by Mike Jenne
“Tom, I’ll see what I can do.” Carson looked at a sheet of paper on which he had tallied the number of malfunctions. Since the simulation had begun over three hours ago, Russo had thrown over a hundred different anomalies at the crew. Howard had every right to be infuriated.
“Yeah, Drew, you do that,” groused Howard angrily. “If this were a new car and I had that many damned things go sour within a couple of hours of pulling out of the lot, I would just hang a lemon on it and park it in front of the dealership.”
Raising his voice, Howard continued. “At this rate, I half-expect to look out the window and see a gremlin eating a doughnut out there. Realistically, if we go to orbit and start experiencing this many glitches, I’m calling for the first available Recovery Zone and then I’m lighting the retros. This is not training. This is just asinine harassment, pure and simple. Can you not ask Gunter to lighten up just a little bit? Just what the hell is he trying to prove?”
“It’s not Gunter, Tom. He’s sitting right here beside me, and he’s just as unhappy as you are,” replied Carson, glancing around to make sure that Russo had not drifted back into earshot. “It’s your buddy Russo. He’s calling the shots out here. That’s the problem.”
“Well, do something and do it quick,” pleaded Howard. “Or I’m climbing out of here to handle it myself, and I’m not afraid to draw blood. If Virgil doesn’t like that, then maybe he can fly this first damned mission himself.”
2:10 p.m.
“Tarnation, it’s freezin’ in here,” observed Wolcott. He looked over Carson’s shoulder and noted that the next scheduled contact window wasn’t for another fifteen minutes. “Son, don’t you have the common sense to wangle a dadburned heater over here?”
Hearing the familiar voice, Heydrich flipped down the hood of his parka. “Virgil, what brings you here on this miserable day?”
“Just paying a visit. I thought I would mosey over and chew the fat. Got a minute to chat?”
“Of course,” replied Heydrich, removing his headset. “We would probably be more comfortable in the locker room or the suit-up area.” He turned to Russo and said, “Colonel, can you handle things while Virgil and I talk?”
“I’ve got it covered, Gunter,” replied Russo, still intently studying the glitch book.
“No, pardner,” said Wolcott. “I need to talk with you as well. Carson, you too. Gunter, shuffle some of your troops to cover these chairs. We won’t be gone too long.”
As the four men walked across the hangar, Wolcott paused to light a cigarette and asked “How’s this new Box lookin’, Gunter? How long until you have it up and running?”
“Some key pieces are missing,” answered Heydrich. “If need be, I’ll send some of my guys down to Cape Canaveral to track them down. Even then, it will take a few months to shake out all the bugs. These things are very complex monsters, Virgil. They’re just not meant to be moved around. Instead of trying to get this one completely installed and operational, it would probably be more practical for us to cannibalize it as parts fail on the existing simulator. One of my original DDP-224’s is on the verge of failing, so it would be nice to have a spare.”
“DDP-224? What’s that, pardner?”
Heydrich launched into a sneezing fit. Stopping to pour a cup of coffee, Carson looked over his shoulder and interceded for him. “A DDP-224 is a digital mainframe computer, Virg. Three of them run most of the functions on the Box.”
They passed through the locker room on the way to the suit-up area. One wall was dominated by a row of twelve gray metal lockers. Seven were marked with strips of masking tape, each bearing a name: Carson, Agnew, Jackson, Sigler, Howard, Riddle and Ourecky. Two suit technicians played cards. Looking at Wolcott, one said, “You shouldn’t smoke in here, Virg.”
“You’re right, Joel,” replied Wolcott. He licked his fingers and then snuffed out the cigarette before discarding it in a wastebasket. “You boys mind lendin’ us a bit of privacy?”
As the technicians left, Wolcott sat down and said, “I won’t beat around the bush, because I know that you’re busy. Carson has informed me that we have a significant problem over here.”
“There is no problem, sir,” stated Russo, sitting stiffly upright in one of the two recliners. “Major Carson obviously misinformed you.”
Carson spoke up. “Sir, I didn’t intend . . .”
“That will be enough, Major,” snapped Russo.
