by Mike Jenne
Gogol was as drunk as Vasilyev had ever seen him. Not only was his commander drunk, but he appeared to be in a drug-induced daze as well. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t still be dangerous, thought Vasilyev. He glanced around the small room for potential weapons and made a contingency plan to bash Gogol with the empty vodka bottle if he got too frisky.
“Here,” said Gogol, sticking his foot out as he leaned back on the bed. “Make yourself useful. Help me get this damned boot off.”
As Vasilyev tugged at the boot, Gogol remained silent but still writhed in agony. His face was contorted in pain. Struggling to maintain his composure, he gritted his teeth as tears streamed from his eyes. Previously, Vasilyev wasn’t even sure that Gogol knew the meaning of pain and suffering, now it was clearly evident that he was as mortal as anyone else.
As much as Vasilyev struggled, the boot just wouldn’t budge. Suddenly, a few things made sense; Gogol had probably worn the same grungy coveralls for the past two days, or possibly longer, simply because he couldn’t pull them off over the boot.
“The boot won’t come off,” stated Vasilyev. He found his pocketknife in the bedside table. “I’ll have to cut it off.”
“Do what you have to do,” grunted Gogol. Turning the bottle up, he gulped down a copious measure of liquid fortitude.
Vasilyev sawed at the stiff leather with the serrated edge of his blade. Satisfied that he had slashed away enough of the boot, he gripped it tightly and yanked until it finally gave way.
Wincing, Gogol unleashed a torrent of expletives as the boot flew off and rebounded off the opposite wall.
The room was immediately filled with a reeking stench much like rotting meat. Gogol’s swollen foot was encased by a cotton sock that had once been white, but was now tinged with yellowish-green pus and blood.
“That’s infected!” declared Vasilyev, gagging at the powerful stench. Aghast, he slurped down the rest of his vodka. Gasping for breath, he immediately felt woozy.
“You have such a flair for the obvious, kitten,” replied Gogol, slowly peeling off his sock as he quickly regained his normal persona. He dropped the sodden sock on the floor, guzzled from the bottle, and examined the foot. “Da, it’s pretty damned ripe, isn’t it?”
“Have the doctors seen it?” asked Vasilyev. Gogol’s foot was badly discolored and swollen. He was obviously deluding himself as to the severity of the infection.
“I’m not showing it to the doctors before it heals up, because they’ll ground me. And mark my words, Vasilyev, I’ll clobber you if I catch you saying anything behind my back.”
Grimacing as he wiggled his big toe, Gogol grunted. He gingerly squeezed the digit, causing thick green pus to ooze from the edges of the nail. “This is infuriating,” he said. “I’ve soaked it in salts and peroxide and have even tried turpentine, but nothing helps.”
“Then why don’t you go to the flight surgeon? Certainly, he could do something.” Vasilyev could not believe that he had let it fester this long without seeking medical help.
“Nyet. One of the orderlies snuck me some antibiotics yesterday, and those will likely fix it in due time. After all, it’s only a damned toenail that’s ingrown and infected. It’s not a problem,” he asserted. “If need be, I’ll borrow some tin snips at the sheet metal shop and just lop it off.”
Familiar with the cosmonaut’s incredible exploits, particularly his three-year trek across Mongolia, Vasilyev had to wonder if Gogol was serious about amputating his own toe. “You would really just hack it off?” he asked.
Gogol’s calm reply dispelled any doubt. “I would not hesitate. I swore to sacrifice my life in the defense of the Motherland, so a toe is nothing to weep over. I would take an axe to the whole foot, if necessary.”
Vasilyev heard a faint tapping at the door, followed by a feminine voice softly speaking. “Are you all right, Pavel Dmitriyevich? I heard shouting, and it frightened me.”
“I’m fine, Natalya,” replied Vasilyev. “Go back to your cottage. Everything is okay.”
“But I’m lonely, lubov moya. Can I come in? Puzhalsta? Don’t you want me to spend the night again?”
“Not tonight,” answered Vasilyev. “I’m very tired, and I have an early morning.”
“But I’ll be good. I’ll just keep you company, I promise. You shouldn’t sleep alone.”
