Star Trek The Original Series From History's Shadow (29 page)

Hundreds of people at this moment were fixated on the spacecraft, which along with its associated mission carried the official designation of “Gemini 8.” The mission under way was the sixth manned flight of the NASA’s Project Gemini program, a series of missions designed to develop, refine, and test equipment and techniques that would—if all proceeded according to plan—result in a manned landing on the surface of the moon within the next three years.

At present, that goal was not on anyone’s minds. Instead, everyone’s thoughts were consumed by the emergency unfolding in the void above the Earth.

Another voice replied, “
Okay, I copy. Can you . . . do you have visual sighting of the Agena right now?
 ”

“
No,
” replied a third speaker, whom Adlar recognized as the spacecraft’s second astronaut. “
We haven’t seen the Agena since we undocked a little while ago
.”

This was not distressing to Adlar. Turning from the window, he returned to his own workstation, a conglomeration of status indicators and dials, compact digital readouts, and rows of switches surrounding a pair of television screens as well as a telephone, all of it set into a bulky, metal frame. It was one of a half dozen positioned around the room, each overseen by a different engineer. One of the console’s status indicators told him that telemetry still was being transmitted from the Agena target vehicle, including the signal from a transponder installed aboard the unmanned test craft, which relayed its information on a frequency undetectable except by equipment developed by the Department of Defense just for this purpose. Packed almost to overflowing with a variety
of equipment and recording devices, the Agena was designed to provide astronauts with an interactive test subject for practicing orbital rendezvous and docking maneuvers as well as other tasks while connected to the unmanned, remotely guided craft. The test vehicle, along with its top-secret DoD payload known only to a privileged cadre of military and civilian personnel, had been sent into orbit earlier in the day and prior to the launching of the Titan II rocket carrying the Gemini 8 spacecraft and its two-man crew, astronauts Neil Armstrong and David Scott.

“Shull, what’s the status of the target vehicle?”

Adlar looked up at the sound of the gruff, apprehensive voice to see the older human male staring at him from across the room. Colonel Samuel Thorpe, dressed in an Air Force blue duty uniform, was the officer overseeing the Agena vehicle’s launch and operations. He was a dour-looking man, with narrow eyes beneath a heavy brow and a long, thin nose that gave his features a predatory air. His head was devoid of hair, which only served to accent his intimidating stature. In Adlar’s experience, Thorpe was a cold, stern officer, possessing no discernible sense of humor. He did not engage in any form of casual conversation, so his interactions with civilian engineers or other military members tended to be blunt and succinct.

“It’s likely tumbling,” Adlar said, remaining seated at his console. “Since it’s been determined that the problem is with the Gemini capsule, we should be able to bring the Agena back under control with its own thrusters.”

“Yeah,” said another engineer, a younger man named James Cushman. “Thank God Scott was able to transfer control of it back to us before they separated. They’re already working up a procedure to get it back under control.” Though his hair
was combed back from his face, a lock had fallen down across Cushman’s forehead and his left eye, and he reached up to swipe it up and out of his way. “We got lucky on that.”

“So, what happened?” Thorpe asked, his expression wavering not the slightest bit as he resumed his slow, measured pacing around the room.

Cushman replied, “About forty-five minutes after the capsule linked up with the Agena, Scott reported that they were tumbling end over end and had undocked. At first they thought the Agena was responsible, but it’s looking more like one of the capsule’s maneuvering thrusters was stuck open somehow. They’ll probably run checks to verify that once things settle down up there.”

Thorpe frowned. “And we’re sure there’s nothing wrong with the Agena’s thrusters?”

“So far, everything looks nominal,” Adlar said. The entire sequence of events had lasted less than thirty minutes, with the Gemini 8 astronauts reporting their violent banking and tumbling after disconnecting their spacecraft from the target vehicle. It then had taken Armstrong several minutes to regain control of the wayward ship, using the capsule’s reentry control system thrusters to force the spacecraft out of its uncontrolled rolling. During those frantic few moments, they had been forced to concentrate on their own situation, disregarding the Agena vehicle. Throughout that brief period, Adlar had maintained a close eye on the telemetry being transmitted from the unmanned ship.

