Blue Gemini

by Mike Jenne

  Waiting for the last man to drop off the bars, Henson glanced down to read the inscription on the small stone marker: Until You Can’t. When he first arrived, he could nimbly jump up to the pull-up bar, knock out a string of fifteen with scarcely any effort, and then grunt out a few more. Even the whip-tough pararescue “PJs” found it difficult to match his pull-up prowess.

  Now, though, he didn’t find it nearly as effortless as before. The uprights for the pull-up bars were constructed of telephone poles, with a small wooden step nailed on the inside. Henson slung his weapon around his neck on a strand of parachute cord and swung up to the bar. He strained out five pull-ups and then painfully dangled, gripping the rusty bar with sweaty palms. The impromptu weapons sling cut deeply into his neck, and sixty odd pounds of equipment—carried in his rucksack and web gear—weighed heavily on his shoulders. He exerted himself enough to raise his chin over the bar three more times and then dropped to the ground.

  A few hundred yards away, on the asphalt runway adjacent to the row of buildings, a C-130 revved its turboprop engines, drowning out all conversations with a pervasive growl. As most of the candidates turned to watch, the transport plane jolted forward a short distance. Bolted to its fuselage, eight JATO rockets suddenly spewed a torrent of orange flame, like a volcano erupting sideways. With a deafening roar, the squat transport leapt into the air and climbed at a furious rate, disappearing into the sky at a forty-five degree angle.

  Before entering the billets, Henson safety-checked his GAU-5 submachine gun—a stubby weapon similar to the Army’s “CAR-15” carbine—one more time. Glancing into the GAU-5’s chamber, he saw no errant round and let the bolt snick home. If the cadre discovered a loaded weapon in the billets, it was grounds for immediate and uncontestable relief from the course.

  Unlike most Air Force training courses, “immediate and uncontestable relief” had dark connotations; at Aux One-Oh, it meant swift reassignment to some distant and dismal place. Henson was aware that some former candidates were now stuck in the barren hinterlands of Montana or South Dakota, guarding missile silos for the remainder of their enlistments. Others had been banished to remote locations in Alaska and Greenland. A candidate could be summarily sent away for a rules infraction—safety violations on the ranges were the most common—or an academic failure, or he could voluntarily request to be dropped from training.

  Sore after a long day on the ranges, Henson shed his web gear—a collection of suspenders, belt, straps and pouches that carried water, ammunition, grenades and other gear—and hung it on the end of his bunk. His right shoulder ached from several hours of absorbing recoil.

  After storing his gear, he would strip down the GAU-5, clean it until it was pristine, grab a quick shower, check over his field gear to ensure it was ready for tomorrow, and then look over any reading assignments that might have been posted.

  If time permitted and if he wasn’t too exhausted, he would indulge in a beer at the slop chute. That was pretty much the extent of his existence for the past month, and there were at least three months yet to go. Beyond that, if he made the grade, there was Army jump school and possibly Ranger school, both at Fort Benning near Columbus, Georgia. Then he would be assigned to an operational squadron, either here at Aux One-Oh or elsewhere.

  Henson had no idea where the other operational squadrons were based, or even how many there were. Furthermore, there was apparently little to be gained by attempting to wangle the best geographic location or most plum assignment; judging by the likes of the squadron based here, most of his life would be spent on the road. He rarely saw those guys for any more than a week at a time, and then they would be loading up on a C-130, bound for somewhere. And they didn’t say much about where they went or what they did.

  Last week, he had struck up a conversation with one of the operational guys—a brother, no less—down at the slop chute. Recovering from a broken ankle sustained on a parachute jump, he was one of the few black men assigned to Aux One-Oh. Their shared skin color was a good enough excuse for Henson to buy him a beer and chat him up to find out what life was like after the training was over.

  The brother was polite, profusely thanking Henson for the cold beer, but he was as vague and elusive as any man could possibly be. Fifty cents bought Henson little that he didn’t already know. He gleaned nothing about what life held in store after training, or even if all the training was really worth it. Until the future arrived, he kept at the training grind, up before dawn for physical training followed by hard days and sometimes harder nights.

