Pale Blue

by Mike Jenne

  “Hmmph,” snorted the wizened admiral, shaking his head. “I’m plenty familiar with Kapustin Yar. The Soviets do not launch manned flights from there.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” said Seibert, “but NORAD verified that the second object was also injected into orbit at fifty-one degrees inclination, just as the source claimed, and we have ample reason to believe that it rendezvoused and docked with the first object, so we strongly feel that our source is indeed telling the truth. We contend that this is a manned nuclear weapons platform.”

  “So, this is the Krepost you warned us about?” asked Tarbox.

  “Apparently, it is the Krepost, Admiral,” replied Seibert.

  Ourecky whistled quietly.

  “Do you have something to contribute, cowpoke?” asked Wolcott.

  Ourecky shook his head and quietly said, “I’m just taking all this in, Virgil. It’s a lot to absorb.”

  “So, when do we go?” asked Carson, stifling a yawn. He seemed almost bored.

  “It’s hard to say,” answered Tew. “Maybe soon, maybe in a few weeks, maybe in a few months, but maybe never. Obviously, we can’t send up Ourecky anytime soon, at least until he heals up.”

  “Speakin’ of which,” drawled Wolcott. “How’s your lung therapy coming, pardner?”

  “Good, sir,” replied Ourecky, stifling a cough. “I should have a clean bill of health within a month, possibly even sooner.”

  “That’s good,” interjected Tew. “But that’s not our only concern. I’ve considered it at length, and I’m also not willing to potentially jeopardize the lives of you boys by sending you up against a manned target. That’s just too dangerous. We will have to be patient and bide our time until we are confident that there is not a crew aboard. But unfortunately, we don’t know when or even if that will be the case, so we can’t afford to just sit on our hands and wait.”

  “All of this is well and good,” snapped Tarbox. “But even if this Krepost is up there, as you say, can we reach it? We certainly can’t attain fifty-one degrees inclination launching out of Vandenberg. Your Johnston Island site is wrecked beyond repair. Is this situation even worthy of serious discussion?”

  “It is, Admiral,” interjected Gunter Heydrich. “We’ve analyzed the situation, and we’re confident that we can safely achieve fifty-one degrees out of Cape Kennedy. Our tentative plan is that we will launch at night, under the pretext of a limited notice contingency test. Our launch personnel are already headed to Florida to assess available launch sites. When and if an opening presents itself, assuming that Ourecky is physically capable of flying at that juncture, we intend to be ready to exploit the opportunity.”

  Ourecky looked at the polished walnut surface of the new conference table. Our tentative plan? Launch personnel are already headed to Cape Kennedy? We intend to be ready to exploit the opportunity? None of this sounded very tentative to him. It seemed very obvious that he and Carson were going up again, more likely sooner than later.

  “Perhaps it won’t be necessary to send up Carson and Ourecky again,” noted Tarbox. “My most proficient crew has been here for two weeks already, working in your simulators. I am confident that they will be ready to go in short order.”

  “Duly noted,” said Tew. He coughed, then turned towards Heydrich and asked, “What’s your assessment, Gunter?”

  “I concur with the Admiral that they are a very solid crew,” answered Heydrich, referring to his notes. “When they arrived, they were already extremely proficient in retrograde and paraglider flight procedures. Honestly, since they were already familiar with the Gemini-B cockpit and systems, all we had to do was acquaint them with the Gemini-I layout. Obviously, launch and ascent abort procedures are significantly different between the two platforms, but they are quickly adapting to our methods.”

  “Good,” replied Tew. “And the intercept procedures?”

  Frowning, Heydrich answered, “They are making excellent headway, General, but they are still weeks away from achieving the degree of proficiency where we might consider them operationally ready.”

  “Weeks?” asked Tarbox.

  “Ja,” answered Heydrich. “And that is a generous estimate on my part. It might be months before they are anywhere close to the same level as Carson and Ourecky, if that’s even humanly possible.”

