by Mike Jenne
Of course, using the automatic cannon—”Sparky”—to fend off a satellite interceptor was contingent on having sufficient notice to take action. But there was also the distinct possibility that the Americans might attack with no notice, using nuclear weapons to blast the Krepost—and other Soviet satellites—to smithereens. After all, there were ample rumors that the Americans had already fielded an operational system to do just that, and might likely use the capability in conjunction with a first strike thermonuclear attack. So, he and Travkin might be obliterated without warning or even the slightest hope of defending themselves.
“Target,” announced Travkin quietly. He occupied the weapons console that controlled the target acquisition and tracking radars associated with Sparky, as well as the automatic cannon itself. He flipped up the safety switch, which caused the acquisition display to be illuminated in the aiming reticle as the weapon was slaved to the radar.
On the opposite side of the docking hub, Vasilyev monitored the controls for the IGLA—”Needle”—automated rendezvous and docking system. The IGLA system had guided the Soyuz freighter to them, and—without the slightest of human intervention or interaction—the amazing contraption could actually dock the unmanned cargo vehicle to the Krepost. Theoretically, at least, IGLA could handle the terminal flight and docking, but since it was not absolutely trusted yet, Vasilyev would take control of the Soyuz freighter for the last phases of the critical operation.
“Five thousand meters and closing,” stated Vasilyev, switching on a television camera mounted on the docking hub. “Right in the bubble.” Suddenly, he heard a pervasive whirring sound and realized that Travkin had activated the automatic cannon’s stabilization gyros and was now manually sighting Sparky on the approaching freighter. “What the hell are you doing, Petr?”
“Practicing,” replied Travkin, squinting through the telescopic sight as he pretended to trigger bursts from the cannon. “This is the perfect opportunity to practice engaging a target. After all, I want to be prepared in case one of those American killer satellites pays us a visit. We cannot afford to be lax.”
“Damn it, Petr! Knock it off!” growled Vasilyev, with a mock air of sternness. “That’s our chow for the next three weeks, and if you blast it out of the sky with your goofing around, I will personally hold you responsible.”
“Ha! Big talk, Pavel,” sniffed Travkin. “I imagine that your tone will be a bit muted when we’re wasting away from starvation.”
Vasilyev chuckled. “I’ve contemplated that, and I’m not planning to starve,” he vowed. “I’ve already formulated my contingency plan. You’re a big healthy specimen, Petr, so after I bash your noggin with the adjustable spanner from the tool kit, then I’ll just spend the remainder of the mission gazing at the stars and stuffing my belly with cosmonaut tartare.”
“You damned glutton! I hope you choke!”
14:18 p.m. GMT
GET: 14 Days 13 Hours 33 Minutes, REV # 233
As the sun slipped up over the horizon and Vasilyev anxiously watched the freighter’s approach on the television monitor, he thought longingly of the boisterous party they would have later today, as they stocked the station’s pantry. In contrast to the bland fare they had been subsisting on since launch, a feast awaited them. At this point, he longed for anything with flavor. And if things went well, he would have just that before the day was over: the freighter’s capacious dry compartment was jam-packed with food, and most of the victuals were quite delectable. As he was fond of telling his friends, he usually ate better in space than he did on Earth.
Manually assuming control of the freighter, Vasilyev adroitly manipulated a joystick to make minor steering corrections as the Soyuz flew the last few meters to the Krepost. With hundreds of hours in the simulator, rarely not making the connection on the first attempt, he was the undisputed master of the crucial docking process.
After the freighter’s supplies were depleted, in roughly three weeks, they would stuff it with trash and other waste, and eject it. The mission planners had so much confidence in Vasilyev’s docking prowess that he would also dock the next freighter, just before he and Travkin left orbit, which would sustain their relief crew. That way, even before they departed Earth, the next crew would be assured of having adequate supplies to complete the first half of their six-week mission.
