Blue Gemini

by Mike Jenne

  Abdirov sighed. The GRU officer was probably correct, particularly since he was likely looking at the issue from a Soviet perspective. In the Soviet system, nothing was obsolete. Even when new tanks and aircraft were widely fielded, the older models were kept in reserve, ready for immediate action if required. If the Soviet soldier of the future was equipped with a laser-firing assault weapon, it could be safely assumed that there would still be several hundred thousand Mosin–Nagant bolt action rifles coated in cosmoline and tucked in crates, patiently awaiting their return to the modern battlefield.

  “No promises, but my men will do their best,” offered the GRU general.

  “Spasiba,” replied Abdirov. “I am confident that your men will do their utmost, and I can ask no more than that.”

  24

  COPING WITH ADVERSITY

  Simulator Facility, Aerospace Support Project

  4:02 p.m., Thursday, October 24, 1968

  Confined in the Box since yesterday afternoon, Ourecky and Carson were in the final hour of twenty-four hour full-up mission simulation. In what had become almost a ritual for the last hour, they woke up from a twenty-minute nap, which replicated a “loiter” state in which the Gemini-I was powered down and adrift until an appropriate reentry window was available.

  In this scenario, now that they had successfully restored the spacecraft to full operational power, they would receive final instructions for reentry, simulate the descent in the procedures trainer, and then immediately transition from the Box over to the Paraglider Landing Simulator to simulate an approach and touchdown at a remote field.

  “Okay, Scott, we’re coming into our next comms window,” said Carson. “Can you handle it, or do you want me to cover it?”

  Ourecky was so exhausted that he could barely hold his eyes open. He glanced up at the clock; in just a few minutes, they would talk with an AMC—Airborne Mission Controller—aboard a notional EC-135E ARIA aircraft. The ARIA—Advanced Range Instrumentation Aircraft—was a strange-looking jet transport commonly known as a “Droop Snoot” or “Snoopy Nose” for the bulbous antenna housing that protruded from its nose.

  During actual missions, a small fleet of the ARIA aircraft would shadow the spacecraft as it orbited the earth, flying 2000-mile long tracks that would parallel their orbital path at critical intervals. The AMCs would act as an extension of the Mission Control Facility at Wright-Patterson, relaying instructions to the crew in orbit. In this simulation, the “AMC,” played by Ed Russo, was sitting at a desk less than fifty feet away from the simulator.

  “No. I’ll do it, Drew. It’s my job.” Ourecky twisted to his left, reached over his shoulder, and found a book-sized control panel that was cabled to a larger cryptographic device mounted in the equipment bay directly behind his seat. The equipment was similar to the voice scrambling equipment currently carried aboard US combat aircraft flying in Southeast Asia.

  Fighting to remain conscious, he yawned and squirmed in his seat. His back ached like he had been manhandling a jackhammer for the past twenty-three hours. He flipped the power switch on the control panel. “Crypto power is on. Power light is green.”

  “Confirm crypto power is on,” verified Carson, looking over to make sure that the switch was thrown and the power light was green. “Scott, give me a read back on the crypto variable.”

  “Crypto variable is Seven-Two-Six-Three-Six . . . uh, wait, Drew . . . I think that last number is a Zero,” said Ourecky, squinting to read the small display in the poor light between the seats.

  Carson consulted an index card that referenced the cryptographic variables for the different contact periods. The five-digit variable controlled the scrambling of their voices as they transmitted on the radio; in order for their voices to be properly de-scrambled at the receiving end, the numbers had to match on both machines. “No, Scott, that’s not it. Check it again.”

  “Okay, Drew, let me make sure.” He switched on his penlight and verified the number. His fingers throbbed with pain, and it was difficult to hold the small flashlight steady.

  In the weeks of working in the spacecraft mock-up, he had become painfully aware of a design flaw that probably had not bothered NASA’s astronauts, but was absolutely agonizing for him. The immobile cockpit was mounted vertically, so that he and Carson lay on their backs for the entire extent of the lengthy simulations. The inflexible seat constantly chafed at pressure points on his back, thighs, and buttocks, yielding painful abrasions that took days to heal. After just a few hours, his entire body felt like one enormous charley horse.

