17

BIG CAN

Naval Space Operations Vehicle Assembly Facility

Vandenberg Air Force Base, California

10 a.m., Friday, November 17, 1972

Before he left Ohio yesterday, Wolcott had assured him that a big surprise lay in store, and he was absolutely right: it was a bombshell that Ourecky could have never anticipated. He joined Wolcott and Tarbox as they walked into a glass-enclosed observation room overlooking a massive assembly bay. Dressed in white coveralls, workers scurried about, preparing a huge yellow-painted cradle to receive a large cylindrical object suspended from a huge overhead crane. Sheathed in protective white film, the massive object looked like a giant Christmas present waiting to be opened.

“So, son, do you have any notion about what you’re lookin’ at?” asked Wolcott. “Care to speculate?”

Initially, Ourecky suspected that it was an intermediate stage for a Titan IIIC booster, since its dimensions and rough configuration looked approximately right, and then realized that it looked a little more familiar than he had anticipated.

“This is the second ocean surveillance MOL,” declared Tarbox, confirming Ourecky’s suspicions. “After the mission in August, we started to put all the MOL hardware in mothballs and shelve the entire project. Then we realized that the solar storm was an anomaly that no one could have predicted. Granted, if the comms gear had been working, we could have warned those boys and got them down safely. Anyway, except for the comms gear, all of the other systems—including the reactor—worked perfectly. We’ve resolved the issues with the comms equipment. Instead of shutting down, we intend to pursue operations.”

“Savvy, Ourecky?” interjected Wolcott. “That danged rascal ain’t goin’ to be tucked into mothballs after all.”

“We have tentative approval to launch next year,” declared Tarbox. “We’re awaiting on the final approval, at the highest levels of command authority, before it’s a solid Go.”

“But I don’t understand, sir,” said Ourecky. “Why is this relevant to me? Why are you showing me this?”

“We want you and Carson to fly it.”

Staring at the MOL, Ourecky swallowed deeply. His mind reeled with the potential angles being worked by Tarbox; a consummate master of political intrigue, the admiral rarely did anything without some ulterior motive. Clearly, he had the President’s ear, which explained why this particular revelation had to wait until after the Presidential election.

Although Ourecky knew that he couldn’t slow the momentum of a speeding locomotive, and the Project would continue roaring down the tracks regardless of what he did or didn’t do, he clearly knew that he had to disembark from this train, once and for all.

“Son, did you not hear me?” screeched Tarbox. “We want you and Carson to fly it.”

“Sir, I’m not interested,” blurted Ourecky.

“Before you up and do somethin’ rash that you’ll regret for the rest of your life, pard, you need to listen to the admiral’s proposition,” countered Wolcott. “After all, this ain’t just about you, son, it’s about Carson as well.”

Tarbox cleared his throat and said, “Major, I understand your reluctance, but allow me to clarify a few things that might just change your mind. I’m sure that you’re aware that the Air Force publically cancelled their MOL program in 1969, and that the Navy picked it up—in secret—afterwards. To make a long story short, I have convinced the National Command Authority to fly this next mission in public view, at least to a certain extent. The launch will be televised, the flight crew will be announced, and the public will be aware that we—the Navy and the Air Force, in unison—are conducting the mission. Beyond that, most of the flight will still remain classified; it will be billed as a reconnaissance mission, and we’ll just leave it at that.”

“So it will all be in public view?” asked Ourecky.

“I think that’s what the admiral just said,” said Wolcott, grinning ear to ear. “A public launch, for all the world to see!”

“But why?”

“Why did the NCA decide to throw back the veil?” asked Tarbox. “It’s simple, Major. The last Apollo lunar mission will launch next month. Next up is Skylab, which should launch next year, and then there’s a possibility of a US-Soviet joint flight in a couple of years, but that’s it. Moreover, with Skylab, NASA is putting all their eggs in one basket. It’s a complex machine, and if there are any major problems before the crew docks to occupy it, then the project could be over before it starts. In the meantime, the Soviets are rapidly moving forward with plans to send up a series of manned space stations…”

“Like the Krepost, sir?” asked Ourecky.

“No. Hopefully not, anyway. They plan to transition to a civilian station called the Salyut. So, I convinced the NCA that since we have the MOL hardware, this is an excellent opportunity to continue flying. We have three flight-rated MOLs ready to fly, so the United States can maintain a visible presence in space for two years or more, regardless of what happens with Skylab.”

“And the crews would be publically announced?” asked Ourecky.

“Yup,” replied Wolcott. “And we’re very aware that your better half would have a tough time swallowing that one, but I’m sure that Bea will get past her misgivings when she sees your face on the cover of Life magazine!”

