Blue Gemini

by Mike Jenne

  “Equipment access door located,” whispered the technical crew’s leader from behind the curtain. “Opening equipment access door.”

  Minutes passed before he quietly reported, “Removing computer.”

  Federov smiled; other than the incessant patter of rain on the metal roof and the rolling booms of thunder that shook the building, it was almost absolutely silent. He had to concentrate to hear the faintest whirring sounds of the technical crew’s power tools. He couldn’t recall when such a complicated task had gone so smoothly.

  “Installing mock-up,” reported the technical crew’s leader.

  As he patiently waited for the technical crew to finish their tasks, Federov meditated on another issue. Just this afternoon, he had received an asinine tasking to investigate rumors of UFOs—Unidentified Flying Objects—supposedly stored at a US Air Force Base in Ohio. He just didn’t have the personnel or resources to execute such an outlandish snipe hunt, and try as he might, he could not convince his superiors otherwise. He was rankled by their steadfast insistence that he send an operative to Ohio. Who could he send? With all his current and impending missions, he desperately needed all hands on deck. If he couldn’t identify someone to send, he might be compelled to beg for help from the insufferable pricks of the KGB’s complement at the Embassy, and working with the KGB was something that he stringently avoided.

  His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the jangling of the phone in the guard’s office. Federov cursed under his breath and leaned toward Roschin. “How can the damned phone be working?” he asked. “We cut off the power.”

  “It’s a different circuit altogether,” whispered Roschin. “The phone lines have a lower voltage, independent of the power grid. Not to worry, though, that guard is so out of it that he couldn’t possibly hear the phone ring.”

  Federov nodded. Major Roschin was almost certainly correct, but he despised loose ends. The phone call was most likely the guard supervisor checking on his subordinate. The worst case scenario was that he would leave the headquarters’ dry comfort to investigate, which could potentially block the team’s singular escape route. Even so, Federov had prudently addressed the contingency. With his most competent operatives already busy, he had designated one of his least trustworthy officers—Major Morozov—to contend with the unlikely scenario. As a member of the security team, Morozov had one solitary task: he was to watch the headquarters building and prevent the guard supervisor from approaching their warehouse.

  It was nothing that required an abundance of brains or technical skills; all Morozov had to do was to emerge from his hiding spot, quietly catch up behind the guard supervisor, and knock him senseless with a rubber-coated cosh. Not exactly a surgical approach, but adequate to buy the team time to finish their chores and make their exit. And although the dim-witted Morozov couldn’t be trusted with the more sophisticated chores of espionage, he was certainly adequate to do basic thug work. One well-placed blow should suffice, and the guard supervisor would wake up later with a headache, likely convinced that he had slipped and fallen.

  The telephone’s ringing persisted. Federov grinned; he concluded that the guard supervisor obviously wanted to know why the warehouse guard was unresponsive, but he apparently was not so concerned that he was willing to venture out into the storm to find out.

  “We’re almost done,” whispered the leader of the technical crew. “Replacing the access panel now.”

  Federov smelled the distinctively sweet odors of toluene and acetone and knew that the technical crew was deftly applying paint to disguise tool scars and other marks. He heard the faint whirring of a small fan, which they used to accelerate drying of the paint and to disperse the wafting fumes.

  The phone’s ringing still persisted, but suddenly there was also a banging at the door. “Govno!” cursed Federov quietly. “What the hell is going on?”

  “There’s someone at the door!” whispered Roschin.

  “No shit,” scoffed Federov.

  “He can’t get in, though,” added Roschin. “We jammed the lock from the inside. His key won’t work.”

  The pounding grew progressively louder, and it was obvious that the man outside was now trying to force the door. Why had Morozov not disabled him? More significantly, with the only door now blocked, how would they make their exit? Federov swiftly assessed the disintegrating situation. He signaled for the support team leader to be prepared to incapacitate the guard supervisor if he was successful in breaching the door. He grimaced; a face-to-face confrontation was certainly not an encounter he had planned for, and a scuffle—regardless of the outcome—would instantly negate the entire clandestine nature of the operation. The Americans would obviously know that someone—several persons—had intentionally entered the facility, and it would only be a matter of time before they realized their objective.

