Pale Blue

by Mike Jenne

  But why was he here? This station was a counterespionage operation, which monitored the activities of scientists, engineers, and military personnel stationed at the cosmodrome. Although Federov had cut his teeth as a ruthlessly efficient commando leader in the GRU’s spetsnaz—Special Purpose Troops—he was also well steeped in spy tradecraft and clandestine activities. He was particularly adept at stalking spies, sniffing out subterfuge, and ferreting out subversives. He was absolutely tenacious at his tasks, a relentless stickler for details who left no stone unturned.

  For several months, the GRU had been aware that there was a substantial leak at Kapustin Yar. The initial clues had come indirectly from a source in the United States. The source—an American engineering technician—was involved in testing the new “Sprint” surface-to-air missile. He revealed that the Sprint’s designers were privy to extremely detailed information concerning the characteristics of Soviet medium-range ICBMs that weren’t yet even fielded.

  The GRU’s Department of Archives and Operational Research—the “Encyclopedia”—conducted exhaustive research and analysis of the suspect data, and identified ten possible culprits. Assigned to a testing range that evaluated medium-range ICBMs, all ten had potential access to the applicable information. At this juncture, one was dead and five others had departed Kapustin Yar for other assignments. GRU counter-intelligence operatives had expended several weeks surveilling those five, had recently subjected all of them to intensive interrogations, and had finally concluded that the men were not involved in any form of espionage activities. Of course, the five men had paid a high price to prove their innocence; all were still incarcerated pending completion of the investigation, and two were very close to succumbing to physical injuries incurred during their brutal inquisitions.

  Logically, the GRU’s attention shifted to the four still assigned to Kapustin Yar, even though it was a mystery how anyone could possibly sneak the information out of the cosmodrome, since the facility was so secluded and security was virtually airtight.

  The local Internal Security Office had mounted an elaborate surveillance operation, deploying a veritable legion of snoops to stalk the remaining four suspects. They went so far as to film the comings and goings of the suspected turncoats. Additionally, a special radio interception team was brought in from Moscow to constantly monitor the airwaves for clandestine transmissions. The security office had been at it for weeks, but the incompetent bunglers were never able to figure out how the messages were being conveyed. These oafs had delivered excuses, and little else, so now it was Federov’s turn to catch the spy.

  He cocked his head and listened to the commotion in the outer office. He smiled; he was absolutely confident that he would be placed on report before the day was over. After all, he had only been here a few minutes and had already physically assaulted two subordinates. But his superiors certainly knew that cracking heads was his forte, and if that’s what it took to motivate these malingerers to efficiently execute their duties in a timely manner, then Federov would knock as many skulls as necessary. And if he delivered the goods, which he surely would, the world would be his oyster.

  Simulator Facility, Aerospace Support Project

  10:35 a.m., Tuesday, September 26, 1972

  After being effectively dormant for several months, the Project’s Simulator Facility was again operating at full swing. Carson and Ourecky occupied the simulators during the day, and their Navy back-up crew was given priority at night. It was definitely no time to dawdle; the Blue Gemini engineers were engaged in a frenzied round-the-clock initiative to devise options to attack the sinister Krepost while simultaneously safeguarding the Gemini-I astronauts from danger.

  As quickly as the engineers refined new procedures, Carson and Ourecky tested them in the Box—the procedures simulator—where they were now, evaluating a new “Cold Nose” intercept protocol. The protocol was so named because they would fly the intercept profile with their nose-mounted acquisition radar switched off—hence the cold nose—and instead rely primarily on radar data and instructions sent up from the ground. The rationale behind the tactic was that the mission planners were concerned the Soviets had likely developed radar detection systems similar to those being installed in modern American aircraft, and there was always the possibility that such a detector—even aboard an unmanned station—could trigger some catastrophic event if the Soviet spacecraft was illuminated by radar energy.

