted Ourecky. Now the Gemini mock-up made perfect sense to him; the test was obviously associated with the Air Force’s ongoing MOL program.
“That ain’t all. A spacecraft is built of metals that are highly vulnerable to corrosion, plus it’s loaded to the gills with high-dollar electronics and wiring. Soaking one in salt water is a surefire way to ruin it. It you could return them to dry land instead of dunkin’ them in the ocean, you can reuse them. Granted, the paraglider ain’t perfect and we still have plenty of kinks to work out, but we’re making good headway on refining the concept.”