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  Although the catastrophic event in August had been a setback, the Navy’s clandestine MOL program was still active. A second ocean surveillance MOL was currently in production and would likely be ready for flight by next year. Even though one Navy astronaut had died in orbit and the other—Russo—only rescued as the result of Ourecky’s brave actions, the first mission was not considered a failure. After all, most of the systems aboard the Navy’s MOL worked exactly as advertised. The station’s nuclear reactor performed flawlessly, and the various reconnaissance systems had gathered a treasure trove of data. The communications failure was isolated and fixed, and redundant communications systems were being installed as well. Certainly, it was not a foregone conclusion that the second MOL mission would fly, but it was looking increasingly more likely with every day that passed.

  8:00 a.m.

  Tew was on the verge of dozing when he heard Wolcott’s voice. “Takin’ a siesta this early?”

  Blinking, Tew replied, “Just giving my eyes a break, Virgil.” Wolcott was accompanied by Tarbox and Colonel Ted Seibert, the Project’s intelligence officer. The three men had scarcely changed in the past few years. Adorned in his starched jeans, denim shirt, hand-tooled leather belt with turquoise-encrusted silver buckle and white Stetson hat, Virgil Wolcott still looked every bit like an extra in a Roy Rogers movie. Wolcott’s weather-beaten face may have acquired an additional crinkle or two, but otherwise he had hardly aged at all.

  White-haired and rail-thin, Tarbox still appeared to be an evil gnome. In tweed jacket and button-down Oxford shirt, Seibert seemed comfortable in the guise of a dapper Ivy League professor. Tew suspected that if he were to relax the grooming standards ever so slightly, the intelligence officer would probably grow a modest goatee to complete the transformation. Tew wondered if the intelligence officer would ever be comfortable wearing a uniform again once the Project folded.

  “It’s a light agenda this morning, General,” said Seibert, quickly passing out briefing folders. “Just an update on the Krepost. Unfortunately, there are several discrepancies in the reporting, and we need to discuss the implications.”

  “Discrepancies?” asked Tew.

  “We’re receiving a lot of contradictory information,” explained Seibert. “Particularly concerning the Soviets’ readiness to fire a Proton rocket.”

  Proton? Tew remembered that Proton was the Soviets’ new name for the massive hypergolic-fueled booster formerly called the UR-500. “I would think that this would be very clear-cut,” he noted.

  “It should be, General, but it’s not. These are national level sources,” explained Seibert. He placed two intelligence dispatches side by side and gestured at a string of numbers printed at the top of each document. “These are unique tracking numbers, which do lend us some limited insight into the origin of the information. This material is extensively filtered before it reaches us, but my guys have scoured these documents, and they assure me that the bulk of this information is reported by just two sources.

  “Unfortunately, by the time their information is finally funneled to us, it’s been entirely scrubbed of any details that might reveal the identity of the sources, who they work for, or where they work. But just for the sake of discussion, let’s call them Source One and Source Two.”

  Seibert continued. “So, here’s our tale of two sources. On one hand, Source One emphatically states that there will not be another Proton launch for at least another six months. And on the other hand, Source Two insists that this Krepost is in the final processing stages, and that a Proton booster is ready for launch right now.”

  “So, which do you believe?” demanded Tarbox.

  Seibert placed a series of black-and-white satellite reconnaissance photographs on the table. “Admiral, I put my greatest faith in those things that I can see. This is the latest overhead imagery available for Baikonur. These particular shots depict the launch complex for the Proton booster. It’s currently being repaired and rehabilitated after the shot in July. If you look closely, you can see that some of the gantry components have been removed entirely.”

  “So your assessment is?” asked Tew.

  Seibert shook his head. “In short, General, the Soviets aren’t going to launch a Proton from here, not now or in the relatively near future. These images validate what Source One indicates, that’s there’s not going to be another Proton launch for at least another six months. Moreover, Source One provided us advance notice of the Proton launch in July, but Source Two didn’t make even the slightest peep about it. I don’t know where Source Two is, but I have to believe that Source One is in a position to directly observe launch preparations, so I have a lot more confidence in his reports. He’s proven to be exceptionally reliable.”

