11

MISSION TWELVE

Launch Complex 41

Cape Kennedy Air Force Station, Florida

6:30 p.m., Saturday, October 21, 1972

Clad in their space suits, reclining in a pair of matching beige Barcaloungers, Carson and Ourecky waited impatiently in the cramped suit-up trailer. It was the same Airstream camper that they had occupied for their prolonged stint on Johnston Island last summer, anxiously waiting for word that the Soviets had launched their massive Proton rocket. In the hours just before Hurricane Celeste came ashore to demolish the PDF launch complex, the trailer—along with a few tons of other specialized equipment—had been hastily evacuated to Hawaii aboard a C-130 turboprop transport.

For at least the tenth time this hour, Ourecky checked over his flight plan notes. “Man, I’m starving,” he grumbled. His stomach growled audibly. “You would have thought they’d plan for some chow. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and that was almost twelve hours ago.”

“Thirty minutes,” announced a suit technician, holding up a walkie-talkie radio. “They’re getting ready to remove the shroud.”

Ourecky sat up and twisted around so he could look through the small window behind his right shoulder. The sun was setting. In the fading light, he glimpsed Launch Complex 41—LC 41—in the distance, slightly less than half a mile away from where the suit-up trailer was parked, near the base of the skyscraper-like Vertical Integration Facility. The launch pad’s main structure, a Titan umbilical tower, was positioned atop an enormous concrete “flame bucket.” The umbilical tower was surrounded by four tall metal structures that resembled radio broadcast towers; they were literally gigantic lightning rods, to prevent stray bolts from destroying the fragile electronics of a rocket on the pad.

The fiberglass shroud had been fitted on the Titan II to disguise it as an unmanned payload for a limited notice operational test. Theoretically, the purpose of the test was to validate ICBM emergency firing procedures under extremely realistic conditions; as far as the outside world—which included local civilians and NASA workers—was concerned, a stand-by ICBM alert crew would be issued launch orders on very short notice, so the Titan II could blast off at any time, day or night. The shroud would be removed and lowered immediately after the sun was completely below the horizon. Most the complex’s lights would remain off, cloaking the remaining launch preparations in darkness.

“Hey,” declared the technician, “if you’re that hungry, Scott, I think there’s a case of C-rations stashed in the van. The pad techs like to keep some extra chow around in case they’re working late and can’t leave. Want me to call them?”

“I’m not that hungry.”

“We’ll wait for Virgil,” said Carson, reviewing notes on a clipboard. “He said he would make it back on time, so we’ll just have to trust him.”

The men heard gravel crunching as a car pulled up outside. “I think the chuck wagon has arrived,” noted Ourecky.

Seconds later, the trailer’s aluminum door swung open, and Virgil Wolcott entered, ducking his head to avoid banging into the low doorframe. He bore two brown paper bags. “Catsup, extra onions?” he asked, digging into one of the bags to produce a large hamburger wrapped in wax paper.

“That’s me,” answered Ourecky. He quickly unwrapped the sandwich and commenced to eat.

“I guess the other’s mine,” noted Carson, taking the other hamburger that Wolcott proffered. “You’re a lifesaver, Virgil. Thanks a million.”

“Glad to oblige,” drawled Wolcott. “You boys are mighty lucky. Those came straight from the Sunrise Diner, best danged burgers in town.”

“How much, Virg?” asked Carson, talking around a mouthful of burger.

“Seven bucks for the both of you, pard.”

“I’m a little short at the moment,” declared Carson, patting his chest pocket. “I left my wallet back in Ohio. I’ll pay you when we get back, provided we get back. Besides, it’s legal for me to put meals on my travel voucher, right?”

“Danged good point. If you’re stickin’ it on your voucher, why don’t we call it ten bucks even, then. Hell, I should rate at least a sawbuck for pre-flight caterin’.” Wolcott sat on a wooden stool between the two recliners where Carson and Ourecky reposed, and asked, “Are you gents comfortable with what you’ve got?”

“I don’t like the thought of flying the intercept without the radar,” replied Carson, squirting catsup into a small paper sack of French fries. “I know we have plenty of support from the ground, and everything is supposed to be perfectly synchronized, but I’m just not comfortable relying on someone else’s fix. We’ve done this deed countless times in training, and seven times for real, and we’re used to the radar.”

