by Mike Jenne
“Right. Double-check me on the clock while we’re burning.”
“I’m watching the clock. Give me the mark when you’re ready.”
“Four, three, two, one, Mark, firing aft thrusters.” Carefully monitoring the IVI display, Carson pushed the maneuver controller forward. “We’re burning.”
They immediately felt the acceleration as the spacecraft surged forward. “Wow,” said Ourecky, slightly startled by the movement. “That’s a kick in the pants. More than I anticipated.”
“Good burn,” commented Carson. “Very even . . . Twenty seconds . . . Thirty seconds . . . Sixty seconds. Shut down in six, five, four, three, two, one. Mark. Throttling down. All stop.”
“Showing any residuals?” asked Ourecky. Normally, after a long burn of their aft thrusters, some minor adjustments would be needed to correctly align the spacecraft.
Carson watched the digital numbers gradually changing on the IVI display. Finally, they settled down, and he used the maneuver controller to make slight changes until the three IVI readings were zeroed out. “That’s it. All zeroes; residuals are nulled out. PQI on the OAMS fuel is eighty-five percent,” he said, checking the fuel gauges. “We’re still in the hunt.”
On Orbit
4:50 p.m. Eastern, Friday, June 13, 1969 (Rev 5 / GET: 7:50)
Ourecky tucked his hands under his armpits and shuddered; due to all the strenuous activity before launch and the initial stages of the flight, the cotton long underwear he wore under his suit was damp and clammy.
Shortly after their last burn, they made several adjustments to conserve battery power. They had scaled back their environmental settings almost to the point of shutting off the heat altogether. The cabin temperature hovered at roughly fifty degrees as they passed through the forty-five minute increments of orbital darkness and was slightly warmer when they languished in orbital daylight. It warmed up considerably when the sun shined directly through the windows, but that was a rare event, given the high inclination of their orbit.
While they grimly accepted the cold environs of the cockpit, there were a number of critical systems that required warmth to remain operational. The all-important OAMS—Orbital Attitude Maneuvering System—was fitted with a heating system to keep essential valves and components unfrozen and functional, so even though the two men were cold and uncomfortable, their attitude and maneuvering thrusters remained warm and cozy.
If anything aggravated Ourecky, it was that he couldn’t enjoy the sights from their majestic perch. His teardrop-shaped forward-facing window was only about a foot away from his face, but if it was left uncovered in the current conditions, it would quickly frost over with the moisture from his breath. Because they would eventually be dependent on keeping a clear field of view, they kept their window covers in place unless it was absolutely necessary to look outside or during those cherished moments when they could harvest some welcome sunlight through the windows. The thin metal covers were provided to darken the cabin when they were sleeping, but they obviously weren’t going to log much sleep on this mission, if any.
Although it would be hours until they completed the intercept, he worked to stay ahead of the game. He unstowed equipment and cranked open the observation port covers located in the hatches above them. The Gemini-I was fitted with two extra windows, approximately six inches in diameter, directly above each man’s head. They were intended for the close-in proximity operations when they would examine and photograph their target. On several NASA Gemini missions, the astronauts’ view was significantly obscured because their front-facing windows were smeared with some unknown residue, believed to be unburned booster propellant that washed over the spacecraft during staging.
With everything in readiness, he verified his maneuver calculations and double-checked the information entered into the computer. By sheer trial and error, he located a spot in the cabin, about six inches in front of him and slightly above eye level, where the air remained sufficiently undisturbed that he could “park” his mechanical pencil as he manipulated his slide rule or entered information into the computer. All he had to do was hold his hand out in the spot and let the pencil float off his fingertips, being careful not to impart any residual motion into the writing implement, and it would remain there until he needed it again.
“Hey, Scott,” said Carson, slowly rolling to the left so that they were oriented head down to Earth. “Yank the cover off your window and look outside right now.”
