Blue Gemini

by Mike Jenne

  “So what do we sacrifice to make this happen?” asked Carson.

  Ourecky looked around the cramped cockpit. “For starters, we’ll need to keep our radio chatter down to a minimum, at least on the transmit side, because that gobbles a lot of juice. We’ll also have to make some sacrifices on the environmental side, so it’s probably going to get very stale and uncomfortable in here before everything is said and done.”

  “I don’t mind being uncomfortable. Do you?”

  “Not at all. Drew, I’m in, but if we commit to this, whether we’re successful or not, it’ll probably be the last time we ever fly.”

  “I know, Scott, but I didn’t come up here to quit. Quitting just isn’t in my nature.”

  “Me neither. So how do you want to handle it? With the ground, that is?”

  Carson’s brow furrowed as he contemplated the question. “As I see it, we have a couple of options. First, we can tell them straight up what we’re doing. They can either back our play or not. Since they don’t have any options otherwise, I think they would fall in line with our plan. Of course, that doesn’t mean they would be too thrilled with us. But I am the mission commander.”

  “If you looked under Virgil’s bunk, I suspect you would find a footlocker packed with the shrunken heads of previous mission commanders. So what’s our other option?”

  “We fake a comms problem,” replied Carson. “Any fighter pilot worth his salt knows the old ‘receiving broken and garbled’ trick to circumvent unwanted instructions. If they order us to come home, we just flop the crypto variable a little bit and tell them that we’re experiencing an equipment failure. Then we’re entirely on our own, with no help from the ground.”

  Ourecky pulled up his left earphone and scratched his temple. “I don’t like that, Drew. Either way, once we start maneuvering, they’re going to know what we’re up to, so I would much rather have them in our corner, lending assistance, even if they’re reluctant about doing it.”

  “You’re right. One thing’s for damned sure, though. If we continue the chase, it’s a sure bet I’ll be lashed to the yardarm and flogged after we touch down. But you don’t also have to get flayed, Scott. If anyone asks, you just insist that I ordered you to continue with the intercept. I may be grounded, but you’ll have a chance to fly with someone else.”

  “No way, Drew,” replied Ourecky, frowning. “I’m not coming up here with anyone but you.”

  Carson scratched his chin and smiled. “Thanks. Since we’re chucking the rulebook in the trash, we need to set some ground rules. From here on out, if we experience any major glitch, we burn the retros and make a slide for the next available recovery zone. Fair enough?”

  “Agreed.”

  “And if one more adapter battery craps out, we head for home. If you see the slightest flutter on the mains or squibs, same thing.” Carson jetted some water into his mouth with the water dispenser. “I think we can pull this off, but I’m just not absolutely sure, though.”

  “Drew, we have a comms window in two minutes,” said Ourecky, wiping his forehead. “What’s your decision, mission commander? I’m with you, either way.”

  Carson looked out the window, sighed, and then said, “Look, as far as I’m concerned, the most dangerous part of this mission is behind us. Scott, I can’t speak for you, but I didn’t come up here to fail. Do you honestly think we can tackle this and still make it home?”

  “I do.”

  “Then to paraphrase our exalted leader, let’s go lasso a danged satellite, pardner.”

  EC-135E ARIA - Atlantic Sentry Three

  Latitude 60 North / Longitude 40 West (over the North Atlantic) 10:50 a.m. Eastern, Friday, June 13, 1969 (Rev 2 / GET: 1:50:28)

  Of the fourteen men aboard the EC-135E ARIA “Droop Snoot” aircraft, only one—the Airborne Mission Controller—knew that they were supporting a manned spacecraft in orbit. Isolated by a black curtain, he sat by himself at a console near the tail of the aircraft. The rest of the crew had been briefed that they were participating in a test of an unmanned anti-satellite system.

  The Airborne Mission Controller, an Air Force major, checked his cryptographic equipment and watched the clock. At the appointed time, he keyed the radio and transmitted: “Scepter Two, this is Atlantic Sentry Three. Over.” Listening for a reply, he read again the Teletype printout. Something had to be significantly wrong if the crew was being called out of orbit early.

  Finally, he heard a warbling voice in his earphones. Initially faint but growing progressively stronger, it bore the unusual Donald Duck quality of being filtered through the cryptographic gear. “Atlantic Sentry, this is Scepter Two. Receiving you five-by on UHF Channel Two.”