  Besides minimizing the crew’s reliance on the Gemini-I’s powerful radar, the engineers had quickly fabricated a radar detection system as an interim defensive measure. The hastily built multi-band sensor, not unlike the “Fuzzbuster” radar detectors that were now becoming increasingly popular with interstate truck drivers and other habitual speeders, would be mounted in the blunt nose of the Gemini-I spacecraft. Another team of radar specialists were also at work concocting a small pod that borrowed from radar-jamming technology presently deployed in Vietnam. The pod would be carried within the Gemini-I’s adapter and launched after the radar detection system was tripped. It was intended to spoof the Krepost’s target acquisition radar as the Gemini-I initiated evasive maneuvers.

  Besides the radar detectors, Carson and Ourecky had another tool at their disposal. A “ferret box,” approximately the size and dimensions of a small suitcase, had been installed in the crowded cabin. Borrowing from airborne signals intelligence gear currently used in Vietnam, the ferret box scanned radio frequencies to detect and classify transmissions.

  Presently, the Gemini-I’s primary means of attack was the multi-function Disruptor, which had proven effective on seven of nine previous intercept missions against Soviet satellites. The remaining two intercepts failed not as a result of the Disruptor’s shortcomings, but rather because the crew—Jackson and Sigler, in both instances—failed to close with the targets.

  To complement the Disruptor, the engineers were toying with different options, including a stand-off “torpedo.” The description was somewhat of a misnomer; the device, a sphere roughly four feet in diameter, more resembled a mine than a torpedo. As presently envisioned, it would be carried in a cradle in the Gemini-I’s adapter section, to be ejected and then guided—by remote control augmented by a television camera—to demolish the Krepost at a safe distance. If need be, if the other attack options were not practical or had already failed, Carson and Ourecky would also be prepared to conduct an extravehicular activity—”EVA”—spacewalk to interdict the Krepost. But although Ourecky would wear a bulky EVA suit to orbit, and an ELSS—Extravehicular Life Support System—chest pack and thirty-foot umbilical would be stored in the already crowded cockpit, their EVA options were extremely limited. Some rudimentary tools were stowed in the adapter section, so that in a pinch, Ourecky could leave the Gemini-I to physically damage critical components of the Krepost, like the docking mechanisms and communications antennas.

  Regardless of how they attacked the monster, the engineers’ primary concern was to devise some means to defeat or at least reduce the effectiveness of the 23-mm radar-guided automatic cannon mounted in the space station’s prow. At this juncture, short of a radical evasive maneuver which would also terminate the mission, there was no practical way to dodge the gun’s threat. The entire mission hinged on them making a stealthy approach. The risks were too high otherwise; if they were detected on the final approach, their only recourse was to abandon the pass and save their skins.

  For the time being, as the hardware was being perfected, a key aspect of their defensive scheme was to make certain that the Gemini-I’s four hundred-pound aft thrusters were ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Ordinarily, the thrusters required at least a few minutes of preparations to ensure that they were ready to burn, because in a weightless state, their fuel and oxidizer naturally tended to form useless blobs at the center of their storage tanks. Consequently, prior to a “normal” scheduled burn, the combustible liquids were physically shifted to a ready state by using helium to inflate Teflon bladders that
lined the spherical tanks. In this situation, even as Carson carefully manipulated the controls to fly the final approach of the intercept, he had to also regularly monitor and tweak the helium pressure settings.

  “Fuel and ox pressure are nominal,” stated Carson, checking the tank gauges. A well-chewed toothpick protruded from his lips.

  “Copy good pressure on OAMS fuel and oxidizer,” replied Ourecky. “No tone heard.”

  Carson shifted his eyes away from the instrument panel to the optical reticle. The target was approximately two thousand meters distant. “Closure rate is still good.”

  “I have tone on X-Band,” announced Ourecky, listening to the warning buzzer in his earphones.

  “Maneuvering,” replied Carson, immediately shoving the maneuver controller forward to fire the four aft thrusters. The burn would shoot them forward initially, towards their target, but then their increased velocity would also radically propel them into a slightly higher orbit. “Firing aft thrusters thirty seconds. Burn is uniform, all four thrusters burning.”

  “Copy uniform burn,” replied Ourecky.

  “Good burn,” commented Carson, watching the clock as he held the maneuver controller. “Very even…Ten seconds…Fifteen seconds…Twenty seconds…Shut down in six, five, four, three, two, one. Mark. Throttling down. All stop.”