  Ourecky smiled slightly, and then frowned as he realized that while he and Carson meshed so well that their expertise might not ever be replicated, their shared proficiency might also be their downfall. At this point, he welcomed the notion of being replaced by another crew.

  “So, truthfully, they may not be ready anytime in the relatively near future, correct?” asked Tew.

  Heydrich nodded solemnly.

  “I think that Gunter’s bein’ just a tad bit harsh on these Navy boys,” observed Wolcott. “I’m sure that it ain’t goin’ to take months to get them ready to fly.”

  “Perhaps, Virgil, but assuming that we must be prepared to execute on short notice, Carson and Ourecky will have top priority on the simulators,” stated Tew. “Gunter, make any adjustments necessary to run two shifts, if need be, so we can accommodate our Navy brethren.”

  “That’s a problem,” said Heydrich. “Since we have lost so many people in the transition, I barely have enough personnel to staff one shift, much less two.”

  Tew turned toward Tarbox and asked, “Can you bring in some of your people from California to reinforce Gunter’s crew?”

  Nodding, Tarbox replied, “I will.”

  “Good,” said Tew. “I’ll see if we can dredge up some emergency funds to hire back some of Gunter’s staff, at least on a temporary basis. And just for the sake of clarity, Gunter will be our certifying authority for your crew. When and if he blesses off on them, I will consider assigning them to the flight, but Gunter will make the call.”

  “So be it,” said Tarbox grudgingly.

  Ourecky knew that Tarbox was anxious to push Tew aside. The meddling opportunist clearly wanted to gain control of Blue Gemini sooner than later, but this new Krepost revelation had created an entirely new wrinkle in the transition plan. Now, with Soviet nuclear weapons actually orbiting overhead, the very reason the Project had been authorized, Tew didn’t seem inclined to surrender the reins to Tarbox or anyone else until the job was done.

  “Let’s move on,” declared Tew, lightly slapping the polished surface of the table. “Refresh my memory about this Krepost. Have the Soviets made any significant changes since you briefed us about it in March?”

  “They’ve made a few minor changes that we are aware of,” answered Seibert. “But the core design has remained essentially the same.” The intelligence officer flicked a switch. The lights dimmed, and a projection screen spooled down from a slot in the ceiling. Seibert flicked another switch to turn on a slide projector.

  Adjusting the knot of his regimental tie, Seibert said, “As we’ve seen in the past, the Krepost is primarily a combination of components from other Soviet spacecraft. The overall design and assembly are apparently orchestrated by a military directorate, probably part of the Strategic Rocket Forces, but the various components are fabricated by at least two of their premier aerospace design bureaus.

  Seibert gestured at a diagram projected on the screen. “The main building block is derived from the Almaz military space station design, a product of the Chelomei design bureau. In addition to the main block, the Chelomei bureau also contributes the Proton boosters used to launch the Krepost.

  “The Korolev bureau supplies Soyuz spacecraft to deliver crews to the Krepost and return them to Earth. They also are manufacturing a modified version of the Soyuz to serve as a resupply ferry for the station.”

  Tracing his finger along the rear-projected image of the space station, Seibert continued. “The nuclear warhead is located in the aft end of the Krepost. It’s contained in its own reentry vehicle, which is roughly cone-shaped. As best as we can determine, our initial estimates of the yield were grossly understated. It is a much
larger warhead than we had previously believed, perhaps yielding somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty megatons.”

  Wolcott whistled and stated, “That’s a danged city-killer.”

  “The most significant changes have been to their docking hub,” said Seibert. “The docking hub is located at the far forward end of the station. The original plan had three docking ports set at one-hundred-twenty-degree angles, like the spokes on a wagon wheel. There are still three docking ports, but two are perpendicular to the long axis of the hub, and the third one is in the nose of the hub.

  “This new docking hub is structurally reinforced and aligned with the center line of the station, so we suspect that they will eventually use a modified version of the Soyuz as a propulsion module to nudge the Krepost into a higher orbit, if need be, to mitigate orbital decay. As with the original design, the docking hub also contains an inflatable airlock, as well as a separate module that houses the automatic cannon and its targeting radar.”