Ourecky removed his window cover and quickly oriented himself. He cupped his hand across his mouth and nose to direct his exhaled breath down and away from the glass. They were just passing over the plains of North Dakota and then skimming across the southwestern corner of Minnesota. He discerned the distinctive turn in the Platte River as it wrapped itself around the city of Omaha, and then he shifted his gaze through the top viewport to identify Lincoln, where he went to college, then looked southwest to pick out his hometown of Wilber, just west of the oxbow bends of the meandering Big Blue River.
Far below, his family would soon finish their chores before sitting down to dinner. Since his parents were devout Catholics who faithfully attended every single mass at Saint Wenceslaus, fish was sure to be on the Friday night menu. His father would grouse about seed corn prices and his mother would console him, both oblivious to the knowledge that their son had achieved his childhood dreams and was orbiting the Earth. After dinner, his father would retreat to the barn to tinker with the tractor while his mother washed dishes before retiring to her needlepoint.
As the spacecraft continued to track over America, crossing the Mississippi River just southeast of Cedar Rapids, he saw Chicago on the southern banks of Lake Michigan and then glanced farther to the left to pick out Indianapolis and then Dayton.
Bea was probably at the supermarket right now. Later on, she would likely heat up a TV dinner as she filled in the crossword puzzle from the Friday afternoon paper. Then she would watch television for a few hours before falling asleep on the couch. Sighing, Ourecky replaced the window cover and shifted his gaze back to his instrument panel. Although this was certainly the most amazing day in his life, it was one he could never share with the people closest to him; he was literally sky-high, but back on Earth, in his absence, life went on as usual.
“Get enough sightseeing?” asked Carson.
“Yeah. For the moment, anyway. Thanks, Drew.”
“Don’t mention it. Maybe there’ll be time for more after we’re done with the intercept.”
On Orbit
6:34 p.m. Eastern, Friday, June 13, 1969 (Rev 7 / GET: 9:34)
According to Ourecky’s calculations, the radar should now be effective in locating their target. To this point, they had no success in spotting it visually, and he was beginning to question whether pursuing the intercept had really been such a good idea after all. As he meditated on the possibilities, an unwrapped stick of chewing gum slowly floated by his face, lazily tumbling end over end. It impacted the circuit breaker panel immediately to Ourecky’s right and rebounded toward the center of the cabin.
“Sorry,” said Carson, reaching out to snatch the gum out of the air. Shivering slightly, he stuck the gum in his mouth and chewed nervously. “I let that one slip away from me.”
“So are we ready, Drew? Everything lined up?”
To make the most of their limited battery power, Carson carefully oriented the Gemini-I so that the radar dish in its blunt nose was aligned precisely—in theory—at their unseen target. “Yeah, we’re good,” he said, shifting his head forward to look through the optical reticle mounted in his forward window. “Go ahead and fire it up.”
Holding his breath, Ourecky re-set the circuit breakers for the radar and switched on the power. He knew from training that the radar hardware could be extremely temperamental. “Radar’s energized, off standby,” he observed, watching the status indicators that showed the radar cycling through a series of diagnostic tests. “Self-test is good. Signal generator is green. Sl
ew test is good. Platform calibration is good. And we’re hot.”
Timing the warm-up process, Carson counted quietly to himself. “Forty-three seconds,” he noted, whistling through his teeth. “You were almost dead on.”
Ourecky nodded and studied the return display. The small cabin could not accommodate a radar screen like those found in fighters or interceptors, so a more compact version was furnished. It consisted of a circular array of tiny red lights, arranged in a wagon wheel pattern, with three lights making up each of the eight spokes. If the radar detected a target as during its scan, a light would illuminate. Its position in the wagon wheel denoted its relative orientation in relation to the spacecraft, and the return signal’s strength was indicated by the light’s intensity. A faint or intermittent light indicated a weak return a continuous strong light denoted a positive return. A small green bulb, set in the lower right corner of the display, flashed on when the radar had a solid lock on the target and was processing range and rate of closure information.
Ourecky pressed a button marked RDR DISP TEST. The array lit up for three seconds, so that he could verify that the bulbs were working, and then the display went dark. He watched it carefully; a minute passed and there was nothing. Flustered by the setback, he switched the radar to shut-down mode. “Nothing over here, Drew. Not even a nibble. Anything visual?”