  The pain in his back was severe, but the worst indignity was reserved for his hands. He would have never imagined the excruciating pain that could result from having his hands above the level of his heart for hours at a time, but the resultant cramps were almost unbearable. Sometimes it took every modicum of strength he possessed just to grasp a pencil.

  Early on, Carson suggested that he let his hands dangle at his sides, below the level of his heart, to improve the intermittent circulation to his fingers. He had since realized that Carson had the luxury to often do just that, but as the right-seater, he was constantly working calculations or manipulating the computer, so he had little respite for his aching hands. By now, he clearly comprehended the physical and mental suffering that drove Agnew over the edge.

  Ourecky read the numbers and stated, “Yeah, Drew, you’re right. Sorry. That was a Nine, not a Zero. Crypto variable is Seven-Two-Six-Three-Six-Nine.”

  “I confirm crypto variable,” noted Carson, tucking the reference card into a stowage pouch. “ARIA callsign is Pacific Sentry. Our callsign is Scepter One. Commence comms.”

  “Pacific Sentry, this is Scepter One, over,” said Ourecky, thumbing the transmitter button for the VHF radio. There was no reply, just intermittent static. He persisted. “Pacific Sentry, this is Scepter One, over.” Still nothing. “Pacific Sentry, this is Scepter One, over.”

  “Scepter One, this is Pacific Sentry. I have retro and reentry guidance when you are ready to copy,” came the fast-paced reply. Ourecky cursed quietly as he realized that Russo was on shift as the CAPCOM who would also be playing the role of the AMC. Filtered through the voice-scrambling circuitry, Russo’s voice sounded cartoon-like, as if their simulated mission had suddenly been hijacked by the likes of Donald Duck.

  Unfazed, Ourecky positioned a fresh index card on his kneeboard, checked his pencil, yawned, and answered, “Go ahead, Pacific Sentry. I am ready to copy, over.”

  “Scepter One, you are cleared for PRZ One-One on this rev. Current weather is four thousand scattered with ten miles of visibility. Winds out of One Eight Zero at eight, gusting to twelve. Current altimeter is Two Nine Seven Nine. TACAN is Channel Four. How copy, over?”

  Although the comms windows were tight, and they constantly trained to pass information as quickly and accurately as possible, Russo had developed an annoying habit of speaking much faster than he actually had to, probably in an effort to throw Ourecky off his game.

  Ourecky struggled to capture the relentless torrent of data, then keyed the transmit switch to verify the information. “Pacific Sentry, I read back that we are cleared for PRZ One-One. Current conditions are scattered at four thousand, ten miles visibility. Winds from the south at eight, gusting to twelve. Altimeter is Two Nine Seven Nine. TACAN is Four. Over.”

  Russo immediately replied, “Good copy, Scepter One. Next available reentry is Contingency Recovery Zone Two-Four. I have your Pre-Retro data, if you are ready to copy.”

  Clinching his pencil in his teeth, Ourecky flipped over his index card. He gripped the pencil and prepared to take notes. “CRZ is Two-Four. Go ahead with Pre-Retro, over.”

  “Roger, Specter One,” quacked Russo in his rapid-fire cartoon voice. “GET RC is 70 plus 41 plus 36; RET 400K, 20 plus 12: RET RB, 26 plus 39. Bank left 50; bank right 60. Your begin blackout, end blackout, drogue and main times remain the same. Normal IVI’s 225 aft, 115 down. Read back, please. Over.”

 
; Ourecky wrote furiously. His hands ached beyond belief. “I read back GET RC 70 plus 41 plus 36. RET 400K, 20 plus 12. RET RB is 26 plus 39. Bank left 50; bank right 60. Begin blackout, end blackout, drogue and main times constant. Normal IVI’s 225 aft, 115 down, over.”

  “Scepter One, good readback,” blurted Russo, not slowing in the least. “Initial deflection bank angle at 0, 225 up. At 55 degrees, 72 up. At 90 degrees, 70 down. Your 400K pitch angle remains the same and your pitch angle at Retrofire, minus 20 degrees.”

  His hand throbbing, Ourecky tenaciously jotted down the deluge of information. He finished the last line, and keyed the transmitter to recite: “Pacific Sentry, I read back initial deflection bank angle at 0, 225 up. 55 degrees, 72 up. 90 degrees, 70 down. 400K pitch angle constant. Pitch angle at Retrofire, minus 20 degrees. Over.”