  “So their gun has not gone away?” asked Tew.

  “Not in the least, General,” replied Seibert. “The Soviets are apparently convinced that we have an operational satellite interceptor…”

  “Which we do,” interjected Wolcott, glancing toward Carson and Ourecky.

  “Correct, sir,” said Seibert. “In any event, they are tremendously concerned that the Krepost could be vulnerable to attack, so not only has the automatic cannon remained a key part of the design, I anticipate that later versions will probably be equipped with even more substantial defensive systems.”

  And the news just keeps getting better and better, thought Ourecky. As he strained to focus on the details of Seibert’s presentation, which was primarily a regurgitation of technical information that he had already seen, he found himself pondering the likelihood of surviving this next mission. At this juncture, he mused, the odds just didn’t look too promising.

  Tew glanced at his watch, and then asked, “Our last stack is still in San Diego, correct? At the HAF?”

  “It is, boss,” answered Wolcott.

  “Then it’s on the far side of the continent from our prospective launch site,” noted Tew. “We can move it by rail, correct?”

  “Yup,” answered Wolcott. “But that probably ain’t a practical option. We would have to crack the encapsulation and move the stages and spacecraft on separate railcars. On the other hand, if we go by water, we can keep the stack encapsulated, pack it back on the LST, and move it to the Cape.”

  “And that would entail making a transit through the Panama Canal?” asked Tew.

  Wolcott nodded. “Yup. But I still think it’s the most viable option, boss.”

  “Then move it,” ordered Tew. “Load it on the LST and get them underway as expeditiously as possible.”

  “As you wish,” replied Wolcott. “We’ll have it at the Cape in two shakes.”

  Tew shifted his gaze to Heydrich and said, “Gunter, pass on to your team in Florida to focus their energies on Launch Complex 41. If it’s available, then we can maintain the stack in their assembly building until it’s time to go.”

  Launch Complex 41 was situated at the north end of Cape Kennedy Air Force Station, approximately two miles southeast of NASA’s Pad 39, where the Apollo lunar explorers had left the earth on their Saturn V rockets. The complex had been built in the sixties as a self-contained Integrate-Transfer-Launch—ITL—facility, expressly for military launches, including manned launches for the now defunct Dyna-Soar and Air Force MOL. Since its designers had anticipated an aggressive launch schedule, the complex was configured like a factory assembly line, to aggressively streamline the process of matching payloads to launch vehicles before expeditiously firing the combinations into space.

  “Will do,” answered Heydrich. “I’ll check on its status, and I’ll have an answer for you by the end of the day.”

  “I know that we likely have weeks or even months to prepare, gentlemen,” said Tew. “But I want us to be ready in days, just to err on the side of caution.”

  6

  FREIGHTER

  Internal Security Office

  Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye (GRU)

  Kapustin Yar Cosmodrome, Astrakhan Oblast, USSR

  9:42 p.m., Tuesday, September 19, 1972

  GRU Colonel Felix Federov had a new assignment, one that he didn’t particularly relish but a task that he was compelled to execute to the best of his abilities. After all, his entire career was at stake. Incognito in dark mufti and a straw fedora pulled low over his eyes, he quietly entered the anteroom of the GRU’s Internal Security Office at Kapustin Yar. An overweight sergeant sat behind a pinewood desk, engrossed in a novel.

  “Where is your boss?” asked Federov, leaning over the desk.

  “The major is presently indisposed,” smirked the sergeant, barely looking up from his book. “He is interrogating a subject and is not to be disturbed.”

  After driving twelve hours from the Aquarium, Federov had absolutely no patience for the insolent or ignorant. He reeled back his right hand as he stepped around the desk and then swatted the left side of the sergeant’s pudgy face. The small room was filled with the resounding sound of the impact, like a thunderclap of a summer storm swiftly sweeping across the steppes. Knocked clear out of his chair, the sergeant tumbled into a heap on the floor. His reading material—The Idiot, by Dostoyevsky—plopped down beside him. Growling, clenching his fists, the sucker-punched sergeant rolled to his side and started to push himself up, obviously anxious to strike the next blow.