“Not a thing,” said Carson somberly, pulling his eye back from the optical reticle. “This ain’t good. I sure hope we didn’t stay up here for nothing.”
On Orbit
7:31 p.m. Eastern, Friday, June 13, 1969 (Rev 8 / GET: 10:31)
An hour later, they tried the radar again. Anxiously watching the array, with his finger poised on the power switch, Ourecky counted to himself. He was about to shut it off when one of the lights glimmered momentarily. “Drew, I think we have a weak return on the outer edge of quadrant two,” he said, pausing to blow warm air through his fingers. “You want to try resetting the nose? I think about ten degrees up and ten degrees right should do it. I’ll leave the radar powered on.”
Still looking through the optical reticle, Carson yawned as he tweaked the maneuver controller. OAMS thrusters popped quickly to adjust the spacecraft. “That do it?” he asked.
“Hopefully,” replied Ourecky, studying the radar display. It would take a few seconds for the dish to complete its scan. Since the light might have resulted from just a spurious flash in a circuit, it was a gamble; as much as he didn’t want to miss a potential positive contact, he was wary of frittering away their batteries on nothing.
“Anything?”
“Nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing.” Then the center light blinked on, followed by the green light that indicated a solid lock. “Bingo! Hard acquisition, center mass,” stated Ourecky confidently, watching the digital counters automatically changing as the radar calculated the distance.
Carson exhaled a cloud of warm mist. “Oh, man,” he said quietly. “I guess we did it.”
“I think so,” agreed Ourecky. “At least we’re getting closer. Range is 260 miles.”
Carson nodded. “What’s our closing rate?”
“We’re closing at roughly three hundred feet per second, but that’s only in the ballpark at this range. Drew, I’m going to pass the radar data to the computer and then shut it down. Do you have anything out the window yet?”
“Nothing yet. Very crappy horizon out there right now, so the target’s probably washed out in the background. I don’t think we’re going to see it this far in daylight, anyway.”
“Okay,” said Ourecky, tapping number sequences onto the computer’s keypad. “Radar data is loaded and accepted.” He switched the radar off. The chase was drawing to fruition; with just a few more maneuver burns and some careful flying on Drew’s part, they would be home free.
On Orbit
8:06 p.m. Eastern, Friday, June 13, 1969 (Rev 8 / GET: 11:06:22)
Although they had a successful radar spot, they had yet to visually confirm the target, so they still could be chasing a phantom. With orbital darkness rapidly approaching, the best time to look for their quarry was immediately after they crossed the threshold into darkness.
“Here comes twilight,” announced Carson. He wore a cloth patch over one eye so it would be immediately attuned to dark conditions. “Forty-five seconds. Ready on the radar?”
“Ready,” replied Ourecky.
Carson had already switched the cabin lighting to the red lamps, which were better for maintaining night vision, and now he twisted a rheostat knob to dim the lights as low as possible. Counting to himself, he flipped up the patch, leaned forward and placed his eye against the optical reticle. “Okay, light it up, Scott.”
Ourecky threw the switch to activate the radar. Cupping his penlight with his fingers to cut down on stray light in the cabin, he watched the radar’s diagnostic lights. “Self-test is green . . . Platform calibration is showing green. Radar’s hot.” He pressed the radar’s display test button and watched as all the red lights flickered on momentarily and then blinked back off.
“Anything?” asked Carson, staring intently through the reticle.
“Still scanning.” Suddenly a red light blinked on and stayed lit. “Got it. Acquisition and hard lock.” Ourecky punched in the commands on the computer keypad to accept the radar data.
Willing himself not to blink, Carson stared through the reticle. And then he saw it, an obscure point of light resembling a third magnitude star, precisely where it was supposed to be. “Kismet!” he declared. “There it is, right smack where we figured. Man, if we hadn’t done those extra hours in the planetarium, I would have never caught it. What’s our range and rate?”