  The controller breathed a sigh of relief and replied, “Scepter Two, I am reading you loud and clear as well. Be aware that all contingency reentry guidance remains in effect. I have instructions for you to copy. Be advised that I will read up maneuvering guidance for a phase shift to line up on Primary Recovery Zone One-Three, followed by reentry burn instructions for your fifth rev. Let me know when you are ready to copy.”

  The reply was immediate. “Negative, Atlantic Sentry. Be aware that I have instructions for you to copy.”

  Scratching his head, the major glanced at the mission procedures binder lying open on his console, as if it might hold an answer for this quandary, and then said: “Scepter Two, this is Atlantic Sentry mission controller. Say again your last transmission, please.”

  “Atlantic Sentry, this is Scepter Two mission commander. Listen carefully: I have instructions for you. Let me know when you are prepared to copy.”

  Knowing that the contact window was short, the major grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil, made ready to take notes, and replied, “Go ahead, Scepter.”

  “Sentry, we are adhering to our primary intercept plan. We will execute our scheduled height adjust burn in eighteen minutes, GET 02:14:25. Make sure that Wright-Patt is aware that all tracking assets should stick with the original scheme and not deviate or stand down. We will also need running guidance on Contingency Recovery Zones as we proceed. How copy?”

  “Scepter, my instructions are to direct you to immediately curtail intercept operations and prepare to reenter for Patrick on your fifth rev. Stand by to copy the pertinents.”

  “Sentry, negative. We are staying upstairs and will continue the mission as planned. Relay that information to Mission Control. Stand by for my right-seater to pass data on our next burn.”

  Still perplexed by the crew’s unforeseen dissent, the Airborne Mission Controller listened as a second cartoon-sounding voice came on the radio to read down details of the spacecraft’s next maneuver. Writing as quickly as he could, he could just barely keep pace with the flurry of information. Looking up to make sure that the tape recorder backup was running properly, he reflected on how only minutes ago they were supposed to divert for Maine after the contact and then on to home, but now it looked like they were back in it for a long haul.

  Mission Control Facility, Aerospace Support Project

  10:59 a.m. Eastern, Friday, June 13, 1969 (GET: 1:59:12)

  Waiting for the news, Tew paced while Wolcott rifled in his desk drawers for his back-up packet of Red Man. He found the chewing tobacco just as Heydrich tapped on the glass. Quickly jamming a brown lump in his mouth, Wolcott waved the engineer in to deliver the report.

  “Good news. My comms guys just received the contact information from Atlantic Sentry Three,” announced Heydrich, entering the generals’ private sanctum and shoving the door closed behind him. “Atlantic Sentry talked to Carson on schedule.”

  “Whew! That’s excellent news,” noted Tew, standing at the window and looking out over the banks of consoles. “Maybe we’ve seen all the damage we’re going to see.”

  “I imagine Carson ain’t too thrilled with the prospects of comin’ off the trail before the drive is done,” observed Wolcott, loosening his bolo tie and unbuttoning his collar.

  Heydrich shook his
head. “Uh, Virg, not exactly. General Tew, you might want to sit down.”

  Looking as if he had aged ten years in an instant, Tew turned and sagged into a chair. “How bad, Gunter? They’re not stranded up there, are they? Can we bring them home?”

  “That’s not the issue, sir,” answered Heydrich. He placed the Teletype transcript of the radio transmission on the desk so that both Tew and Wolcott could read it. “It seems that we have some discord with the crew, sir. They’re not coming straight home as we directed.”

  As Wolcott read the transcript, the corners of his cracked lips turned up in an almost imperceptible smile and a slight twinkle came to his wizened eyes.

  In stark contrast, Tew was instantly apoplectic; his weary face turned as red as a freshly painted fire truck. As he struggled to catch his breath, his tirade wasn’t long in coming. “That stubborn bastard Carson is telling us that they’re still pursuing the intercept?!” he sputtered, reaching into his shirt pocket for his aspirin tin.

  Heydrich looked out the window, made eye contact with a controller in the back row of consoles, pantomimed the motions of drinking a glass of water, and then pumped his fist in a “hurry up” gesture. The recipient of his silent message scurried toward the break area.

