Pale Blue

by Mike Jenne

  “I suppose I am,” said Yohzin quietly.

  “Well, then, let me enlighten you,” said Abdirov. “Those cosmonauts overhead are Soviet officers. Just like you and me and every other officer who has sworn the oath to defend the Motherland, they have volunteered to sacrifice their lives, if necessary, to accomplish their assigned task. Certainly, there can be no more valid situation where such a sacrifice would be warranted. Would you not agree, Gregor?”

  “I suppose so, Comrade General.”

  “There’s more, Comrade General,” blurted the flight surgeon. “We can likely extend the mission by a few more days, if you’re willing to assume some additional risks.”

  “What risks?”

  “The Soyuz Descent Module contains a NAZ-3 survival kit that includes vacuum-packed rations sufficient to sustain three men for three days. Theoretically, that would grant your man roughly twelve more days in orbit, provided that we transfer all of the emergency rations from the Soyuz to the Krepost and adhere to the three-quarters consumption rate.”

  “I consider that an acceptable risk,” declared Abdirov.

  “And there’s yet another variable to the equation,” said the flight surgeon. “It’s an unconventional approach, but we are aware that at least five liters of potent alcohol in various forms went up on the freighter.”

  “Five liters of alcohol?” asked Abdirov. “I wasn’t aware that we were running a bar in orbit.”

  “Gogol,” noted Yohzin. “It’s his stuff up there.”

  Abdirov nodded, and then gruffly said, “Continue.”

  “There’s roughly two thousand calories in a liter of vodka,” explained the flight surgeon. While we certainly don’t recommend that your man drink to excess, a drink or two every day would add to his overall caloric intake, and that would allow him to stretch his food that much more. Assuming a basal metabolism rate of fifteen hundred calories a day, that’s almost seven more days.”

  “Noted,” said Abdirov. “Right now, I’m not sure that I’m willing to travel that particular route, but we can certainly keep it in reserve if things get sketchy later. Anything else?”

  “Just one item, Comrade General. Even if your man is obligated to go to significantly reduced rations, once the freighter arrives, he should have ample opportunity to eat well and recover at least some of his strength before he returns to Earth.”

  “Excellent. Ingenious plan, Doctor. Spasiba.” Abdirov turned towards the flight director and ordered, “Do it. On the next communications window, send word to Vasilyev to immediately start preparing Travkin for return. Rally the controllers to commence work on the specifics.”

  “As you wish, Comrade General,” replied the flight director. “And the shutdown procedure? What are your orders concerning putting the Krepost into hibernation?”

  “Cease work immediately, but ensure that your engineers keep a good record of their work to this point, just in case we are compelled to revisit this issue in the future.”

  “But there’s still an issue,” interjected Yohzin. “The Perimetr interlock can only be disabled if two cosmonauts are aboard to man their key stations. I doubt that the Perimetr leadership will concede to this new concept.”

  “They will have no choice, Gregor,” snapped Abdirov, as if he were admonishing a recalcitrant child. “My orders were to keep the Krepost occupied at all times, and that is significantly more important than their damned interlock. Since I am obligated to implement such an unusual solution to the dilemma that the Korolev bureau has created, then the Perimetr goons can adjust their procedures as well. If nothing else, they could issue us an Independent Action Code. That would certainly resolve the interlock problem until we can get someone else up there. They need to adapt to the circumstances, not the other way around.”

  Krepost Station, On Orbit

  20:32 p.m. GMT, Saturday, October 7, 1972

  GET (Ground Elapsed Time): 23 Days 19 Hours 47 Minutes

  REV # 381

  Vasilyev was dreaming of Irina when he was roughly jarred out of slumber. The dream was so vivid that it seemed absolutely real.

  Prodding his shoulder as he switched on the light, Travkin whispered, “Rouse, rouse, Pavel. Time to wake up.”

  Woozy, Vasilyev struggled to resist consciousness so he could return to his wife and her filmy nightgown. Then he remembered that his wife was dead, but he was in orbit and very much alive. “Damn it!” he hissed.

  “Wake up, Pavel.”

