by Mike Jenne
“That’s quite some degree of accuracy,” answered Yohzin. “Perhaps unattainable.”
“Well, for the sake of discussion, let’s at least entertain the thought.”
Leaning toward a patch of bare ground, Yohzin sketched out a concept with his finger. “Perhaps your solution might be some sort of beacon system, slaved to a steerable parachute, where the vehicle is automatically guided to a transponder.”
“Good idea, but let me expand my requirements,” said Abdirov. “The system should not require positioning any equipment, like a beacon, at the desired landing point. At any point during orbital flight, it should be possible to continually update the desired landing point so that the reentry vehicle can arrive at any point on earth, at least within its orbital path. Lastly, the entire control system to accomplish these tasks should be carried on the orbital vehicle itself, so that there is no need for ground-based control stations.”
Yohzin chuckled. “If I didn’t know any better, Rustam, I would suspect that you are trying to drop bombs from orbit.”
“Perhaps it’s best that you not speculate about such things,” growled Abdirov, glaring at him. A pair of MIGs rushed by overhead.
When the noise abated, Yohzin swallowed and said, “I surely didn’t mean to offend you.”
Abdirov nodded. “I know that, but you need to be much more cautious about expressing your thoughts.” He paused and added, “But for the sake of discussion, let’s explore that idea, since it’s really irrelevant what we’re trying to return from orbit. Imagine that we were tasked to drop bombs from space, and we had to deliver them with at least some reasonable degree of accuracy. Do you know if the Americans have any system that might accomplish this task, as I’ve defined it?”
Yohzin closed his eyes and thought for a few moments. He started to shake his head, but then realized that the Americans did possess something that might be a suitable solution for the task. He opened his eyes and smiled broadly. “You know, the Americans developed a very powerful but small computer for their Gemini spacecraft. It weighed less than thirty kilograms.”
“Thirty kilograms? Hah! Impossible!” sniffed Abdirov. Yohzin’s sedan pulled up and parked about a hundred meters away. Abdirov gestured at the car and observed “If our illustrious Soviet computer experts built an equivalent machine, it would probably be as big as your Moskvitch there. It’s not feasible that the Americans built something that small.”
“Honest, Rustam, they did. It was quite a feat of engineering. It could accomplish almost all of your requirements. It was designed so that their astronauts would enter the latitude and longitude for their desired point of impact, and the computer would automatically generate the guidance instructions to deliver them there.”
“Amazing.”
“Sincerely, it is, but on the negative side, since the Gemini was a manned spacecraft, such a computer would require a man aboard to update it. I stringently doubt that an entirely autonomous control system could be made that small.”
“Agreed,” said Abdirov.
“Moreover, I doubt that it would work effectively with our reentry vehicles. The Gemini reentry vehicle is aerodynamically shaped and its weight distributed so that it generates lift. Part of the their reentry process involved rolling the spacecraft during reentry, in a controlled manner, so that it remained oriented on the correct trajectory. Conversely, our reentry vehicles are predominately round, so they don’t generate lift. Consequently, like with the Vostoks and Zenits, the reentry is more of a ballistic trajectory, which cannot be appreciably altered.”
“Interesting points,” noted Abdirov. “Certainly food for thought. If only I could lay hands on one of those machines . . .”
“Perhaps you might speak with the GRU,” replied Yohzin, signaling his driver. “They have developed quite a knack for acquiring technology from the Americans.”
17
THE FORTY-EIGHT HOUR QUESTION
Flight Operations, Eglin Air Force Base, Florida
9:35 a.m., Monday, August 12, 1968
Drew Carson hung up the phone, grinned, and tucked his little black book into the sleeve pocket of his Nomex flight suit. Today’s schedule would be tight, but they could still rendezvous at their usual place and time. He just had to convince Ourecky to keep his yap shut about the arrangement, but it really shouldn’t be that difficult for him to intimidate the engineer into silence.
He picked the phone up again to file his flight plan. Now, there was little to do but wait for Ourecky to jock up. Leaning over the operations counter, he studied the weather charts as he finished the stale remnants of a cheese sandwich bought from a vending machine in the pilot’s lounge. He interpreted the meteorological symbols, precisely drawn in grease pencil on a Plexiglas sheet covering a map of the eastern United States, and saw that the weather couldn’t be any more favorable. It looked like uninterrupted smooth air between here and Ohio. “Is this your most current forecast?” he asked the airman behind the counter.
“It is, sir,” replied the airman, reading a paper printout as it spooled from a clattering teletype machine. “Do you want a quick briefing, sir?”
“No need,” answered Carson, noting the projected winds for the Gulf of Mexico. Wishing that he had thought to bring along his cut-down toothbrush, he swigged down the last of his coffee, crumpled the paper cup, and tossed it into a trash can next to the airman’s desk.
He consulted his watch—a massive Omega Flightmaster that he had bought last week—and cursed Ourecky for being slow. Behind him, he heard the distinctive squeak of boot soles on linoleum and turned to see the engineer exiting the aircrew locker room.
Outfitted in spanking new flight gear, smiling like a raccoon in a henhouse, Ourecky carried a “B-4” suit bag in one hand and a pristine white flight helmet in the other. Seeing him, Carson was immediately filled with disgust. Scarcely a year ago, he had graduated at the top of his class at ARPS—Aerospace Research Pilot School—and now he was relegated to being a glorified taxi driver. Was there any way that he could win back Wolcott’s favor? At this point, was it even worth it?
“Wipe that stupid grin off your snout, Captain,” snarled Carson. “Quit dawdling and bring your dumb ass over here. Who draped that parachute harness on you?”
“Uh, one of the riggers helped me with it, sir,” answered Ourecky, tugging at the unfamiliar webbing. “Something wrong?”
“Yeah, there’s something wrong. Terribly wrong. For starters, you don’t rate wearing that flight gear. Besides that, it’s too loose. Here, let me lend you a hand.”
Ourecky obediently stood still as Carson yanked several straps.
“This is a little uncomfortable,” noted Ourecky. He appeared to be in considerable pain.
“It’s a parachute harness, Captain. It’s not meant to be comfortable. It’s designed to save your stupid ass. Grab your junk and let’s move.” Walking comfortably upright, Carson confidently strolled out the door toward the flight line. Hunched over and struggling to walk, Ourecky trudged close behind, dragging his suitcase, grunting with every painful step. To a distant observer, the two probably looked like an organ grinder and his faithful but overworked monkey.
A gentle breeze blew from the south, lofting the faint mixed scents of salt air, jet fuel, and sunbaked asphalt. The busy field was awash with the sounds of planes taxiing, taking off, and landing. As they approached the sleek T-38, an airman threw Carson a brisk salute. Carson casually returned it, as if the honor rendered was a passing nuisance. “All tanked up and ready, Major,” said the airman, handing Carson a clipboard with the service sheet.
Carson glanced at the numbers on the sheet, signed it, and handed the clipboard back to the airman. He jerked his thumb towards the cockpit and said, “See to it that this captain gets buttoned up in the back seat while I pre-flight. Got any air sickness bags?”
“I do, sir,” answered the airman.
“Then lend him some extras. And make damned sure he knows how to use them.”
Carson turned to Ourecky. “This is your pre-flight briefing,” he said curtly. “Strap in and shut up. Don’t you dare touch any controls, or I’ll chop your hands off. Any questions?”
Donning his helmet, Ourecky shook his head.
“Didn’t think so,” noted Carson brusquely. “Pass me that B-4.”
Ourecky handed the fabric suitcase to Carson, clambered up the ladder, and awkwardly wormed into the rear seat. Carson jammed the suitcase into a luggage pod mounted under the starboard wing, latched the pod closed, and immediately rolled into his pre-flight check.
Minutes later, they roared off into the blue skies of a perfect Florida morning. Carson retracted the landing gear before thumbing the microphone switch on the stick. “Eglin Tower, this is Reaper Four Four. Request divert from filed flight plan to Area Two Charlie.”
The tower answered immediately: “Reaper Four Four, your divert is approved. Continue climbing to five thousand and turn left to One-Eight-Zero. Maintain five thousand until feet wet.”