  “Simmer down, Mark,” counseled Wolcott, fanning Tew with his Stetson. “It ain’t goin’ to help matters if you have a coronary. I’ve already attended my quota of funerals this year.”

  “Where the hell does Carson get the notion that he can debate our instructions?” howled Tew, popping open his pillbox with quaking hands. A motley assortment of pills spilled out and skittered across the desktop.

  As Heydrich and Wolcott helped him collect the medicine, Tew selected a white tablet and choked it down. Heydrich’s confederate came to the door with a glass of water, which Tew accepted gratefully. “Send word up to Carson that he will comply with orders and that he is to reenter and land at Patrick, as directed. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

  “It’s too late,” noted Heydrich, silently shooing the controller out of the small room. “They’ll be executing their height adjust burn in a couple of minutes, so they can’t make it into Patrick.”

  “Then what?” asked Tew, still flabbergasted. “Since we’ve apparently lost all authority over those two, what the hell do we do now? Are we supposed to just capitulate?”

  Heydrich slicked back his greasy hair and offered, “Sir, for starters, I recommend that we re-set the tracking resources, just as Carson asked. The Pacific Sentries will be turning back for home shortly. We need to direct them to maintain their contact stations and fly their tracks per the original plan.”

  Clutching his abdomen, Tew nodded. “Sounds like we have no choice in the matter.”

  “We also need to start recalculating the guidance for Contingency Recovery Zones,” observed Heydrich tersely. “They’ll need updated reentry data fed to them at every contact.”

  “Gunter, skedaddle out there and make it happen,” said Wolcott. “No time to dilly-dally.”

  Closing the door behind him, Heydrich immediately left the room. Tew closed his eyes and sipped water, but Wolcott watched through the glass as the German engineer called the controllers into a quick huddle. He noticed that most of the controllers smiled when Heydrich delivered the news. Galvanized to action, some appeared to be downright jubilant.

  “This is a flagrant violation of orders,” growled Tew. “I’m grounding those two as soon as they touch down, provided that they do touch down.”

  “As high-strung and defiant as Carson is, Mark, we stuck him in that ship for a reason,” said Wolcott quietly, gently putting his hand on Tew’s shoulder. “He’s the mission commander, and he ain’t snivelin’ and high-tailin’ for the bunkhouse just because a bad storm blew in. He’s exercising initiative and continuing the mission. Isn’t that what you expect?”

  “I expect him to follow orders,” asserted Tew.

  “Follow orders? Oh, really? Mark, you ain’t forgotten our third big push into Bremen, have you? November of ’43? The one where you caught some flak and ended up in the hospital?”

  “Virgil, how could I possibly forget that day?” answered Tew, grimacing. “So is there some reason that you’re waxing sentimental all the sudden?”

  “Yup. Bear with me, pardner. As I recollect, you were all shot up, down one engine, losing another and had three dead guys in the back of your Fort, but you stayed in formation for the bomb run even though the squadron commander ordered you to fall out. Remember that?”

  “I do.”

  “So why did you continue to the target, Mark?”

  Scowling, Tew recalled the harrowing mission over Germany. “Why did we continue? Because the Wing had tried to crack that nut three times before and we hadn’t pushed enough planes through, and I was tired of guys dying in vain. I was positive we could deliver our iron on the target, instead of splashing it in the Channel on the way home. I polled the men on my plane, and it was unanimous that we go on to Bremen, so we did.”

  “And ol’ Callahan really reamed you out after you limped back into Molesworth, didn’t he?”

  “Yea and verily, Virgil,” replied Tew. “That was a most memorable ass chewing, and I was lying face-up on a stretcher at the time. One I’ll never forget, that’s for damned sure.”

  “Well, pardner, before you judge Carson too harshly, you need to recognize that your boys upstairs are goin’ on to Bremen.”

  On Orbit

  11:08 a.m. Eastern, Friday, June 13, 1969 (Rev 2 / GET: 2:08)

  Working closely in unison, Carson and Ourecky aligned their inertial navigation platform in readiness for maneuvering burn that would substantially change their orbit. The burn would entail firing their four aft thrusters for a minute and eight seconds as they passed over Central Africa. NASA’s Gemini had just two 100-pound aft thrusters; two more were fitted in the Gemini-I’s adapter, specifically for the radical orbital changes necessary to stalk Soviet satellites.

