by Mike Jenne
The thrusters’ almost incessant firing was not a significant issue, because although there was a shortage of virtually everything else, there was no dearth of maneuvering fuel, since he and Travkin had pumped every single drop from the freighter’s wet compartment to the Krepost’s storage tanks.
Although there was an ample reserve of maneuvering fuel, the same couldn’t be said for his remaining reserve of electrical power. Left to their own ends, the gyros and maneuvering thrusters would constantly labor to compensate for the station’s slow spin. It was similar to driving a car with badly aligned wheels down a highway, so it was only a matter of time—and not much time at that—until the station’s batteries were entirely exhausted. Consequently, even though it meant entirely sacrificing the defensive and communications systems, he reluctantly yanked out the circuit breakers for the stabilization gyros. The crippled Krepost was now entirely adrift, like so much flotsam and jetsam that already whirled around the earth.
Right now, his immediate concern was to dissipate the smoke in the cabin. Even with his respirator on, the acrid fumes irritated his eyes to the extent that he could barely see, and his throat and lungs burned like he was inhaling directly from a bottle of acid. The only logical solution was to reactivate the air exchangers, but they could quickly deplete his precious power reserves. But if he didn’t clear out the asphyxiating smoke, he wouldn’t survive long, so he was forced to turn on the power-hungry scrubber fans to filter the air. He reluctantly threw the switch and the dormant fans rumbled to life, immediately drawing the air into motion. Weary, he used a thick strap to anchor his body to a bulkhead, so that his face was positioned next to an exhaust vent that blew out filtered air. He slowly tugged off his respirator mask, took a deep breath of the purified air flowing from the vent, and then fell fast asleep from sheer exhaustion.
10
STRANDED
Krepost Station, On Orbit
10:47 a.m. GMT, Sunday, October 15, 1972
GET (Ground Elapsed Time): 31 Days 10 Hours 2 Minutes, REV # 502
Vasilyev dreamed that he was nestled tightly against Irina, clinging to her welcome warmth, and then awoke to the soft jangling of the alarm clock he had salvaged from the docking hub. He used it to warn of imminent events where he had to take action, like communications windows or passes over surveillance targets. Shutting off the alarm, he used his flashlight to consult his handwritten schedule and saw that a surveillance target would soon come into view.
Shivering, he jammed his hands under his armpits to stay warm. To stave off the chill, he wore two sets of his own coveralls, as well as makeshift hat and mittens he had fashioned from Gogol’s extra socks. He had also improvised a sleeping bag from the two previously unused cocoon-like sleep restraints. Preferring to float free as they slept, he and Travkin had foregone using the restraints. He had slipped one inside the other and then stuffed the space between them with extra clothes and insulation battens he scrounged from storage compartments in the galley.
To conserve his ever-dwindling supply of electricity, he had shut down virtually any and all equipment that wasn’t absolutely vital. With the environmental systems now dormant, the ailing station’s atmosphere was dank, cold and stale. A film of moisture, composed primarily of his exhaled breath, gradually formed on the metal walls and bulkheads, eventually evolving into a thin layer of frost.
The cold sapped his strength. His temples throbbed with a headache. Since the fire and explosion, he had acquired a persistent cough and a chronic pain in his chest. That wasn’t a surprise, since the station’s stale atmosphere reeked with acrid fumes of scorched metals. Since the fire in the freighter involved burning aluminum, Vasilyev suspected that the station’s atmosphere still contained minute metallic particles, because the conflagration’s dense smoke had vented into the docking hub for several seconds before he was able to wrestle the hatch shut to isolate the compartment.
Although the air was slightly more tolerable, lingering fumes still stung his eyes and made him slightly lightheaded. He considered donning his respirator but decided that he preferred dizziness and blurred vision over wearing the claustrophobic rubber mask.
Groggy, he slipped out of his sleeping bag and floated over to a porthole. Since the fire and explosion, the Krepost rotated like a spitted chicken on a rotisserie, slowly turning on its long axis. As a result, it was almost futile to monitor the surveillance targets, since it was essentially a matter of luck that the designated landmark would actually appear in the porthole at the appointed time. Even so, he stayed at it; his sense of duty kept him on watch.
Although he would be content to remain in his snug cocoon to doze, the Krepost would pass over an American SAC—Strategic Air Command—bomber base in slightly less than five minutes. Other surveillance targets would march underneath the station every few minutes, so he had to remain awake and alert for a while.