“Eglin Tower, Reaper Four Four, climbing to five thousand and will turn left to One-Eight-Zero.” Carson completed the climb and banked the aircraft south. Almost immediately, they crossed the narrow white strand of Gulf beaches and were cruising over azure open water.
Over the intercom, Ourecky asked, “Uh, Major, shouldn’t we be headed north?”
“I’m going to link up with some Navy buddies,” answered Carson, checking the map clipped to his kneeboard and dialing in the TACAN beacon channel for the USS Lexington. The Lex, an aircraft carrier used to train fledgling Navy aviators, was virtually a permanent fixture on the Gulf. The rendezvous plan was to meet at ten thousand feet over the ship.
His Navy friends were Pensacola-based instructor pilots. Eager for an opportunity to go head-to-head with the Air Force pilot, they had cadged a pair of Douglas A-4 Skyhawks for a “proficiency” flight. Both were experienced combat vets with three Vietnam cruises apiece.
As much as he despised the notion of ferrying Ourecky around, Carson relished the opportunity for some aerial combat practice. He lived to fly and never spent enough time in the cockpit, particularly since he was now logging more time in the Box than in the air.
Although Blue Gemini seemed so intriguing at the outset—and it still was, to a certain extent—it was really wearing on him. Few good pilots would forgo even the slightest opportunity to fly into space. Carson had volunteered, knowing that he would likely never receive public recognition, particularly like the endless adulation lavished upon the NASA astronauts, and that his actions would never be annotated on his official records.
He also knew he would never wear silver astronaut wings on his Air Force uniform. To him, that was probably one of the most cruelly ironic aspects of this invisible space program; if he ever rode a rocket, he would soar more than twice as high as the eight Air Force pilots bestowed with astronaut wings for flying the X-15 above fifty miles. Aside from the X-15 pilots, the MOL “Can Men”—the Blue Gemini pilots’ derisive moniker for the Manned Orbiting Laboratory crew members—would also be awarded astronaut wings upon their return to earth.
Carson was becoming ever less confident that he would ever ascend to orbit, even though he was by far the best pilot of the six—no, make that five—assigned to Blue Gemini. There were persistent rumors that the MOL program was on the verge of being cancelled. Even though many aspects of the MOL mission were highly classified, that program was at least visible in the public eye. If a publically recognized effort like the MOL could be eliminated—despite the legions of congressmen who would fight to keep it alive because it was so important to their districts—then certainly their quiet little space program could also suddenly fade into oblivion.
Although he still desired to fly in space, what Carson wanted now, more than anything else that he had ever desired, was an opportunity to fly in Vietnam. He could be the greatest aviator since Rickenbacker, but that meant absolutely nothing if he didn’t prove his mettle against an enemy in the air. His uncle, a fighter ace who had downed eight German aircraft, constantly reminded him: There is no substitute for experience in combat.
But national sentiment was quickly turning against the war, so Carson’s chance to fly in combat was swiftly fading. Vietnam was likely to be over soon—at least for the United States—and he saw no good shooting wars looming on the horizon.
He had long yearned to be a general, but he was painfully aware that his decision to aim for the stars—in secret—now made it increasingly less likely that he would ever wear stars on his epaulettes. Despite a glowing record—academic and athletic excellence at West Point, top marks in flight school, superb ratings in his first squadron assignments, early selection to test pilot school—his Air Force career could plummet into obscurity if combat experience was not prominently reflected on his records. Without exception, every single one of his flight school classmates had already flown in Southeast Asia. Granted, some of them had been killed and others were languishing in POW camps, but they had seen combat, and he had not.
And while Blue Gemini might be of great strategic significance, this interlude would appear as a glaring blank spot on his military resume. Carson had some insight into how promotion boards worked; he knew that some future board members would glimpse that void and understand what it really meant, but most would interpret it as cowardly shirking of the combat duty shared by his contemporaries. No, just as his uncle asserted, there was only one legitimate way to earn his spurs: There is no substitute for experience in combat.