  “Scepter One, good readback. Be aware that you’ll retrofire in the dark. Nunki in Sagittarius will be 20 degrees above the horizon at your Retrofire point. How copy? Over.”

  Sucking in a deep breath as he flexed his fingers, Ourecky remembered that he had to unstow the sextant for the star shot before they were too deep into the retrofire procedure. One lesson he had learned was that there was no catching up if he slipped behind, even in the slightest. With a few pencil strokes, he transcribed the data for the star sighting and then read back, “Dark retrofire. At Retrofire point, we’ll see Nunki at twenty degrees above the horizon.”

  “Good copy, Scepter One. Stand by for data upload, over.”

  Ourecky breathed a sigh of relief, before reaching out to set the computer to receive the reentry data. He verified the settings and then said, “Pacific Sentry, Scepter, upload when you are ready. Over.” Then he groaned quietly and placed his hands at his sides in the hope of coaxing some circulation into his aching fingers.

  Smiling, Carson tapped him lightly on the shoulder and commented, “Good job, brother.”

  Less than an hour later, the simulation was complete. After a short debriefing, Carson and Ourecky retreated to the locker room. Wracked with pain, Ourecky could barely stand as he showered. Leaning his shoulders against the tiled wall, he toweled off, and then sat naked on a bench while a medic daubed antiseptic ointment on the open sores on his back and thighs.

  As the medic taped gauze bandages over Ourecky’s wounds, Carson dried his hair with a towel. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” he asked, looking into a partially fogged mirror to check the symmetry of his moustache. “I can give you a lift to your room. It’s on my way.”

  “Thanks, Drew, but I’m headed to Bea’s place from here,” said Ourecky, grimacing as he pulled a white T-shirt over his head. “I haven’t seen her since we got back from Eielson, so . . .”

  Carson smiled. “I understand. Hey, let’s take a breather until Monday. I think you’ve earned your pay this month. You can sleep in tomorrow, spend some extra time with Bea, and we’ll hit the ground running on Monday. Fair enough?”

  Barely conscious, Ourecky nodded and replied, “More than fair. Thanks.”

  Wright Arms Apartments, Dayton, Ohio

  7:35 p.m., Thursday, October 24, 1968

  Pulling into the parking lot, Bea saw Ourecky’s car and grinned. He had bought the white 1962 Ford Fairlane strictly for transportation, and although it was mechanically sound, its body was mostly salt-rusted sheet metal and tan splotches of haphazardly applied Bondo filler compound.

  She hadn’t seen or talked to him since he had left for Alaska almost a month ago. Switching on her overhead light, she checked her makeup in a compact mirror before applying fresh lipstick and then blotted her lips with a tissue.

  She climbed out and retrieved her small suitcase from the passenger side. Years of flying had taught her to pack only what was essential. As she started to swing the door closed, she remembered the bottle of wine she had bought on the way from the airport. She scooped it up from the passenger seat, locked the door, and strolled toward the apartment building. A brisk wind rustled leaves in the dark parking lot; it wouldn’t be long before she would need her heavy coat and scarf to venture outside. In the distance, a pair of tomcats screeched and fought.

  Singing quietly to herself, she climbed the stairs with anticipation. She tried her door; it was unlocked. As she entered the apartment, her flowery visions of a romantic reunion were quickly dispelled. Snoring loudly, with a string of drool trickling down his chin, Scott was sound asleep on the couch. Sighing, she put her suitcase by the door and the unopened wine in the refrigerator.

  The television was on; Fess Parker, playing the stalwart woodsman Daniel Boone, filled the black-and-white screen. Wearing an outfit of fringed buckskin, with his trademark coonskin cap planted squarely on his head, he solemnly negotiated with some semi-hostile Indians to secure safe passage for a group of settlers traversing the Appalachian Mountains.