“What about our package?” Thorpe asked. “Any sign of damage or other problems after all this?”

Adlar shook his head. “Everything’s showing normal. Targeting and maneuvering systems are all active and transmitting data.”

“Good,” Thorpe said, offering an approving nod. “As soon as they regain control, I want a full rundown of everything. Thanks to those astronauts and their quick thinking, we might still be able to meet our mission objectives. Get me that status report on all systems as soon as possible.”

As he watched the colonel depart the room, Adlar said, more to himself than anyone else, “He certainly is difficult to please.”

“Brother, you don’t know the half of it.” Cushman shook his head, releasing a sigh. “I’ll be happy when this is over, so I can move on to something else. This sort of thing isn’t why I joined this company, anyway. I want to be on one of the teams designing stuff we’re going to be sending to the moon, not babysitting the military’s new pet project.”

Intrigued by his colleague’s rebellious comments, which the other man had not expressed before today, Adlar asked, “You don’t believe what we’re doing is important?”

Cushman snorted. “Figuring out how to put a bunch of nukes in orbit just so they can rain down on us is just about the last thing this world needs right now, Allen.”

The United States was moving with haste in this regard, attempting to keep pace with the Soviet Union as both countries raced to be the first to place a working nuclear weapons platform into orbit. According to Gejalik, Russia was preparing to launch into orbit its own version of such a package. She had seen to it that information on the American initiative found its way into the hands of Russian spies, who in turn saw to it that the data was delivered to the proper authorities and put to use by their own cadre of scientists and engineers. While Jaecz continued in his role as a technician working for NASA in Houston, Gejalik for the past year had been working undercover in Star City, Russia, also masquerading as a
civilian engineer. The assignment, though necessary to monitor Soviet progress, also precluded any form of frequent communication given the severe security restrictions blanketing the entire city. Gejalik’s last contact with Adlar had been via a brief article inserted into a recent edition of the Communist-controlled Russian newspaper
Pravda,
copies of which were translated and distributed among the American intelligence community, with information relevant to Soviet aerospace efforts also provided to NASA for its review. It was an imperfect line of communication, and only worked one-way, but it was enough to let Adlar know that his companion was alive and well, and working at the center of the Russian space and military weapons programs.

“Allen?”

Blinking, Adlar realized he had allowed his thoughts to consume him to the point that he had all but ignored his surroundings. He turned in his seat to see Cushman staring at him, concern evident in his features. How long had the human been trying to gain his attention? Had Adlar said or done something that might raise suspicion or cast doubt on his identity?

“Yes?” He made a show of clearing his throat and shifting in his seat. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just tired.”

Cushman nodded. “I know. Long day, right?” He pointed at his workstation. “I’m just about ready to upload the diagnostic program to the targeting system. You want to see what it has to say?”

“Let’s take a look,” Adlar replied, rising from his chair and moving to join his colleague. “Hopefully, there’s no damage.”

“Keep your fingers crossed,” Cushman said, punctuating his comment with a whistle. “Otherwise, it’ll be at least three months before we get another shot, and that’s assuming they
don’t send everything back to the drawing board to figure out what went wrong up there today.”

It was a point of valid concern, Adlar conceded. The next American manned spaceflight, Gemini 9, was at present scheduled to launch in two months. That now hinged on whatever determinations were made after a thorough investigation of the Gemini 8 capsule following its recovery later today. No doubt American government and military leaders—well aware that their Soviet counterparts also were working at a feverish pace—would be pushing for resolution of the issues plaguing NASA, all while urging for the finalization of the weapons technology. Even with the current issues, Adlar predicted that at the present rate of progress by both powers, the successful deployment of a fully armed and operational platform would occur within the coming year.