“Leave us be!” bellowed Gogol, clearly losing his patience. “Can’t you take a hint, woman? If mily Pavel wanted your company, he would have taken it. Now, be on your way. Find another bed to crawl into.”
The maid left without further comment; Vasilyev heard the faint crunching of gravel on the walkway outside and listened as the sound gradually faded away. If there was a bright side to the strange events of this evening, he probably needn’t worry about Natalya darkening his door again.
“It seems like you’ve been a busy boy,” said Gogol. As he spoke, blood and pus dribbled from his bare foot onto the scuffed linoleum floor.
“Just once, Comrade Commander, I promise. I was very lonely and needed a distraction.”
“Trust me, Pavel, I know all about loneliness, probably more than you could ever fathom. I’m not judging you.”
“Spasiba, Comrade Commander.”
Almost an hour passed as they shared the bottle and talked about the pre-flight preparations to ensue in the coming days. As drowsy as he was, Vasilyev did his best to keep pace with the conversation. Remembering that Gogol could be dangerous, he also kept an eye on the empty vodka bottle on the floor by his feet.
Vasilyev had seldom seen Gogol nearly so talkative and assumed that the commander’s relaxed state had to be the product of mixing vodka with powerful painkillers.
With Gogol as inebriated as he had ever seen him, Vasilyev thought that he could seize upon this opportune moment to fill in some gaps in the puzzle. “Comrade Commander,” he said meekly. “Would it offend you if I asked about the materials that you stowed on the resupply freighter?”
“Nyet,” grunted Gogol. “What do you want to know?”
“Those items that you stowed on the freighter to augment our survival kits…”
“That’s nothing to be curious about,” answered Gogol. “I don’t think that our standard survival kits are adequate, so I’m bringing the items that we will really need when we return to Earth. Weren’t you listening when I explained that to the chief packer?”
“I was, but don’t you trust the search and rescue people to find us?”
Gogol chuckled. “Not only do I not trust them to find us, I don’t expect that they will be looking at all, especially since they will likely already be dead by that time.”
“Dead? Do you really think that it’s even remotely possible that we will drop the Egg?”
Gogol was silent for a moment and then spoke with surprising candor. “Not only do I think it’s possible that we will drop the Egg during our stint, I am absolutely sure of it, so we must plan accordingly.”
“How can you be so certain?” asked Vasilyev.
“Because I am!” declared Gogol, glowering. “And nothing more need be said.”
Vasilyev nodded in silent affirmation and gingerly held out his plastic tumbler.
“Is there anything else you need to know, kitten?” asked Gogol, refilling the tumbler.
“The maps,” said Vasilyev. “I saw the marks. Are those recovery sites?”
“Da,” answered Gogol. He raised the bottle, a signal for Vasilyev to drink.
Vasilyev swallowed a mouthful of vodka. His face felt warm, and the rustic interior of the cottage started to gradually rotate. Gathering his bearings, he looked at the floor and made sure that the depleted vodka bottle was still within reach. Confident that he could still defend himself, he asked, “But the locations on your charts are not the recovery sites that we were assigned, correct?”
“Correct,” replied Gogol. “I chose them myself. I selected places that are remote and uninhabited. We can forage and hunt for food, no matter wher
e we come down.
“I don’t suspect that there will be much left of North America. Most of the major cities in the United States will be gone. The interior should be fairly safe, except for places where there are military bases or ICBM fields. Canada should be unscathed, and most of Alaska should be safe as well, but with our inclination, they will be out of reach. The Southern hemisphere will probably be our best refuge. Most of Australia should be okay. South America should be safe. I would prefer to stay clear of Africa, since we obviously aren’t going to blend in very well there. I’m sure that we will have to fend for ourselves for some time, but eventually we will have to make contact with people. I would prefer to land where English is spoken, since we both speak a little of it from our training for international flight.
“I packed the multi-band radio to determine how nearby populations might be faring, and also to determine which areas are safe and which ones might be contaminated. Obviously, we’ll need to pay close attention to the winds, since they can carry fall-out.”
