by Mike Jenne
But this monster wasn’t a Zenit. It was considerably larger, with an odd feature that perplexed Ourecky. Approximately twelve feet up from the base, the cylinder was encompassed by a series of objects, each about the size of metal trash can, with rounded bottoms. From this angle, Ourecky could only count seven, with an open space where an eighth should go, and he estimated that there were probably at least five more on the far side of the enigmatic satellite.
“So what do you make of that necklace of pods?” asked Carson. “Nukes maybe? Do you think we’re looking at an OBS?”
Ourecky pulled the binoculars away from his eyes and let them float. “I don’t think they’re nukes,” he observed. “I doubt that you could package a nuke in a container that small, allowing for a heatshield, and yield anything greater than a couple of kilotons. A firecracker that size would only be a nuisance unless it was delivered with some precision. I can’t imagine the Soviets putting an OBS up here just to be an annoyance. It just doesn’t make sense.”
Carson grabbed the binoculars out of the air and scrutinized the target. “Well, here’s my theory, for what it’s worth. I’ll wager that we’re looking at their next generation reconnaissance satellite and that it’s intended for extended duration missions,” he surmised. “The bottom end of that cylinder is probably their optics, and it’s meant to stay up here. Right behind the cameras, where all those pods are, there’s probably a film carousel with a bunch of film cartridges. Once they expose a full cartridge, it’s probably loaded in one of those pods, and then the pod ejects and reenters. That would also explain the rounded bottom on the pods.”
“That makes a lot of sense, Drew. That would also explain the open slot where it looks like a pod should be. They’ve probably already shot a reel and dropped it.”
“Very likely,” agreed Carson, handing the binoculars back to Ourecky. “Let’s just hope they don’t dump another one while we’re operating close in. That could get ugly quick.”
“Agreed.” Ourecky stowed the binoculars in a fabric pouch at his right side.
Carson ripped open a plastic bag containing tiny sandwiches consisting of pimento cheese spread on tortilla squares. The snacks spilled out of the bag, scattering into a small edible constellation on his side of the cockpit. Examining his instruments, he plucked a sandwich out of the air and nonchalantly munched on it. “Well, this ain’t good,” he observed.
“What’s the problem?” asked Ourecky, filching one of the floating sandwiches.
“An OAMS thruster is sticking intermittently. Yaw right, number three. Probably a malfunctioning solenoid valve. It’s been sluggish from the start, but now it’s barely working at all. It’s probably just squirting unlit propellant, and we can’t afford to waste that.”
“Can we still fly close in? Is it safe?”
Carson popped another sandwich in his mouth. Chewing slowly, he answered, “Oh, yeah, we can still do it. I’ll inhibit the thruster and compensate accordingly. I’ll have to be light on the stick and move very slowly. What do you think, Scott? I would hate to climb all the way up here and not finish the job, but I would be lying if I didn’t think we weren’t assuming some risk.”
Ourecky nodded. “I trust you, Drew. Let’s do it.”
Carson reached up to the overhead circuit breaker panel and switched off the breaker for the malfunctioning thruster. “Okay, I’m going to nudge us over for proximity operations. Ready?”
“Drew, aren’t you forgetting something?” asked Ourecky. “Aren’t we supposed to be completely suited up before proximity operations? Including helmets and gloves? That’s the rule, isn’t it?”
Carson chuckled. “Man, that promotion has obviously gone to your head, Ourecky. You sure have become a stickler for formality. Look, let’s be realistic. We’re supposed to be in full kit just in case the pressure vessel gets penetrated, right?”
“Right.”
“Now, do you really think we’ll live through reentry if an antenna pokes a hole in us?”
“Probably not.”
“Then since we’re already in hot water for breaking some rules, why don’t we break one more? If we die, we’ll at least be somewhat comfortable. Besides, aren’t you always griping about how you can’t look up through the viewport with your helmet on? Now you won’t have to crane your neck as much.”
“Fine by me. After all, you are the boss.”
Carson finished his last sandwich. “Okay, here we go. I’ll sneak in slow so we can look at the underside from an oblique, so we don’t accidently eclipse that camera. I suspect if we catch the sun right, we’ll see a glint off the lens, and that will confirm the optics. Ready?”
“Ready on my side.”
“Ouch,” declared Carson, looking out his window as he adroitly nudged the maneuver controller. “Man, there’s a huge glare coming off that white paint. This ain’t going to be easy.” He reached into the stowage pouch to his left, extracted his eye patch, and put it on.
“What’s that for?” asked Ourecky. “Going to pirate mode?”
“Nope. I still have to read my instruments, and that damned thing is almost blinding me.” Carson bumped the maneuver controller again and looked down at his instrument panel as he flipped up the patch from his protected eye. “Here we go.”
On Orbit
3:28 a.m. Eastern, Saturday, June 14, 1969 (Rev 13 / GET: 18:28:15)
After drawing alongside, they flew in close formation to the Soviet satellite for roughly five hours—three orbits—while carefully studying and photographing it. Now it was time for the final phase of the close proximity operations.
During the light phase of their last orbit, even as Ourecky was completing the last series of radiological measurements, Carson maneuvered the Gemini-I until it was translated into a nose up attitude, directly parallel to and slightly below the target. As they entered the dark phase of the orbit, he switched on his floodlight and maintained position.
“Anything on the radioactive front?” asked Carson.
“It’s not emitting anything greater than normal background,” answered Ourecky. “I think it’s safe to say that there’s no nukes or reactor on board, unless they’re exceptionally well-shielded. I’m going to close out the monitoring gear and get ready to deploy the Disruptor.”
“Sounds good. I’m not exactly comfortable with this orientation, but it looks like our best shot for deployment. I’m going to use those solar panels as my alignment reference. As it swings out, the Disruptor will momentarily cross their optics’ field of view, but I seriously doubt that they’ll have their cameras switched on over this corner of the world.”
Just as the sun peeked over the horizon, Carson ordered, “Deploy the Disruptor.”
“Deploying Disruptor,” answered Ourecky, toggling a switch. Inside the adapter, at the far end of the spacecraft, an explosive bolt detonated, freeing the end of a collapsible boom. A pneumatic cylinder, powered by a small cylinder of helium gas, slowly swung the boom out to its full extension.
Next, a pair of spring-loaded detents locked the boom into position; a second pneumatic cylinder extended the boom to its full length of eighteen feet. Now fully deployed, the boom jutted from the base of the Gemini-I up and at a forty-five degree angle so that its distant end was positioned almost directly above the viewport in Ourecky’s hatch.
“Boom deployed,” stated Ourecky. “Extending hoop.” At the far end of the boom was a large hoop, like a huge snare, constructed of flexible metal tape. Resembling a gigantic radiator hose clamp, the hoop was motorized to expand or contract to encompass a target vehicle. It was literally like a giant lariat they would use to lasso the Soviet satellite. “Full extension on hoop.”
“Okay, let me eyeball this thing a minute,” said Carson, looking up through his viewport. “Lateral spacing looks good. Diameter on the hoop looks good, but if the target were any bigger then we would be in trouble. I’m going to start inching forward. Keep a sharp eye out, Scott.”
Pulsing the thr
usters, Carson gingerly edged the spacecraft forward, as if he were pulling into a tight parking space. If all went well, the maneuver would be like slipping an oversized ring onto a very big finger. “How’s it looking?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the target’s solar panels.
“Your lateral separation looks great,” Ourecky said. “No visible yaw or roll component on the target. The hoop’s lining up perfectly. You have about six feet to go.”
“Moving forward,” said Carson, delicately maneuvering the Gemini-I by measured inches.
“Four feet to go. Come out six inches and pitch the nose up half a degree.”
Carson deftly made the corrections. “How’s that?”
“Perfect. You’re lined up as well as you could be. Three feet to go . . . two feet . . . one foot . . . we’ve got overlap . . . still good alignment . . . about two foot overlap . . . three feet overlap . . . alignment is still excellent. Mark.”