  Tew nodded and said, “That seems like a very logical assumption.”

  “And there something else that bothers me about Source Two,” said Seibert, lighting his briarwood pipe with a wooden “strike-anywhere” match. As he puffed on the pipe to ignite the fragrant-smelling tobacco, he casually squeezed the matchhead between his fingertips to extinguish its dying flame.

  “Another burr under your saddle?” asked Wolcott.

  Seibert shrugged his shoulders and said, “Until this past March, we hadn’t heard any chatter concerning this supposed Krepost orbital bombardment system. There wasn’t the slightest trickle, and then suddenly we’re drowning in a torrent, and it’s all flowing from this one guy. Moreover, he reports like clockwork, once a week, every week, on the button, every time.”

  “That ain’t a good thing, Ted?” asked Wolcott, fanning himself with his Stetson.

  “Well, Virgil, if he were a millworker punching a time clock, punctuality would certainly be a positive attribute, but in these circumstances, that kind of regularity is a little suspect.”

  “How so?” asked Tew.

  “The Soviets are absolutely ruthless when it comes to counter-intelligence. They relentlessly monitor anybody and everybody, regardless of rank or position. Anyone who has routine access to this sort of information, the stuff that Source Two is reporting, is going to be under active surveillance.

  “You just have to imagine security at Baikonur is airtight. Their counter-intelligence people have to be watching him like a hawk. Moreover, he has to know that, unless he’s an absolute idiot. So, if he’s passing messages through a dead drop of some sort, which is the most likely way that the information is getting out, it’s improbable that he could hit every single one of his contact windows, every single week, without getting spooked at least once or twice.”

  “Then what do you make of the information that he’s reporting?” asked Tew.

  “I think this intel is bogus, General. I think it’s just disinformation specifically designed to get us agitated about a threat that does not exist,” said Seibert. “There’s absolutely nothing to back it up. I think it would be extremely foolhardy for us to put much stock in it.”

  “I agree, but as much as we want to assume that this intel is erroneous or that it’s an outright lure,” said Tew, “there’s always the possibility that it’s credible. While we might have at least six months to prepare for the last mission, we still have to be ready to execute on short notice.”

  “Yup,” said Wolcott. “The fact is that we could only count on Carson and Ourecky to fly the mission if this danged Krepost just dropped in our lap tomorrow.”

  “As much as that bothers me, I’ll concede that point,” said Tew.

  Tarbox spoke. “Mark, assuming that we will have six months of lead time, maybe I can contribute one of my crews.”

  Tew grimaced; to him, the admiral’s high-pitched voice was like the annoying squeak of a perpetually ungreased wheel. He cleared his throat to immediately decline, as was his habit with anything Tarbox brought to the table, but then fell silent as he contemplated the proposal.

  Clearly, Tarbox wanted to snatch at least some of Blue Gemini’s glory for himself and the Navy. Grabbing the laurels for the last mission�
�the critical task that was the very reason for Blue Gemini—would be almost as good as leading the Project from the beginning. Tarbox’s seemingly magnanimous offer was a blatant ploy to wedge his feet further in the door, and it was likely only a matter of time before he started to pull the requisite political strings to shove his crew to the front of the line.

  As much as Tew despised the notion of allowing a Navy crew to destroy the target that had so far eluded them, there was certainly adequate time to bring them up to speed, if Seibert’s assessment was correct. Having a Navy crew execute the hazardous mission would greatly increase the odds that Carson and Ourecky would survive Blue Gemini. As obsessed as he was with destroying the nefarious Krepost menace as soon as it appeared, he was equally obsessed with protecting Carson and especially Ourecky. Consequently, he thought, maybe Tarbox’s scheme wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  Tarbox spoke again. “Mark, I’m not sure if you heard me, but I can contribute one of my crews…”

  “Excellent idea, Leon,” replied Tew. “I would be delighted for you to bring in one of your crews to back up Carson and Ourecky.”

