Pale Blue

by Mike Jenne

  “Da, Comrade General,” she replied, peering at the floor. “I will have it ready for you shortly.”

  Moments later, clearly favoring his left foot, Gogol walked in and reported. Abdirov studied him; the squat cosmonaut reminded him of a less refined version of Nikita Khrushchev, if such a thing was truly possible.

  “Are you injured?” asked Abdirov, returning the cosmonaut’s salute and gesturing for him to take a seat. “It appears that you are limping.”

  “I stubbed my toe, Comrade General,” replied Gogol. “A moment of clumsiness, sir, but nothing to be concerned over.”

  Abdirov could scarcely believe that he was prepared to confer the key to Armageddon upon this oafish dolt. It seemed insane that he would be compelled to use such a blunt object to ignite the fires that would purify the world. “How are the preparations for flight proceeding?” he asked.

  “Splendidly, Comrade General.”

  “Good,” noted Abdirov. “I summoned you here for a reason, but I must warn you that the things we discuss may never be spoken of to anyone. That is absolutely imperative. Do you understand?”

  “Da, Comrade General. I understand absolutely.”

  “Do you recall that we discussed your willingness to deploy the weapon if you were issued an Independent Action Code?”

  “I do recall that conversation, sir.”

  “And you still bear no reluctance to deploy the Egg in those circumstances?”

  “None whatsoever, Comrade General,” replied Gogol without hesitation.

  As much as Abdirov valued obedience on the part of subordinates, he wasn’t exactly fond of purely blind obedience, particularly given the dire implications of this situation. Surely, any rational man would have at least some pause for thought when faced with the prospect of instantly laying waste to millions.

  “Then if that’s still the case, there’s something that you should know,” said Abdirov. “I cannot elaborate, but I have it on excellent authority that the High Command fully intends to issue an Independent Action Code during your mission, and they will expect it to be executed. Do you understand?”

  “I do, Comrade General. Am I to assume that I will be authorized to deploy the Egg on the first available target after receipt of the code?”

  Abdirov smiled faintly; Gogol wasn’t an absolute dolt. “Drop on the first available target?” he replied. “Not exactly. Although they will likely provide you with the Independent Action Code first, the High Command will still designate a specific target, which you will execute on their order. Obviously, they would prefer to achieve the greatest potential effect.”

  “Obviously, Comrade General.”

  “One more thing. This may seem odd, but you should not expect to receive the Independent Action Code or targeting instructions by the usual means, which are controlled by Perimetr. Instead, we’ll send up the code and other instructions on the intelligence channel.”

  Besides the automatic communications links for telemetry, there were three dedicated radio channels. The first was a “housekeeping” channel reserved for routine traffic concerning spacecraft operational matters. The second was the weapons deployment channel exclusively managed by Perimetr. The third channel was reserved for daily intelligence reports and general news; for brevity’s sake, the intelligence broadcasts were encrypted and sent in a compressed burst format. During periods of international crisis, these messages would include specific locations—airfields, ICBM fields, troop concentrations, port facilities—that the cosmonauts should visually monitor as they passed over them. Although not intended as a dedicated reconnaissance platform, the Krepost was equipped with a powerful spotting telescope and four portholes.

  “Permission to ask a question, Comrade General?” asked Gogol.

  “Da. Go ahead.”

  “If the Independent Action Code is to be passed by Channel Three, am I to believe that the High Command does not trust Perimetr?”

  Abdirov was mildly surprised at the insightful question, as well as Gogol’s courage in raising such a sensitive matter. Perhaps he was not nearly the bumpkin that he tried to portray. “Perhaps, but in any event, that is entirely outside your realm, and beyond mine as well, so we should not waste our energies contemplating the thoughts and desires of the High Command. Understood?”

  Nodding, Gogol replied, “I understand, Comrade General, and will not speak of it again.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t want to offend or anger you, Comrade General, but may I ask another question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why are you telling me this now, Comrade General?” asked Gogol quietly.