  As he waited for the technical crew to report that the job was complete, Federov’s head spun with potential scenarios. He worried that this operation was rapidly headed toward a fiasco. A clash with the security guards could be bad enough, but they might also summon the local authorities. He half-expected to hear the wailing of sirens and knew that it might be a matter of minutes before they were scooped up by the American police. Only Federov and a few others carried Makarovs, so it was doubtful that they could win a shootout with determined American law enforcement officers armed with revolvers and possibly shotguns.

  “We’re done,” said the technical leader. “Packing tools now.”

  Certainly there had to be another way out of this mess. Federov leaned toward Roschin and calmly asked, “I know that there are no other doors, but are there any other possible points of egress?”

  “There’s a washroom at the rear of the building,” answered the Roschin. “It has a small window.”

  “We’ll go out that way. You’ll stay behind to clean up. Afterwards, hide here until you can get out safely.”

  Nodding, Roschin replied, “As you wish, sir.”

  Federov used his penlight to signal for the leaders of the support team and technical crew. When they drew near, he issued concise instructions. In moments, all the support team’s operatives were in quiet motion, headed toward their new escape route. He waited for the technical crew to collect their tools and collapse their tent and then followed them to the restroom. The support team passed items to their companions waiting outside and then scrambled out the small window.

  “The battery boxes won’t fit through the window,” reported the support team leader.

  Federov thought for a moment, then shined his light at a stack of crates in a corner. “Leave them there,” he ordered. “Pile some of that other junk on top of them. Even if the Americans eventually find them, they will likely never figure out what they are.”

  Federov was the last man out. He hurled out his small pack and then heaved himself into the miniscule window. Squirming, he realized that his massive shoulders were caught in the frame. He felt Roschin give him a mighty shove, and then he fell headlong into a puddle outside.

  The GRU operatives were highly disciplined. Instead of scattering in panic, they remained a cohesive unit, waiting until everyone was accounted for, including Federov, before they conducted an orderly withdrawal from the Silver Hill site. In mere minutes, they were standing in the kitchen of the rented house.

  As he waited for the equipment to be loaded into the van, Federov confronted Morozov when he arrived a few minutes later. “Why didn’t you take care of the guard supervisor, idiot?” he demanded. “All you had to do was bang him over the damned head! That was your sole task, Anatoly Nikolayevich, and you couldn’t even do that?”

  “It wasn’t the guard supervisor or his assistant,” declared Morozov. Standing at stiff attention, still holding his rubber-coated truncheon, soaked to the skin, he shivered uncontrollably. “They stayed in the headquarters. They must have called the guard in the restoration building and ordered him to go to your warehouse.”

  “If that’
s the case, did you not see him?” demanded Federov, stabbing his index finger into Morozov’s chest. “You certainly had a clear line of sight to watch him walk from his building to ours!”

  “I did see him,” replied Morozov. “But your orders were to disable the guard supervisor or his assistant if either left their post and approached your building. He was not the guard supervisor or his assistant, so I remained hidden.”

  “The equipment is packed in the van,” declared the leader of the technical crew. “We’re ready to go.”

  “Load up,” ordered Federov.

  “Did I not follow your orders exactly, Colonel?” asked Morozov sheepishly.

  “You did, moron,” answered Federov, shaking his head. “But the circumstances called for you to exercise initiative, and you failed to do so. Now, climb into the damned van with the others, and I will deal with you later.”

  Johnsville Naval Air Development Center, Pennsylvania

  8:25 a.m., Friday, March 7, 1969

  There were others like it, but the Johnsville centrifuge was the best. Built in 1950, it was the world’s largest, most powerful and most sophisticated machine of its kind. A sphere-shaped fiberglass gondola, spacious enough to accommodate three men seated abreast, was mounted at the end of a fifty-foot radial arm.