Yeah. Sure she would, thought Ourecky. And Bea is plenty smart enough that she would connect the dots to figure out what I’ve been doing for the past three years, and then my marriage would really be over.

Tarbox interjected, “This is not a done deal; we have tentative approval but won’t get a final blessing until April of next year. But if this flies, and we’re confident that it will, you’ll be delayed a year going back to school, but we’ll hold fast to Mark Tew’s promise. You’ll go to MIT in the fall of 1974.”

Obviously sensing his hesitance, Wolcott nudged Ourecky’s shoulder and urged, “But just think about it, son, you’ll go to MIT as a bona fide, publically recognized astronaut. Granted, there won’t ever be any public acknowledgement of your other flights, but what an opportunity this is!”

“With all the sacrifices you’ve made, we feel that we owe you this, Ourecky,” said Tarbox. “You and Carson both.”

Ourecky contemplated the opportunity. After nine flights jammed into the tiny cockpit of the Gemini-I, he was thrilled at the notion of spending unfettered days in the MOL’s spacious cabin. But he was also painfully aware that the public MOL flight would almost certainly result in the dissolution of his marriage, particularly if Bea put the pieces together about the previous flights.

“I’m sorry, Admiral,” said Ourecky in a pained voice. “As appealing as all this sounds, I’m still going to pass.”

As Tarbox’s face turned crimson, Wolcott cleared his throat and said, “Son, I figured out that you were a hardheaded danged cuss back when you turned down my offer to let you earn your wings, but this is entirely different. As far as me and the Admiral are concerned, you and Carson have earned this ride a thousand times over, but on a practical note, this offer ain’t goin’ to stand indefinitely.”

“How so, Virgil?” asked Ourecky, looking out into the massive bay as the shrouded MOL was carefully mated with the storage cradle. Rotating yellow caution lights flashed and warning horns blared.

“This is a package deal,” answered Wolcott. “It’s a package exclusively for you and Carson. If you decide to jump on this horse, then we’ll start preparin’ you immediately. You’ll spend some time out here in California, workin’ with the hardware, but there will also be a lot of academic work back in Ohio. Once Carson gets back from his boondoggle, he’ll fall right in with you, and you boys will probably fly about this same time next year.”

“But if you’re still reluctant and you decide not to commit,” asserted Tarbox, regaining his composure. “Then we will have to immediately begin the process of preparing another crew. Timing is of the essence, particularly since we don’t have any other crews with your expertise and level of flight experience.”

“So, bub,” interjected Wolcott. “As you ponder your reply, bear in mind that you’re not speakin’ just for yourself, but Carson as well.”

Ourecky cringed as if he had been punched in the gut. Obviously, Carson would be absolutely elated if he were present to hear the Ancient Mariner’s pitch. It was a no-brainer: even though Ourecky was content to remain in the shadows, the public flight would give Carson the recognition that he coveted and clearly deserved.

“Obviously, for some very practical reasons, we can’t share any of this with Carson right now,” said Wolcott. “And you should be forewarned, Ourecky, if you say anything to him before he gets back, all deals are off, to include Carson’s cruise as well as your future academic dreams. Therefore, I urge you to keep your trap shut.”

“Yes, sir,” muttered Ourecky.

“Since Carson is not here, and since you speak for him in his absence, here’s what I propose,” said Tarbox. “Unless you want to decline this opportunity outright, today, let’s just assume that Carson will be receptive to this plan when he returns. In the meantime, you’ll begin your familiarization training with the MOL-specific systems and reactor operations. Do you concur?”

Ourecky felt trapped. “Yes, sir,” he croaked quietly.

“What was that, son?” asked Tarbox. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes, sir. I concur, sir.”

“And there’s one other slight wrinkle,” announced Wolcott. “Ourecky, you’ll fill the left seat for this mission. I figure that’s only fair, since you’ll be busting your butt studyin’ and trainin’ while our friend Carson is gallivantin’ overseas, getting his ticket punched.”

Command pilot? Startled, Ourecky was speechless.

Grinning, turning to look towards the MOL, Wolcott drawled, “Shucks, pardner, I reckon that your stars have really lined up, haven’t they?

Da Nang, Vietnam

8:45 a.m., Saturday, November 18, 1972

Walking out of the sandbagged plywood team house, Nestor Glades paused to soak in the familiar scene. A groaning bulldozer shoved a massive pile of red dirt to reinforce an earthen revetment. Manning a perimeter enclosed by multiple belts of concertina wire, bored South Vietnamese soldiers lounged behind machine guns, mortars and recoilless rifles. The still morning air was heavy with the noxious stench of human waste being burned in diesel fuel.