  “I have two reasons,” answered Abdirov. “First, although I am confident that you will execute your duties in a timely manner, I am not as sure about Vasilyev or any of the other cosmonauts. In fact, once the Independent Action Code is issued and the deployment order given, I seriously doubt that Vasilyev will be compliant, so you should be prepared to subdue him, if necessary. I am telling you this now, so you can be prepared to act accordingly.”

  “And what if the timing is such that I need to exercise lethal force to subdue him, in order to deploy the Egg on the appointed target?”

  Again, another tremendously insightful question, thought Abdirov. Perhaps this is indeed the perfect man for the task. “Then I trust that you will do what is necessary.”

  Gogol was silent for a moment, apparently pondering the situation, and then asked, “Comrade General, you said that there was a second reason?”

  Abdirov sighed and then said, “Realistically, should this contingency occur as we anticipate, you will be the man who pulls the trigger that ends the stalemate between East and West. It’s safe to assume that you will not see me again after you depart this earth, because I’m confident that this place will be reduced to radioactive rubble, as will a large part of our Motherland and ideally, all of America.

  “Since you will be in the unique and enviable position to survive the holocaust that you will have wrought, and you will have over a week in orbit to contemplate where you will come back to Earth, I wanted to grant you adequate time to make the appropriate preparations. Fair enough?”

  “You can count on me, Comrade General!” vowed Gogol. He seemed almost elated.

  “Gogol, do what you need to get ready. Just so you are aware, once you arrive on orbit, I am confident that the order will not be issued until after you have received your first freighter.”

  “Thank you for granting me such warning, sir. I will study the situation and assemble the necessary materials, but I will do so without attracting any undue attention,” declared Gogol. “By your leave, Comrade General? I have some scrounging to do.”

  “I imagine that you do,” answered Abdirov. “You are dismissed.”

  Dayton, Ohio

  5:35 p.m., Tuesday, September 5, 1972

  Just yesterday, while they were talking on the phone, Ourecky and Bea had finally decided that it was time to see each other. He pulled into Jill’s gravel driveway and parked behind Bea’s Volkswagen Karmann Ghia. Just the sight of her red “roller skate,” as Carson always called it, made him sigh in longing.

  Not sure exactly what to expect, he slowly walked up the front steps like he was ascending the stairs to the gallows. He succumbed to a coughing spell just as he started to push the doorbell. Bent over at the waist, he hacked up a bloody lump and spat it out behind an overgrown boxwood shrub next to the front door.

  Gasping and wheezing, he struggled to catch his breath. He had effectively sacrificed his lungs—at least for the time being—but Ed Russo was alive. Now, he would gladly sacrifice every breath he would ever draw if Bea would only come back to him. He was apprehensively sailing into uncharted waters; she had given him no clear indication of when or if she would return, and he was wary of saying anything brash that might sway her decision in a negative way.

  He straightened up, regained his composure, and pushed the doorbell. Seconds later, the door creake
d open. Barefoot, Bea pushed open the screen door and waved him inside. She wore faded and patched blue jeans, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and had her hair tucked under a blue bandanna. A large silver peace symbol dangled from a chain around her neck.

  He was immediately melted by her glamorous smile, just like on the first day they had met. It seemed as if she hadn’t changed in the slightest, but he felt like he had aged a thousand years. He hugged her awkwardly, almost like she was a stranger, and drew in her familiar smell.

  “That’s the best you can manage, Ourecky?”

  “Well, I just thought…”

  “We’re still married. I just need some time away. Come on in. We need to keep it down. Jill’s asleep in the back bedroom. Jill’s mom took Andy and Rebecca to the park.”

  “Rebecca?” asked Ourecky.

  “Jill’s daughter,” she replied. “She’s almost a year older than Andy. Anyway, come on in. Want anything?”

  “Some water would be nice,” he answered, following her inside and taking a seat on the couch. “You look great.”

  “Thanks,” she replied, filling a glass from the kitchen faucet. “Did I hear you coughing outside? You sounded horrible. Are you still sick?”

  “Yeah. It’s the same damned bronchitis. I’m slowly getting better, though.”

  She sat beside him on the couch and handed him the glass. “Is it catching?” she asked. “I have to be really careful with Jill the way she is, and the kids…”

  He sipped the water and replied, “No. It’s not contagious. I think I caught it by going from one climate to another too quickly. Too cold to too hot, too fast.”

  “Yeah. I know how that works.”

  The television was on, although its sound was turned down so low as to be barely audible. Its monochromatic screen displayed images from yesterday’s massacre at the Munich Airport, where several Black September terrorists and the nine members of the Israeli Olympic wrestling team, held hostage by the terrorists, were killed during a shoot-out with German police.

  “Sorry,” she said, reaching over to switch off the television. “Except for that Watergate break-in stuff, that’s just about all that’s on the news right now. What a horrible situation. You would think that people would learn to live in peace with each other, especially during something like the Olympics.”

  He nodded. Uncomfortable with her, he wasn’t sure what to say. He nursed the water as he assessed the surroundings. The floor was cluttered with toys, games, and Dr. Seuss books. A typewriter and cassette tape player, the principal tools of Jill’s medical transcription work, occupied the small breakfast nook that divided the living room from the kitchen.

  He wasn’t particularly comfortable with some of the other trappings of Jill’s house. For him, the visit was like an excursion into the depths of hippie counterculture. One wall was decorated with Day-Glo posters of Woodstock, Jimi Hendrix, and Janis Joplin. A dog-eared copy of the Whole Earth Catalog: Access to Tools and several books on alternative medicine occupied the coffee table. On the end table to his left, shape-shifting blobs of oily goop swam in the cone-shaped glass of a Lava Lamp. Ourecky felt queasy; the undulating blobs were just too reminiscent of the floating spheres of vomit he had dodged during his day aboard the MOL.

  If all the psychedelic paraphernalia wasn’t disconcerting enough, there was a pervasive scent, a faint lingering odor, something he hadn’t smelled since his college dorm years. He sniffed the air and asked, “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Pot?” replied Bea. “Marijuana? Yeah, Scott, that’s exactly what it is.”

  “Do you…”

  “No. Jill smokes it sometimes. Her medicines make her really nauseous. The pot helps with the pain and gives her an appetite. If she didn’t smoke it, she probably wouldn’t eat anything at all.”

  “Well, I can’t believe that you bring our son into this place.” As soon as the words left his lips, he knew he had blundered as he watched her expression.

  She frowned. “This place? Man, aren’t you quick to pass judgment? You make it sound like some evil opium den in Chinatown. Look, Jill doesn’t ever do it around the kids. I take them outside when she smokes. Jill’s dying, Scott. It makes her feel better. Can you not grant her that?”

  “I suppose,” he conceded reluctantly. “I just wish that Andy wasn’t around it.”

  “Well, he isn’t,” she said curtly.

  “Okay,” he mumbled.

  “So have things changed much?” she asked.

  “At work?”

  She nodded.

  Shaking his head, he disclosed, “Things around the office have slowed down a lot, but we know that there’s still one more flight…”

  “One more flight?” she sniffed. “Another test? I suspected that. You’ll be flying with Drew Carson again?”

  Staring at the wooden floor, he replied, “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “I’m not sure. Definitely not until after I heal up. Right now, it doesn’t look like it will happen for at least another six months, so I’m really not sure.”

  “Well, you may not be sure, but as far as you and I are concerned, I’m sure that things can’t change until you get out of there, Scott. As much as I want us to be back together, I don’t think I can climb back on that emotional roller coaster again. Do you understand that?”

  “I do, Bea, but I have to warn you: it might be months before it’s over and I have a chance to leave. Is there not any chance that you might come home before…”

  “I don’t know,” answered Bea. “I really don’t know if I can handle it. Look, Scott, I feel obligated to stay here with Jill until…well, until that’s over. After that, we’ll just take things one baby step at a time. Can you live with that?”