“Range is 150 miles, closing at 250 feet per second. We’ll be on top of it within the hour.”
“Tally ho!” whooped Carson, laughing as he twisted a corner of his moustache. Even though they were slightly more than a minute into orbital darkness, the cabin temperature had plummeted noticeably. “Almost worth freezing for.”
On Orbit
10:21 p.m. Eastern, Friday, June 13, 1969 (Rev 9 / GET: 13:21:18)
It took slightly less than another orbit to close the gap with their quarry. In accordance with their procedures, they would initially “station-keep” at a comfortable distance for at least an entire orbit, study the target intently, wait until an opportune orbital sunrise, and then move in closer.
Orbital rendezvous was an endeavor that was intensely dependent on lighting conditions. This was true in cooperative rendezvous situations, where the chaser and chased worked in orchestrated harmony, but considerably more so in non-cooperative scenarios. Every ninety-minute orbit comprised forty-five minutes of light and an equal measure of darkness; because of the risk of collision, approaching a non-cooperative target in darkness could be an exceptionally dangerous proposition under the best of circumstances.
The sun was just edging up over the horizon, so it was safer now for Carson to fly the final approach. Once up close, they would perform a methodical inspection during their forty-five minute periods of daylight, scrutinizing every square inch of the suspect satellite but also diligently remaining clear of any potential optical systems that might betray their presence.
During the ensuing forty-five minutes of darkness, Carson would back away slightly and activate a spotlight to keep a vigilant eye on the target. And their intermittent dance would continue—in forty-five minute increments—until the inspection phase was complete. At least they were marginally comfortable now; because it was so critical that they keep a constant eye on the target, Carson had powered up the environmental control system to warm the cabin so the windows would remain unfogged.
As the light gradually improved, Ourecky studied the target through binoculars. It was a white cylinder, approximately fifty feet long and about fifteen feet in diameter, oriented with its long axis perpendicular to the Earth. The end farthest from Earth bore a cross-shaped array of four solar panels, along with three whip antenna
s and a parabolic dish antenna.
The solar panels were a solid clue that it was designed for long endurance, probably for weeks if not months; otherwise, if it had a shorter mission, the Soviets would have provisioned it with batteries. It was clearly not an abandoned booster stage waiting to fall out of orbit, but a vehicle with a specific purpose.
But what was that purpose? thought Ourecky. Was it a nuclear-armed orbital bombardment platform—OBS—or some sort of reconnaissance satellite? He was sure that it was gyro-stabilized, because it had held the same attitude, without budging, since they had started watching it. He had discerned no indications of thrusters firing; that was good, because their close proximity work could be very dangerous if the target was prone to sudden maneuvering.
He had sat through excruciatingly detailed briefings on Soviet reconnaissance satellites, but this didn’t resemble anything he had been shown. Although their spacecraft were typically big and unsophisticated compared to their American counterparts, the painfully pragmatic Soviets tended to stick with proven designs and adapt them as necessary for different roles. Consequently, their workhorse reconnaissance satellites—the Zenit series—were based on the fabled Vostok that had carried Yuri Gargarin to orbit in 1961. Of course, it was equally likely that the Vostok was fashioned from the Zenit model rather than the other way around.
The Zenit’s premiere attribute was a massive sphere—roughly eight feet in diameter and weighing over two tons—that contained cameras, film, recovery beacons, and parachutes. The durable sphere was connected to a service module that carried batteries, electronics, retrorockets, and a maneuvering system. Once a Zenit completed its mission—typically between one to two weeks in duration—the heatshield-equipped sphere reentered the atmosphere for recovery. It was a superbly ingenious if not clunky system, particularly since the complicated optics could be re-used on subsequent missions.
In contrast, the American equivalent left the costly cameras in space, sentenced to an inevitable demise by orbital decay, and ejected a reentry pod containing the exposed film. Ourecky was aware that both nations were progressing toward systems that would electronically transmit images to the ground, eliminating the need to safely deliver film to Earth, but that technology was years into the future.