Glades had been levied for some odd assignments in the course of his career, but this was by far the strangest errand handed down to him. The mission was unusual in many ways. First, as best as he could determine, the mission focused on snatching one particular man out of harm’s way, but neither Fels nor anyone else seemed predisposed to reveal the man’s identity. Despite this, he was granted unprecedented latitude and resources to prepare for the standby task.

The pre-mission briefings were vague, except that it was almost certain that if the trigger was pulled, they would go into North Vietnam. And although there was virtually no likelihood that the mission would be executed, they had to be prepared to launch on an extremely short notice. The window for the potential mission would open in November and would likely last three to four months at most. So between now and then, they would go into seclusion, assuming a fireman’s existence, training and preparing as they patiently waited for the bell to ring.

Although it would entail a ground incursion into North Vietnam, Glades still harbored lingering doubts that the mission wasn’t officially sanctioned at the highest levels of the military. He personally knew most of the men who participated in the gutsy raid on the Son Tay POW camp—which turned out to be dry hole—so he was aware of the considerable preparations prior to that mission. It wasn’t a casual endeavor by any means. In contrast, this job seemed to be planned on the basis of a wink and a nod, with Fels quietly cashing his wealth of personal chips with key leaders within the Air Force Rescue and Recovery Service and other organizations. Consequently, very few individuals were privy to the plans, and Glades was effectively fenced off from the Special Forces operators who were most proficient in executing this sort of mission.

Except for a handful of former MACV-SOG personnel who would coordinate logistics and planning, there were no Army personnel involved. Fels had made good on his offer to provide two Air Force sergeants—Matt Henson and Ulf Finn—whom he had worked with in Haiti. Finn had accompanied him from Eglin, and Henson just arrived this morning from Thailand. They were both a little rough around the edges, but he trusted them, and hopefully there would be adequate time to train them before they were called to action. As with the MACV-SOG recon teams he had led in the past, the team would be rounded out with indigenous soldiers familiar with the operational area.

But there was something different about this job, something that he couldn’t pin down. He couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that his luck may have finally petered out, and that he might not make it out of Vietnam alive. It seemed as if Deirdre was of the same mind. Even after she had revealed her dream to him, and after he had convinced her that he would be safe, their departure embrace had been much more prolonged than usual. Unlike her usual lighthearted hug and peck on the cheek, it was if she was more than reluctant to let him go.

He shrugged, pushing gloomy thoughts from his mind, and focused on what had to be accomplished. Since he was assured that his new team would not go operational any earlier than mid-December, he proceeded at an almost leisurely pace. Accompanied by Finn, his first stop was the supply room, where a large consignment of mission equipment awaited. With his virtual carte blanche, he was granted anything he asked for, within reason.

He and Finn entered the dimly lit supply room. A Johnny Cash tune played from speakers wired to an Akai reel-to-reel tape deck. Seated behind a field desk, a ponderous supply sergeant—Ted Blair—perused the latest edition of Playboy. Blair’s enormous gut flopped over his straining belt; it looked like he had a reserve parachute stashed under his faded green T-shirt. In any other circumstances, Glades would have been thoroughly disgusted, but he knew that Blair was a former “One-One” assistant team leader who had paid his dues and then some.

Once in peak physical condition, Blair was slowly recovering from a broken back sustained in a helicopter crash that killed most of his team over a year ago. Although thrown clear of the wreckage, he had run into the roaring flames to drag two of his teammates and the pilot to safety. While most MACV-SOG personnel had long since redeployed, he had drawn this cushy assignment because he was married to a Vietnamese nurse who was waiting for a work visa to accompany him to the States. Addicted to a mix of painkillers and powerful muscle relaxants, which he gulped down by the handful, Blair was marginally functional at best.

“All that stuff’s yours. Everything you asked for. Just arrived this morning,” said Blair, waving his hand toward several wooden loading pallets stacked with crates.

“Will I need to sign for it?” asked Glades, shivering. A window-mounted air conditioner ran at full blast, spewing out air frigid enough to raise goose bumps, but Blair still sweated like a fat missionary invited to a cannibal tribe’s pot luck supper.

“Hell, Nestor, no one’s signing for anything anymore,” replied the bored-looking sergeant. “I have orders to hold this junk until you no longer have any use for it, and then I’m supposed to torch what’s left over.” He gestured at a crate of thermite incendiary grenades next to his desk.