  His OG-107 jungle fatigues were soggy with sweat from the day’s labors. Henson stripped off his shirt and draped it over his web gear to dry. The jungle fatigues were relatively comfortable in the otherwise unbearable heat and had a multitude of pockets to stash gear, but Henson looked forward to the day when he would go to supply and draw the tiger-striped camouflage uniforms worn by the men assigned to the operational squadrons. The tigers could be worn here on the compound and on the ranges; otherwise, they were strictly forbidden to be worn off Aux One-Oh, particularly on the main base of Eglin proper. It was another rule not to be broken or trifled with; even an assignment to a vaunted operational squadron didn’t necessarily mean a man wasn’t subject to abrupt exile for testing the boundaries.

  Slightly more comfortable, Henson tucked his weapon into the crook of his arm and opened his locker to grab his cleaning kit, shaving brush, and can of Three-in-One oil. As he turned around, he saw a small strip of masking tape on his gray metal bed frame, next to a similar strip that bore his name, rank and roster number. But this new piece of tape had a pointed message scrawled in black grease pencil: “NIGGER NOT WELCOME.” He cursed quietly under his breath, knelt down, and used his pocketknife to slowly strip the tape from his bunk. Preserving it as evidence, he stuck it in his pocket.

  He glanced around, looking at the other men in the billets space. Most were still present, having just got off the trucks from the ranges. The place reeked with the sweaty funk of thirty bodies jammed together in close quarters. Johnny Cash sang from one AM radio, lamenting that he had fallen into a burning ring of fire, while Jim Morrison and the Doors wailed from a second tinny box, encouraging all within earshot to break on through to the other side.

  Concealing his anger as best he could, Henson read the taunting script once more: “NIGGER NOT WELCOME.” It wasn’t the first racial threat he had received since arriving here; among other things, there had been degrading notes jammed into the air vents of his locker, a noose, fashioned of parachute cord, dangling over his bunk, and two holes had been cut into his pillowcase, apparently to represent the intimidating mask of the Ku Klux Klan.

  Despite the pressure and isolation, he maintained his composure, never once letting on that it was getting under his skin. And although no one had overtly vocalized any racial slurs at him, the most likely culprits were a close-knit group of five cracker white boys who always hung together in training or at the slop chute. Now, the five mingled around the red-painted butt can in the common space, sharing a cigarette as they discussed tentative plans for the weekend. He scanned each of their faces, expecting to glimpse the smirk or stupid grin of the perpetrator or at least someone in cahoots, but saw nothing. Even for dumb white crackers, they were either the coolest customers alive or they really had nothing to do with putting the tape on his bunk.

  But Henson had endured enough. Incensed, he donned his damp shirt and quietly clicked his locker shut. Carrying his weapon and cleaning gear, he strolled out the back door. At the cleaning tables, men joked and sipped Cokes as they used long cleaning rods to plunge oiled patches through the barrels of their weapons. Two men worked together to oil the steel guts of an M-60 machine gun. Seething with anger, gritting his teeth and tightly balling his fists, Henson continued walking, striking a beeline for the Training Flight’s headquarters.

  Arriving at a corrugated metal building almost identical to their living quarters, Henson knocked three times on the scree
n door, and waited patiently. Several minutes passed as he waited, allowing him to meditate on the smothering Florida heat, and also to tally—one by one by one—the number of mosquitoes that landed on his face, arms, and every other square centimeter of exposed black skin. But the wait didn’t allow him to calm down; residual anger roiled inside him just as powerfully now as it did when he first saw the racist message on his bunk.

  “Enter!” cried a shrill voice. Reacting immediately, Henson swung open the screen door and stepped inside. It wasn’t much cooler inside the building than outside; the only noticeable difference was that there were two electric floor fans that apparently served little purpose but to move the warm air from one side of the room to the other. The Flight’s first sergeant sat behind his desk, and beckoned Henson forward. Captain Lewis stood by silently. Despite his small stature, he was unbelievably fit; the class dreaded the days that he led them in calisthenics.