  She clicked the television off and then quietly sat down to watch Scott as he slept. In the past few weeks, he had apparently developed the knack of falling asleep in the most awkward of positions. Right now, he was seated bolt upright on the couch, with his hands resting at his sides. In a deep stupor, he wore boxer shorts and a T-shirt. There were three empty Carling’s Black Label cans on the coffee table in front of him. She wrinkled her nose; she wasn’t fond of the smell of beer. And it was also highly irregular for him to drink like that; he rarely drank more than one or two beers at a time, and he never—to her knowledge—drank by himself.

  At least he had been courteous enough to cover the couch’s upholstery with an old sheet. For whatever reason, it seemed as if he always had sores on his back. They were always in the same places—on his shoulder blades, the small of his back, the backs of his thighs—like some sort of odd stigmata that never completely healed. Leaning forward, she peered at the top of his back. She could see the faint outlines of gauze bandages through the thin cotton fabric, and the small dark blotches where blood had seeped through the dressings and had dried on his T-shirt.

  She slipped out of her shoes and then gently daubed the saliva from his chin with a tissue. He had changed immensely in the past few weeks; the transformation was obvious even before he had left for Alaska. Even though he’d been in relatively good shape when they had met, he had shed a considerable amount of weight as a result of his daily workouts with Drew Carson.

  He had packed on muscle and was now toned and strong. As much as that pleased her, it bothered her as well. It was as if he were a horror movie werewolf undergoing a painfully slow metamorphosis, gradually becoming a physical copy of Carson.

  There were other things, far more subtle, that concerned her. When they had first met, Scott had been painfully shy. He frequently got flustered and often had a hard time finding his words, almost to the point of stammering. But those days were long gone. Now he spoke more deliberately and confidently, as if he had attended some supercharged Dale Carnegie course.

  Listening to him breathing, she pondered on how he was becoming so much like Carson. Her friend Jill had gravitated toward guys like Carson. Bea had come to realize that Carson’s appeal had little to do with his looks—and granted, he was an exceptionally handsome man—but more from the sheer confidence that he exuded, a casual self-assurance that bordered on outright arrogance. There sure wasn’t anything else attractive about his personality; in what little contact Bea had had with him, she found Carson abhorrent.

  But despite Scott’s transformation, he still retained the qualities that had drawn her to him in the beginning: he was intelligent, kind, polite, and gentle. And so long as those things didn’t change, she was more than willing to leave things as they were. That included the informal bargain that she had struck with Mark Tew, where she had agreed not to ask Scott about his work. But as time passed, and as he seemed to always come home progressively more beat up, she found it ever more difficult to abide by that agreement.

  Suddenly, his breathing sped up slightly, as if he was on the verge of waking up. A frown crossed his face and his eyelids twitched rap
idly, like he was having a vivid dream, perhaps a nightmare. She leaned close and whispered in his ear, “Scott? Are you all right, baby?”

  His eyes flew wide open as he awoke with a start. He seemed to be in a panic, and his hands immediately flew from the couch to his lap, like he had lost something. His distress lasted only a second or two, and then he looked at her and smiled weakly. “Bea,” he muttered.

  “It’s me, Scott. I’m home.” She slid over to sit next to him and put her arm around him; his shoulders were knotted with tension. “Are you ready to go to bed?”

  “No. I need to sit here for a little while. Is that okay?” His voice was tired and hoarse, and his eyes were bloodshot like he had been on a week-long bender. His hands trembled in his lap.

  “Sure. You sound like you’re thirsty. I’ll bring you some water.” She stood up, went to the kitchen, and filled a glass from the tap. She brought it to him, and he sipped from it. Sitting down next to him, she asked, “Are you sure you’re not ready for bed?”

  “Not yet,” he replied. His posture had not changed. “I’ll just stay here right now. Please?”

  She nodded and clicked off the lamp. She went back to the bedroom, got a blanket and covered him. Then she put on her nightgown and came to sit with him until he fell asleep. “Night, Scott. See you in the morning,” she whispered, cuddling her head against his shoulder.

  “Bea?”

  “What, dear?”

  “Would you marry me, Bea?” he asked, in a raspy voice just slightly above a whisper.

  Surprised, she sat upright and looked at his shadowy figure in the darkness. She started to speak, but then realized he was already fast asleep. Anyway, she wasn’t exactly sure how she should answer, since she was a little uncertain where the question was coming from. I guess it will wait until the morning, she thought, leaning back against him.