  “Since we’re executing this burn all by our lonesomes, let’s verify our numbers,” said Carson. “GET is 02:14:25. Delta-V, 50.6. Delta-T, 1 plus 8; Yaw is zero. Pitch is zero. Core 25, 00506. Cores 26 and 27, all zeros. Firing aft thrusters. Maneuver is posigrade.”

  “GET is 02:14:25,” confirmed Ourecky. “Delta-V, 50.6. Delta-T, 1 plus 8; Yaw is zero. Pitch is zero. Core 25 is 00506. Two-six and 27 are all zeros. Burning aft to posigrade.”

  “Sounds good,” said Carson. He sluiced his dry mouth with a quick spurt of water and then scratched his nose. Looking through the window, he saw that it was growing dark. They would be in orbital night immediately after the thrusters shut down, and their first post-burn task was to take a star shot to verify the results of the maneuver. “Sextant ready?”

  “Ready.” Ourecky gestured at the navigation instrument, which was momentarily fixed against the right wall by a thin strip of Velcro.

  “You might want to take it down and hold it while we’re burning,” advised Carson. “You don’t want to get bonked in the noggin if it breaks loose.”

  “You’re right. Thanks. Computer to Catch-up,” stated Ourecky, rotating a knob on the control panel to CTCH UP. The computer was now configured to receive the information for the maneuver, which would be displayed as velocity changes on the IVI display on Carson’s panel.

  “Computer to Catch-Up,” confirmed Carson.

  Talking himself through the procedure, Ourecky carefully tapped the numbers into the computer’s numerical keyboard. “Address 25, Enter. Value 00506, Enter. Address 26, Enter. Value 00000, Enter. Address 27, Enter. Value 00000, Enter. Verifying entries, Read Out 25, Read Out 26, Read Out 27. Everything’s good. All in, Drew.”

  “Okay. Start Comp.”

  “Start Comp.” Ourecky pushed a button marked START; next to the button, a light marked COMP flashed green. The fifty-nine pound onboard computer—mounted outside the pressure vessel immediately to Carson’s left—was now processing the calculations for the burn. “You know, so
meday all this will be automated,” he said, monitoring the computer’s progress. “There won’t be any need to manually enter this gobbledy-gook on a keypad. It’ll all be simplified.”

  “Oh, yeah, but I don’t see that happening in our lifetimes, buddy,” replied Carson, making some slight adjustments to his controls. “Building pressure right now. Coming up good.” The fuel tanks and oxidizer tanks were lined with thick Teflon bladders; when pressurized with helium, the bladders physically forced the contents to the bottom of the tanks to prevent the unsettling effects of “ullage” sloshing caused by weightlessness.

  “You never know. That new Apollo guidance computer is really supposed to be something.”

  “Look, Scott, I’m sure that it’ll be just like TV someday, and people will zoom around the universe wearing form-fitted velour suits and they’ll sit in revolving lounge chairs on a flight deck the size of a house. And there will be sliding doors that snick open as you walk up to them, plus there’ll be lots of cute girls in mini-skirts. But the chicks will all be painfully smart, though.”

  “Ugh. Star Trek.”

  “You don’t like Star Trek? Scott Ourecky? That’s quite a surprise,” observed Carson as he monitored gauges. “Pressure’s nominal on fuel and oxidizer.”

  “Copy good pressure on OAMS fuel and ox. Star Trek? Man, I can’t stand to watch it. It’s not realistic to me at all. Bea’s a big Star Trek fan, though. Actually, I think she’s sweet on that Shatner guy, the one that who plays Captain Kirk.” Ourecky watched the green COMP light blink off. “Our cake is baked. Your IVIs should be showing on your side.”

  “Yep,” said Carson, checking his panel. “Ready, Scott? There’s no turning back from here. So far, this mutiny has been theoretical, since we’ve only talked about violating orders. Now, we’re physically going to do it. We’re half-way to Leavenworth, so this burn will finish the trip.”

  “Whatever. I’m ready. Sixty-eight seconds on the burn, right?” asked Ourecky. He pulled the sextant off the wall and held it in his lap.