Nodding, Glades tore brown paper wrapping from a brand new AK magazine. Examining the curved magazine, he recalled periods of scarcity in the past, when his teams had to scavenge, scrounge and barter for items as simple as radio batteries and blasting caps. After becoming so accustomed to deprivation, it was difficult for him to grasp the notion of almost inexhaustible plentitude. Of course, there was a very logical reason. He was aware that an entire warehouse was still crammed with off-the-books “non-attributable” gear and supplies; for various reasons, most of the goods would be destroyed instead of being handed over to the South Vietnamese. Most of it was captured material, but there was also a lot of ordnance and sundries from other countries. Some of the third-country armaments, such as ammunition from Warsaw Pact nations, had been obtained surreptitiously, while much had been sold or donated to MACV-SOG by countries not overly eager to advertise their relationship with the United States.

Circulating amongst the pallets, Glades and Finn surveyed the booty. One wooden crate was packed with spanking new AK-47 assault rifles, still coated in sticky brown cosmoline. Large burlap sacks swelled with NVA uniforms, pith helmets, rucksacks, and chest webbing. There was a collection of Soviet-built radios, as well as rocket-propelled grenades and their tube-shaped launchers. Grinning, Finn looked like a kid in a candy store, almost drooling over the abundance of equipment.

A stack of light blue metal containers, resembling oversized sardine cans, contained Israeli-manufactured AK ammunition earmarked specifically for the actual mission. The “sterile” Israeli rounds bore no case stampings or other identifying markings, and were produced to the highest standards so as to be absolutely reliable. Wooden crates with East German and Yugoslav labels contained the less trustworthy Warsaw Pact ammunition they would expend in training.

Not all of the allotment was foreign-made. Some of the stuff Glades had requested was proudly made in the good ol’ US of A, as American as Ford, Chevrolet, Mom, and apple pie. Glades was a discriminating connoisseur of lethal goods, and there were certain instances where only the best would do and cheap substitutes just could not be accepted. Consequently, one pallet was filled with US-made C4 plastic explosives, Claymore directional mines, silenced Hi Standard pistols, and a pair of M-79 grenade launchers with an assortment of rounds.

Kneeling down, Glades picked over the pallet to ensure that it contained the M14 “toe-popper” mines he had specifically asked for. Intended to deter pursuers, the little mines were about the size and shape of half a soup can. They were easy to emplace but not designed to kill; rather, they contained just enough explosive force to mangle the foot of anyone unfortunate enough to step on them. And of course, besides materials intended to maim and murder, the pallet contained a large assortment of medical supplies requested by Henson.

Glades listened to a helicopter landing at the small helipad within the compound. He turned to Finn, pointed at three of the pallets, and said, “Go grab Henson and tote that stuff over to the team house. I’ll be over as quick as I can to lend you a hand. We’ll get the rest tomorrow.”

As he headed toward the door, he heard Blair’s voice behind him. “Let me know if you need anything else, Nestor. Official or otherwise.”

“I’ll do that,” replied Glades. He thought for a moment about a problem which had been vexing him. “Are you still qualified as a parachute rigger?”

“I am,” replied Blair. “Do you want me to scrounge up some parachutes for you guys? I have a wire on some HALO rigs if you’re interested. Top quality stuff.”

“No. I have something else in mind. Let me think about it, and I’ll get back to you.”

Stepping out into the bright sunlight, Glades squinted. He saw four men climbing out of a Huey helicopter on the helipad, and immediately recognized a South Vietnamese officer. The officer—Major Phan Lac Lahn—was a past member of the South Vietnamese LLDB Special Forces and had formerly been assigned to MACV-SOG as a liaison for intelligence. He apparently would be working with Glades and his team in the same capacity.

“Glades?” implored Lahn, extending his hand. He spoke perfect English with a Southern California accent; he could have easily passed as a used car salesman in Los Angeles. In the style so prevalent amongst Vietnamese officers, his camouflage uniform was tailored so snugly that it could have been a second skin. “This is quite a surprise. I didn’t think you would be coming back here.”

“Neither did I,” answered Glades. “I understand you have some men for me, Major Lahn.” He was never particularly trusting of anyone in the South Vietnamese Army, particularly Lahn.

“I do,” replied Lahn, handing over three dossiers. He pointed toward the trio unloading duffle bags and footlockers from the Huey. “You requested former NVA soldiers. Here are the top three. I have several more if these don’t work out.”

Glades leafed through the documents. The former enemy soldiers, now members of the Vietnamese SMS—Special Mission Service—had each previously participated in at least one clandestine infiltration of North Vietnam. Although they smiled and seemed eager to please, Glades could tell that they were incredibly tough men, intensely hardened by years spent at war.