“No, buster, that will be enough,” countered Wolcott, removing his hat. He strummed his fingers on the Stetson’s broad white brim. “You need to hush in the saddle until I let you know when to speak. You understand that, pardner? Are we square?”
Russo nodded sheepishly. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, like I said, there’s obviously a problem here, and I appreciate Carson bringin’ it to my attention, particularly since it appears that much of it is my doin’. It looks like you and Gunter have somehow got sideways, and we’re going to sort it out before we walk out of here. To get things out on the table, I want Carson here to describe what he related to me. Carson?”
Carson looked as if he had been unexpectedly called to testify at a high profile murder trial. “Well, Virgil,” he said quietly. “I suppose it’s mostly a question of training philosophy. When I was in the Box with Agnew and then Ourecky, Gunter did an excellent job of covering just about every contingency, and he made sure to hammer them home if he saw that we had a weak response, but he didn’t overdo it. He placed more emphasis on making sure that we practiced the routines and procedures necessary to accomplish the mission.”
“Okay, pard,” said Wolcott, holding up his index finger. He reached into the pocket of his denim barn coat, pulled out his packet of Red Man, and stuffed a sizeable lump into his mouth. “And how does that differ from Ed’s approach?”
Carson glanced quickly at Russo and then looked away. “He throws the crew one curve ball after another. I know that stress is part of the game, but I think that he’s overdoing it.”
“Duly noted,” said Wolcott. “So, Carson, on which side of the fence do you land?
“I prefer Gunter’s approach. In my opinion, having to respond to a constant string of malfunctions detracts from training. I think that the crew can become so conditioned to things going wrong that they can forget what to do when things go right.”
“It doesn’t matter if they can correctly perform a maneuver if they have a stuck thruster in the middle of executing it,” Russo snapped angrily. “They have to be able to work under stress.”
“I think that Carson still has the floor, Ed,” interjected Wolcott. “At least until I say otherwise, and I’m pretty danged sure that I’m still the head honcho here. Carson, anything to add?”
“Yeah. Russo also doesn’t throw the glitches in a logical sequence. It’s all sort of erratic and scatterbrained, and that’s a big issue. Gunter normally worked us through some sort of failure chain, where if we didn’t detect and resolve the first issue quickly enough, then it cascaded to another related issue and so on. You have to understand that Tom Howard could probably recite the glitch book from memory at this point, so I’m sure that’s he’s not happy with things being chucked at him with no rhyme or reason.”
“Anything else, pard?” asked Wolcott.
“One thing. I think that the strongest argument for Gunter’s training methods is just how well Ourecky was trained. By the time he left here, he was as competent as any pilot on the roster.”
“But he’s not a pilot,” sniffed Russo.
“Yeah, he’s not,” snapped Carson. “But if I had to pick between Ourecky or you, I would leave you on the ground. In an instant. As it is, you don’t even rate sitting in that chair of his.”
“Enough, children, enough!” growled Wolcott. He spat tobacco juice in a wastebasket. “Okay, gents, we’re on a short fuse and it’s burnin’ fast. We don’t need to be continually locked in an arm wrestling contest on who’s the foreman in this shop. I’m going to ask you gentlemen o
ne question, and one question only, and I’ll make my decision on the basis of your answers.”
“But just so it’s absolutely clear: once I decide who will run this show, it’s a done deal. I don’t want to hear about any grousin’ or grumblin’ over here, and if I hear the slightest peep about one of you cowpokes takin’ a swing at the other out behind the bunkhouse, I’m marchin’ back over with my bullwhip and six-shooter, and that’ll be the dadblamed end of it. Savvy?
The three men nodded solemnly.
“Okay,” said Wolcott. “You first, Russo. If I put you in charge of this show, can you have those boys prepared to fly by the 25th?
“Without question, General,” replied Russo without hesitation. “I am absolutely confident that they will be ready, and that we will be able to launch on schedule.”
“Gunter,” said Wolcott, leveling his gaze at the German engineer. “Same question.”