“All stop,” replied Carson, applying a slight forward thrust to brake the spacecraft to a halt.
Although the boom was electrically insulated, a series of fine wire whiskers first made contact with the Soviet satellite to discharge static electricity, generating a momentary blue glow like St. Elmo’s fire. “Looks very solid,” judged Ourecky, watching the impromptu fireworks.
Moving slowly, Carson swiveled his head to check the loop’s positioning on the target. “I concur. Grab the camera and click some frames before we finish strangling this critter.”
Ourecky pointed the Hasselblad up through the viewport, snapped several pictures, and then tucked the camera between his knees. “Okay, Drew, ready for me to contract it?”
“Close the loop.”
Ourecky thumbed a switch to activate a drive motor at the far end of the boom. The loop contracted exactly as it was designed to, securely snugging it flush against the metal skin of the Soviet satellite. A clutch stopped the motor as the hoop sized itself to match the target.
“Hoop is closed. Disruptor comms check,” stated Ourecky. Looking out through the viewport, he watched a small panel on the Disruptor; a light on the panel flashed green as he thumbed a button, confirming that the device’s radio receiver was functioning correctly.
“Comms check is good,” verified Carson, also watching the light.
“Arming Boom Pyro,” declared Ourecky. He reached out to a rotary dial labeled “BOOM PYRO” and twisted it from SAFE to F1. “Secondary Safety disengaged. Pyro set to charge one.” Ourecky drew in his breath and looked up through the viewport. “Drew, I’ll fire on your mark.”
Carson crossed his fingers. At his command, Ourecky would trigger an explosive bolt that would sever the boom at its juncture with the loop. Simultaneously, as soon as they were physically separated, Carson would fire thrusters to swiftly disengage from the target. The timing was crucial. The protruding boom would still be securely attached to Gemini-I, and if they accidently moved toward the target, it could penetrate the exterior skin of the target. That could be dangerous for a number of reasons; besides the risk of becoming inadvertently and permanently attached to the target, they had absolutely no idea what lurked under its metal skin, and they could breach a fuel tank with potentially fatal consequences. So the trick to the game was to hold the Gemini-I as stable as possible until the charge fired, which Ourecky would visually confirm, and then scoot away to safety.
Wrapping his fingers around the hand controller, poised to withdraw, Carson quietly ordered, “Three, Two, One, Zero, Mark. Fire, Scott.”
Ourecky threw the switch, watched the explosive bolt fire, and announced, “Flash.” He immediately rotated the BOOM PYRO knob to F2 in readiness to fire a back-up charge in case the first fizzled, but saw that the spar had snapped cleanly at the junction. “Boom is sheared.”
“Backing,” said Carson, nudging the hand controller. “And that’s how it’s done, sports fans.”
“Boom Pyro to Safe. Primary Disruptor Safety is disengaged,” said Ourecky, flipping a switch. With that, the Disruptor was fully armed. Long after they returned to Earth, it could be brought to life by an encoded radio signal sent from the ground.
A highly adaptive killing machine, the Disruptor could cripple the Soviet satellite in any one of three ways. Most blatantly, it could demolish it outright with a substantial explosive charge or fire a solid rocket motor that would persuade the satellite to prematurely tumble into the Earth’s atmosphere. But by far, its most insidious means of attack was a “needle thruster.” The needle thruster was a miniscule gas port—approximately the diameter of a sewing needle, thus the name—connected to a cylinder of compressed nitrogen. Once activated, the thruster would stream gas for days or even weeks, just enough to impart a slow rotation to the target satellite.
The spiral would be a cause of maddening frustration to the satellite’s Soviet controllers, since they would never be able to focus its optics on a target with any degree of certainty. Additionally, the nefarious tactic would inevitably lead to the satellite’s early demise, since its solar panels would not be able to consistently absorb sufficient sunlight to charge its electrical systems. If nothing else, the gradual spin generated by the thruster would sow seeds of doubt in the satellite designers’ minds.
As they gradually faded away from the target, Ourecky asked, “What’s next, boss?”
