taken it, with the understanding that he would be able to devote a good portion of his time to research.
Within the hospital he was known as a superb clinical bacteriologist, but his real interest remained parasites. In the period from 1955 to 1964 he published a series of elegant metabolic studies on Ascaris and Necator that were highly regarded by other workers in the field.
Leavitt’s reputation had made him a natural choice for Wildfire, and it was through Leavitt that Hall had been asked to join. Leavitt knew the reasons behind Hall’s selection, though Hall did not.
When Leavitt had asked him to join, Hall had demanded to know why. “I’m just a surgeon,” he had said.
“Yes,” Leavitt said. “But you know electrolytes.”
“So?”
“That may be important. Blood chemistries, pH, acidity and alkalinity, the whole thing. That may be vital, when the time comes.”
“But there are a lot of electrolyte people,” Hall had pointed out. “Many of them better than me.”
“Yes,” Leavitt had said. “But they’re all married.”
“So what?”
“We need a single man.”
“Why?”
“It’s necessary that one member of the team be unmarried.”
“That’s crazy,” Hall had said.
“Maybe,” Leavitt had said. “Maybe not.”
* * *
They left the hospital and walked up to the Army sedan. A young officer was waiting stiffly, and saluted as they came up.
“Dr. Hall?”
“Yes.”
“May I see your card, please?”
Hall gave him the little plastic card with his picture on it. He had been carrying the card in his wallet for more than a year; it was a rather strange card—with just a name, a picture, and a thumbprint, nothing more. Nothing to indicate that it was an official card.
The officer glanced at it, then at Hall, and back to the card. He handed it back.
“Very good, sir.”
He opened the rear door of the sedan. Hall got in and Leavitt followed, shielding his eyes from the flashing red light on the car top. Hall noticed it.
“Something wrong?”
“No. Just never liked flashing lights. Reminds me of my days as an ambulance driver, during the war.” Leavitt settled back and the car started off. “Now then,” he said. “When we reach the airfield, you will be given a file to read during the trip.”
“What trip?”
“You’ll be taking an F-104,” Leavitt said.
“Where?”
“Nevada. Try to read the file on the way. Once we arrive, things will be very busy.”
“And the others in the team?”
Leavitt glanced at his watch. “Kirke has appendicitis and is in the hospital. The others have already begun work. Right now, they are in a helicopter, over Piedmont, Arizona.”
“Never heard of it,” Hall said.
“Nobody has,” Leavitt said, “until now.”
6
Piedmont
AT 9:59 A.M. ON THE SAME MORNING, a K-4 jet helicopter lifted off the concrete of Vandenberg’s maximum-security hangar MSH-9 and headed east, toward Arizona.
The decision to lift off from an MSH was made by Major Manchek, who was concerned about the attention the suits might draw. Because inside the helicopter were three men, a pilot and two scientists, and all three wore clear plastic inflatable suits, making them look like obese men from Mars, or, as one of the hangar maintenance men put it, “like balloons from the Macy’s parade.”
As the helicopter climbed into the clear morning sky, the two passengers in the belly looked at each other. One was Jeremy Stone, the other Charles Burton. Both men had arrived at Vandenberg just a few hours before—Stone from Stanford and Burton from Baylor University in Houston.
Burton was fifty-four, a pathologist. He held a professorship at Baylor Medical School and served as a consultant to the NASA Manned Spaceflight Center in Houston. Earlier he had done research at the National Institutes in Bethesda. His field had been the effects of bacteria on human tissues.
It is one of the peculiarities of scientific development that such a vital field was virtually
Within the hospital he was known as a superb clinical bacteriologist, but his real interest remained parasites. In the period from 1955 to 1964 he published a series of elegant metabolic studies on Ascaris and Necator that were highly regarded by other workers in the field.
Leavitt’s reputation had made him a natural choice for Wildfire, and it was through Leavitt that Hall had been asked to join. Leavitt knew the reasons behind Hall’s selection, though Hall did not.
When Leavitt had asked him to join, Hall had demanded to know why. “I’m just a surgeon,” he had said.
“Yes,” Leavitt said. “But you know electrolytes.”
“So?”
“That may be important. Blood chemistries, pH, acidity and alkalinity, the whole thing. That may be vital, when the time comes.”
“But there are a lot of electrolyte people,” Hall had pointed out. “Many of them better than me.”
“Yes,” Leavitt had said. “But they’re all married.”
“So what?”
“We need a single man.”
“Why?”
“It’s necessary that one member of the team be unmarried.”
“That’s crazy,” Hall had said.
“Maybe,” Leavitt had said. “Maybe not.”
* * *
They left the hospital and walked up to the Army sedan. A young officer was waiting stiffly, and saluted as they came up.
“Dr. Hall?”
“Yes.”
“May I see your card, please?”
Hall gave him the little plastic card with his picture on it. He had been carrying the card in his wallet for more than a year; it was a rather strange card—with just a name, a picture, and a thumbprint, nothing more. Nothing to indicate that it was an official card.
The officer glanced at it, then at Hall, and back to the card. He handed it back.
“Very good, sir.”
He opened the rear door of the sedan. Hall got in and Leavitt followed, shielding his eyes from the flashing red light on the car top. Hall noticed it.
“Something wrong?”
“No. Just never liked flashing lights. Reminds me of my days as an ambulance driver, during the war.” Leavitt settled back and the car started off. “Now then,” he said. “When we reach the airfield, you will be given a file to read during the trip.”
“What trip?”
“You’ll be taking an F-104,” Leavitt said.
“Where?”
“Nevada. Try to read the file on the way. Once we arrive, things will be very busy.”
“And the others in the team?”
Leavitt glanced at his watch. “Kirke has appendicitis and is in the hospital. The others have already begun work. Right now, they are in a helicopter, over Piedmont, Arizona.”
“Never heard of it,” Hall said.
“Nobody has,” Leavitt said, “until now.”
6
Piedmont
AT 9:59 A.M. ON THE SAME MORNING, a K-4 jet helicopter lifted off the concrete of Vandenberg’s maximum-security hangar MSH-9 and headed east, toward Arizona.
The decision to lift off from an MSH was made by Major Manchek, who was concerned about the attention the suits might draw. Because inside the helicopter were three men, a pilot and two scientists, and all three wore clear plastic inflatable suits, making them look like obese men from Mars, or, as one of the hangar maintenance men put it, “like balloons from the Macy’s parade.”
As the helicopter climbed into the clear morning sky, the two passengers in the belly looked at each other. One was Jeremy Stone, the other Charles Burton. Both men had arrived at Vandenberg just a few hours before—Stone from Stanford and Burton from Baylor University in Houston.
Burton was fifty-four, a pathologist. He held a professorship at Baylor Medical School and served as a consultant to the NASA Manned Spaceflight Center in Houston. Earlier he had done research at the National Institutes in Bethesda. His field had been the effects of bacteria on human tissues.
It is one of the peculiarities of scientific development that such a vital field was virtually
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