by Mike Jenne
Merely possessing the Gemini machine was not the only reason that Yohzin’s team maintained the lead role on the targeting computer effort. On orders from the Soviet High Command, Yohzin had demonstrated the Gemini computer to a select team of Perimetr engineers and had conducted extensive briefings about its design and capabilities. Early into the session, Yohzin came to realize that the Perimetr men could not grasp the digital computer’s concepts. As much as they coveted it, the foreign machine was absolutely opaque to them; explaining it to those blockheads was as futile as describing a wristwatch to a mule. So Yohzin held sway over the targeting computer, and the Perimetr men kept their interlock.
Simply stated, the interlock functioned much like an ignition switch on a Western automobile. Its main components were a central station and two remote lock stations. Each of the three men possessed a unique key and personal code. Once in orbit, after they received an Emergency Action Message—a directive to deploy the Egg—each man would immediately report to his assigned station, insert his key, and enter his personal code; all three keys had to be turned and the codes entered within a set timeframe—just a few seconds—in order for the interlock to be disabled.
The three stations were sufficiently dispersed throughout the Krepost, so that two men could not overpower the third. Once the three personal codes were entered, the final step mandated that the mission commander enter a separate authorization code, which would be sent up from a ground station when an Emergency Action Message was issued. Unlike the personal codes that would remain constant throughout the duration of a mission, the authorization codes changed on a daily basis. The authorization codes were transmitted on a dedicated secure radio network operated by Perimetr and automatically uploaded to the interlock interface.
Once the interlock was disabled, the targeting computer passed the instructions to the Egg, at which time the Egg’s internal computer took control over the station until the warhead had physically separated from the Krepost. The last step was for the mission commander to push an “Arm” button, which finalized the arming process and initiated the actual deployment. After the Arm button was pressed, there was little more for the cosmonauts to do but to hastily grab their belongings before beating a hasty retreat to the Soyuz spacecraft that would return them to Earth. Once the Arm button was pressed, the process could not be halted or reversed, unless a special recall code was issued by Perimetr headquarters and entered into the interlock.
In addition to the personal codes, the authorization code and the recall code, there was yet another code to be reckoned with, and that was the Independent Action Code. An Independent Action Code granted full control of the Egg to a single individual aboard the Krepost. No input was necessary from the other crewmen, assuming that they were still alive, and no authorization code—issued from a ground station—was required. It was clear to all involved that the High Command would not authorize an Independent Action Code to be issued except in the most exigent of circumstances. When such extreme power was entrusted to one man, it had to be assumed that the Perimetr network was on the verge of compromise, and that the entire world was standing at the brink of thermonuclear war.
Thus far, Abdirov’s quest had been stymied by the tight veil of secrecy implemented by the Perimetr leadership, but the aftermath of last year’s Soyuz Yantar accident, in which a three-man crew died when their Descent Module was accidently depressurized, afforded a potential avenue towards achieving his secret agenda. The Krepost station was configured for a three-man crew, but after the Soyuz Yantar tragedy, Soyuz spacecraft crews were limited to two men wearing spacesuits—to deal with the effects of emergency decompression—rather than three men clad in coveralls. Consequently, with the limitation imposed by the Soyuz used to ferry crews to the Krepost, the station complement was reduced from three men to two.
Since the original interlock system was expressly designed to accommodate three men, it had to be redesigned. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on one’s perspective—the first redesigned interlock failed miserably. The redesign had taken the better part of a year, so after the first solution was discarded (and the lead designer sent east to make penance in frigid exile) the remaining engineers struggled to make up for lost time. Only two months ago, they had finally fabricated a working prototype. Normally, any device destined to fly on a Soviet spacecraft would be subjected to an intensive battery of pre-flight certification checks, but the Perimetr leadership unilaterally declared the new interface to be flight-ready, despite Abdirov’s very vocal complaints to the High Command. After all, no one, but no one, wanted to be seen as the reluctant milquetoast who stalled the Krepost’s maiden voyage.
