by Mike Jenne
“But they did build a shelter, though. Looks like a good one,” noted Wolcott. Through the scope, he could clearly see details of the lean-to, built of saplings and boughs much like the instructors’, as well as gray wisps of smoke. “And they have a nice campfire goin’ as well.”
“Right, sir. One of your men came out of the pod on the morning of Day Two. He built that shelter and firewall by himself, and then gathered wood for a fire. That took him most of the morning. After he started a fire, he went back into the pod and all but carried your other man to the shelter. We were pretty relieved, because really we don’t like hauling people out of here.”
Carson, thought Wolcott. After this ordeal was over, he was sure to get an earful from Carson, bitching about how useless Ourecky was during the exercise. In retrospect, maybe he had made a mistake putting Ourecky out there in the snow; there really wasn’t any need to, and now it looked like Carson was devoting most of his time and energy to babysitting the engineer instead of perfecting his survival skills.
“Okay, pardner, let me make sure I have this straight,” said Wolcott. “You’re tellin’ me that one of my troops did all the work while the other one just sat on his haunches and loafed?”
“That’s pretty much it, sir,” replied Halvorsen.
Wolcott thought for a minute. How could he be sure that it was Carson who did all the work? It certainly made perfect sense, since Carson was a graduate of several survival courses before he ever set foot up here, but how could he be sure? “Son, I see you take detailed notes. Can you answer a question for me?”
“Fire away, sir.”
“You said you saw a man climb out of the pod on Day Two, and that he did the lion’s share of the work. Did you happen to see where he was sittin’ in the pod? Left side or right side?”
Halvorsen consulted his notes. “Left side, sir. Definitely left side.”
That clinches it, thought Wolcott. The left seat was the hallowed bastion of the command pilot, and Carson would not surrender it to anyone, under any circumstances. “Thanks,” he said, looking back through the spotting scope. “Hey . . . is that a rabbit cooking on a spit?”
“It is, sir. Your guy set some snares by the creek and caught a good-sized snowshoe hare this morning. They’ll be eating good in a little while, much better than us.”
Wolcott shook his head, wishing that he had some way to mass-produce copies of Carson. With a few more guys like him, maybe they would make it to orbit after all.
23
SAVING THE SHIP
Officers Club, Eielson Air Force Base, Alaska
7:30 p.m., Saturday, October 12, 1968
Carson took a sip from his Olympia beer and looked around. Cramped and dreary, the Eielson “O” Club would be a perfect broom closet, if only there was ample space for a broom. In the far corner, an ancient jukebox seemed to only spin records by Merle Haggard and Buck Owens. If he had to listen to “Mama Tried” just one more time, Carson would be plenty happy to climb back onto that HH-3 eggbeater for another five-day sojourn in the wilderness.
He leaned over to read a newspaper clipping preserved in a black frame hanging beside the bar. The article recounted a horrific tragedy in1955, in which an F-84 Thunderjet had smashed into a base housing complex during lunch hour, killing the pilot and several people on the ground. The dead included a set of eleven-month-old triplets, an Army master sergeant and his three daughters aged two, three and four; and an Army sergeant, his wife, and mother-in-law. In all, fifteen people, including seven toddlers, died as the result of the inferno at Eielson. Most of the dead were Army personnel or their dependents.
Although Carson had thawed out from the survival trip, he kept his parka on, simply because not more than ten minutes elapsed without someone coming in from the cold. Sure enough, as the clock’s minute hand swept the bottom of the hour, the door swung open.
Shivering, he tugged his parka around him as a frigid gust whisked napkins from the bar, setting them aflutter like giant snowflakes. Looking up, he didn’t immediately identify Wolcott, because the old man wore a thick wool cap in place of his trademark Stetson. Wolcott was accompanied by a man that Carson didn’t recognize. The two stomped their boots on the doormat and then underwent the laborious drill of shedding their outer garments.
“Carson!” exclaimed Wolcott, unzipping his parka. “Good to see you’re in one piece, pard! You mind if me and my friend bend an elbow with you?”
“Be my guest, Virg,” replied Carson, waving toward a pair of empty stools. He extended a hand to the newcomer. “Drew Carson. I guess you can surmise that I work for Virgil here.”