  A 4000-horsepower electric motor whirled the arm at incredible speeds. The motor was so massive—182 tons worth—that it was anchored into place and then the round-shaped building was literally built around it. The Johnsville centrifuge could accelerate subjects up to forty Gs, although that would likely be fatal. The current record was 31.25 Gs, sustained for five seconds, set in 1958 by a psychologist named Flanagan Gray who apparently possessed an almost superhuman tolerance for G-forces.

  The gondola was mounted on motorized multi-dimensional gimbals, which permitted the operators to make subtle and not-so-subtle adjustments to change the orientation of the rider in relation to the spin, to realistically simulate the effects of dynamic maneuvers in high-G conditions. The matchless machine was truly a one-of-a-kind feat of engineering ingenuity, an amusement park merry-go-round ideally suited for the pathologically masochistic.

  A Navy flight surgeon subjected Ourecky to a rambling but informative class prior to entering the gondola; the session described all the potentially debilitating effects of high-G forces and also included pointers on breathing techniques and various tricks that the Navy scientists had developed to mitigate the effects of the oppressively high G-forces.

  As Ourecky was being strapped in, the flight surgeon poked his head through the hatch and said, “Okay, just so it’s fresh in your mind, let’s review: You’ll probably experience chest pains, motion sickness, nausea, disorientation, confusion and possibly a panic attack or two. Some folks actually describe feeling a euphoric sensation, but those sickos are pretty rare, thank God. On some occasions, we see fractured ribs or dislocated shoulders, but that’s very unusual.”

  Nodding, Ourecky extended his arms to make sure he could reach the instrument panel.

  “You should plan on having a head-splitting hangover later,” said the flight surgeon. “If you do, take two Alka-Seltzers, drink plenty of water, and don’t call me. Got all that, Air Force?”

  “Got it,” answered Ourecky.

  “Seriously, most guys suffer through these runs without any significant ill effects, but some problems may manifest themselves later. I’ll give you some paperwork to tote it in your wallet for the next week or so. If you go home and you don’t feel right, see a doctor immediately. Give him the paperwork so he’ll know what to look for: blood clots, heart arrhythmias, collapsed lungs, nasty things of that nature, the sort of stuff that can kill you pretty quick. Okay?”

  “Go to the doctor immediately,” said Ourecky. “I got it.”

  “Now, it’s common to have some minor after-effects, so don’t get too upset if your feet swell up or you get some strange marks on your body from burst blood vessels. That’s just part of the souvenir package that we like to send home with you. We’ll also snap your picture when you’re at your worst, so you can prove to your boss that you actually did ride the Wheel.”

  Once they had Ourecky strapped in and marginally comfortable, the technicians clambered out of the gondola and closed the hatch. Apprehensive about what was to come, particularly since a failure to tolerate high G’s could immediately wash him out of Blue Gemini, he convinced himself that no matter how bad it became, he would endure it and not complain.

  “Everything shipshape in there? Comfy?” asked the operator over the intercom. “We’re starting the spin-up now. We’ll warm up with a stock evolution: twelve G’s for four seconds, eight G’s for forty-one seconds, then five G’s for two minutes. Then we’ll run you through a lift-off profile, then a reentry profile, then we’ll shovel on a few more G’s and change your orientation just to make sure that you can remain conscious if things start to go a little haywire. If you get too uncomfortable, let us know immediately and we’ll back it off. Ready, Captain?”

  “Ready,” replied Ourecky. He heard a loud hum as the huge motor was energized. The arm slowly started to move and gradually gathered speed. He felt his body being forced back into the seat, like a giant hand was shoving against him. So far, so good, he thought. Nothing to it.

  As the G’s accumulated, he became lightheaded and found it increasingly hard to breathe. Following the flight surgeon’s advice, he forced his lungs full of air. Knowing that it would be almost impossible to refill his lungs if he let all of his air out, he grunted in shallow pants, huffing in and out rapidly, but not so quickly that he might become hyperventilated.

  Forcing himself to concentrate, he scanned the instrument panel. As various colored lights flashed, he pushed specific buttons or activated switches in response. He also reported readings on various dials, to prove that he could maintain his focus and spatial orientation.

