Pale Blue
Page 9
Shaking his head, Gogol undid the clasps, opened the bag, and dumped its contents onto the table.
Vasilyev was engrossed by the contents of Gogol’s satchel. Amongst a variety of other items, it contained a hatchet, a file, a short machete-like knife, several hanks of parachute shroud cord, a compass, a small Geiger counter, and a simple sextant. There was a limited collection of medical supplies, including four large plastic bottles of potassium iodide anti-radiation pills and several pre-loaded hypodermic syringes loaded with morphine.
The bag contained several maps. Gogol’s choice of maps, most of which were of the variety issued to strategic bomber crews to assist with escape and evasion, was particularly interesting. The regions covered were Australia, South America, North America and Africa. Vasilyev realized that the maps were painstakingly trimmed, so that they depicted only areas where the latitudes would fall under the Krepost’s orbital track, with all other superfluous regions carefully trimmed away. They were protected with plastic lamination, and various locations were marked with dots. The numbered dots were strategically situated in desolate expanses of wilderness. Vasilyev deduced that the dots denoted contingency landing sites, but none were locations that he had ever been briefed on, nor had they rehearsed for.
In addition to the official maps, there were also tourist maps for the same areas, as well as phrase books and translation guides for commonly spoken languages. There was also a battery-powered multi-band receiver, manufactured in Japan, that could also receive short wave frequencies. A small hand-cranked generator was taped to the back of the portable radio.
A Kalashnikov folding stock assault rifle was the pièce de résistance of Gogol’s collection. Vasilyev was aware that Gogol had complained bitterly that his survival gear had lacked a decent weapon when he crash-landed in the Mongolian desert. Other cosmonauts had lent their voices to Gogol’s lament, and a robust multi-barrel survival weapon was currently under development. Gogol had obviously selected the Kalashnikov as an interim substitute.
“A Kalashnikov?” asked the chief packer incredulously. “Hah! You must be kidding, right? I thought you both will have Makarovs at your disposal.”
“Try popping an angry bear with a damned Makarov,” sniffed Gogol. “He might eventually die of lead poisoning if you empty the entire clip into him, but will more likely die of severe indigestion first, after he makes a meal of you.”
“Fair enough,” said the chief packer. “I can see your point.” He examined several boxes of ammunition and slid one box back to Gogol. “The regular rounds can go up. I can’t allow these tracers, though.”
Gogol replaced the items in the bag and refastened it. The chief packer snapped his fingers before handing the bag to an assistant to be weighed.
“Okay, next priority,” said Gogol, placing a wooden box on the table. The box contained rubber hot water bottles; each one was sealed with a cork that was further held in place by a radiator clamp. Vasilyev was aware that the flexible containers contained a considerable volume of vodka and brandy. They would be wedged into any and all available voids and spaces between cargo containers, rendering the resupply freighter into a veritable flying liquor cabinet. Of course, in the weeks that passed before the freighter flew, the flexible flasks would almost certainly impart a rubbery aftertaste to the liquor they contained. But vodka was vodka, mused Vasilyev, even if it did taste like the gum sole of an old gym shoe.
Vasilyev was thankful that his superiors weren’t stricken with the Americans’ insistence on puritanical temperance in space. Besides, for most Soviet military personnel, sobriety was a vague concept at best, since the relentless pursuit and wanton consumption of alcohol were indelible aspects of Soviet military life. After all, history clearly showed that inebriated soldiers were brave soldiers, or at least more prone to acts of suicidal foolhardiness that might otherwise be construed as bravery. And intoxicated or not, the destructive capacity of the Soviet soldier was a force to behold. In an orgy of pillaging and rape, leaving scarcely more than scorched earth, broken bodies, and destruction in their wake, the vengeful Soviet Army had rolled off the Russian steppes to brutally pound the Nazis into abject submission.
In their never-ending quest for stout potables, Soviet soldiers left no stone unturned and no liquid—however foul—untried. They were notoriously prone to imbibe on anything even modestly inebriating, regardless of toxicity, to include antifreeze, metal polish, cleaning solvents, brake fluid and de-icing fluids. Even rocket fuel was not off limits. In the relatively short history of Soviet rocket designs, one of the most momentous achievements was the development of the R-2 in 1949, not just because it had nearly double the range of its predecessor, the R-1—which was essentially a direct copy of the Germans’ A-4—but because its engineers were successful in fabricating a rocket motor that relied not on ethyl alcohol, but its highly toxic cousin—methyl alcohol—which even thirsty RSVN rocket troops would not consume. Well, more realistically speaking, they wouldn’t consume methyl twice, since the first hangover was usually fatal.