  With his mouth agape, Wolcott seemed shocked that Tew would be so receptive to any suggestion offered by Tarbox. He cupped his ear, as if he was uncertain of his hearing or that he was listening for the faint sounds of trumpets heralding the Apocalypse. “Are you sure, Mark?” he asked. “After all, we ain’t completely played out our own roster. We still have Jackson and Sigler. They can back Carson and Ourecky.”

  “Correct, but I’ve sent those two into orbit twice already, and they’ve failed me twice. At this juncture, I’m open to alternative solutions, and the Admiral is certainly offering us a viable option. Virgil, since we’ve all but shut down the simulator facility, why don’t you take Gunter over there today to make sure we knock down the cobwebs to accommodate our Navy guests?”

  “Will do, boss,” answered Wolcott.

  “Unfortunately, although I’m confident that the Admiral’s men can execute this task, there’s a compatibility issue that has to be resolved,” commented Tew.

  Wolcott snorted, lightly slapping the surface of the table. “The suits,” he exclaimed. “I plumb forgot about the suits.”

  Since the Blue Gemini repertoire had expanded to include EVA—extra-vehicular activity—the astronauts had to switch from wearing standard Nomex flight suits back to wearing pressure suits. More specifically, they were fitted with a modified version of NASA’S G4C suits, manufactured by the David Clark Company, which were equipped with extra layers and other features to protect the wearer as he operated outside the spacecraft. The Navy crews wore suits developed by Hamilton Standard for the Air Force MOL program. While the Hamilton-Standard suits were far easier to don and doff, and were considerably more flexible, the Navy version didn’t offer adequate protection for operating outside the spacecraft.

  Wolcott smirked slightly, obviously indicating that he glimpsed Tew’s hole card, the one that would swiftly stymy Tarbox’s attempt to fold the Navy crew into the Blue Gemini mix.

  “The suit issue is challenging but not a show-stopper,” noted Tew. “There are sufficient funds in our budget to fit your guys with our suits. Besides, it makes perfect sense to have another crew properly equipped, just in case Blue Gemini is extended into a second phase.”

  “Excellent point,” noted Tarbox. He unlatched his attaché case, flipped it open and riffled through several folders.

  Tew had seen this same drill so many times that he suspected that the admiral’s attaché was literally stuffed with a multitude of schemes, each prepared for a particularly opportune moment. If nothing else, the Ancient Mariner was incredibly adroit at seizing the initiative and consistently came prepared for almost any contingency.

  The admiral retrieved a folder bearing several high-level classification markings, opened it, and handed a photograph to Tew. “Since you suddenly seem amenable to my suggestions, Mark, and since we now apparently have the unexpected luxury of time, I would like to propose a temporary project for Major Carson,” he said. “With your permission, of course.”

  Tew donned his reading glasses to examine the image. Startled, he blinked several times, as it took a moment for him to absorb the incongruous aspects of the picture. The long-winged black spy plane was unmistakable, but it looked entirely out of place in the unusual setting. “That’s really a U-2?” he asked.

  “It is,” confirmed Tarbox. “But to be more exact, it’s a U-2 with some special modifications.”

  “Obviously.” Tew handed the photograph to Seibert. “Is this real?” he asked.

  “It is, sir,” answered Seibert. “They started experimenting with that capability in 1963. It’s been operational for a few years now.”

  “Amazing,” noted Tew, looking toward Tarbox. “But as fascinating as this is, just what does this have to do with Carson?”

  Tarbox explained his plan, concluding with, “Carson shouldn’t be out of pocket for more than a few weeks, plus we can recall him on short order, if need be.”

  “If nothing else, it sounds harmless enough, but if you’re right, it might be just the ticket we’re looking for. I think Carson would be the perfect fit for this, but we obviously have to ensure that he doesn’t draw any undue attention to himself.”

  “Agreed. I’ll make sure that he remains incognito, although we might have to take some extraordinary measures.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Then I have your approval, General?” asked Tarbox.

  “You do, Admiral. I concur wholeheartedly.”