  As the dastardly machine spun faster, he experienced tunnel vision, as if dark curtains were gradually being drawn beside him. At the extreme corner of the panel, almost outside of his peripheral vision, a red light glowed. Reaching up to throw the corresponding switch, his hand felt like it was encased in lead; it took all of his concentration to complete the simple act.

  He started to feel a dull pain under his sternum, like he was on the verge of a mild heart attack. “Ten . . . G’s . . . okay,” he reported, watching the meter.

  Moments later, the gondola reversed abruptly. The harness straps dug into his chest; he was in the “eyeballs out” phase of a deceleration profile, simulating negative G’s. Breathing in forced grunts, he felt his eyes bulge out from their sockets. Looking at a mirror mounted in the instrument panel, he was astonished when he didn’t recognize his grotesquely distorted face.

  He heard Carson’s voice through the earphones: “Are you okay in there, Scott?”

  “Oh . . . kay,” he grunted.

  “Scott, in about a minute they’re going to simulate the spacecraft wobbling off-axis during reentry. Just focus, and you’ll be okay.”

  The sudden change in attitude was enormously disconcerting; it felt as if his internal organs suddenly sloshed to one side of his abdominal cavity and then roughly shifted again as the nefarious gondola changed orientation. The transverse G-loading added a diabolically new dimension to his agony. Teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, he wasn’t sure how much more of this misery he could suffer. Then, almost as quickly as it had started, it was over. As the gondola whirred down and the G-forces diminished, he slowly regained his vision and vestibular senses. Finally, it ground to a halt, and moments later, the round hatch reopened.

  “Listen to me, Scott,” cautioned Carson, climbing into the gondola. “Sit still and don’t move. As you climb out of this thing, keep your head and eyes straight forward. I’ll help you to a chair outside. Just a few steps straight ahead, and the seat will be right there waiting for you. Just sit down and don’t move your noggin, and you’ll be back to relatively normal in a fe
w minutes.”

  Carson and a technician extricated Ourecky from his restraint harness, then slowly eased him through the hatch and stood him up. Taking baby steps on wobbly feet, he stepped onto the platform. He heard someone laugh, and turned his head ever so slightly, and was immediately overtaken by waves of nausea.

  “Easy does it,” urged Carson. “So how did you like your first round with the Wheel?”

  “Well, that was really something,” said Ourecky, determined to appear composed and nonchalant as his head continued to spin. “But we have better rides at the Nebraska State Fair.”

  Wright Arms Apartments, Dayton, Ohio

  6:30 p.m., Friday, March 7, 1969

  With his head throbbing, Ourecky walked in the front door and collapsed on the couch.

  Wearing faded cut-offs and a tie-dyed T-shirt, Bea came out of the bedroom and sat down beside him. A Janis Joplin album played on the stereo. She kissed his forehead and asked, “Rough trip, honey?” Even though they had not seen each other in over two weeks, she obviously sensed that he was not in any kind of shape for a more enthusiastic reunion.

  “That’s being generous,” he replied. “Do we have any aspirin in the medicine cabinet?”

  “I’ll bring you some.” She went into the bathroom to retrieve the medicine, and brought a glass of water as well.

  “Thanks, Bea,” he said, swallowing the tablets and drinking the water.

  “Hangover? Did you go out carousing with Drew last night?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. We definitely went on a bender. Trying to keep up with him will be the death of me. I’ll be better in just a minute, after my heart quits trying to thump out of my chest.”

  She sat down and placed her head against his chest. “Poor baby. Your heart sounds like a jackhammer. Let’s just sit still a while. So why don’t you tell me about why you’re coming back to Ohio? I’m thrilled you’re back, dear, but I’m just curious why you had to return so quickly.”

  Over the next twenty minutes, Ourecky did his best to paint the picture without revealing the true purpose of his return. As he described what his life would be like for the next few weeks—a seemingly endless series of cross-country trips and late night sessions at the base—he felt as if the room temperature had dropped several degrees. “And I’ll probably not be able to start on my doctorate for at least another year, if ever,” he concluded. “I’m sorry, Bea. I’m happy to be back here with you, but it’s going to be almost as if I’m not here at all.”