The most debilitating aspect of the station’s rotation was its impact on the power supply. In order to produce electrical power, the two arrays of solar panels had to remain oriented at the sun. But even though they didn’t function anywhere close to capacity, the arrays regularly generated a modest amount of electricity to charge the batteries. Unfortunately, according to Vasilyev’s calculations, the amperage he expended each day exceeded what the panels yielded, so he was still operating at a loss. It also didn’t help that a substantial amount of the harvested electricity was automatically diverted to the Egg’s inaccessible power system, like an insidious tax that must be paid regardless of the circumstances.
He longed for some hot tea, but since water and electricity were now precious commodities, that luxury was no longer available. With the fuel cell out of service, his water supply was limited to what remained in the station’s reservoir, and he wasn’t overly confident that it would last even as long as the residual power in the batteries. Besides depriving him of his treasured refreshment, the water shortage also restricted his food intake, since the Krepost’s pantry was mostly stocked with dehydrated and freeze-dried fare. Without ample water to rehydrate them, the desiccated foodstuffs were useless, so he subsisted primarily on the vitamin-enriched and nearly tasteless “energy” wafers. But as hungry as he was, he had set aside most of his assorted goodies as a special larder. In his mind, there would soon come difficult times when he would need to boost his spirits, and a timely treat might serve to do so. And since it was so likely that he would consume his last meal up here in this freezing can, he was determined that his final repast would be a feast.
He checked his wristwatch and then used his pocketknife to slit open a tea pouch. Hoping that they might jolt him awake, he crunched on the brown crystals as a stimulant. Checking his wristwatch, he saw that he had several minutes remaining until his next major task, a contact window over several radio sites strategically spaced through the Soviet Union.
The station’s constant rotation, combined with the unique properties of the Krepost’s antennas, severely hindered his ability to communicate. Because they received signals from ground stations where transmitting power was not an issue, the radio receivers employed omnidirectional antennas. Consequently, regardless of the Krepost’s orientation, these antennas constantly gathered signals sent up from the ground, so he heard a steady stream of message traffic as he passed over the Motherland.
On the other hand, his capacity to transmit was hamstrung. To conserve power and to mitigate the chances of interception, the antennas for the Krepost’s transmitters were all unidirectional. To function properly, the unidirectional antennas relied on the station’s stability; they only worked when the Krepost rotated so that the station’s “underside” was oriented towards the earth. As a result, during any given contact window, he might be able to squeak out a few seconds of messages to Control. He had long ago memorized the locations of the communications stations back on Earth, so he was able to use the porthole as something of a bombsight, only transmitting when those stations came into view.
Becaus
e the radios and associated equipment gobbled power, he only energized them during contact windows. Despite the agonizing fiasco following the fuel cell’s initial failure, he had to hand it to the men at Control. In very short order, they had devised a shorthand procedure to adapt to the lop-sided communications flow. During every contact window, Control slowly read up a list of key questions. Each question was numbered, and for brevity’s sake, required only a brief transmission—Yes, No, a simple statement, or a number—in reply. One – How many amps remain in your batteries? Two – How many minutes per day do you operate your air scrubbers? Three – How many liters of water remain? So when he was able to speak, he responded to each question with the appropriate but abbreviated answer.
But even though he could convey information to Control, there was little they could do to alleviate his growing concerns. Other than his surveillance chores and contact windows, there was little to occupy his waking hours, so he regularly calculated how much time he theoretically had left, based on the remaining stores of the simple stuff—oxygen, water and electricity—necessary to keep him alive.
He felt like a schoolboy, struggling to balance a complex equation, only to discover that the variables refused to remain constant. He had long since surmised that electrical power was the key factor. But since there was no way to effectively predict how much power he might have to expend on any given day, he was compelled to constantly revise his estimates. As an example, the air scrubbers consumed a relatively enormous amount of power when he ran them, but he had little choice but to do so, since their oxygen regenerators filtered out the carbon dioxide that was the natural byproduct of his breathing. So, he regularly monitored the build-up levels of the hazardous gas, and only activated the scrubbers when the accumulation crept toward dangerous limits. Oddly, as he traded precious electricity to cleanse the air, he was also rewarded with a slight amount of water, since the scrubbers also filtered out and collected condensed moisture for reuse.
Numbers, numbers, numbers. The remainder of his life was parceled out in fractions, and with every hour that passed, his critical resources were gradually and irreversibly diminished. He dreaded the unavoidable moment when the last of the gauges ran completely down, conscious that his end would be more agonizing than he could possibly imagine.
Reflecting on his plight, