USSR Hoax

6 NOT RIGHT

1967

The bubble top canopy of the NASA T-38 supersonic jet offered little resistance to the blinding morning sun shining directly into Tom’s eyes as he sat in the slightly elevated backseat. Even with his sun visor down, the rookie’s helmet in front of him was a colorless silhouette. The two were zooming at well over Mach 1 at the 42,000-foot level on their way to the Michoud Assembly Facility in New Orleans. For the last year after being grounded by Dick, Tom had been restricted from piloting any jet on his own. Just when he felt he might be reinstated, the terrible Apollo 1 fire occurred, killing three brave astronauts. After the horrible tragedy, much of the program’s focus was directed to determining the cause of the accident and coming up with the right fix. Everything else was basically put on hold, including the status of astronauts. Tom swallowed his pride and accepted the continued punishment, often flying with rookie astronauts with far fewer flight hours than he. The space veteran felt like a child being escorted to school by his mother.

Tom adjusted his oxygen mask as he craned his neck to peer out over the side of the canopy. As expected, storm clouds were brewing below. Before takeoff, the tower had informed them bad weather would be welcoming them to New Orleans. With low visibility expected when they approached the airport, the rookie flying them would be forced to rely only on his instruments. For any NASA astronaut with military flight training, the landing should be a piece of cake, but Tom worried if it would be for this escort.

Chris Riddick was a former Navy man who joined NASA as part of the fifth group of astronauts. This was the first time for Tom to fly with Chris, whom he barely knew. Tom relinquished the front pilot seat after Chris stressed he needed the flying time to meet his quota for the month. Tom was fine with giving up the controls since he had flown the route practically every day over the last three weeks reporting to his new assignment, overseeing the Saturn V first stage booster. But ever since take off, Chris’s flying had made Tom nervous. The Navy man was too conservative at the controls. The twin-engine supersonic trainer, nicknamed the white rocket, was designed to be flown fast and aggressive, not timid. The plane’s jaw-dropping lines, with its small wings, made it one of the prettiest planes flying. However, her beauty came at a price. Those tiny wings offered little forgiveness if the plane was flown too slowly. If her air speed dipped below 270 miles per hour, the plane would literally fall out of the sky.

Prior to takeoff, Chris had arrogantly bragged about his flying background, trying to impress Tom. He politely listened, even asking questions, but only the man’s piloting would convince Tom. After thirty minutes in the air, Tom wasn’t buying what the man was selling. Chris simply wasn’t as good a pilot as he thought he was. Tom elected to keep this to himself. His eyes would definitely be glued to the instruments during landing, ready to take control if necessary.

Chris’s voice came in loud over Tom’s headset. “Of all the planes I’ve flown, and as I told you I’ve flown many, I’ve never experienced one with such a loose stick. She’s dangerous.”

Tom rolled his eyes, thinking Riddick was dangerous. Any good pilot knew that no plane was perfect, just like a woman. One simply learned the aircraft’s minor idiosyncrasies and adapted his flying skills accordingly. Each one of the T-38s in the NASA family had her own little quirk.

Tom had sat idle long enough while the rudder pedals moved underneath his feet, and the control stick rotated around between his legs. It was time for him to take control. “I’ve got the stick.”

Chris retorted in a surprised tone, “Roger that.”

Tom jiggled the control slightly, and, as expected, there was no movement of the plane. Then he jammed the stick far right and the supersonic trainer shot into a fast roll. Keeping his eyes on the false horizon he did two full rotations before stopping the spin perfectly back at level flight. He then jammed the stick left, doing a single snap roll. “She seems fine to me. You’ve got the stick.”

“Roger.”

Tom felt the stick moving, indicating that Chris had the plane. “You’ll find all of our jets have their own personality. I’m sure it was the same when you flew in the Navy. We’ve even nicknamed some of them. My favorite is Ms. Monroe because she keeps me on my toes. After awhile, you’ll learn each one and know how to get the most out of her.”