“Major Ed Russo,” replied the newcomer. Russo stood an inch or two shorter than Carson, but had a similar athletic physique. “I’ve heard a lot of great things about you, Carson. Sounds like you’re a real wizard at surviving in the wilderness up here.”
Taken aback, Carson raised his eyebrows. “If you say so, I suppose.”
“Ed here is our liaison officer from El Segundo,” explained Wolcott, unwinding an Army green scarf from around his neck. El Segundo was a coded reference to the MOL project, headquartered in the Los Angeles suburb of the same name. “He came up here to watch how we do business. He’s a test pilot like you, Carson, so you two should have plenty to chew the fat over. Now if you two gents will excuse me, I need to drag my old kidneys to the head.”
Watching Wolcott amble away, Carson asked, “So you’re a graduate of ARPS?” ARPS was the prestigious Aerospace Research Pilot School at Edwards Air Force Base in California; initially under the direction of legendary test pilot Chuck Yeager, it was the Air Force’s preeminent grooming program to prepare pilots to become NASA and military astronauts.
Russo nodded. Looking around the bar, he answered quietly, “Affirmative. I graduated from Edwards and then went straight to the Navy’s school at Pax River. I’ve already been accepted for the next astronaut group for the MOL. That’s at least a year away, so they sent me to Wright-Patt to work as a temporary liaison. But from the looks of things, I might end up flying with you folks before I go up in the MOL.”
“Really? Is that so?” asked Carson, raising an eyebrow. “That’s news to me.”
“That’s the impression I gleaned from General Wolcott,” observed Russo. “He said that when we all head back to Wright-Patt, I’ll probably be working with you in the simulator facility for the next few weeks, to get up to speed on procedures.”
“That’s odd. I’ve been working with Ourecky in the Box, and we’re slated to continue working together until January.”
“So I hear,” said Russo. “Ourecky? He’s the engineer, right? The egghead? Math whiz kid? Kind of an idiot savant? He’s not actually slated to fly, right?”
“Well, the two of us are supposed to fly the paraglider trainer next week.”
“Really? Virgil gives me the impression that he’s none too happy with Ourecky,” Russo confided. “He didn’t lend me any specifics, but he did tell me that since you lost your last right-seater, you’ll need a replacement. Who knows? You might land up as my right-seater. I’ve had a peek at your records, and I am two years senior to you, so it makes sense that . . .”
“It doesn’t work that way on the Project. Rank is irrelevant to seat and mission assignments.”
“Sure, Drew. If you say so, but I seriously doubt that there’s anyone here who’s logged as many flight testing hours as I have, or flying hours in general. It’s just a matter of proving that I’ve got the goods, and that shouldn’t take too long. I hope you don’t take it personally.”
“So noted. So where were you before you went to Edwards?” asked Carson, quickly changing the subject. “SAC? TAC? Bombers? Fighters?”
“Fighters after flight school. First F-100 Super Sabres, then F-4’s. I was in the right place at just the right time, and flew in Vietnam right from the start. I’ve logged eighteen months over there. Splashed two MIG-17’s and was shot down once by Triple-A. You? Been over?”
“Nope,” answered Carson, certain that Russo was already aware of his lack of combat experience. “Not that lucky. I got tagged with interceptors initially, then transitioned to F-4’s just before I was picked up for ARPS. I’m hoping to jump into the fight as soon as I can, though.”
“So, hoss, where’s your partner in crime?” asked Wolcott, returning to the bar.
“Ourecky? Back at the VOQ. He hit the hay early. The trip beat him up pretty bad. He was just absolutely tuckered out. He could barely stay awake during the debriefs.”
Wolcott nodded. “What are you drinkin’, Ed?” he asked. “Buy you a snoot?”
“I’m abstaining, sir,” answered Russo. “It was a long flight and a long day.”
“You ain’t partakin’, Ed? Suit yourself. Another Oly for my friend Carson here, and fetch a scotch and soda for me,” called out Wolcott to the bartender. “And a pack of smokes.”
