"Everyone likes me, Thayer."
***
Guinan's tank - I never heard the NACA-modified KC-135 called anything else - was already in flight ... orbiting in a racetrack pattern, when Enloe took off, the stubby wings of the X-11A biting the desert air. I barely paid attention, so appalled was I at the tank's cockpit.
The controls had been specially modified so that there were almost no displays ... just open panels. I could only think of them as wounds. Gone were the traditional pilot's chairs - gone, for that matter, was the co-pilot. In place was a couch of sorts.
And squatting on that couch was what was left of Guinan ... he had literally flowed into the controls. His head was pressed up to the windshield, one arm was wrapped around the control yoke, the other splayed across the throttles. Mercifully, I couldn't quite see what had happened to his lower torso and legs. His flight suit had exploded.
Guinan was an ace, too.
I tried to put it out of my mind, concentrating instead on listening to Jack Ridley, the navigator sitting next to me. He noticed my alarm. "Don't worry, Ed. I've got backup controls, if anything happens to Casey. But he actually gets into the hydraulics. Told me once he could feel the breeze on the wings."
"But he's an ace! Is that even legal?"
Ridley just smiled.
We weren't able to observe the climbout to altitude. My imagination might have failed me where Guinan was concerned, but one thing I could imagine was the shattering roar of the 11A's Pratt and Whitney ... a big brute designed only for one thing: thrust. To hell with fuel efficiency.
Enloe took the 11A off runway 22 and headed straight toward Death Valley. He would circle back and intercept us at 31,000 feet, in the heart of the Tomlin Test Range. I glanced through some of Ridley's charts and noticed that the rendezvous would take place while we were almost directly over over the concrete hangar where the Takisian ship Baby was entombed.
I was plugged in throughout our takeoff and Enloe's, noting the sequence of test events on my kneepad. As rendezvous approached, Ridley indicated I was to go to the boom station in the rear of the tanker.
I had expected the tank to be cramped with extra insulating equipment - it wasn't just carrying room temperature jet fuel, as designed, but a liquid oxygen slurry that had to be kept at minus 400 degrees. In fact, there were tons of additional equipment, in addition to special pumps and a bigger boom. But there was still room to move around: Guinan's tank only had to refuel one relatively small spacecraft, not a dozen jet fighters.
Flopping onto the observer's couch, one of three at the boom station, I tried to keep out of the way as Sergeant Vidrine, the boomer - who must have been a joker, since he had three arms - dumped a few pounds of LOX and kerosene through the twin nozzles, clearing them as the 11A crawled up behind us. Then the boomer and Enloe began talking.
My briefing had told me that this was to be a full-load refueling, with Enloe dropping away to fire the 11A's rocket motor for twenty seconds ... enough to test the system and, incidentally, to propel him higher than any human had ever flown.
Enloe and the X-11A approached ... the boom was toggled into place ... the fuel dumped in less than four minutes. Vidrine said, "You're full with regular and super."
"Roger. Disconnect."
The exhilaration I had felt upon Enloe's invitation had worn off, a casualty, I first thought, of clear air turbulence, the smell of J-4 jet fuel, and the sight of Guinan. Or worrying that I was surrounded by wild card freaks.
Then I realized what the problem was: no one seemed to be having any fun. Enloe said little, confining himself to cryptic callouts of altitude, fuel, speed. Dearborn, the communicator for the flight, was surprisingly terse. Only Vidrine and the chase pilots - who were making a bet involving beers at Pancho's place - added a human touch. It certainly had none of the rakish charm of the heroes of the Tak World novels, who were always bickering and stabbing each other in the back. I could have been listening to a couple of guys tearing down an engine block for a '49 Chevy.
The X-11A dropped several hundred feet behind us while the tanker rolled to the right. Dearborn counted down. At zero a tongue of flame shot out of the 11A. It was out of sight before I realized it.
Only then did I remember where I was ... six miles over the California desert, refueling the world's first real spaceship. It went so far beyond the amazing that we had to invent new ways of describing - and appreciating - the experience.
There was a dicey moment during Enloe's altitude run ... some pogo effect in one of the rocket's pumps. He had to shut down at 17 seconds and wasn't able to crack the 100,000 foot barrier.
"Next time we'll go all the way," he said. I didn't hear a trace of disappointment in his voice.
***
The X-11A was on the ground before we were, though Enloe would be tied up in debrief through lunch. That was where Rowe and the rest of the team would be, so I was eager to join them.
But Margaret was waiting for me as I walked away from the tank. "What did you think?" she asked brightly.
"I think we're just about ready to go."
"I mean Casey. She raised an eyebrow. Only then did I realize she was inviting me to picture the two of them in bed.
"I've got work to do." I started walking away.
"I know. Rowe sent me to pick you up." She opened the car door for me. When I hesitated, she said: "Get in. Don't be such a baby."
She was amazing. I told her. "I'm not used to talking about things like this."
"Sex? Or aces?"
"Neither."
"You'll learn."
We drove in silence for a minute. "Rowe wanted me to give you a message."
"I'm listening."
"He says that unless there are any further technical problems, we'll attempt a launch on May 5th."
"That's great."
"He also says the Soviets announced today that they will try to put a man into orbit tomorrow morning."
(From The Los Angeles Herald, Thursday, April 14, 1958:)
RUSSIAN ROCKET FIZZLES!
Red Spaceman Lucky to Be Alive!
Moscow (AP). The first attempt to put a man into space ended prematurely today with a huge rocket explosion, according to TASS, the official Soviet news agency. The pilot, Konstantin Feoktistov, was lifted to safety inside his vehicle, which was equipped with its own parachute.
The accident took place at the Soviet rocket research center at Kapustin Yar, on the Volga River just east of Stalingrad. Previous unmanned Soviet rockets, some of them carrying orbital satellites, have been launched from this site since 1947, under the direction of space scientists Sergei Korolev and Werner von Braun.
According to TASS, Feoktistov, a 32-year-old engineer said to be a protege of Korolev, boarded the bell-shaped Sever spacecraft atop its giant R-11 rocket at 7:30 local time. He wore a special protective spacesuit for the mission, which was to see him orbit the earth three times.
Liftoff of the R-11, said to stand 12 stories tall and weigh over a million pounds, took place shortly after nine. The R-11's twenty-four first stage engines ignited, lifting Sever (which means "North") into the sky.
But at an altitude of nine thousand feet, as the rocket was passing through the area of maximum dynamic pressure, there was an explosion. Automatic devices aboard Sever ignited an escape rocket mounted forward of Feoktistov's cabin, pulling it free of the fireball.
Sever then descended by parachute into the swamp five miles east of the launch site, as debris from the exploding rocket rained down around it. Reached by rescuers within minutes, Feoktistov was reported to be injured, but not seriously. He is rumored to be convalescing at a resort on the Black Sea.