Chris eventually moved on to the subject of Tom’s flight in space, quizzing him on all the particulars. Fortunately, the flight to New Orleans was short and they were soon entering the dirty clouds for their landing, quieting Chris as he focused on his instruments.

It wasn’t long before the slim T-38 jet was being bounced around in the nasty weather.

Chris checked in with the tower to inform them of their position. “Centennial Tower, NASA nine one four, ten miles northwest at 4,200, request clearance.”

“Roger, nine one four, proceed IFR to runway two five left.”

“Roger, Centennial, runway two five left.”

Riddick put the plane into a careful turn, bleeding off their air speed as he set up for their approach. With zero visibility outside their canopy, Tom’s eyes were glued to the instruments. He had only stalled a T-38 once and fortunately he was high enough to apply power and regain speed. That incident taught him that the plane experienced a slight flutter just before it was about to stall. In the bad weather, he doubted he would feel that burble. He just had to stay ahead of the plane and be prepared for the unexpected.

They were set to break through the clouds around 250 feet. Tom was convinced they were out of position for a safe landing. Confident they were still in a manageable situation, he kept this to himself. He wanted to see how the rookie would handle their predicament when they emerged from the soup. If Chris was as good a pilot as he claimed, he would realize his mistake and inform the tower of a missed approach, pulling up on the stick to try the maneuver again.

At 200 feet they finally punched out of the clouds into the hard driving rain. As Tom suspected, they were way past the outer beacon. It was obvious they were going to overshoot the runway. Tom was waiting for Chris to give up the attempt and radio the tower of a missed approach. The pelting rain made it tough for Tom to see the runway in front of them. Feeling the rookie was taking too long to make up his mind, Tom decided to suggest a fly-by over the radio so Chris could fly around the airport and retry the landing. As he prepared to talk, he was thrown hard against his belt straps as the plane darted into a sudden strong left bank turn.

What the hell? Tom’s heart skipped a beat knowing Chris had just turned the plane right toward a seventy-foot water tower.

He grabbed the stick, breaking protocol. “I have the stick!”

Tom felt resistance at first, indicating Riddick wasn’t giving up control. Tom manhandled both the stick and pedals, overpowering the younger pilot. The weather was preventing him from seeing the water tower, but he knew it was coming. Their air speed of 230 miles per hour was dangerously low, causing their plane to lose altitude. Because of those tiny wings, he couldn’t yet pull up on the stick and light the afterburner. The high-performance jet needed to be flying at least 270 miles per hour to get lift. He had to make a snap decision-fly over or around the dangerous obstacle. His best chance was to go over. He retracted the landing gear before pointing the nose slightly down to gain the required speed, putting them in even more danger. He took his eye off the air speed indicator for a quick peek out the canopy in front of him. A large, ghostly gray figure appeared, fast approaching through the muck. He did a swift glance down at his altimeter and saw they had dropped to 40 feet. Their air speed had increased to 265 miles per hour. Close enough. He pulled back on the stick as hard as he could before kicking in the afterburner, hoping for the best.

After a few tense moments with those powerful engines howling, it became obvious they had cleared the massive structure. Tom quickly unhooked his oxygen mask as he continued to gasp for air. After a few more calming puffs, he radioed in. “Centennial, nine one four missed approach.”

“Roger, nine one four. Proceed to 1,000.”

Looking out the side of the canopy, Tom peered back in the direction of the water tower. He could only make out the flashing beacon on top of the giant. He exhaled a mouthful of air, thanking God as he turned back toward the control panel.

Chris broke the tension with anger in his voice. “Why did you take the stick? I had everything under control. I was going to do a visual circling approach.”

Tom was shocked the rookie had no idea what had just happened. “And you would have gotten us killed. Did you know you were flying right toward a seventy-foot water tower?”

Silence reigned as the helmet in front of Tom turned. Chris was looking out the window down toward the tower. A tentative voice answered, “Oh. No.”

Tom did his best to keep his cool. “You need to do your homework and know the airfield before you try pulling some crazy stunt like that.”

“Sorry, my mistake.”

“Yeah, almost a deadly one.”