Abdirov stood his ground, though, and the Perimetr leadership eventually conceded. Even though the interlock device would not be run through the full certification gauntlet, it would undergo a rigorous series of checks under Yohzin’s fastidious supervision. And even though the Perimetr leadership insisted that Yohzin only see the exterior of the interlock box, Abdirov tenaciously demanded that his deputy be granted full access. So, granted Abdirov’s sanction as his sole trusted agent, Yohzin was permitted to scrutinize the detailed schematics as well as the interior of the box.
Operating under the pretense that the interlock might eventually present a hazard to the crew, Yohzin frowned, fussed and fretted as they cycled it over and over and over, under all potential scenarios. With the interlock deactivated, at Yohzin’s insistence, the Perimetr engineers entered the coordinates of almost every potential target in the catalog, as well as different firing solutions. They entered the coordinates correctly and then intentionally entered them incorrectly, substituting the latitude for the longitude, and vice versa, as well as setting the detonation altitude so that the Egg would theoretically explode thousands of feet below surface level. All the while, with the enclosure removed and the device’s guts laid bare, Yohzin used an electronic thermometer to measure heat in the circuits, ostensibly to determine any potential aberrations that might lead to a short circuit or otherwise spark a fire aboard the Krepost.
He pretended to be skeptical, but in reality, it was difficult for Yohzin to disguise his admiration for their efforts. Their engineering was rock solid, and the robust device was well constructed, as if it had been assembled by master craftsmen. In theory, when Yohzin declared that he was satisfied, the tedious testing regimen would cease, and the stainless steel box would be hermetically closed with tamper-proof seals. Afterwards, technicians would install it in the Krepost.
Of course, the Perimetr engineers balked at having an interloper in their midst. Moreover, the haughty Perimetr people considered themselves as some sort of chosen elite and typically looked upon all RSVN officers with a very discernible degree of scorn. Even though he substantially outranked all of them, Yohzin did his best to act almost servile. It chafed at him to do so, but he set aside his disgust to gradually establish rapport with them. As he slowly won their trust and gained their confidence, he insinuated himself deeper into the testing process.
Given his unique position, Yohzin eventually realized that Perimetr engineers possessed some form of shorthand code that allowed them to swiftly disable and bypass the interface box.
The shortcut was apparently intended to save time in testing. As much as they grew to trust him, they were still cautious not to allow him to watch them enter the shortcut, but even as he turned his back to the box, he was able to count the clicks to determine that the sequence contained eight digits. He also discerned that the special code did not require inserting and turning a key to disable the interlock. He was confident that the special code was the skeleton key that Abdirov sought.
Although he was aware of the special code, gaining access to it was another matter. Although Yohzin had unfettered access to the interlock’s schematics and technical documents, the Perimetr engineers jealously guarded their notebooks where the special code obviously resided. Circumventing their vigilance was a foray that demanded patience, so he formula
ted a plan, prepared his arsenal, and bided his time as he awaited an opportunity.
11:45 a.m.
By now accustomed to Yohzin’s presence, three of the four Perimetr engineers had departed for lunch, leaving Yohzin with the most junior of the group, Aleksey Bogrov, a broomstick-thin bespectacled electrical engineer from Kiev. This had become a common occurrence, since the senior engineers would compel Bogrov to document the morning’s sessions in the testing journal. The documentation process was an undesirable task, which entailed transcribing comments from a tape recorder which rarely worked correctly. Denied of his lunch break, Bogrov frequently did not eat until after he departed for the day, and often his stomach audibly growled when the sessions ran late into the evening.
Yohzin lingered in the workspace over lunch because it was such an aggravation to be searched as he left and then searched again as he returned. The Perimetr engineers were not subject to such indignities. Thankfully, he was fortunate that he had a loving spouse who saw fit to fix his lunch; as a bachelor who resided in a dormitory, Bogrov lacked that luxury.
Yohzin noshed on a chunk of black bread as he watched Bogrov manipulate the finicky tape recorder. Sensing the opening that he had long anticipated, Yohzin held out the small loaf and casually asked, “Some bread, Aleksey? It pains me that those ingrates leave you here to fend for yourself while they stuff their faces at the cafeteria.”
“It’s my job,” replied Bogrov. “And the nature of the beast. Someday, some poor soul will take my place, and it will finally be my turn to go to lunch.”
Yohzin nodded sympathetically.
“But I will have some of that bread, if you don’t mind, Comrade General,” said Bogrov, reaching out to accept the offering. “Thank you for your kind gesture.”
Waving his hands over the other contents of his lunch pail, Yohzin said, “There’s plenty here as well. Have some of Luba’s olivie. It’s delicious. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt me to cut back a bit, since my trousers have been fitting so snugly as of late.”
“Again, sir, spasiba,” said Bogrov, sparing no time to pick up a spoon to sample the potato salad. ‘Your generosity is greatly appreciated.” As he availed himself of Yohzin’s other offerings, the engineer persisted in his efforts to force the tape recorder to function properly.
“It looks like you have your hands full, tinkering with that gadget. I love my Luba, but her bread always comes out of the oven a little dry for my tastes. I’m going to pour myself a glass of tea. Fancy some yourself?”
“Please, Comrade General,” replied Bogrov, wiping dark crumbs from his lips. “That would be most kind of you.”
Yohzin strolled across the room to the samovar and filled two glasses with steaming tea. He gently tugged a fine wire that removed a wax stopper from the end of a glass pipette concealed in the sleeve of his woolen uniform coat, and carefully dispensed four drops of the phenolphthalein into Bogrov’s glass. He had acquired the chemical yesterday from the fuels testing laboratory. Colorless and tasteless, phenolphthalein was a powerful laxative. The surreptitious dispenser was of his own design.
He returned to the bench and handed the glass to Bogrov. The engineer took a brief pause from his chores to enjoy the tea.
Feigning grave concern, Yohzin implored Bogrov with technical questions about how the interlock box connected with Perimetr’s secure radio network. Bogrov did his best to field the questions that were valid and deflect those inquiries that fell outside Yohzin’s purview. All the while, as he gradually amplified the level of his inquisition, Yohzin carefully watched the engineer, confident that the phenolphthalein was taking effect.
Only a few minutes passed until it was blatantly obvious that the inspector was physically uncomfortable. Beads of perspiration appeared on Bogrov’s forehead, and his complexion gradually took on an ashen cast. His face was etched in pain as he squirmed on his stool. Yohzin heard the faint sounds of Bogrov’s stomach churning and could only imagine the cramps and convulsions that were gripping the engineer’s guts. Yohzin’s scheme was to pester the inspector right up until the point he reached critical mass.
“But are you absolutely sure that this interface will work as it is intended?” asked Yohzin.
Bogrov sipped the rest of his tea, set the glass aside, and said, “Begging your pardon, Comrade General, but this interlock interface is not your concern.”
“Granted, Aleksey,” replied Yohzin, dunking a scrap of bread into his tea. “That box is your concern, but I have to be confident that it will present our crew with no undue hazards.”
“While I understand your skepticism, Comrade General, I can assure you that it has been appropriately certified.” And finally, the moment that Yohzin had waited for. The anxious engineer abruptly swiveled around on his stool and blurted, “I am sorry, Comrade General, but I must go to the latrine immediately.” His hasty departure was rather comedic; bending sharply at the waist, he waddled off like a penguin stricken with severe indigestion.
Yohzin furtively glanced around before casually flipping open Bogrov’s notebook. He quickly found the dog-eared page that contained the special code. He opened his own notebook, found a table that he had prepared expressly for this moment, and jotted down the eight numbers—76810723—in the open spaces that awaited them. He confirmed his transcription and precisely replaced Bogrov’s notebook on the benchtop. In mere seconds, the deed was all but done.