  “Here to quit, Henson?” implored the first sergeant. “And you were doing so well. I really suspected you were going to hang on for at least a few more weeks.”

  “There’s no shame in quitting, son,” added Lewis. “This job’s not for everyone. We’re much happier if you recognize it now before you realize it in the field with people’s lives at stake.” As Lewis spoke, the first sergeant yanked voluntary drop paperwork out of his top desk drawer.

  “Sir, I’m not here to quit,” boomed Henson.

  The first sergeant looked puzzled. “You’re not? Then why are you here?”

  “Sir, the candidate feels obligated to report a situation not conducive to good order and discipline,” blurted Henson. He pulled the strip of masking tape from his pocket, and stretched it out on the first sergeant’s desk. “I just found this on my bunk, sir.”

  Lewis shook his head. “It seems like this happens about every other class. I just don’t know what possesses these people. The military is integrated now. Why can’t they just accept that?”

  “Sir, that’s not all,” Henson added. He briefly described the other artifacts left on his bunk, as well as the messages stuffed into his locker.

  The first sergeant scribbled notes as Henson spoke, and promised that he would personally take action. “I’m surprised that you haven’t brought this to our attention already,” he commented. “And I’m impressed that you’ve kept your cool. That’s admirable, given the circumstances. Now, we’ll see to it that this business comes to a dead stop. In the meantime, Henson, you need to head back over there and drive on with the program. Just three months to go.” The first sergeant stuffed the voluntary drop paperwork back into his desk.

  Henson snapped back to attention and threw up a salute to Lewis. “Permission to be dismissed, sir?” he asked.

  “Dismissed,” replied Lewis, returning the salute. “Keep your calm, Henson. You’re doing very well.”

  Henson dropped the salute and hustled smartly for the door, almost knocking over one of the screeching fans in the process.

  The first sergeant walked over to the screen door and watched as Henson made his way back to the weapons cleaning tables. Lewis joined him. “I am really surprised that he didn’t quit,” observed the first sergeant. “He’s obviously a very tough customer.”

  “Agreed,” answered Lewis, slapping a mosquito on his neck and then examining the smudge of blood on his fingers.

  “So is there any need for me to continue leaving messages for him, sir?”

  “No,” replied Lewis. “As a candidate so new to the Air Force, I strongly suspect that he’ll be an academic failure in due time. If not that, we’ll find some other suitable reason to cull him.”

  11

  THE BOX

  James M. Cox Municipal Airport, Dayton, Ohio

  1:35 p.m., Monday, May 20, 1968

  The stewardess placed her hand on Ourecky’s shoulder, shook him gently, and softly whispered in his ear. “Rise and shine. It’s time to wake up, honey.”

  Recognizing Bea’s voice, he awoke with a start, not sure of where he was. He unfastened his seat belt, patted his lap, and then checked the seat before anxiously looking on the floor underneath.

  “Looking for this?” she asked, grinning, holding out a thin brown leather holster. “So what do you measure with this kind of ruler?”

  “Uh, Bea, that’s not a ruler, that’s a slide rule. I use it to solve equations.”

  Adjusting her wings, she smiled. “I was just kidding, silly. I know what a slide rule is. My dad had one. You dropped it when you fell asleep, so I was holding onto it for you. One of the kids was intent on playing with it. I think he planned to keep it, also.”

  “Well, thanks. I appreciate you looking out for me.” Ourecky glanced around. Except for a few straggling passengers and a cleaning crew just coming aboard, the cabin was empty.

  “You were out like a light. Out late last night? Big date?”

  Yawning, Ourecky stretched his arms and slowly shook his head. “No. I’m working on two big projects, and I had to finish the one in Florida over the weekend before I flew up here.”

  “Well now, you’re just melting the candle at both ends, aren’t you? You really need to slow down and smell the roses. You fly up to Dayton every other week, right? So where do you stay when you come up here? Hotel? Stay with a friend?”