“Well, the safest option would be to stay up here, but I suppose we had better head for New Mexico. I’m not looking forward to facing the wrath of Sheriff Wolcott, but at least this little pony delivered the mail, and it’s difficult to argue with success. When’s our next contact?”
Ourecky looked at an index card held by an alligator clip on a corner of his instrument panel, and then referred to his mission clock. “Atlantic Sentry Two in thirty-four minutes.”
“Time to grab a snack,” noted Carson, reaching back toward his food locker. “I’m famished. After we hit the contact, we’ll pack up and prep for reentry.”
Gazing around the cluttered cabin, Ourecky observed: “I’ll start packing while you’re chowing down. Getting this stuff re-stowed isn’t going to be easy. We’re fresh out of nooks, and the crannies are in short supply.”
Northrop Strip, White Sands Missile Test Range, New Mexico
8:46 p.m. Eastern, Saturday, June 14, 1969 (GET: 23:46:01)
Just slightly less than a day after they had left the PDF, they were almost home. Lining up on final, Carson had flown the paraglider so many times that this part of the mission was second nature to him. He would have preferred to land at night, but the early morning light wasn’t too bad. Looking at the small television screen mounted in the center console, which was connected to a fiber optics camera mounted to the right skid strut, he took note of the touchdown markings on the earthen strip.
The ground controller’s voice came through Carson’s earphones: “Scepter Two, you’re cleared to land on Runway One Seven. Winds out of One-Six-Zero at five knots. Landing surface is a dry lakebed. Advise that your gear are down and locked.”
“This is Scepter Two, copy cleared for landing on Runway One Seven, winds out of One-Six-Zero at five. Gear down and locked.”
“Looking good, Drew,” said Ourecky. “Sure you don’t want me to take this one?”
“Nah. I got it. Just keep an eye on that contact light over there.” Below the spacecraft, a contact sensor dangled on a fifteen-foot wire from the right skid well; a contact light on Ourecky’s panel would illuminate when it touched the ground.
“Got it. Should be anytime . . . anytime. . . . Contact.”
“Flaring paraglider,” said Carson calmly, tugging back the hand controller. Their forward speed slowed almost immediately, and then they heard a scraping noise as the three skids made contact with dirt strip. “Touchdown! Stand by to release paraglider.”
Ourecky flipped up a safety cover on a switch and replied, “Standing by to release.”
“Release paraglider.”
Ourecky threw the switch, which fired three explosive bolts si
multaneously, jettisoning the paraglider from the spacecraft. Discarding the paraglider was a precaution intended to prevent the huge fabric wing from being ignited or melted by the still searing heat shield at the rear of the spacecraft. Free of the paraglider, the Gemini-I continued to slide smoothly down the airstrip, gradually coming to a stop as emergency vehicles pulled alongside.
“Control, Scepter Two is at full stop,” declared Carson.
“Scepter Two, this is Control. Welcome back, gentlemen.”
39
THE UNUSUAL NATURE OF OBJECT 2368-B
Aerospace Support Project
9:41 a.m., Monday, June 16, 1969
Wolcott looked up from a report as an aide ushered in Carson and Ourecky. The two looked none the worse for wear; it was hard to believe that they had returned from orbit less than forty-eight hours ago. They had come straight from their T-38 on the flight line, with barely sufficient time to change from their flight gear to civilian clothes, and their hair was still pasted flat from the weight of their helmets and filmy sweat.
They both exhibited some color in their faces, courtesy of their limited exposure to the Pacific sun last week, and looked like a pair of salesmen stumbling back into the office after a convention junket in Miami. Although still charged with residual exuberance, they also seemed wary of whether they had been summoned for congratulations or court martial proceedings.
“General Tew should be right back,” stated the aide ominously.
Smiling nervously, Ourecky sauntered in and casually took a seat at the table. Obviously sensing the severe gravity of the situation, Carson wagered on an unfavorable encounter, and stood at attention behind a chair. With an exaggerated cartoon-stiff posture and chin tucked sharply in brace, he looked every bit like the terrified West Point plebe he had once been.