But stocking liquor aboard a nuclear-armed space station? It seemed like a sure recipe for disaster, since common sense should dictate that nuclear weapons and alcohol don’t mix. Packing the liquor in the resupply freighter was not an officially sanctioned activity, but a “wink and a nod” tradition overlooked by the mission-planning authorities. But there was a method to the planners’ apparent madness. At this juncture, the relationship between the American and Soviet manned space programs was like the disparity between a sprinter and a marathon runner. While their American counterparts concentrated their efforts on short duration events like going to the moon, the Soviets focused their energies on developing equipment and procedures for the long duration missions that would be the mainstay of real space exploration. Consequently, even though the Americans would soon join the marathon race with their three-man Skylab, the Soviets were swiftly becoming the undisputed authorities on extended space flight. With every additional day that they toted up on the board, the Soviets were progressively more aware that a prolonged mission was anything but a pleasure cruise. So the mission planners did whatever they could to fend off boredom and complacency, to include plying the station’s occupants with liquor, a relatively decent selection of foodstuffs and other distractions.
Besides, the Egg’s arming process was extremely simple, so much so that Vasilyev was entirely confident that he and Gogol would successfully execute a deployment even if both of them were inebriated. And as peculiar as Gogol was, he had already established some clear-cut guidance about when and how they would imbibe. His rule was that they could only partake during the “blind” orbits, which were those revolutions where they would not pass over communications windows in the Soviet Union and also would not pass over the continental United States. Since it was so unlikely that they would deploy the Egg during a blind orbit, they were logical periods to relax and let off steam. The frequency and duration of blind orbits varied for any given twenty-four hour period, but there were often intervals where they might be blind for up to six or more hours, which was plenty of time to get snockered, with adequate time for recovery.
“And here’s my extra chow,” said Gogol, depositing another box on the table as he winked at the packer. Vasilyev noticed that despite Abdirov’s assertions that Gogol would no longer be allowed to smoke in orbit, the box contained several packs of Zolotoye Runo cigarettes.
The chief packer submitted the box’s contents to an inspection that was cursory at best. With a stern look on his face, like a schoolmaster preparing to scold an unruly youth, he picked up a pack of smokes. He held out the pack towards Gogol and said, “Comrade Commander, General Abdirov specifically ordered me not to permit any cigarettes to be packed aboard the freighter.”
Gogol whistled quietly and replied, “I guess orders are orders, then.”
Slipping the pack into the breast pocket of his coveralls, the chief packer smiled faintly, winked, and said, “Then you understand
why I am compelled to confiscate this contraband.”
Gogol flashed a metal grin, then turned towards Vasilyev and ordered, “Chuck your box up, too. Let’s put this chore behind us.”
Other than a couple of paperback novels and an extra toothbrush, Vasilyev’s box contained nothing but foodstuffs. Remembering how Travkin had been compelled to sacrifice his meals so that Gogol could stuff his face, Vasilyev had intentionally restricted his culinary fare to items that he knew Gogol did not like. The sole exception was three jars of Khrenovina horse radish sauce; for whatever reason, the sense of taste was dulled by spaceflight, so both men were prone to dousing their meals with the pungent additive. Vasilyev hoped that he had packed enough for both.
As his own stuff was being weighed, Gogol dug through Vasilyev’s box, auditing the contents. He tugged out a tin of pickled herring, scrutinized the label, and then nonchalantly tossed it into a nearby rubbish bin. He discarded several other items in the same manner. Vasilyev fumed, but was careful not to provoke Gogol’s volatile temper.
Satisfied with his inventory, Gogol shoved the box toward the chief packer. “Weigh this stuff, and let’s see the final tally.”
Less than a minute elapsed before the chief loader pronounced, “You’re three kilograms over.”
“Cull out some more of your goodies,” ordered Gogol. “Now.”
Vasilyev resisted the urge to swear out loud, but knew that it was futile to argue. He knew that he would suffer many worse indignities in the coming weeks, so he should learn now to hold his tongue.
Krepost Project Headquarters
11:15 a.m., Thursday, September 7, 1972
“So, there are no new developments concerning the second freighter, Rustam?” asked Yohzin. “There’s still a potential that it might be delayed?”
“Correct,” replied Abdirov, holding up a memorandum. “And that damned Korolev bureau still insists on playing both ends against the middle. All I’m getting from them is back channel stuff, where they are supposedly keeping me informed, but even though they are blatantly aware that the next freighter probably won’t be consigned on schedule, they aren’t making official notification to the High Command, so I stand to be left holding the bag when they fail.”
Abdirov slowly pushed himself up and out of his chair and then turned to face the window behind his desk. As he looked at the massive Proton processing building approximately a kilometer distant, he spoke. “What’s worse is that we are at the point of no return. If we’re going to delay the launch until the next window, I have to make the decision today.”
“Today?” asked Yohzin.
“Da. I must formalize the orders today to set everything in motion, or there’s no telling when we might be able to launch, if ever.”
Yohzin speculated on the potential outcomes. If Abdirov elected to postpone the Krepost launch and the Korolev bureau delivered the next freighter on schedule, despite their dire predictions, then he would be blamed for not acting in a decisive manner. If he chose to launch on schedule, and the second freighter was delayed, he would still be admonished for not acting with sufficient caution. Given either outcome, with his reputation indelibly tarnished, the Krepost effort would likely be snatched from his grasp. Most likely, it would be handed to the Perimetr bureaucracy, which was exactly what Abdirov feared, since he suspected that the Perimetr leadership and the Korolev bureau were conspiring against him.