  “Uh, I stay at the VOQ—Visiting Officers Quarters—on Wright-Patt.” Ourecky gathered up his papers, pencils, and the slide rule, and stuffed them into his attaché.

  Bea collected magazines from the seats near Ourecky. “Do you ever go out? I’ve not seen you in any of the clubs near the base, where the pilots and Air Force guys usually hang out.”

  “No,” he answered, slowly standing up and stretching. “I don’t get out. I only come up here to work. Hey, did you get your hair cut? It looks shorter than last time.”

  Smiling, obviously pleased that he noticed, she pivoted her head side to side. “I did. This style saves me at least thirty minutes in the morning, since it’s a lot easier to wash and dry.”

  “Well, it looks nice. Uh, I would really like to stay and chat, but there’s supposed to be a car waiting for me in front of the terminal, and I can’t miss it. I had better get moving. Uh, bye Bea.” With that, Ourecky walked down the narrow aisle, attaché clutched to his chest.

  “Bye, Lieutenant Ourecky,” she called after him. “See you around.”

  Aerospace Support Project

  Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio

  9:35 a.m., Wednesday, May 22, 1968

  Ourecky had been granted his own little office in the basement. The dreary space was damp and musty, with peeling green paint and a cracked linoleum floor. The only furnishings were an old drafting table and a straight-backed wooden chair. He had tilted down the drafting table to fashion it into a makeshift table; its scarred and stained surface was presently covered with binders, books, star charts, pencils, pens, and various drafting instruments.

  Although his modest workspace left much to be desired, working for Wolcott and Tew obviously had other significant benefits. Ourecky looked at a shiny new set of captain’s bars, which the generals had bestowed on him Monday afternoon, as they had promised, not long after he had arrived from the airport. The pair obviously held considerable influence with the Air Force’s otherwise rigid personnel system; little else could rationally explain how Ourecky—a lieutenant without pilot’s wings, combat time or other significant military experience—had been promoted well over a year ahead of his peers.

  Chewing on the frayed end of a toothpick, he leaned back in the chair and studied a massive tome—labeled NASA Project Gemini Familiarization Manual—that was essentially an encyclopedia devoted to the two-man spacecraft’s systems and procedures. Although it was not entirely within the purview of the tasks he had been given by the generals, he had taken it upon himself to become intimately familiar with the workings of the Gemini, so that he could better understand the challenges faced by the men who might ultimately fly the intercept missions.
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  Right now, his focus was devising a series of “cheat sheets” for the different calculations required at various phases of a rendezvous in orbit. It was not a simple task. Orbital rendezvous was an elaborate three-dimensional exercise in which a space vehicle gradually made the necessary adjustments to match its orbital plane to a rendezvous target, and from there executed more shifts to eventually overtake the target. NASA had refined the practice—essential to the upcoming Apollo moon landings—during their Gemini missions. NASA’s crews had rendezvoused with cooperative targets—Agena-D satellites equipped with radar transponder beacons and marking lights, no less—but conducting a rendezvous with a non-cooperative target—a hostile target—was a complex symphony yet to be played.

  In rendezvous, the underlying problem was that every movement, even the slightest correction, required an expenditure of energy, and that energy, in the form of fuel for maneuvering thrusters, was in finite supply. To further complicate matters, particularly at the final stages of the chase, it was extremely easy to overcompensate, which could inadvertently result in the chase vehicle being placed in a higher orbit than the target. Consequently, even more energy had to be expended to correct the error, if it could be corrected at all.

  But as Ourecky struggled to distill the equations into a series of worksheets, he was also very aware of the extreme burdens that would be levied on the crews. Some of the proposed intercept missions could be arduous marathons in which the Gemini-I crew might have to maneuver for an entire day or longer to catch up to their target. Thumbing through his index cards, he wondered how effective the men could be after going that long without adequate rest. Staring at a pale green wall, he was deep in thought when Virgil Wolcott walked in.

  “Captain O. How’s it goin’ there, pardner?” Wolcott sipped from an oversized coffee mug. “Makin’ yourself at home, are you?”