He sipped the remnants of his tea and smiled, but that smile was soon replaced by a frown as he contemplated the implications of his actions. He envisioned Bogrov squatting over the floor-hole in the latrine, shuddering and grunting as he painfully emptied his bowels, and realized that the final product of the engineer’s laxative-fueled diarrhea might literally be the spasm that brought the world to a fiery end.
But there could be no turning back. He was compelled to disclose the code to Abdirov; it was not just a matter of loyalty, but practicality as well. He had known the general for decades, long before Abdirov became the scarred monstrosity that he was today, and was intimately familiar with his methods. With this knowledge, Yohzin could not delude himself into believing that he was the only one surreptitiously pursuing this objective. Abdirov often used a parallel approach in which two men or two teams or even multiple teams were challenged with solving the same problem, without having knowledge of the others’ activities. Consequently, Yohzin was positive that someone else might stumble upon a solution, although one not necessarily as elegant and yet simple as the eight numbers now contained in his notebook.
He sincerely hoped that Abdirov just wanted the capability to bypass the interlock, and that he did not actually possess the desire to do so. But all other things aside, although Yohzin could not control the ultimate outcome, being the one to share the share the code might grant him at least some influence over some of the consequences.
As he waited for Bogrov or others to reappear, he remembered that there was another vitally pressing matter: What should he communicate to the Americans? He had to compose his weekly message tonight, which he would deliver to the dead drop tomorrow evening. Although he had already decided to inform them—yet again—that the Krepost launch was imminent, he was not sure whether he should let them know about this new development. After all, he really had no way to clearly divine Abdirov’s intentions. Moreover, just the mere suggestion that Abdirov might use the code to trigger a thermonuclear war might provoke the Americans to take their own preemptive action.
Yohzin’s thoughts were interrupted by Bogrov’s return to the workspace. The engineer’s posture was considerably more upright now, and he seemed greatly relieved.
“Everything come out okay?” asked Yohzin.
“Da, Comrade General, but in the future, should you be so inclined as to offer it again, I feel that I should decline your wife’s black bread. It just didn’t sit well with me.”
Aerospace Support Project Headquarters
10:18 a.m., Thursday, August 31, 1972
Summoned
by Wolcott, Carson bounded down the stairs, swooshed past the assistant in the waiting room, and entered the office that Wolcott shared with Tew. “You called, sir?” he asked.
“Come on in, son,” said Wolcott. “Admiral Tarbox has something to share with you, pard.”
“Is General Tew not here today?” asked Carson, glancing towards Tew’s vacant chair.
“Mark’s at Walter Reed,” answered Wolcott. “Routine check-up.”
Routine check-up? thought Carson, taking a seat at the table across Wolcott and Tarbox. Tew’s health was anything but routine. Tew’s insistence on remaining at the Project was a mystery to all, since his prognosis was far from rosy.
Tarbox slid a black-and-white photograph across the table. Carson examined the image; it depicted a U-2 spy plane on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. Several members of the carrier’s deck crew surrounded the plane, and the carrier’s tall “island” was prominently visible in the background.
Tarbox explained. “That’s a U-2 aboard the Kitty Hawk in 1963, as part of Operation ‘Whale Tail,’ a feasibility test to evaluate whether U-2s could take off and land on aircraft carriers.”
“Amazing,” said Carson. “I had no idea…”
“Whale Tail was a resounding success,” interjected Tarbox. “The upshot was that three U-2s—designated as U-2G’s—were fitted with tail hooks and other modifications so that they could safely operate from aircraft carriers. Additionally, two groups of pilots were qualified to fly them from carriers.”
“Navy pilots, sir?” asked Carson.
“You mean Naval aviators? No, Carson, they weren’t Navy. The pilots were all civilians. In any event, although it’s not public knowledge, the United States has the capacity to launch and recover U-2 reconnaissance aircraft at sea, should the need arise.”
Carson nodded and then handed the photo back to Tarbox. “That’s all very interesting, Admiral, but I’m not quite sure why you’re showing me this.”