  Ourecky coughed repeatedly as he listened to Gunter Heydrich’s heavily accented voice over the intercom: “Good job, gentlemen. I think you have the timing down just about as close as it can be. I just hope that it’s enough. Did you have any problem hearing the tone, Scott?”

  “No,” replied Ourecky. “It’s plenty loud.”

  “Good,” answered Heydrich. “We’ll be a few minutes setting up for the next run, so it’s an opportune time for a break. Do you want out?”

  Ourecky looked towards Carson and shook his head.

  “Gunter, we’re fine in here,” said Carson. “Unless it’s a problem, we’ll just keep rolling through until lunchtime.”

  “Sure thing,” replied Heydrich. “We should be ready in another ten minutes at most. Go ahead and reset your controls, please.”

  Ourecky removed his headset and massaged his ears.

  Removing the foil from a stick of Juicy Fruit, Carson said, “So, Scott. I haven’t even seen Bea since we got back in August. How’s she doing? How’s Andy?”

  “Uh…they’re fine,” replied Ourecky. “For a little guy, he’s a handful. He sure keeps us on our toes.” He swallowed nervously; he was too embarrassed to tell Carson about his marital difficulties, so the pilot had no way of knowing that he and Bea were currently living apart.

  Carson popped the gum in his mouth and chewed. “I have an idea. We should be out of here at a relatively normal hour, so why don’t I take you and Bea out to dinner so we can catch up? Maybe we can grab some schnitzel at that German place downtown?”

  “I don’t know, Drew. We would have to hire a babysitter, and that’s not going to be easy on a Monday night, plus Bea is on a new schedule and is also taking care of a friend who’s really sick. She’s over there just about every night.” Resetting the switches on his instrument panel, Ourecky considered the ease at which he was willing to bend the truth about his circumstances. Of course, he had plenty of practice; he had been doing the same thing with Bea for almost as long as he had known her.

  “Sick friend?” asked Carson, consulting a reference card as he reset his own controls. “Anyone I know?”

  “Yeah,” answered Ourecky. Yanking a tissue from a small box, he blew his nose before adding, “Do you remember Jill? She was Bea’s maid of honor at our wedding.”

  “Jill? Oh, sure…I remember her. So she’s sick? Is it serious?

  “It’s very serious. Terminal cancer.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Maybe we can try some other time.”

  “Maybe. I’ll let Bea know that you asked about her.” Ourecky decided to change the subject, before he inadvertently revealed anything really significant. “So, Drew, what do you think will happen after this last mission?”

  “Honestly? There’s really no way of knowing. With Tarbox and the Navy coming on board, it looks like this monster is expanding instead of contracting.”

  “I suspect that you’re right,” said Ourecky, flexing his fingers to alleviate cramps in his hands.

  “How about you, Scott?” asked Carson. “Do you really think that we’ll ever be free of this?”

  “I think so,” replied Ourecky. “Well, I hope so. General Tew has assured me that he’s going to take care of us after this last mission is over.”

  “Well, no matter what he’s promised us, once Mark Tew retires, he’s not going to have very much influence over our fate. I suspect that Virgil will conjure up some way to rope us back in, if given the opportunity. I just think that we’re deceiving ourselves if we believe that we’ll ever be able to move on.”

  “Maybe. So, what do you want, Drew?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m ready for a change, but I’m not sure that there’s anything else out there for me. I guess you know that Tew promised me command of a fighter squadron in Germany, once we fly this mission, but he’s sticking with the party line and won’t let me go to Vietnam. That’s what I really want.”

  “Is that really so important?” asked Ourecky.

  “Yeah. I believe so; otherwise I’ll spend the next ten years competing against guys with combat time on their records.”

  Interrupting their conversation, Heydrich’s voice boomed over the intercom: “We’re ready to re-start. Are you gentlemen ready in there?”

  “Let ‘er rip, Gunter,” answered Carson, adjusting the microphone on his headset. “We’re up.”