Shielding his eyes from the sun, Carson saw the Lex’s churning wake in the distance; the rendezvous point was near. “Listen to me, Ourecky,” he said over the intercom. “We’re making a detour to log some combat training. Yank out an airsick bag and be prepared to use it. You know how to unhook your oxygen mask, right? You remember that from egress training?”
“I do, sir.”
“Good. Whatever you do, don’t barf in your mask, or you’ll have big problems. When I start maneuvering, keep your head and eyes locked to the front. If you turn your head while I’m making a fast turn, you’ll never recover and you’ll be puking for the rest of the flight. Ready?”
“I am, sir.”
Carson threw back his head, laughed like a man possessed, and then thumbed the microphone switch. “This is Reaper Four Four. I am five miles north of the RV at Angels Ten.”
On the bootleg “bump” radio frequency, an exceedingly calm voice answered: “Reaper Four Four, this is Badger. Snuffy and I are at your ten o’clock, Angels Twelve.”
Carson looked up and to the left. He saw the two small A-4 Skyhawks. “Badger, I have a visual. Tally Ho, Navy pig.”
“Reaper, this is Badger. Tally Ho. Prepare to die.” The two A-4s immediately broke to the left and began maneuvering for the merge. The fight was on.
Most of Ourecky’s forward view was obstructed by Carson’s ejection seat, so he saw very little of the close-in action. Still, he was mesmerized by the speed of the engagement. After a few brief minutes of twisting and turning through the sky, Carson had maneuvered in behind one of the nimble little A-4s. But the Navy pilot definitely wasn’t throwing in the towel and tried everything in his arsenal to escape Carson’s closing grasp.
As the T-38 snapped and pitched through the sky, with his stomach sickeningly following just a step or two behind, Ourecky remembered his childhood trips to the state fairgrounds in Omaha. From his perspective, the dogfight was like a giant rollercoaster, but without the rickety steel rails and the tacit certainty that he would safely return to earth when the ride was over.
Ourecky had initially suspected that Carson conjured up the mock dogfight to make him violently ill and reluctant to ever hitch aboard the T-38 in the future. But now it was obvious that Carson was intently focused on the engagement. His maneuvers were smooth and methodical; it was as if the plane was being steered by a machine. Like rendezvous and orbital mechanics, aerial combat was an exercise in energy manag
ement, except in a far more violent and dynamic form, and Carson was obviously a consummate master of its nuances. It seemed as if he was always thinking at least a blink ahead of his adversary, deftly handling the controls to subtly dissipate energy or add it on to maintain the advantage.
Keeping his eyes locked forward, Ourecky followed Carson’s instructions. Soon he discovered that if he focused on his “eight-ball,” the flight attitude indicator, it was easier to mesh his ear’s vestibular system with what his eyes saw and what his sloshing stomach felt. After a while, he was even comfortable looking around in the cockpit.
“Got you, Snuffy!” boasted Carson, closing the deal on the third engagement. “Splash one!”
“Where’s Badger? Where is he?” asked Carson aloud, banking the plane into gentle S-turns and craning his head to scan the stark blue sky.
“I see him,” exclaimed Ourecky, turning his head back sharply to look to the left rear.
There was a moment of silence, and then Carson exploded over the intercom: “Did I not tell you to keep your head and eyes to the damned front? Can you not do what I tell you to do?”
Seconds later, Carson furtively asked, “So where is he? Are you positive you can see him?”
“Yes, sir. He’s a couple of miles back behind you. He drifts out slightly to your seven o’clock when you turn and then pops back in behind you. He’s trying to close the gap.”
“Okay. Hold on. We’re going steep.” Carson waited a few seconds and then racked the agile trainer into a hard left break. The Navy pilot reacted just a half-second late, and Carson quickly assumed the upper hand, sealing the deal in less than a minute.
The skirmishes went on for another thirty minutes. Carson didn’t win every engagement, but he more than held his own, considering that he was flying against two seasoned Naval Aviators with two MIG kills apiece. The three planes flew in tight formation until they neared the coastline, and then the Navy pilots waved, broke off, and headed for Pensacola.