The underlying problem was that postponing the launch wasn’t like holding a train at the depot while awaiting an important boxcar, and then simply sending it on its way later. If it was a single rocket to launch a single spacecraft, the decision would be easy, but a delay of the Krepost launch would disrupt a carefully orchestrated chain of follow-on events. All of the subsequent crew and freighter launches, at least for the first two crew cycles, would have to be shifted, which was definitely not a casual endeavor. There were countless other variables that figured in as well. Rescue forces had to be deployed. Communications and tracking networks had to be synchronized. It was all an incredibly complicated process, and they were but one entity competing for a very scant allotment of unique resources required to support a launch.
“This is terribly frustrating,” grumbled Abdirov, turning around before slowly lowering his broken body into his chair. “This project is on the verge of collapsing around our ears, and all because that damned Korolev bureau is holding me hostage with this freighter and their shoddy welding. I could lodge a formal complaint against those scoundrels, but what good could come of it?
“Not much, I suppose,” said Yohzin.
“Well, damn them all,” declared Abdirov, dipping a pen into an inkwell. “We are going to launch on schedule. Maybe this will light a fire under them, when they realize that this freighter debacle will eventually come to roost on them, and all of their frail excuses will be for naught.” He signed several documents, slid them into a large envelope, and then affixed a wax seal.
Abdirov chuckled and then said, “It’s ironic that the second freighter won’t even be necessary, after all.”
“Then you still intend to pursue your plan with the Egg?” asked Yohzin.
“I do, Gregor, but I haven’t forgotten my commitment to spirit you out of here with your family. Perhaps saving you and Luba may be the only good thing that comes of all of this.”
“And the timing, Rustam?”
“I’m going to wait until after Gogol and Vasilyev have received the first freighter. A few days after that, I will signal Gogol to drop the Egg.”
“Are you sure that you can count on them?”
Abdirov paused as if to ponder the question, and then replied, “I am sure that Gogol will do exactly as he’s instructed. I’m not nearly as confident about Vasilyev. He seems like one who might harbor second thoughts. In any event, I’ve made appropriate plans to ensure that my plan is executed.”
Yohzin nodded. As peculiar as Gogol was, he was immensely reliable, almost to a fault, like a dog faithful to his master. Vasilyev, on the other hand, was a very capable officer but also extremely aloof. He was definitely one who might question orders, especially an order to extinguish most of human civilization.
“There’s another matter I need to share with you, Gregor, and it’s a situation that’s less than pleasant,” said Abdirov. “As if there were not enough balls for me to juggle, the director of the GRU Internal Security office paid me a visit this week.”
“That idiot major?” asked Yohzin. “I can’t conceive how that buffoon was able to find a job with the GRU.”
“Precisely, but that’s not the issue.” Abdirov was momentarily quiet as he shifted his weight in his chair. “The GRU suspects that there’s a security breach here at Kapustin Yar.”
Yohzin’s stomach immediately twisted into knots. “A breach?” he asked. “Ludicrous! With almost a battalion of GRU spooks slithering around, watching everyone’s comings and goings, how could there possibly be a leak?”
Abdirov waved a hand as if to shush him. “This is not something that originated at the local office,” he said. “The report came from GRU headquarters. Apparently, they just stole some information from the Americans that made reference to some information that they’d previously stolen from us, which referred to some information that we had earlier stolen from them, ad infinitum. Suffice it to say that they happened upon some scraps of choice information that could have only come from here, from Kapustin Yar, and from a very finite group of individuals.”
Yohzin strained not to swallow. “About the Krepost?”
“Nyet. Actually, it’s old stuff, about a missile concept that we’ve already discarded. It was something that was tested at your old bureau.”
“Oh.” Yohzin strained to control his breathing. This did not sound good.
“Frankly, the GRU major is somewhat of a blabbermouth, or he felt compelled to impress me, because he spoke about the situation at length, probably much more than he should have. Not very prudent on his part.”
“If I may ask, Rustam, why are you telling me this?”
“Because, Gregor, you are one of the four that they have identified here at Kapustin Yar.”
Yohzin swallowed. “But, sir, did you not say that they’ve identified ten individuals who were potentially exposed to the information? Is that to imply that some of them might not have actually been exposed?”
“Correct, but I think that you can be confident that the GRU will eventually divine precisely who actually had access.”
“Obviously.”
“I don’t know if you’re familiar with how the GRU works, Gregor, but let me explain a few things to you, so you’ll know what to expect,” said Abdirov. “You can anticipate that the GRU will place you under even greater scrutiny than usual, even though they will probably focus their investigation on the five men who have left here, at least initially.”
“Sir, do you think they’ll haul them in for interrogation?”
“Certainly,” answered Abdirov. “But only after they’re surveilled them for a while. I think that it goes without saying that those men are due for some tremendous misery.
“In due time, if the GRU hasn’t ferreted out the leak, then it’s highly likely that they will whisk you away to Moscow to be interrogated. I don’t know if you’ve experienced that before, but I have, and I can assure you that it will be an extremely unpleasant interlude. On a positive note, it’s not the end of the world, but you won’t be conscious of that fact until the GRU has pitched you out onto the street.