Staring at the television monitor, Vasilyev lightly bumped the joystick to make a minor correction, observed the green light that indicated the ferry’s docking probe had entered the matching receptacle on the docking collar, and then pushed a button to finalize the mating sequence. He listened to the muted clicks and clanks of the locking claws swinging into their corresponding latches. “Capture,” he announced, confident that the connection was solidified.
“You did it!” exclaimed Travkin boisterously, embracing Vasilyev in a bear hug and pounding his back. “On the first go, no less. You’re my hero, Pavel!”
15:43 p.m. GMT
GET: 14 Days 14 Hours 58 Minutes, REV # 233
It took the two cosmonauts almost an hour to dismount and stow the docking mechanism. After finishing that task, they connected a fitting to equalize the pressure between the Krepost and the freighter. Finally, the famished pair swung open the freighter’s hatch to reveal their treasure. Several light green bags floated out of the dry compartment. The mesh bags contained perishable “goodies,” like fresh fruit and bread, packed just hours before the freighter was launched. Vasilyev dug down and found the light blue bags that contained his “personal preference” items. He immediately snatched one of the bundles and rummaged through it. Grinning, he quickly peeled the metal lid from a tin of smoked horse mackerel.
Accustomed to the almost sterile atmosphere of the fledgling space station, Travkin almost retched at the pungent new odor. “Ugh,” he noted, pinching his nose. “That’s so revolting. You just had to eat the stinkiest thing you could find.”
With his chin smeared with the packing oil, Vasilyev picked out the chunks of mackerel with his fingers. Quickly devouring all of the fish, he carefully licked the interior of the flat tin to capture all of the oily residue. “Scrumptious!” he pronounced with gusto, wiping his greasy face with a disposable towel. “At long last, something that doesn’t taste like cardboard.”
“Pavel, you disgust me,” said Travkin, turning up the docking hub’s ventilation fans in the hope of dissipating some of the fishy stench. “You remind me of a monkey feeding at the zoo.” Carefully sorting through a bag of fresh fruit and vegetables, he found a ripe lemon and sliced it in half. He smeared some of the juice on the wall, to function as an impromptu air freshener, and sucked the remainder from the sour fruit.
“Maybe,” answered Vasilyev. “But speaking of despicable monkeys, you should be thankful that you’re sharing this bucket with me, rather than our old friend Gogol.”
Travkin literally shuddered at the sound of Gogol’s name. “You’re right,” he said in a soft voice, barely audible above the buzz of the fans. “I am truly fortunate to be flying with you, but you should also remind yourself that I was not slated to fly with him in the first place, so you should consider yourself the lucky one.”
“That’s very true. At least now I know that I have the option of grounding myself by cutting off an appendage or two, should I ever be ordered to fly with him again.”
Travkin sucked on the lemon, nodded, and then observed, “Desperate times require desperate measures.”
“Unfortunately.”
“What’s this?” asked Travkin, letting go of the lemon as he pulled a light green satchel from the freighter. Resembling a pockmarked yellow planet, the depleted citrus fruit floated free in the access tunnel. “It feels like there’s some sort of hardware in here. Spare parts for the fuel cell, maybe?”
Vasilyev immediately recognized the bag. “That’s some junk that Gogol insisted on packing in the freighter to supplement the survival gear on the Descent Module. I had to give up most of my good chow so that queer bast
ard could shoot his toy collection into orbit.”
Travkin opened the satchel, looked inside, and pulled out a bottle of anti-radiation tablets. “Wow! What could have possibly possessed Gogol to pack all of this stuff?”
“At first, I just thought it was because of what happened to him in Mongolia, but he got drunk one night and insisted that we would drop the Egg while we were up here, so he had made elaborate plans to survive afterwards.” Vasilyev tugged out a plastic-bound notebook from Gogol’s satchel. He opened the notebook and studied its pages; it contained intricate instructions—timing, spacecraft orientation, engine burn times—for reentry to the various alternate sites that Gogol had identified. He was actually very impressed with the meticulous level of detail; Gogol had clearly exerted a tremendous amount of thought and energy toward creating the instructions.