The bartender, an enlisted man earning some extra cash, dipped into the cooler to retrieve a beer. He poured Wolcott’s drink as he asked, “What kind of cigarettes do you prefer, sir?”
“Whatever you have that’s cheap and unfiltered, pard. Surprise me.”
“Thanks for the beer, Virg,” said Carson. “But it will have to be my last one. I’m pretty tired myself. It’s been a long week.”
“I know, son.” Wolcott lit a cigarette, puffed on it, and then took a sip from his drink. “Man, Merle Haggard ! I could hunker here on this stool and listen to Merle all night.”
Trying hard not to roll his eyes and groan, Carson imagined that Wolcott would have that opportunity, provided he could endure the intermittent blasts of ice-cold air.
“Carson, pardner, I need to make you an apology.”
“For what, Virgil?” Carson looked at the second Olympia, now unsure that he could even finish it without slumping off the barstool, fast asleep.
“Well, son, I’m really sorry that I saddled you with Ourecky. Looking back on it, I think it was just a bit too much to ask of you. It’s one thing for him to be flying the Box with you back at Wright-Patt, but it’s obvious he ain’t cut out for the rest of this business. I apologize for stickin’ you out in the field with him. Sincerely, I mean it.”
Carson looked at him quizzically. “He did okay, Virg. He really wasn’t any hindrance at all.”
Displaying his crooked array of chipped teeth, Wolcott flashed a knowing smile. “If you say so, hombre, but I’ll let you in on a little secret. We had folks watching you while you were out there in the snow, mostly for safety reasons, so there ain’t any sense trying to convince me that Ourecky pulled his weight out there. I know you built the shelter by yourself, and I know you got a fire started. And that was a fine trick with the bunny. One of the Fairchild instructors told me he’s been up here six times and has never caught a rabbit. Good on you, Carson.”
Taken completely by surprise, Carson was befuddled; how could he tell Wolcott the truth without telling him the whole truth? He decided at this point that it was probably just as well to let the whole matter drop. After all, what good could come of letting Wolcott in on the secret? Nothing, except possibly to erode Virgil’s confidence in him, and that meant falling to the back of the line for any hope of a flight. “Uh, thanks, Virg. I appreciate it.”
Wolcott cupped his ear and craned his head to hear the first strains of the next song coming from the tired guts of the jukebox. “Merle again!” he exclaimed. “Dadblame! It’s my lucky night.” He sucked in the last of the cigarette and dropped the almost non-existent butt in an ashtray. “Let me tell you, Carson, I’ve got a good mind to stick Ourecky back out in the cooler for another five days, but we have too many irons in the fire. You start your drops tomorrow night, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Carson felt really tired; his head swam with the notion of flying the paraglider all next week. He looked over at Russo, who was silent but intently listening to the conversation, and wondered what schemes were in the making.
“Well, pardner, let me chuck out something to you,” said Wolcott. “I’m more than willin’ to delay the drops to change the line-up. You can pick any right-seater you want out of the other crews, and I’ll put that varmint Ourecky on the first thing smokin’ back to Ohio. I only regret that we didn’t have sufficient time to bring Ed here up to speed, or he could drop with you.”
Now, Carson felt both tired and nauseous. Unlike him and the other four pilots who dreaded making even one more plunge in the paraglider trainer, Ourecky was eager for the experience. Sure, he was apprehensive, but he really wanted to make the drop. Now Wolcott was leaning on him to deprive him of that chance.
Carson chose his words carefully. “Virgil, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll still drop with Ourecky next week. I appreciate your offer, but I don’t want to take a chance on having to learn someone else’s moves this late in the game, especially in mid-flight. Does that make sense, sir?”
Stirring his drink, Wolcott nodded. “I understand, son. Your funeral. Just don’t forget that I offered you an alternative.”
Carson nodded solemnly. “I need to hit the trail, Virg. I need to grab some shuteye tonight.”
Wolcott clapped him lightly on the back. “Understood. Have a good evening, son.”
“Nice meeting you, Drew,” said Russo. “Good luck on the drops.”
“Thanks. See you in the morning.” Carson zipped up his parka and then donned his wool watch cap and mittens. Leaving Wolcott, Russo, the unopened beer, and Merle Haggard behind him, he jammed his shoulder against the door and shoved his way out into the cold. Then he walked a few steps, collapsed to his knees, and threw up in the snow.
Eielson Air Force Base, Alaska
1:45 a.m., Thursday, October 17, 1968
After submitting to an exhaustive medical exam, Carson and Ourecky had a day off to relax and recuperate before beginning their series of five paraglider drops. The drops went well, exactly as planned, right up until the very last one.
In the dimly red-lit cabin, Carson watched the UMB light blink off as the power and communications umbilical was separated from the C-130. Now, they were on their own. He and Ourecky made a final scan of the instruments, ensuring that everything was set for the big drop.
Satisfied that they were ready, Carson spoke to the C-130 pilot over the radio: “Big Box, this is Ultra Three, on internal power. We’re ready for push-off back here.”
“Ultra Three, this is Big Box,” answered the transport’s pilot. “Control has cleared us for drop operations. Release in thirty seconds. Good luck.”
“Big Box, Ultra Three. Ready for release. Thank you.”
“All stations, this is Big Box. Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Mark. Releasing package.” With a brisk shove by the loadmasters in the tail of the C-130, the little craft slid tail-first off the end of the ramp and lurched into the darkness. Bracing themselves as best they could, the two men were thrashed and slammed around in the cockpit. By this time, it was no longer a novel experience for Ourecky; after four drops, he feared it just as much as the other pilots.
“Drogue is out,” grunted Carson, peering through his window to watch the small canopy blossom in the darkness. With the parachute pulling them upright, the vehicle fell blunt end to earth and slightly more stable as they awaited the deployment of the paraglider.
Moments later, they watched the reefed paraglider stream out into the slipstream, tugged out of its cylindrical container by the drogue chute. “Paraglider is out and de-reefing,” said Carson. “Longitudinal struts are inflating.”
Carson watched the last strut inflate and then declared: “Cross strut’s inflated. Ready to go to two-point suspension. Scott, brace yourself and let me know when you’re ready.”
“I’m braced,” answered Ourecky, jamming himself down into his seat. “Ready.”
“Switching to two-point.” With a jolt, the cockpit pitched forward. Carson went through his post-opening procedures, steering the paraglider through a series of checks to assess controllab
ility. “Stall check . . . stall check is good. Port turn . . . port turn is good. Starboard turn . . . starboard turn is . . .” The vehicle whirled to the right in an ever faster and tighter spiral.
“What’s wrong?” asked Ourecky anxiously.
“Not sure,” said Carson. “Might be a stuck cable.” He spoke on the radio: “Chase One, we’re having a problem recovering from the starboard turn controllability check.”
Wolcott’s voice came back on the radio: “Ultra Three, this is Chase One, are you declaring an emergency?”
“Chase One, Ultra Three. Not yet.”
Trying diligently to coax the paraglider into normal flight, Carson cursed under his breath as he wiggled the hand controller and assessed the situation. The paraglider was steered by altering its shape; control cables, connected to turn-control motors, tugged down or let up on the rear corners of the delta-shaped fabric wing. Their problem was obviously either a kinked control cable or a malfunctioning turn-control motor; either way, the craft was now doomed since their procedures called for immediate ejection after they jettisoned the paraglider. Except for the faint popping sound from the paraglider, there was only eerie silence.
“Chase One, Ultra Three,” said Carson. “I think we have a jammed turn motor. I’m working with it, but you should encourage the rescue forces to move in our direction.” Still manipulating the hand controller, he swiveled his head toward Ourecky and said, “Make sure you’re cinched up tight. Stand by to eject. It’s going to be mighty cold out there.”
Ourecky checked his harness and made sure he was poised square in the seat pan. Then he fell silent for a few seconds before speaking. “Drew, I don’t think the turn-control motor is jammed. I think it’s a sequencer glitch. I think we can fix this.”
In his mind, Carson quickly analyzed the dilemma. As long as they were caught in a spin, their rate of descent was twice as fast as normal. At that rate, in two minutes they would be beyond recovery and wouldn’t even be able to punch out. If the control lines fouled over the hatches or the hatch pyro didn’t fire, they were dead anyway.