  “This had better be good,” growled Vasilyev, rubbing the scraggly growth of beard on his chin. Squinting, he glanced at the luminous face of a small German-made alarm clock wired to a nearby pipe. “You’re supposed to be standing watch for another three hours. Could you not let me sleep, Petr Mikhailovich? Is it too much to ask that I get a few hours of rest?”

  “Control is transmitting on the guard channel,” explained Travkin curtly.

  “Guard channel? Shit,” exclaimed Vasilyev. His head spun with the dire possibilities. The guard channel was strictly reserved for emergency messages. His right hand flew instinctively to his left wrist, feeling for the thin strand of chain that anchored his all-important brass arming key. “Launch alert? Action Message?”

  Travkin shook his head. “Nyet. Apparently, the specter of nuclear annihilation will just have to wait. They want to speak directly to you, Pavel.”

  “About what?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  Vasilyev scurried out of the docking hub, kicked off a nearby bulkhead and swooped toward the radio console at the other end of the station. He clamped the headset over his ears, adjusted the volume dial, listened for few minutes, and then jotted down the new instructions that Control read up. He acknowledged receipt of the message before switching the radio back to the regular channel setting.

  “So?” demanded Travkin. “What is it, Pavel? Is there a change to our mission?”

  “Da. Our mission plan has been revised, comrade, but it’s excellent news. One of us is going home today,” announced Vasilyev, pulling off the headset and kneading his temples.

  “One of us?” asked Travkin incredulously. “How can that possibly be?”

  “The plant producing the Soyuz freighters is woefully behind schedule,” explained Vasilyev, referring to his notes. “They won’t have one ready for launch any sooner than the end of this month.”

  “But our supplies will run out by the 19th,” bemoaned Travkin.

  “Correct, numbskull. And that’s why you are going home today. Our bosses think that sending one man home and keeping one on station will stretch the consumables until the next cargo boat can come up. One less mouth to feed, you know.”

  “Interesting logic,” mused Travkin.

  “Obviously, they don’t want to leave the Egg unattended.”

  “So, what happens if they can’t get a relief crew back up here in time?” asked Travkin.

  “No matter. The priority is on the freighter. They’ll finish that first and send it up, and if need be, I’ll stay up until I’m relieved or until I run out of supplies.”

  “Well, if I’m supposed to go home today, did they send up the reentry profile?” asked Travkin, referring to the data that would be manually entered into the computer of the Soyuz descent module. “If you have it, I’ll go ahead and plug it in.”

  “Here,” replied Vasilyev, handing him an index card with the reentry instructions. He stuck a second index card into the breast pocket of his coveralls.

  “What was that?” asked Travkin. “What else did they say?”

  “Nothing that you need be concerned with, shirker. Move quickly now, and get your stuff together.”

  00:13 a.m. GMT

  Sunday, October 8, 1972

  GET: 23 Days 23 Hours 28 Minutes, REV # 383

  Normally, the process of preparing for reentry would occupy them for days, but the abbreviated schedule mandated that procedure be accomplished in a matter of hours. As a result, the two cosmonauts worked at a frenzied pace to
restore the Soyuz from its three-week hibernation. As Travkin painstakingly followed checklists to restore power and verify that the essential systems were ready, Vasilyev worked in the docking hub to ensure that the connection would be cleanly broken when the appointed time came.

  Despite the hectic pace, although they didn’t speak of it, both men were beginning to understand the potentially dire implications of Travkin’s hasty return. Vasilyev certainly understood the rationale behind Control’s decision that he would remain in orbit to continue the mission. After all, he was the mission commander and should always be the last to depart the ship, regardless of the severity of the circumstances. Moreover, given his unrivaled mastery of the docking process, it only made sense that he should stay aloft, given that the protracted mission was so dependent on receiving the freighter when it was ready. And as a lesser note, probably not an item even considered by Control, Travkin had a wife and family to return to, and Vasilyev was probably closer to his now than if he returned to Earth.