Vasilyev heard a metallic clacking noise and looked up to see Travkin racking back the bolt on the Kalashnikov.
“Excellent!” declared Travkin, pulling the trigger to dry-fire the weapon. “Now we have something substantial to repel boarders. We are ready for all contingencies.”
“Quit screwing around with that damned gun before I’m forced to rap my knuckles on your thick skull,” declared Vasilyev. “Put everything back in the bag. I want it and all of Gogol’s other junk, including his liquor and cigarettes, stowed in his compartment.” To afford the cosmonauts at least a modicum of privacy while they rested, the Krepost’s designers had provided three narrow ‘sleeping compartments’ just aft of the docking hub. Neither Vasilyev nor Travkin used the compartments for their intended purposes. Rather than jam themselves into the claustrophobic spaces, both preferred to sleep in the docking hub, where they could float free in relatively quiet peace. Moreover, they could immediately man the station’s defensive systems if the proximity alarms sounded. Since available space was at a premium, the superfluous sleeping compartments now served as overflow storage lockers.
Returning to the docking hub, Travkin asked, “How about Gogol’s spare uniforms and underwear?”
Vasilyev retrieved the yellow bags that contained the extra clothing, verified that they were emblazoned with Gogol’s name, and gently tossed them toward Travkin. “Stick them in his compartment as well. Since this stuff won’t fit either of us, we’ll just have to share mine.”
“Spasiba,” said Travkin. “You’re very kind, Pavel. Only a true gentleman would offer clean skivvies in such dire circumstances.”
“I’m sorry,” replied Vasilyev. “Did I somehow imply that you would be getting clean ones?”
The process of unloading and stowing the cargo would consume hours. Even though they would periodically take breaks to sample their new bounty, it was going to be an extremely long and arduous day. Once they stored all of the supplies in the galley’s aluminum cupboards, their next chore was the time-consuming and complicated process of activating the fuel cell carried aloft in the Soyuz freighter.
After attaching various couplings and wiring the fuel cell to the station’s power supply, their next job was to begin the laborious process of shifting propellants from tanks in the freighter’s “wet” compartment to storage tanks aboard the Krepost. The transfer would take place over the course of the next several days; since the station’s designers had not furnished the station with an automatic pump, the two men would have to manually crank a centrifugal pump—normally for two to three hours at a stretch, until their shoulder muscles burned from exertion—to siphon the propellants.
Once the fuel was brought aboard the Krepost, there was little to do but stand their watches, play cards, read books, play chess, sleep, eat, watch the stars, study the Earth, tend the ship, and wait for the dreaded call that would pitch the world into nuclear oblivion.
Residential Complex # 4
Znamensk (Kapustin Yar-1), Astrakhan Oblast, USSR
8:35 p.m., Friday, September 29, 1972
With Luba attending her monthly women’s committee meeting, Yohzin walked Magnus by himself. A harsh wind blew in from the west, so very few people ventured out this evening. Given a choice, Yohzin would have preferred to remain indoors, but his schedule dictated that he write his messages on Thursdays and “deposit” them—courtesy of Magnus—on Friday evenings. Yohzin had no clue what happened after the encapsulated message was placed in the dead drop. He didn’t have the slightest inkling of who picked it up or how the information was transmitted—physically or electronically—from Kapustin Yar to the Americans.
It had been a relatively quiet week, so there was little to report. Vasilyev and Travkin had successfully received their first freighter, which meant that the crew could remain in orbit, tending to their nuclear warhead, for another two weeks. Abdirov had revealed nothing new concerning the delivery status of the second freighter, so it appeared that the mission would proceed apace.
As he strolled along his usual circuit, pausing briefly to allow Magnus to relieve himself, Yohzin felt distinctly uncomfortable. Since Abdirov had confided about the leak, he was much more conscious of the notion that he was probably under more intensive scrutiny. For whatever reason, even with that knowledge, he felt even less at ease. He paced on, not knowing the source of his anxiety, and then he realized that this was the very first time that he had ever taken his evening constitutional when he did not detect someone observing him. Are the counter-espionage goons taking the night off? Surely, this could not be so; as blatantly incompetent as they were, they were never lax, but always on watch.
He wasn’t so naïve as to think that all of the GRU counter-espionage spooks had suddenly departed on holiday. Decades of living in this closed society had taught him that seemingly unwarranted paranoia was nothing to be laughed at; just when it seemed that you were not being watched, it was a virtual certainty that you were.
Leaves rustled as a cold breeze gusted down the open collar of his coat. He shivered as a chill passed over him, and remembered the adage about someone stepping over his grave. He smiled before fastening his collar button, but the chill remained.
Krepost Station, On Orbit
20:15 p.m. GMT, Friday, September 29, 1972
GET (Ground Elapsed Time): 15 Days 19 Hours 30 Minutes REV # 253
“Check,” stated Travkin authoritatively. “Ready to forfeit?”
Stroking the greasy stubble on his chin, Vasilyev sipped cognac before shaking his head. Briefly holding the liquor in his mouth to savor its taste, he considered his decimated array of chess pieces. As he pondered his options, he looked up from the magnetic chessboard, sniffed the air, and commented on an unusual new odor: “Is that electrical? I don’t think I’ve smelled that one before.”
“I don’t see how you could possibly detect any unusual fumes, considering the sheer volume of noxious gases that you see fit to constantly contribute to our limited atmosphere,” smirked Travkin, twirling a black bishop in the air with his finger. “Seriously, Pavel, you’re even worse than Gogol, if that’s even possible.”
“Hush!” said Vasilyev, sniffing the air.
Grinning, Travkin said, “So is this just another gambit to throw off my concentration? Why don’t you just capitulate, Pavel, and admit that you have once again been defeated by my vastly superior intellect?”
“I said hush, Petr,” replied Vasilyev curtly. “I’m serious: I do smell something odd. It’s faint, but it’s there.”
Like a gourmet chef sampling the aroma of a freshly cooked entree, Travkin used his palm to lightly whisk air toward his bulbous nose. “You’re right,” he confirmed, nodding his head solemnly. “It smells kind of like scorched cloth, like some wiring insulation is overheating.”
“Fire protocol,” ordered Vasilyev calmly.
Both men opened nearby satchels containing their emergency gear and swiftly donned flame-resistant gloves, hoods, and breathing masks. Vasilyev despised the cumbersome rubber mask, particularly the plastic lenses that obscured his vision. Grabbing a fire extinguisher from a bulkhead bracket, he headed toward the contr
ol area at the aft end of the station. According to their protocol, they would first conduct a cursory visual check of the station’s compartments to spot any obvious flame or smoke.
Moments later, he heard Travkin’s voice, heavily muffled by the rubber mask, at the far end of the station. “Pavel, I’ve checked all of the compartments. No smoke or flame.”
“Okay!” he yelled. “I have the same situation down here. Doff masks for sniff test.” During the next phase of the fire emergency protocol, they would retrace their routes though the station, sniffing for any indication of fire. He tugged off his rubber ventilator and then switched off the ventilation fans, since it would be much easier to detect the source of the odor if the air was not circulating. Although he wasn’t particularly worried about an open fire in the cabin, he was concerned about the potential of a small smoldering fire, perhaps concealed behind an equipment panel, which could eventually overwhelm the air scrubbers with smoke. If the air exchange scrubbers were compromised, he and Travkin could be smothered.
After working their way through the station, the two cosmonauts met in the docking hub, to execute the next phase, which entailed a detailed check of the two docked Soyuz spacecraft. Vasilyev didn’t trust the cantankerous fuel cell and its attendant cryogenic tanks, particularly after the mishap on America’s Apollo 13 lunar flight. Unlike similar equipment on the Apollo spacecraft, which was positioned outside the pressure vessel occupied by the astronauts, their fuel cell was physically within the docked Soyuz freighter, so a similar explosion could have very sudden and very catastrophic consequences.