  Federov glanced at the title of the sergeant’s book and mused over how appropriate it was, given the circumstances. Then he removed his fedora, revealing his unmistakable mane of curly red hair.

  “The Crippler!” gasped the sergeant, rubbing his jaw as he slowly climbed to his feet. “Uh, uh, I mean Colonel Federov. I am woefully sorry, sir, but we expected you to arrive next week. Honestly, I did not recognize you. Your reputation precedes you. How can I be of service?”

  “Fetch your commander, moron, before I lose what little remains of my patience,” growled Federov.

  Tugging up his trousers and clumsily fastening his suspenders, the commander of the station emerged from his office and demanded, “Just what the hell is going on out here?! Who are you?”

  Federov looked past the disheveled major to observe a partially naked blonde girl, probably in her early teens, cowering in the office behind him. Angered by the sordid scene, he stepped toward the major and unleashed a mighty uppercut into the officer’s chin. The major crumpled to the floor as the girl screamed.

  Turning to the loathsome sergeant, Federov said, “When and if that buffoon wakes up, tell him to pack his belongings. He is relieved. He will report to the Aquarium tomorrow, where he will face charges.”

  Federov strolled into the major’s office, sat down at the desk, and told the crying girl, “Get dressed. The sergeant will take you home.”

  Trembling, clutching her clothes to her chest, she stared at the wooden floor and whimpered.

  “You have no need to fear, zhuk,” added Federov. “If the sergeant touches you, I will personally chop his hands off. Just be forewarned: I never want to see you here again.”

  Federov yanked open the drawer of a pinewood filing cabinet. He sifted through several folders before he located the surveillance records he was looking for. He dropped the first folder on the desk, flipped it open, examined the index, and thumbed through its pages.

  He had spent the past year at the Aquarium—the GRU headquarters at Khodinka Airfield in Moscow—as an administrator overseeing background checks on Army personnel being considered for transfer to the GRU. The marginal assignment—effectively a punishment tour—had been levied upon him following his last posting as the GRU Station Chief in Washington, DC.

  While in Washington, he had been caught up in an asinine chain of events initiated by his predecessor, but he was held to account when an operation went woefully sour. The GRU had expended t
housands of US dollars in an effort to exploit an American airman at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio. The airman supposedly possessed inside knowledge of the US Air Force’s Project Blue Book and other activities related to the study of UFOs, and allegedly could recruit Air Force personnel working in a secret warehouse at Wright-Patterson where captured alien spacecraft were studied. The whole endeavor turned out to be a gigantic fiasco. The airman was an unreliable drunk who was later murdered by gangsters because he didn’t pay his gambling debts. Unable to adequately justify the expenditures, Federov was summoned back to the Aquarium to endure clerical work and humiliation.

  Now, he had a chance to redeem himself at Kapustin Yar. This was a momentous task, exactly suited to his abilities, and if he was successful, he would be rewarded with a prize assignment. If he unraveled the tangled yarn at Kapustin Yar, his next posting would be as the Director of the Bureau of Special Cooperation, an office that oversaw the exploitation of American POWs and equipment captured in North Vietnam. Although he would be physically stationed at the Aquarium, he would supervise the spetsgruppa operating from Hanoi. The spetsgruppa examined downed US aircraft and monitored—and in some cases, supervised—POW interrogations, particularly in those instances where the prisoners had some form of “special knowledge,” such as training in nuclear weapons or other strategic systems, as a result of previous assignments.

  Besides routinely briefing the big bosses at the Aquarium, the Special Cooperation posting also entailed frequent travel and temporary duty in North Vietnam. It was an absolutely perfect assignment: a golden opportunity to hobnob with the bosses, impress them with his abilities, as well as to participate in the field work that he so enjoyed. And who knows? He might even have an opportunity to kill an American or two. Grinning, Federov cracked his thick knuckles as he considered the possibility.