  Krepost Station, On Orbit

  6:10 a.m. GMT, Thursday, September 28, 1972

  GET (Ground Elapsed Time): 14 Days 5 Hours 25 Minutes, REV # 227

  The big day had arrived, and Vasilyev did not want to leave anything to chance. After spooning up the last of his breakfast—reconstituted owsianka porridge that he sweetened with honey—he tore the plastic wrapping from a vitamin-enriched wafer. Newly developed, the concentrated foodstuff was intended as a nutritional supplement when the cosmonauts were otherwise too busy to consume a regular meal. Sampling the wafer, he grimaced; the dense white hardtack had the consistency and taste of a paving stone.

  He shifted slightly to gaze out through the porthole and saw that they were currently passing over the Solomon Sea, just east of Papua-New Guinea, in daylight. He floated up into the cozy galley area, where Travkin was preparing his own breakfast.

  “The supply boat is due in less than six hours,” he stated, nudging Travkin’s shoulder. The two men looked at each other and grinned. “I hate to be a stickler, but I want to rehearse our docking procedures again.”

  “Excellent idea, Pavel,” replied Travkin, crumpling the wrapper of his own half-finished serving of oatmeal before stuffing it in the trash receptacle. “I’ve had my fill of this damned mush. I’m ready for some real chow.”

  Vasilyev inserted the water dispenser’s metal spout into a beverage envelope and then squirted the package full. Kneading the plastic envelope, he saw that the liquid wasn’t sufficiently warm enough to dissolve the evaporated tea crystals, much less make a decent serving of hot tea. “Damn it!” he snapped. “Is the heating element on the fritz? This is going to be a long tour if I can’t have my tea.”

  Travkin shook his head and answered, “It’s not the heating element. The rheostat is shorted out, so we can’t regulate the water temperature.” He tapped his finger on the finicky water dispenser, which emitted a faint buzzing noise.

  “So we’re stuck with lukewarm water from here on?”

  “Hopefully not. I’m fairly certain I can scrounge another rheostat out of our Soyuz. It’s in the ascent panel, which we don’t need any more. You’ll be able to brew your precious tea, Pavel. I promise.”

  “Spasiba. You’re my hero, Petr. I’ll see to it that you’re decorated accordingly: Illu
strious Mender of the Tea Machine.” Vasilyev floated back into the control area and drew his knees to his chest as he gazed through a porthole and scratched his itching toes. As was his practice on all missions, from his first stint in orbit two years ago to this one, he wore his “lucky socks.” The woolen footwear, lovingly knitted by Vasilyev’s late wife, were once dark brown, thick and cozy; now, the socks were faded and well worn. Threadbare in several spots, where pink patches of bare skin peeked through, the ragged socks barely kept his feet warm, particularly when he ventured into the poorly heated docking hub or the dormant Soyuz. He was finally beginning to accept that this would probably be the last mission for his treasured socks, and it was highly likely that they would fall off his feet long before this flight was over.

  “Hey! Maybe the cargo packers stashed some new booties for you,” noted Travkin, reaching out to pick an errant piece of yarn out of the air. “Those are really starting to reek. If you want, I would be delighted to loan…”

  Silent, Vasilyev glared at him.

  “Hey,” muttered Travkin, floating close and clutching his companion tightly. “I didn’t mean it, Pavel. I was just kidding. I know that you miss Irina. I’m really sorry, I am.”

  13:03 p.m. GMT

  GET: 14 Days 12 Hours 18 Minutes, REV # 232

  The two cosmonauts quietly waited in the docking hub at the forward end of the Krepost.

  Besides the three docking ports—one of which was currently occupied by the Soyuz crew vehicle—the module also housed the controls for the station’s rendezvous and self-protection systems. Anxious, Vasilyev checked his watch as Travkin nervously picked at a bothersome hangnail.

  Breaking the awkward silence, the proximity alert radar chirped. The low-powered sensor, which emitted a modulated pulse roughly every minute, was intended to warn of approaching space vehicles, particularly those suspected to be hostile. Although they apparently had no substantive proof, certain members of the Soviet intelligence apparatus were convinced that the American military had secretly developed an unmanned system to surreptitiously intercept and destroy satellites. This notion had caused the design bureau’s engineers considerable consternation as they planned the Krepost. To counter the vague threat, they armed the station with a Nudelman 23-mm automatic cannon.