“Duly noted, pard,” said Virgil, snitching one of the catsup-drenched French fries. “But even though that durned Krepost is supposed to be unoccupied, we just can’t afford to take any chances. And you, Ourecky? Any major reservations on your part?”

“Other than riding a rocket to work?” asked Ourecky, crumpling the hamburger wrapper and hurling it toward a cardboard box that served as a trash repository. “None to speak of, Virgil. I have to admit, I’m with Drew concerning the radar, but other than that, I’m anxious to fly this thing, kill the target, and then get back home so I can move on with my life. You’re sure that General Tew intends to make good on his promises?”

“Absolutely, son, absolutely,” replied Wolcott, nodding vigorously.

“Then, like you say, Virgil: if you need someone to go upstairs to sweep out the attic, then we’re your huckleberries.”

Eating quickly, enjoying their last minutes on Earth, the two men were silent for a few minutes.

“The van is outside,” announced the technician, listening to his walkie-talkie. “Time to go, guys.”

“Guess you fellers have to skedaddle,” said Wolcott, patting Ourecky on the shoulder. “Best of luck to you. We’re countin’ on you two to get this deed done.”

“Thanks,” answered Ourecky. “We’ve had plenty of practice runs, so it’s great to finally go after the real deal.”

“Thanks, Virg,” said Carson, just before finishing the last bite of his hamburger. “We’ll do our best.”

Ourecky sat upright, cinched the elastic thigh strap on his kneeboard, and then jammed his slide rule’s leather holster into his right calf pocket. He stood up, bent over to retrieve his helmet, and then announced, “I’m ready to roll.”

“Give me a minute,” replied Carson, squeezing Colgate toothpaste onto his index finger. He briskly rubbed his teeth with the finger, and then swished out his mouth with water from a paper cup. “Okay, buddy, let’s hit the road.”

8:41 p.m.

Ourecky slid down his clear visor, locked it into place, and then did a quick scan of his instrument panel. All readings looked nominal for launch. He checked the computer console again, ensuring that its knob was set to ‘ASC’ for Ascent mode and made sure that his kneeboard was securely in place on his left thigh. Confident that he was ready, he granted himself a minute to close his eyes to think about Bea and Andy before saying a quick prayer to request a safe flight.

For various reasons, this was a ground-directed mission, in which he and Carson would have very little input into the intercept process. Their orbital track would be paced by a virtual armada of tracking stations based on ships and airplanes, supplemented by several ground-based tracking locations.

Powerful radars at the tracking stations would carefully monitor the orbital position of their Gemini-I as well as their target: the Soviet Krepost space station. The tracking information would be quickly routed to the Mission Control facility at Wright-Patterson, where a bank of high-speed computers would analyze the data to produce very precise instructions for the intercept profile. Those instructions would be relayed back to the tracking facilities, where they would be uploaded by data link to the Gemini-I’s on-board computer.

Compared to previous launches, there was a lot less chatter in his earphones than normal. Like the intercept process, the communications procedures for this mission were also considerably different than their eight previous missions. Although the ground-based CAPCOM—Capsule Communicator—would keep them informed with a running commentary of flight-related issues, Carson and Ourecky would maintain radio silence unless there were circumstances that dictated an emergency abort. They would keep quiet even during the launch, since in theory, anyone—which typically included Soviet intelligence trawlers sitting offshore in international waters—eavesdropping on the radio frequencies would be compelled to believe that the Titan II’s payload was unmanned, as advertised.

“Vehicle is transferring to internal power,” stated the CAPCOM. “Stand by for engine gimballing.”

“Gimbals,” muttered Carson on the Gemini-I’s intercom loop.

“Copy gimbals,” responded Ourecky.

“T-minus one minute and counting,” declared the CAPCOM. “Five seconds to Stage Two fuel valves….Thirty seconds…T-minus twenty seconds….”

Ourecky felt the almost overwhelming sensations that had become so routine in the past three years: the vibrations of the powerful turbo-pumps raced through his spine.

If but only to each other, both men chanted out the final countdown: “T-minus 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4…first stage ignition.”

Gritting his teeth, Ourecky felt a shudder as the first stage engines roared to life. Two seconds later, right on schedule, the explosive hold-down bolts cracked, releasing the rocket to the sky. They were on the way, hoisted by 215,000 pounds of thrust.

“Here we go!” declared Carson. “Lift-off and the clock’s running. Last time, buddy?”

“Definitely the last time.”