  Ourecky nodded solemnly. At least there was some hope.

  3

  CALL THE BALL

  Over the Gulf of Mexico

  10:32 a.m., Wednesday, September 6, 1972

  Carson ticked off the final items on his pre-landing checklist and made his “abeam” call as he came alongside the Lexington. Seconds later, he confirmed his power settings and ensured his tail hook was extended before smoothly banking into the tight 180-degree level turn that would line him up for his third “trap” of the day.

  Flying roughly twenty nautical miles south of Pensacola, he was at the controls of a T-2C “Buckeye” trainer. The orange and white Navy jet was the slowest aircraft he had flown in recent years, but it was certainly sturdy and nimble. He supposed that it had to be solidly built, since it was expressly designed to be repeatedly smashed onto carrier decks by fledgling Naval aviators.

  Carson rolled out of the turn, crossed the trailing wake of the carrier, and verified the “meatball,” the Fresnel Lens Optical Landing System, on the carrier’s deck. He keyed the mike and stated, “Two-Two-Four, Buckeye Ball, Three Point Six, Qual Nineteen.” The meatball’s colored light array displayed visual cues to denote if he was on the optimum glide path and centerline to safely bring the jet aboard the carrier. If he was spot on, he would view the illuminated meatball as an amber light hovering between two green bars. If he sank too low, he would see the amber light dip below the green bars and gradually change to red. If he was too high, the amber light would appear to float above the green bars. Right now, he was precisely where he needed to be to securely plant the jet on the deck.

  In a patient, unhurried voice, the Lexington’s LSO—Landing Signal Officer—replied,

  “Two-Two-Four, roger ball. The deck is steady. You’re in the groove. Fly the ball.”

  He maintained a disciplined scan, swiftly alternating between his instruments and the glowing meatball. He remembered the Navy instructors’ mantra: Watch the Ball. Watch the Ball. Watch the Ball. Be the Ball. Fighting years of ingrained training, he double-checked that his feet were off the brakes and remembered to resist any urge to flare. He focused intently on the ball, striving not to look at the massive gray deck swelling before him.

  Carefully monit
oring his angle of attack, he kept the aircraft precisely aligned on glide slope and centerline; if he followed the ball all the way to touchdown, the landing would come as a virtual surprise. He had often heard a carrier landing described as a controlled crash, but he found it more like a Zen-like trust exercise, like falling face-first off a stepladder, blindfolded, hoping to be caught in the outstretched arms of waiting comrades.

  The plane slammed down on the deck. In anticipation that his tail hook had not snagged an arresting wire, Carson followed procedures to the letter, immediately jamming the throttle to Military Rated Thrust—full power without afterburners—and retracting his speed brakes. If the T-2C wasn’t securely trapped, he would immediately “bolter” back into the air for another try.

  After confirming that he was safely aboard ship, he directed his attention to the hand signal instructions of an enlisted “yellow shirt” plane director. After he had pulled back to allow his tail hook to disengage from the arresting wire, he followed the yellow shirt’s directions past the “foul line” to a deck area where he would undergo a “hot seat” rotation. Since the number of pilots currently undergoing carrier quals exceeded the number of aircraft available to fly—a situation which would undoubtedly change within a day or two—the Buckeye trainers were time-shared.

  After climbing down from the aircraft, Carson clambered below decks to a ready room where he would cool his heels while waiting for the LSO’s critique of his landing. After the critique, he would join the queue of fledgling pilots awaiting their next turn at the controls. Most were fresh-faced ensigns, kids barely out of college. Carson felt like an ancient amongst them.

  As he watched a television monitor that showed carrier landings in progress, Carson contemplated his potential combat deployment. The timing could not be any more critical. With the US anti-war movement in full swing, American involvement in the Vietnam conflict was waning. The last US ground combat troops had departed the country even as he sat beside Ourecky’s hospital bed at Lackland in August.