Lahn introduced Glades to the trio. Their captain—Dai Uy—was Cao Dihn Quan, a wiry but studious-looking former North Vietnamese field artillery officer. Sergeant—Trung si—Liu Xuhn Hieu was a former NVA sapper who had participated in several raids on major US military bases throughout the South. Half-Chinese, Hieu was huskier, taller and lighter-skinned than most ethnic Vietnamese. Trung si Trihn Van Dinh was a communications specialist who had served only a year in the infantry before being captured. With a pockmarked face that was a lasting souvenir of childhood smallpox, he was a small man, even by Vietnamese standards, but could clearly hold his own. As he shook their hands, Glades felt confident that he could build an effective team between the three SMS commandos and his two Americans.

9:55 a.m.

As the former NVA soldiers unpacked their gear and made themselves at home, Glades, Finn, and Henson collaborated with a mission planner who was responsible for refining the operational aspects of the rescue mission. An Army captain, Al Coleman, was a competent and meticulous planner, but bore an air of Walter Mitty about him. Constantly alluding to heroic—and almost certainly imaginary—exploits, Coleman obviously perceived of himself as a highly skilled clandestine operator.

“We’ve been burning the midnight oil. I think we’ve covered everything, except for one important piece.” Coleman gestured at the map. “We’re fairly certain we can extract you, unless it gets really hairy. We’re just not sure how to insert you in there. We need your input. We’re receptive to just about anything you might suggest, within reason.”

“Well, I’m assuming we’re coming out by rotary wing,” drawled Glades, looking at the map while making mental calculations on distances and times. “Affirm?”

“Correct,” answered Coleman. “If your mission launches, the Air Force will exclusively commit a heavy package, which will be on stand-by from the moment you depart this location. You can expect at least three CH-53s to be at your disposal, as well as plenty of fast mover close air support, and about all the Combat Air Patrol in theater to cover your extraction. When and if the time comes, you folks will be the tip-top priority in the theater.”

Glades laughed silently to himself; he had heard that line plenty of times in the past. “Well, obviously the only practical way out of there is a helicopter ride, so rotary wing is off the table for the insertion,” he said. “Too much noise, too much risk, and unless I don’t have a choice, I don’t like to show the same card twice. Do we have a Combat Talon available?” Glades was referring to the MC-130 “Combat Talon” variant of the venerable Lockheed Hercules. The turboprop transport, loaded to the gills with classified electronic warfare equipment, was expressly configured for clandestine infiltrations deep into enemy-controlled areas.

“Sure. All you have to do is ask,” said Coleman. “Are you looking to jump in?”

“Maybe. Right now, I’m just figuring options. A HALO jump is definitely out, and our indig troops haven’t jumped in months, so even a static line jump would be a stretch.”

Coleman pushed his black-framed issue spectacles up on his sweaty nose. “I wouldn’t rule it out. There’s plenty of time before your window opens, so you shouldn’t have any problem bringing your guys up to speed. I can coordinate any resources you need for training. And I wouldn’t mind bustin’ some clouds with you myself, if you’re going to do any HALO jumping.”

Glades shook his head. “I don’t think so. I know it looks like we have an abundance of time, but we don’t. I would rather focus our training time on what we’ll be doing once we’re on the ground. Besides, jumping just throws too many variables into the mix. Even if things go smoothly, it eats precious time to assemble after the jump. And when things don’t go so smoothly, people get scattered, lost and hurt. I’m still interested in the Talon, though.”

“Well, if not HALO or static line, what exactly do you have in mind?” asked Coleman.

“When I did an exchange tour with the Brits, I used to hop the tram down to the Imperial War Museum in London,” explained Glades. “They had a bunch of German stuff on display from the war. Everyone knows that the Allies used to parachute operatives into France, but most folks don’t realize the Germans were dropping agents into the UK at the same time.”

Glades continued. “The Germans didn’t want to waste time teaching their agents to jump, so they came up with something called a PersonenAbwurfGeraet, which meant ‘Personnel Dropping Device.’ I saw one on display at the museum. It works like this.” He opened his notebook and pointed at a sketch he had been working on.

Enthralled, Coleman grinned as Glades finished articulating his concept. “Well, obviously not a carnival ride for the timid,” he commented. “But it’ll be your asses on the line. If that’s the way you want to go, we’ll make it happen.”

Finn, on the other hand, turned white as a sheet. Grimacing, he implored, “Nestor, you’re kidding, right? Please tell me that you’re kidding.”

“Oh, not in the least,” replied Glades.