Heydrich looked up at the ceiling and fidgeted with his hands. “Virgil, in all sincerity, I am fairly sure that we can have them ready, but I’m not absolutely sure. Granted, it’s a relatively simple mission, all things considered, and it’s mostly canned, but you’re asking us to accomplish a momentous task in a very short period of time.”
“Can you do it or not, pardner?”
Removing his back-framed glasses, Heydrich stared Wolcott dead in the eye and answered, “I’m not sure, Virg, but we will do our utmost to see that they’re ready.”
Rolling his eyes and smirking, Russo covered his mouth with his hand.
“Well now, hombre,” said Wolcott, looking toward Carson. “Quite a danged disparity we have here, so it falls to you to present the argument that will swing my decision. Assumin’ that you’re going to ride for whomever I choose to lead this drive, what say you, hoss?”
Carson took a sip of his coffee, glanced first at Russo and then at Heydrich, and then turned to face Wolcott. “Sir, I’m in agreement with Gunter. Honestly, I don’t know if we can have them completely ready in time, but we’ll damned sure do our best.”
Like the Hindu god Shiva pondering the fate of the world, Wolcott was meditatively silent. He closed his eyes for a few moments, opened them, and observed, “Well howdy, ain’t this confoundin’? I feel like I’m a big ranch owner at the rodeo, trying to decide which of my top hands is going to try for eight on the prize bull.”
Wolcott continued. “On the one hand, I have a rider who’s been on buckin’ bulls all his life, and he’s tellin’ me that he ain’t entirely positive he’ll be able to stay on, but he’ll do his damndest to try. On the other hand, I’ve got a dude rider chock full of gumption. He barely knows what a bull’s ass smells like, but he insists that he can clamp on for the duration.”
Listening to Wolcott, Heydrich frowned, Russo grinned, and Carson—silently awaiting his fate—showed no expression at all.
“Gunter,” declared Wolcott flatly. “It’s been your show and it will remain as such. Russo, Carson, so long as you’re under this roof, you will take your cues from Herr Heydrich. No squabbling, no bickering, and no hesitation. Savvy?
Elated, Carson breathed a sigh of relief and nodded his head.
“Yes, sir,” muttered Russo.
As the men left the room and went back to the hangar, Wolcott leaned toward Carson and asked, “So, pardner, it’s a lot different to be workin’ outside the Box, isn’t it? Have you gleaned anything of value from this experience?”
“Yes, sir, I have indeed. I sure do have a much greater appreciation for Gunter and his guys now. This is not a fun job.”
Forest Park Apartments, Dayton, Ohio
3:30 p.m., Sunday, February 2, 1969
Yost’s right foot was still encased in a cumbersome cast. Back in December, the loan shark’s goons had managed to break virtually all of the miniscule bones that comprised his right ankle and foot. He would be in the cast for at least another month, perhaps longer. Sighing, he used a length of coat hanger wire to scratch underneath the plaster shell.
He had finished composing the letter over an hour ago. He read it again for the tenth time, to be absolutely sure that the text said precisely what he wanted to say without revealing too much. He flipped through his stack of pictures and selected four snapshots that should serve to spark the reader’s curiosity.
His plan was simple: He would make several copies of the letter by hand, and have multiple copies printed of the pictures he had chosen, and then he would send them to several major news magazines and newspapers tomorrow. He anticipated that he should get a bite in relatively short order, probably before the week was out, and then his pressing financial problems would be behind him.
Marvin Gaye sang “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” from the radio in the kitchen. Yost heard loud mewing from the bathroom. He had only been here slightly more than a week, but he was already tired of the noisy and perpetually unhappy cat, and wasn’t sure if he could make it through the next few months without killing it. If nothing else, the ungrateful feline might “accidently” slip out the door, where it would undoubtedly be mauled by the small pack of stray dogs that frequented the parking lot. Not having to buy cat food and kitty litter would save him a couple of bucks a week, and he wouldn’t have to tell Kroll until he had returned from Thailand.
He guzzled the dregs of a Schlitz and rummaged in the refrigerator for another bottle, but realized he had drunk the entire case. It was just as well; beer wasn’t his beverage of choice, but since they were in the fridge, he felt obligated to polish them off. After all, that’s exactly what Kroll had asked him to do. He walked back to the bedroom and collected his laundry basket.