A long pause stretched. In a concerned voice, Chris asked, “Tom, you’re not going to report this, are you?”

Tom knew he should, but it would affect the young astronaut’s career. He decided to keep the incident to himself, but he would inform Dick the rookie needed work. “No, this will stay between us.”

WITH HIS HANDS deep in the pockets of the NASA-issued lab coat, Tom casually strolled across the meticulously clean shop floor of the Michoud Assembly Facility. The massive manufacturing area was eerily quiet, practically empty of workers. It was 8:30 p.m., and most of the Marshall Space Flight Center employees stationed from Huntsville, Alabama, had clocked out for the day. He was happy to finally be able to stretch out his legs after being trapped in a six-hour meeting. He had time to kill while waiting for his ride to the local hotel. The Marshall manager, stuck with the chore of driving him, needed to wrap up some pressing work at his desk first.

Tom had been chosen to be the lone NASA representative to attend an early Friday morning meeting the next day. As much as he tried to get out of it and get home, the NASA engineers rallied together and elected him. Tom suspected it was because he had a T-38 at his disposal, while the engineers had to fly commercial. Of course after the long week, the engineers were ready to get back to Houston and their families.

As usual, Tom had packed a day’s worth of clothing just in case such a situation arose. Anne was aware there was always a possibility he might have to stay the night when away on business, and she would have to handle his one nightly chore, walking their one-year-old beagle, Dino.

Tom figured he would take advantage of the waiting time and inspect a piping issue vigorously discussed in one of the day’s meetings. The NASA engineers questioned whether the propellant lines that ran down from the first stage tanks into the F-1 engines were to spec. Since NASA was footing the bill for these babies, they had every right to query the Marshall engineers on the assembly, and as one of NASA’s senior representatives, Tom had free rein to venture wherever he pleased on the shop floor.

Tom walked toward the west end of the building, headed to the three colossal first stage boosters resting sideways on the shop floor. The Saturn V rocket was made up of three different stages, each one with its own engines and fuel. The first stage was the mightiest and biggest of them all: 140 feet tall and 33 feet wide. Its job was to lift the 3,250-ton rocket off the ground and propel it to over 6,000 mph some 40 miles high before the workhorse was discarded.

Each one of those mammoth bottom sections that Tom approached were in different phases of development. The first two were close to completion, each slated for an unmanned test launch. As he passed behind the giants, he looked up at the five huge F-1 engines showing, organized like the five dots on a single die. Two were on the bottom, one in the center, and two high above. Each engine had a red protective shroud covering its outlet. If the protective cover was removed, Tom could step inside the flared out nozzle with outstretched arms and still not touch any part of it with his hands. The machines were that big. They were the most powerful liquid-fueled engines ever built. These engineering marvels were designed to operate for only two and a half minutes following launch. After that short firing time, the engines would shut down just before the massive first stage structure would be released from the rocket, falling to the Atlantic Ocean to be swallowed up and never seen again.

His eyes feasted on the third one of these monsters. It had scaffolding surrounding it. This first stage was labeled S-1C-3, designated for the first manned flight. A pang of jealously ran through him wondering who would be launched by the booster, knowing the lucky sons of guns would probably be destined for the moon. He was convinced it wouldn’t be him.

Much of the debate on the piping issue had to do with fluid dynamics and heat transfer, causing Tom to dig up his old college engineering knowledge just to hang with the discussion. The engineers were concerned the lines were not long enough and too close to the other components. Tom hiked up the metal scaffolding stairs to get a firsthand look, the cold silence broken only by his brisk footsteps. As he turned to head up the second flight of stairs, he noticed the plumbing was already lying on tarps next to each engine on the metal, grated landing. Once he reached the level platform between the two engines, he turned toward the engine to his right. The missing pipes created a small opening within a cluster of plumbing, allowing him to get an even better view of all the components inside. When he reached the engine, he carefully slipped his head in, before wriggling his upper body like a snake around obstacles. The inside was dimly lit by the building’s ceiling lights, sending streaks of light penetrating through the engine’s small gaps. After his eyes adjusted, he was able to see fairly well inside. The internals sparkled with shiny new parts and piping, like the engine of a new car on a showroom floor.