Vasilyev was surprised and also very impressed; despite his drunkenness, Gogol’s thoughts were evidently very lucid; he had obviously reflected on these matters for a very long time. “I’m very impressed,” he said. “You’ve certainly applied some thought to this.”
“I have,” replied Gogol. “I have thought about it for both of us, Gregor.” He scooted close to Vasilyev and placed his arm around his shoulders. Vasilyev flinched at the unwelcome gesture. As if to calm him, Gogol caressed his arm.
“I know that you’re not comfortable with me,” said Gogol. “And I’m sure that you don’t approve of my behavior, but I think your reluctance will melt after we’ve spent more time together.”
Vasilyev shuddered at the ominous implications. His stomach turned as he envisioned the two of them nestled together in the intimate quarters of the Krepost. Five weeks? And then, perhaps, roaming a shattered planet for the rest of our lives?
Gogol kissed his cheek and tousled his hair. “I may never win your heart, Pavel, but I think that you’ll come to appreciate me in due time,” he said. “If nothing else, once we return to earth, if you want to live, you’ll learn to do whatever I say, without question.”
Numbed by the codeine and alcohol, Gogol’s speech grew progressively more slurred. Only barely coherent now, he seemed only moments away from lapsing into a stupor.
“I’ve enjoyed our little chat, but I’m very tired, kitten.” With that, Gogol slumped over and promptly fell asleep.
Krepost Project Headquarters
2:15 p.m., Monday, September 11, 1972
In the decades that he had known Abdirov, Yohzin had never witnessed his friend so irate. The general was livid after reading an official report from the Krepost program’s chief flight surgeon.
Abdirov crumpled the report and pitched it against the wall. “Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!” he ranted, pounding his fist on his desktop. “An ingrown toenail! How can something so simple cause such an awful predicament? How could Gogol have let this damned thing fester for so long without anyone knowing?”
“It’s merely a setback, Rustam,” offered Yohzin. He heard loud klaxons blaring and looked past Abdirov, through a gap in the curtains, to watch the hectic activity associated with moving the Proton rocket and its Krepost payload from the processing facility to the launch site. Transported on a specially built flatbed railcar, rolling slightly faster than a snail’s pace, the massive booster had just barely emerged from the processing building.
“A setback, Gregor? Nyet. Not hardly. I have committed to this launch,” said Abdirov frantically. His voice was filled with unadulterated anguish. “Everything is set, and there’s no turning back. I am such an idiot. I wagered everything on Gogol, and he has screwed us royally.”
“But, Rustam, perhaps Gogol can fly later, and then…”
“There is no later. Those Perimetr demons are already on the verge of snatching this entire mess from me. It’s merely a matter of time before they perfect their new interlock. And if the second freighter is not delivered on time and we are forced to abandon the station on orbit, then it’s all over as well.”
Yohzin was relieved; it was very likely that this new development would almost certainly derail Abdirov’s scheme to deploy the Egg, particularly if the second freighter could not be launched on schedule. If nothing else, the delay might allow him sufficient time to persuade Abdirov to just accept the ongoing stalemate between East and West. He was still confounded by Abdirov’s seeming inability to comprehend that he—or anyone else, except perhaps that psychopath Gogol—did not necessarily share in his unbridled enthusiasm for the destruction of civilization. Sometimes, he wondered if a portion of Abdirov’s soul was destroyed in the same fires that scorched his body.
Abdirov’s secretary quietly tapped on the door and stuck her head in. “Comrade General, Majors Vasilyev and Travkin are here to see you,” she said. “They are in the anteroom.”
“Wait five minutes and send them in,” replied Abdirov.
“Would you like me to serve tea, Comrade General?” asked the secretary.
“Nyet,” snapped Abdirov. “We will have no time for tea or cookies.”
Abdirov swallowed a white tablet, followed it with a sip of water, and then closed his eye as if to take a brief nap. In short order, the outward signs of his anger seemed to dissipate. He seemed calm, if not somber.
Vasilyev and Travkin marched in and formally reported. Standing before Abdirov’s broad desk, their postures were so stiff that they resembled lead soldiers or mannequins in a Moscow department store.