  Evidently confounded by Tew’s behavior, Wolcott’s weather-beaten face bore a quizzical expression. “Are you feelin’ all right, Mark?” he asked. “You ain’t missed any of your medications today, have you?”

  “I’m fine,” replied Tew curtly. “I don’t know why you would think otherwise, Virgil. Now, let’s move on with this discussion.”

  Simulator Facility

  Aerospace Support Project

  10:45 a.m., Wednesday, August 30, 1972

  Seated beside Gunter Heydrich in the simulator hangar, Wolcott observed as several men restarted and tested the simulation systems. Feeling the onset of a migraine, he shook two aspirin tablets from a flat metal tin, swallowed them, and chased them with a slug of cold coffee from a paper cup. Leaning back in his chair, he opened a foil-lined Red Man pouch and jammed a thick lump of chewing tobacco into his mouth.

  Nudging his elbow, Heydrich said, “Virgil, it looks like you have a guest.”

  Wolcott swiveled his head to glimpse Tarbox beckoning him from behind the last row of desks and consoles. He removed his headset, donned his white Stetson, slowly climbed out of his chair, stretched, and joined the gaunt admiral at the back of the hangar. Standing next to the bank of refrigerator-sized computers that ran the simulator, the two men spoke just loud enough to be heard over the whir of spinning tape reels.

  “That was a mighty big bomb you dropped back there in the intelligence briefing,” said Wolcott. “Your folks backing up ours?” Shucks, Leon, this is a mite confoundin’. For the life of me, I can’t quite understand how and why Mark could be so danged quick to agree.”

  “Does it matter?” asked Tarbox. “Actually, Virgil, I’m not interested in my crew backing up Carson and Ourecky. I want them to fly the mission, and I want your assistance in convincing Mark to do just that.”

  Snorting, Wolcott laughed so hard that he lost the wad of chewing tobacco tucked in his lower lip. Regaining his composure, he wiped tears from his eyes before bending over to retrieve the brown lump and flick it into a nearby trash can. “You want your Navy boys to fly the mission? And you want me to persuade Mark to do that? Don’t you s’pose that’s a bit of a stretch, Leon? Mark will never bless off on that scheme.”

  “Hear me out,” snapped Tarbox. “For starters, Ourecky might not even be physically ready when and if this mission flies. Why waste simulator time on him and Carson if there’s even the remotest possibility
that they won’t be able to go?”

  “Good point. I strongly doubt that Mark will chomp on that lure, but it is a good argument.”

  “Virgil, this is all a matter of timing,” asserted Tarbox. “Mark is obsessed with flying this last mission, but after it’s over, he’s planning to fade into the wings. If you and I don’t seize the initiative, this whole joint effort could fall apart even before it begins, regardless of whether Mark’s last mission is successful or not. There are a lot of things at play right now. The war in Vietnam is all but over. NASA will wrap up Apollo after the last mission flies in December. Most importantly, the Presidential election is in November; if Nixon wins, then we continue on. If McGovern wins…”

  “We’re done,” groaned Wolcott, contemplating the potential outcome at the polls. “Hell, if this last mission ain’t flown before he’s inaugurated in January, McGovern could scrub that also.”

  Tarbox nodded. “And that’s why we need to fly it as soon as possible, as soon as we know the Krepost is overhead, regardless of whether it’s occupied or not. Sure, we’ll have to accept some risk, but it’s no riskier than what we order men to do every single day overseas. But even if we’re willing to accept risk, we can’t risk Carson and Ourecky.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Carson and Ourecky are genuine heroes. I know that, and plenty of other people know it also.”

  Wolcott gazed upwards at the hangar’s curved ceiling. “Heroes? Well, shucks, I certainly agree, but…”

  “Virgil, if we really want to move forward, we’ll need heroes. More specifically, we’ll need live heroes. At this point, those two have given enough to this effort, much more than anybody should ever ask of them. The truth is, they’re like money in the bank to us, and I don’t care to squander that capital on this Krepost mission, particularly when there could be so much risk associated with it.”