Gemini-I, On Orbit

3:50 a.m. GMT, Sunday October 22, 1972

GET: 3 Hours 5 minutes / REV # 2

Ourecky was bored, if it was truly possible for a man to be bored while travelling at 17,500 miles per hour through the cold vacuum of space. It wasn’t that spaceflight had become commonplace to him, but rather that he was accustomed to being so busy that he scarcely had time to even steal a glance out the window. Of course, the mission planners had asserted—repeatedly—that although the initial approach was virtually automated, save for manually executing the maneuvers specified by the computer, he and Carson were absolutely critical for the final phase of the intercept.

As they passed through their communications window, Ourecky watched as the upload light blinked on their on-board computer. He scrolled through the computer display’s screens, copying down the key pertinent information on an index card. He tugged his slide rule out of its holster and then painstakingly verified the mission controller’s calculations.

Curious, Carson unwrapped a package of Fig Newtons as he watched the right-seater. He handed two of the fruit-stuffed wafers to Ourecky, ate two, and then tucked the remainder into his side storage pocket. “Uh, Scott, you do recall that this is predominately a ground-directed mission, right?” he asked. “We’re only supposed to cook the recipe they beam up. No deviations or extra spices.”

Ourecky floated the cookies in front of him, nodded, finished his computations, stowed his slide rule, and then compared his numbers to the ground’s. “Looks good,” he commented, double-checking an entry from the computer’s digital read-out.

“So, is there any particular reason that you feel compelled to rework those problems?” asked Carson.

“Well, Drew, I suppose that old habits are hard to break.”

“I guess. So, what’s next on the agenda?”

“Another minor phase shift in thirty-four minutes.”

“Thirty-four minutes? That seems like a day away. I wish that I had brought a book up.”

“Well, you do have time to grab a nap if you want,” replied Ourecky, leaning forward to grab a slowly tumbling Fig Newton between his teeth. “I’ll cover while you’re down.”

“Thanks. The controls are yours, Right Seat.”

“Right Seat has the controls.”

Mission Control Facility, Aerospace Support Project

1:25 a.m., Sunday, October 22, 1972

As the mission was in progress, Mark Tew kept vigil from his habitual vantage point during flights, the glass-enclosed Executive Observation Area located at the rear of the Mission Control facility. He was happy, if not still apprehensive. So far, the sortie was proceeding entirely as planned, but they were still a long way from climbing up to the Krepost and destroying it.

Tew glanced at the mission clock on the front wall, past the first row of controller consoles. Just starting their third orbit, Carson and Ourecky had been up for slightly less than five hours. A few minutes ago, Virgil Wolcott had called from Flight Operations here on the base, to announce that he had returned from Cape Kennedy. Admiral Tarbox was at the Pentagon, ostensibly to keep General Kittredge and other high-ranking officers appraised of the mission’s progress.

Watching the controllers at work, Tew felt his pulse at his neck. His heart had fluttered several times in the past few days, accompanied by stabbing pains in his chest. His current medications didn’t seem to be having much therapeutic effect. If all went well, this mission should be concluded in forty-eight hours or less, so he promised himself that he would report straightaway to his cardiologist the moment they had confirmation that the boys were safely back on the ground. In the meantime, there was still much to be done and little time to squander, so his health be damned for the moment.

He heard Wolcott’s distinctive Oklahoma twang and looked down to see his counterpart, still dressed in his flight suit, entering the facility through one of the lower side doors. Ted Seibert, also attired in sage green Nomex, was with him. The two had obviously come straight from the flight line without changing.

Wolcott customarily made his rounds on the floor before coming up to the observation area, but today he strolled directly up the sloping aisle between the rows of consoles. Wearing concerned expressions, he and Seibert entered the observation room together.

“I think you need to grab a chair, Mark,” declared Wolcott, as the door swung closed behind him. “Ted has some hot news that just came over the wire, and it ain’t soundin’ good.”

Tew took a seat behind one of the unoccupied desks, took a deep breath, and said, “Go on.”

“We apparently have an ugly situation developing, General,” confided Seibert, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. His face bore a faint outline of his oxygen mask, and his hair—usually perfectly coiffed—was matted down from his flight helmet. The intelligence officer was normally fastidious about his appearance; Tew had never seen him even slightly unkempt.

“Something that could affect the mission?” asked Tew.

“Most definitely,” answered Seibert, nodding solemnly. “We just received this week’s message from the source at Kapustin Yar. He indicated that the Krepost might still be manned.”