Who would be the first to achieve this feat? For the moment, that remained a mystery. Adlar had no preference as to the victor of this particular competition. After all, one advantage held by weapons of mass destruction was that they could be used to eradicate their creators and their targets with the same brutal efficiency.

Soon, he reminded himself. Soon.

TWENTY-FOUR

Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Dayton, Ohio

July 17, 1967

“What do you mean, ‘it’s gone’? Where the hell did it go?”

James Wainwright looked up from yet another in the unending series of reports that had come to dominate his very existence in recent years, eyeing Colonel Stephen Olson with what he hoped was not an expression of disdain. Conversations like this one were becoming more common, it seemed, and Wainwright’s tolerance for them decreased with each new occurrence. Standing before him with his customary expression of irritation, the colonel already was getting on his nerves despite being here less than two minutes.

“When I say ‘it’s gone,’ Colonel, I mean it’s no longer there. It may have been there at one time, but it wasn’t by the time we got there. The eleven witnesses we interviewed all gave us the same story. They thought they saw a shooting star crashing in the forest in the High Sierras on the night of June eleventh. However, none of them described anything like a fire trail you might see when we’re talking about a meteorite or other natural object coming down through the atmosphere, or even one of our own space capsules on re-entry.”

From where she sat behind her own desk, Allison Marshall added, “Five witnesses also said they thought the object was moving in a straight line across the sky before it fell to
the ground. That’s definitely inconsistent with any meteorite. All eleven said they saw it crash in the mountains, but their reports varied as to probable location, which is why it took us so long to pinpoint the crash site.”

“But there was a crash site,” Olson said. It was not a question. “You found where it came down, but it was gone when you got there.”

Wainwright replied, “We found it, all right. Definite signs of something coming down, but no evidence of a meteorite, at least according to the forensics team we sent to sweep the area. They did find a few small metallic fragments. We’re having them analyzed now, but so far everything points to an aircraft or spacecraft of some kind.” Pursing his lips, he added, “Whatever it was, it was moved. Whether by whoever or whatever was flying it, or somebody else getting the jump on us, we don’t know.”

“Maybe if your teams had moved more quickly,” Olson offered.

“It took our people four days on foot to find the site,” Marshall replied. “And that was after we received the first reports of the sighting, which came almost a full week after it supposedly happened.”

Olson frowned. “Why did it take you so long to get up there?”

This man is a moron.
As one of the senior case officers working within the Majestic 12 organization, Colonel Stephen Olson had become something of a de facto liaison between that group and Project Blue Book. His position saw to it that he exerted authority over those officers still conducting UFO sighting investigations, including the project’s current director, Major Hector Quintanilla. Wainwright and Marshall, being civilian agents working within the MJ-12
envelope, were not answerable to Olson, a situation the colonel found frustrating and one in which Wainwright took no end of delight. The only problem was that his duties still required him to speak with the son of a bitch.

Forcing himself not to give voice to such thoughts, Wainwright cleared his throat. “Have you ever been to the High Sierras, Colonel? It’s not like taking a stroll around the base golf course, after all. It’s pretty rugged country. Cars can’t get up there. Come to think of it, golf carts can’t get up there, either.” Though he did not smile, Wainwright still was able to take some pleasure in watching Olson’s jaw clench.

“Fine,” the colonel said, his voice tight. “Then where is the craft?”

Wainwright shrugged. “It didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

“I don’t appreciate your attitude,
Mister
Wainwright,” Olson snapped. Placing his hands on the front of Wainwright’s desk, he leaned forward, closing the distance between the two men. It was an intimidation tactic that likely worked for most of the people with whom the colonel interacted, but all it did was annoy Wainwright, who made a point to stand up in such a way that it forced Olson to pull back and straighten his posture.

“I get that a lot,” Wainwright said, affecting a relaxed stance even though his gaze never left Olson’s. “And yet, they keep me around here for some reason.”

The colonel sneered. “I might be able to do something about that.”