“At ease, gentlemen,” said Abdirov. “Vasilyev, were you aware that your commander had an ingrown toenail that was infected?”
“Da, Comrade General. I was. I am also aware that he was trying to treat it himself.”
“And you did not think it might be prudent to inform someone, perhaps the flight surgeon, of Gogol’s condition?”
Vasilyev swallowed deeply and then replied, “Comrade General, I felt confident that he was managing the situation, and that his toe would be adequately healed in time for flight.”
“You were mistaken, Major. Gogol is presently occupying a bed in the infirmary, and will be incapacitated for at least the next two weeks. His foot is badly infected, and there’s a very strong possibility that the surgeons might be compelled to amputate it in order to spare his life.”
Travkin gasped audibly.
“I take it that this is all a surprise to you, Major Travkin?”
“It is, sir.”
“Then so long as we’re letting cats slip the bag, here’s another tidbit of news,” said Abdirov. “Both launches will proceed as planned, on schedule. Travkin, you will accompany Major Vasilyev in the Soyuz. I have directed the launch preparation crew to pull Gogol’s couch out of the Descent Module and replace it with yours.”
“Comrade Major Vasilyev,” said Abdirov, pivoting in his chair.
“Comrade General!” barked Vasilyev in reply.
“You will command the Krepost mission,” said Abdirov. “You’ll receive the formal orders later today.”
“Da, Comrade General.”
“Not that you have an option, Vasilyev, but do you feel confident that you and Travkin can be ready to launch on time?”
“We will be ready, Comrade General,” replied Vasilyev. “But the freighter will have to be cracked, so Travkin’s items can be substituted for Gogol’s.”
Contemplating the situation, Abdirov closed his eye and tapped his few remaining fingers on his desktop. “Nyet,” he replied, opening his eye. “We’re not going to fool with that. Right now, your sole priority is to ensure that Travkin is proficient on launch and rendezvous procedures, so we can get you two off the ground on schedule. Understood?”
“Da, Comrade General,” replied Vasilyev. “But you should be aware that Travkin has understudied us on the…”
“No matter,” snapped Abdirov. “You’ll lock into the simulators, Major, a
nd be ready. We’re not going to fritter away any valuable time swapping goodie bags on the freighter. Travkin can live with whatever Gogol cached. Understood?”
“Da, Comrade General.”
“Good,” replied Abdirov. “You gentlemen have much to do, and none of it can be accomplished here, so be on your way.”
5
ON ORBIT
Krepost Station, On Orbit
12:02 p.m. GMT, Sunday, September 17, 1972
GET (Ground Elapsed Time): 3 Days 11 Hours 15 Minutes, REV # 55
Vasilyev had been in orbit for three days. Staring out through a porthole, he was captivated by the sublime and tranquil beauty of the heavens. Stargazing was one of his favorite pastimes, whether here on this majestic perch or back on earth. On summer nights, he and his wife used to bicycle to a nearby pasture, spread out a blanket, and lie under the sky for hours on end. But Irina was gone now, and he would never share the stars with her again.
As much as Vasilyev enjoyed looking outwards, Travkin preferred to look down at the earth. The fact that they could share the limited portholes without bickering was a testament to their compatibility. Like human embodiments of yin and yang, the two men were effectively polar opposites, but they were also the best of friends. They were almost ideal companions, compatible in every regard, perfectly suited to live and work together for their five-week excursion. Their personalities meshed perfectly. Vasilyev was a self-admitted slob, entirely content to dwell in clutter and disarray, while Travkin was a compulsive neatnik who contributed his extra moments to tidying up the station, fixing broken gadgets, and fastidiously organizing their domicile.
Vasilyev lightly pushed off the wall and floated over to the opposite porthole to glance down at the earth. Just a few minutes from orbital dusk, they were passing over the Kazakh Republic, just north of the Caspian Sea. He glanced at the shiny pilot’s chronometer on his wrist: his eight-hour watch was drawing to a close. It wasn’t as if they paid strict attention to the clock and lived their lives by the chiming of bells. Travkin had been puttering around for almost six hours now. Their actual assigned watches overlapped by two hours.