Tew gasped. “What? I thought we had solid verification that a Soyuz had undocked from it, reentered, and the crew was successfully recovered.”

Seibert cleared his throat and said, “He claims that they only sent one man home.”

“Oh.”

“Like I said, Mark, this ain’t good,” interjected Wolcott. “It don’t bode well at all.”

Seibert bent down, unzipped his left calf pocket, and pulled out a briarwood pipe and a leather pouch. He stuffed the pipe’s bowl with tobacco and started to light it with a wood match, but stopped when Wolcott faintly shook his head.

Nodding in affirmation, Siebert put away his matches and continued. “There’s more. According to the source, the Krepost may be damaged in some manner. The Soviets apparently are planning to launch a mission to rescue the man on board. The source at Kapustin Yar also apparently suspects that he is in danger of compromise, because he has requested an emergency extraction for his family and himself.”

“That ain’t good,” declared Wolcott.

Nervously toying with his pipe, Seibert stated, “We also have information from another source that indicates that the Soviets know that we are aware of the Krepost and that it is armed with nuclear weapons.”

“So the Soviets know that we’re conscious of the Krepost?” asked Tew angrily. Convulsing slightly, he clutched his chest and began to wheeze. As casually as he could manage, he reached into his desk drawer, found a flat tin containing nitroglycerine tablets, and slipped one in his mouth.

“Probably,” answered Seibert.

Tew felt the nitro tablet dissolve on his tongue, and then said, “This is terrible news. How about our boys upstairs? At this point, we have to assume that the Soviets must at least suspect that we might target the Krepost. Do you have any indication that they know that we have a mission underway? Are Carson and Ourecky in imminent danger?”

Seibert shook his head and replied, “General, there is no indication that they’re aware that we are currently executing a mission, nor do we think that they even know about this Project. On a negative note, they are obviously being more vigilant than usual, so we suspect that they might be anticipating an attack on the Krepost at some point, but they still seem fixated on the notion that we’re employing an unmanned intercept platform.”

“So, if the Krepost is vacant, our men should be relatively safe, right?” asked Tew.

“Honestly, we have no way of knowing,” answered Seibert. “The man still up there could very well be waiting in ambush. On the other hand, assuming that the information from our Kapustin Yar source is accurate and the Krepost is damaged, there’s no way of knowing if their defensive systems are still functional. Obviously, we should probably err on the side of caution and assume that they are.”

“Agreed,” replied Tew. His head was spinning as a result of the nitroglycerine tablet, and he struggled to maintain his composure.

“So, pard, I s’pose you want to call those boys home now, right?” said Wolcott, loosening the laces of his flight boots. “I’ll go and get Gunter so we can start puttin’ the appropriate plans in place.”

Tew shook his head. “Let’s not be too hasty. As far as I’m concerned, the situation really hasn’t changed that much. This Krepost is still a critical target that needs to be knocked down. Yes, I’m extremely inclined to order those two home, but their past performance has shown that they are going to do as they wish, regardless of what directions we give them.”

“So you ain’t goin’ to order them down?” asked Wolcott, frowning as he raised his eyebrows.

“No. We will give them all the pertinent information that we have, ensure that they are apprised of the risks, and grant them an opportunity to exercise their initiative. I would be more than happy if they decided to come home forthwith, but I strongly suspect that they won’t. After all, we put Carson and Ourecky in that cockpit for a reason, didn’t we?”

“That we did, brother,” answered Wolcott, gazing through the glass at the controllers at their consoles. “Indeed, that we did.”

Gemini-I, On Orbit

6:10 GMT, Sunday October 22, 1972

GET: 5 Hours 25 minutes / REV # 3

“Crypto’s locked in,” announced Ourecky, verifying the green light that indicated the voice scrambler had accepted the cryptographic variable that he had just keyed in.

“I copy that the crypto is locked. Standing by for transmission,” said Carson. “Hey, Scott, just to be absolutely safe, why don’t you switch off the transmitter on the voice side, just so we don’t accidently break the rules?”

“Will do,” replied Ourecky, throwing a series of switches. “Voice transmit is disabled.”

A few seconds passed before they heard the voice of the Mission Controller, who was physically located in a tracking station in California. Because he was transmitting through a scrambler, his voice bore a cartoonish distortion that made him sound almost like Daffy Duck. “Scepter Twelve, this is Track West. Stand by to copy critical traffic.”