As he studied the connections, he could tell some of the needed changes had already been made. He casually moved his head around, studying the rest of the engine, curious about its makeup. He flinched at an odd sight. A metal part showed streaks of grinding marks, which stood out among the perfection within the engine. He repositioned himself to get a better look, eventually pressing his forehead up against a cold metal pipe. As he studied the marks, it appeared a partial stamped letter had not been completely ground out, indicating that someone had been trying to erase a part number or something. He exited cautiously and straightened up, eyeing the engine. He rubbed the back of his neck. Something didn’t seem right. If it was a part number, why was it removed? Certainly the engine manufacturer in California would expect NASA to question why such an anomaly existed within the pristine engine. He was curious if the issue had already been addressed.

Tom turned toward the other engine across the scaffold landing, curious if the same grinding marks were inside it. As he navigated his way over he saw a closed red tool box lying on the tarp next to the removed piping. Opening it, he found what he was looking for; a flashlight. With determination he snatched it, turned it on and worked his head into the other engine, trying to maneuver his body into the same position as before. When he brought the flashlight over and shone it on the part, he was shocked to see cryptic lettering of a kind he had never seen before. This was definitely not a part number he was familiar with. He steadied the light as he focused in, trying to come up with a clue about what he was looking at. He shook his head. He was stumped. The markings must be a secret code of some sort, which was completely out of character for NASA. He wondered if this stamped marking should have been ground out too, and either it was missed or it hadn’t been done yet. Questioning if the same marks were on the engines above, he climbed up the stairs to check them out. Unfortunately, none of the three had the piping removed, preventing him from inspecting inside. With the building practically empty, he would have to wait until the next day to get answers. Right after his morning meeting he would track down the floor manager and see what he could find out about the mystery.

SITTING IN A small conference room within the confines of the cosmonaut training center, Viktor Alexandrov was puzzled as to why he had just been pulled from an exercise. Dressed in his jumpsuit, Viktor sat across from the man he suspected was a KGB agent. He had not seen the man since the Kremlin meeting over a year ago.

Viktor presumed this visit had something to do with the production of the secret engine combustion chamber attachments he was ordered to oversee. Two intense months struggling to match the part with the specifications of NASA’s F-1 engine using the NK-15 design was a major challenge for all involved. But the parts were finished on time, and as far as Viktor knew, had been secretly smuggled out of the country, destined to solve America’s engine problem. Unfortunately, the time-consuming assignment caused Viktor to miss out on critical cosmonaut training, essentially stripping him of any chance at an early moon flight.

The man took off his glasses. “You probably wonder why you are here.”

Viktor didn’t know how to address the man since they were never introduced. If he was KGB, Viktor would leave it up to the agent to offer his name. Straightening up in his chair, Viktor answered, “Yes, sir.”

The agent leaned over. “I am here to confirm that you hid incriminating evidence somewhere on the parts sent to the United States.”

“Yes, sir. The descriptive information was placed in a hidden but secure area using invisible paint as requested. We also included a cryptic serial number stamped on the part in an obvious location that probably would be found.”

“Good. I’m sure they will erase that one.”

Viktor was curious why he was being quizzed, speculating it was somehow related to the recent failure of the Soyuz 1 that had killed a friend. The accident struck all the cosmonauts hard, and with the recent problems being experienced with the N1 rocket, some were questioning if the moon missions would ever happen. He assumed Party leaders were probably feeling the same way and wanted to verify evidence existed so they could insinuate the parts were stolen if the Americans did not live up to their end of the bargain, passing over lunar material. “Why do you ask?”

The agent lifted an eyebrow and said in a stern voice, “That is classified information.” The man stood up unexpectedly, signaling that the meeting was over. He extended his hand. “I want you to know I will be giving a recommendation to your superiors. You did an invaluable service for your country.”

Viktor stood and shook the man’s hand, surprised that was all he was questioned on. “Thank you, sir.”