  But as much as he understood and appreciated the necessity of his stay in orbit, Vasilyev also realized that he would be far from home with scarce chance of rescue if anything went wrong. For a vessel made mostly of titanium, one of the strongest metals known to man, the Krepost was actually a very fragile home. It was an extraordinarily complicated machine, and although its major systems had performed well to date, there was always the possibility that something might break. And if there was a solitary logical reason that Travkin should remain rather than him, that was it; Vasilyev was extremely conscious that Travkin possessed a much more intimate knowledge of the station and its components, and was far more accomplished at diagnosing problems and fixing them.

  He heard Travkin’s muffled voice echoing through the access tunnel. “Power’s good, Pavel. The reentry solution is locked in the computer, and all systems look adequate. I’m activating the warm-up heaters for the thrusters now. Everything will be just fine, I know it. They’ll dispatch a freighter up here in no time, and then a relief crew will follow soon after. In no time, you’ll be headed back to…”

  “An empty apartment? An empty bed?”

  Travkin swallowed. “I’m very sorry. I’m such an idiot.”

  Hugging Travkin’s shoulders, Vasilyev smiled and said, “Buck up, cosmonaut. You’re right: everything will be just fine. This is just a farewell, not a damned funeral.”

  “You’re right, Pavel. I apologize.”

  “Look, Petr, there’s only a few more minutes before I have to send you off. I don’t know if you’ve considered it, but your weight and balance is really skewed. Your Soyuz is going to be out of kilter if I’m not in the other couch. We need to load some ballast to center up your boat, or you can kiss dosvedanya to your dreams of triumphantly parachuting into Red Square.”

  Swimming through the air, the two men hurried to transfer additional weight—Travkin’s personal gear, books they had both read, and a couple of bulky trash bags—from the Krepost into the Soyuz. After positioning the bags in place and tying them down with strips of tape, Vasilyev declared, “We’re very close, but I still think you’re going to be short a few kilograms.”

  Hovering in the docking hub, the two men looked at each other, mentally inventorying what spare items could possibly be left in the Krepost. “Obviously, I can’t take any of your food,” said Travkin.

  “And I won’t let you sneak out of orbit with my damned liquor. Or my caviar or truffles.”

  “Then what else is there?” asked Travkin.

  Suddenly, it dawned on both men what non-essential material was still left on the station. Simultaneously, they grinned as Vasilyev noted, “We left the human waste container in the lavatory.”

  Travkin hustled back into the station to retrieve a fairly large rubber-coated sack that in turn contained smaller carefully sealed bags that held three weeks’ worth of their collected feces. Pushing the bag before him, he swooped down the narrow access tunnel into the Soyuz. He lashed the lumpy bundle into Vasilyev’s reentry couch and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. Cinching a restraint strap, he said, “Well, Pavel, this definitely confirms an assertion I have been making for several years.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Don’t be offended, my esteemed commander, but I’ve always argued that you could be replaced by a bag of shit. This proves it.”

  The two men returned to the docking hub, where Vasilyev assisted his companion in donning his bulky orange SK-1 space suit.

  “Well, you’re all dressed up for your journey,” said Vasilyev, glancing at his wristwatch. “Time to go, cousin.” He tousled Travkin’s greasy hair, enveloped him in a bear hug, and gave him a big smooch on both cheeks.

  “Dosvedanya, Pavel,” muttered Travkin, wiping a tear from his eye.

  “Dosvedanya, yourself, rockhead,” replied Vasilyev, nudging his companion down the access tunnel. “No time to dawdle. Give your ticket to the conductor and hurry to your seat. I have real work to do and no time to waste on a lackadaisical slacker like you.”

  Peering through the access tunnel, he watched as Travkin sealed the Soyuz’s nose hatch. He checked his watch again; they were running uncomfortably close to the timeline. In order for Travkin to hit his mark for retro fire, the Soyuz needed to undock immediately. He knew that Travkin should have already retreated to the bullet-shaped Descent Module, closed the hatch that connected it to the front-most Orbital Module, and was probably now connecting his umbilicals before strapping into his padded reentry couch.

  Vasilyev swung the docking collar’s hatch closed, wiped a tear from his own eye, and listened as the dogging latches clicked into place. He twisted the valve that depressurized the access tunnel, and then threw the lever that disengaged the docking mechanism. Now, he had to accept that his companion was gone. He made his way back to the control module. Peering through a porthole, watching the Soyuz fade in the distance, Vasilyev felt lonelier than he had ever felt in his entire life. His was now the ultimate in solitude.

  He reflected on his earlier wake-up call, the unexpected radio message from Control. Besides the abrupt change in mission, the transmission contained two details that he had not shared with Travkin. First, the Soyuz freighter production delay was considerably worse than he had let on. He should expect to be up for considerably longer than just a month, so he would be compelled to stretch his supplies. He resolved himself to stringently ration his water and food, to consume just barely enough to sustain life.

  Second, Control had revealed that there was ample reason to believe that the Americans were very much aware of the Krepost and its mission, and so it was highly likely that they would deploy a satellite interceptor to destroy it. He would have to remain on almost constant vigil to protect the station from destruction. Now he suspected that Control had another motivation in leaving him here. Rather than protecting the Krepost from assault, they were probably more interested that he remain aloft to actually bear witness to an attack, especially if he could describe the details. He had heard rumors that the Americans had apparently successfully knocked several critical satellites from orbit, but no one had yet figured out how they were doing it. The only logical theory was that the Americans possessed an extremely sophisticated robotic satellite interceptor, and now he was concerned that he was being deliberately offered as bait.

  Krepost Project Headquarters

  7:35 a.m., Sunday, October 8, 1972

  Abdirov was pleased with himself. Acting on the flight surgeon’s insightful suggestions, he had devised a plan to snatch victory from defeat. Best of all, since he was still certain that the Korolev bureau was striving to undercut him, to force him into an untenable position, he was now able to manipulate their treachery to his own ends.

  The Krepost project’s dedicated intelligence officer quietly entered Abdirov’s office and posted squarely before his desk. “Lieutenant Colonel Malenkov, reporting as ordered, Comrade General,” he declared.

  Abdirov studied Malenkov. Square-ja
wed and handsome, with receding blond hair and a brushy moustache, he was the nephew of Georgy Malenkov, one of Lenin’s confidantes. He was a young officer on the rise in the RSVN, and a man that Abdirov had come to trust for his intellect and reliability.

  “Have a seat, Nikolai Danilovich,” said Abdirov. He waved his hand over a personnel dossier lying open before him. “Your records indicate that you have considerable experience in preparing training exercises for high-level strategic staffs.”

  “That is correct, Comrade General,” replied Malenkov, casually brushing red dust from his trousers as he sat down.

  “I want to enlist your assistance in developing an exercise,” said Abdirov, closing the dossier. “Are you acquainted with the current developments with the Krepost mission?”

  “Da, Comrade General,” replied Malenkov. “I am aware that the next freighter will not be delivered on schedule, which will likely necessitate that the Krepost be abandoned, at least until the freighter production can keep pace with the missions.”

  “You’re correct about the freighters, Nikolai, but there’s an entirely new wrinkle. I have authorized a plan to extend the mission until the next freighter is available. Major Travkin will return to Earth, and Major Vasilyev will remain in orbit. With only one man aboard the Krepost, we can make the most effective use of food supplies and other consumables.”

  Malenkov nodded. “Excellent plan, Comrade General, but I am not sure how I might be of assistance to you.”

  “It’s simple,” answered Abdirov. “I have decided that this is a perfect opportunity for an exercise, a sort of strategic simulation. This situation creates an almost perfect petri dish to evaluate a cosmonaut’s decision-making capacity when placed under intense stress.”

  “I completely agree, Comrade General, but don’t you think that being in orbit by himself would be stressful enough?” asked Malenkov.

  “Certainly, that’s true,” replied Abdirov. “The circumstances grant us an incredibly unique opportunity that we could not ever hope to duplicate on Earth. Just as you indicated, Nikolai, Vasilyev is already under tremendous stress. When we conduct exercises on Earth, we try our utmost to induce high stress levels, but such stress is still an artificiality. Short of occasionally killing exercise participants, there’s little that we can do to perpetually keep them on their toes.”