Already prepared with index cards and pencils, Carson and Ourecky looked at each other. “Critical traffic?” asked Ourecky. “Wonder what this is about?”

He had their answer soon enough. “Scepter Twelve, this is Track West. Be advised that I have a lot of information and will prioritize from most important to least important, in case we lose contact. Be advised that the next station will pick up where I leave off…break…Specific instructions from Golf Mike Tango: You may continue to execute the intercept at your own discretion…break…I say again: Specific instructions from Golf Mike Tango: You may continue to execute the intercept at your own discretion.”

Track West continued: “If you elect not to continue intercept, you are cleared to reenter for PRZ One-Nine on your fifth rev. Current weather is six thousand scattered with twelve miles of visibility. Winds out of Nine Zero at six, gusting to nine. Current altimeter is Two Nine Six Seven. TACAN is Channel Three. I say again, if you elect not to continue intercept, you are cleared to reenter for PRZ One-Nine on your fifth rev. All other contingency recovery zone data remains in effect.

“This is current intelligence concerning your target. First, assume that it has sustained some form of damage, extent unknown, but is likely still manned and crew will probably aggressively defend target if they detect your approach. Stand by…stand by…stand by…”

As they waited for more, Carson whistled. “Isn’t this something? This definitely isn’t the walk in the park we anticipated, Scott.”

Ourecky nodded.

“Scepter Twelve, this is Track West. Be aware that we have some last breaking developments to pass on. Stand by to copy.”

Seconds later, Track West announced: “Tango Two-One has reported a significant anomaly with the target vehicle.” Ourecky knew that Tango Two-One was a ship-based tracking station that employed a powerful radar to monitor the Krepost and accurately determine its position in space. Like the other tracking radars that would guide their rendezvous, Tango Two-One had been switched off until this phase of the mission, since the Krepost was in such a predictable orbit, but was now illuminating the station in short duration “snapshot” pulses of radar energy.

“As of an hour ago, Tango Two-One indicated that there are now multiple radar targets in the immediately vicinity of the target, as well as multiple targets trailing it in the same orbit. Their observations have been confirmed by another terrestrial station as well as an airborne station.”

Track West continued: “Earlier guidance remains in effect: You may continue to execute the intercept at your own discretion. Regardless of your decision, you should proceed with extreme caution. Acknowledge this transmission by breaking squelch three times, and then switch circuit for data upload on my mark.”

“Scott, switch to voice,” said Carson.

Ourecky rotated a knob and stated, “Voice on.”

Carson keyed his mike three times.

“Copy acknowledgement,” replied Track West. “Switch circuit to data upload on my mark…three…two…one…mark.”

Ourecky checked the computer display and verified that the DCS data upload light was lit.

“Whew,” said Carson. “That was a lot to absorb. What’s your take, Scott?”

“Honestly? All that sounded pretty interesting, and it was really nice of General Tew to extend us the courtesy of deciding whether to continue or not, but it really doesn’t change things.”

“How so?” asked Carson, unwrapping a stick of Juicy Fruit.

“Even though we were told that the Krepost would be unmanned, we’ve always assumed that they might have some remote or automatic system for firing the gun. To me, the only difference is that they apparently know or suspect that we’re coming.”

“Point taken.”

“The new development is what concerns me. If there are additional radar returns, that either means that they’ve experienced some sort of catastrophic accident, like Ground implied, or…”

“They’re dumping some sort of chaff to spoof our radar,” interjected Carson. “And that’s actually a good sign, if they believe we need to light up our radar to make our approach. Chances are that they also have a gizmo like ours to detect radar frequencies. So if we creep in with a cold nose, they might not even notice us until it’s too late.”

“DCS upload is complete,” observed Ourecky, watching the computer console. “The computer has accepted the DCS data. So, Drew, it sounds like you’re intent on proceeding. Is that the case?”

“You know I can’t order you to do this, Scott,” answered Carson. “You have a wife and family to go home to, and I don’t. Personally, I would just as soon go ahead and execute, but it’s your call. What say you, Ourecky?”

Ourecky thought for a moment. He thought about Bea and Andy at home, and wanted nothing more than to return to them as quickly as he could, but he also thought of the millions of people who would be living under this monster’s menacing shadow if they failed to act.

“They sent us up here for a reason,” he said. “If it’s all the same to you, Drew, I would prefer to follow through.”