Yost was still coming to grips with his astoundingly good fortune. It was like he was a snake who had shed an uncomfortable and restrictive skin, emerging as an entirely different creature. He somehow had dodged the loan shark’s enforcers since his last run-in, and he was fairly certain that they had not become attuned to his new routine and environs.
Even the simplest things, like sleeping in a real bed with real sheets, were indescribable pleasures. He had taken so many hot baths that his flesh might be in danger of permanently wrinkling, but he still felt as if he hadn’t cleansed away the uncomfortable grime of his recent past. Of course, it was a pain to keep his cast dry, but it was worth it.
And now he was going to experience the inexplicably simple joy of washing his clothes without having to constantly look over his shoulder at the Laundromat. He dropped a box of Rinso laundry detergent into his laundry basket and headed out the door.
Balancing the full basket against his right hip as he pulled the door closed, he heard a clicking noise. Instinctively throwing up a hand to guard his face, he furtively glanced to his left. Fully expecting to see a thug with a gun, he was pleasantly surprised instead. Four doors down, an attractive blonde was leaving her apartment. Things just keep getting better and better, he thought, I must be living right.
He strolled in her direction, and asked, “There’s supposed to be a laundry room in this building. Do you know where it is?”
“In the basement,” she replied, looking over her shoulder as she locked her deadbolt. “Fourth door on the right, past all those storage rooms. By the way, don’t waste your dimes on the last dryer. It spins your clothes around, but it doesn’t ever heat up.” She glanced down at his cast, “So what happened to your foot?”
“Slipped on the ice.”
“You’re new. Did you just move in?” she asked, putting her apartment keys in her purse and slipping on some suede gloves. A page of newsprint fluttered by, carried by a frigid gust of wind. “I wasn’t aware that there were any vacancies.”
“I’m kind of house-sitting for a friend of mine. I’m in 38,” said Yost.
“Married couple with a loud cat? No kids?”
“That’s right. The Krolls. He’s going to be away for a few months and she’s staying with her mother in Oregon.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “I’ve seen them. I’ll tell you, I could
do without that cat’s screeching. It keeps me up some nights. I’m surprised that the super lets them keep it, with all the complaints that people make.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize that it was such a nuisance.” Yost smiled at her, thinking that he would definitely do something to resolve the cat situation, sooner rather than later.
“So where do you work?”
“I’m in the Air Force,” he said, balancing the wicker basket as he fumbled in his pockets for coins. “I’m on the base.”
“Really? What do you do?”
“Uh, it’s sort of classified. I could tell you, but then I would be in a lot of trouble.”
“Pilot, huh?”
“Could be,” he replied, grinning. Pilot? He thought about piloting his squeaky-wheeled forklift around the poorly lit and drafty warehouse. Captivated by her polite smile, he wished that he had thought to brush his teeth and put on some more presentable clothes.
“Well, look, I’ve enjoyed talking to you, but I’m running a bit late.”
“Sorry I held you up,” he answered. “Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime.”
“Maybe,” she said, turning toward the stairwell. Her heels quietly clicked on the concrete as she walked away.
Ogooué-ivindo Province, Gabon
8:05 a.m., Friday, February 14, 1969
As they drove northeast along National Route N4, past thatch-roofed shanties and undernourished livestock, Henson was reminded that while Gabon was a prosperous nation, at least in comparison to most other African countries, that affluence had not yet dwindled down to all the masses, many of whom still lived in destitution and squalor.
Flipping down the heat-cracked visor, Henson was relatively sure that his driver thought he was crazy, and today’s junket probably reinforced that notion. He had hired the driver—Georges Essangui—and his truck two weeks ago, not long after he’d arrived in Gabon. For today’s chores, Georges’ cousin Aymar had tagged along to help with manual labor; Henson looked to the back of the truck, and saw Aymar, sound asleep, reclining atop the six wooden boxes that they had loaded earlier at his warehouse. Henson was especially fond of the Essangui cousins; they were hard workers and knew how to be discreet, so long as they were marginally sober.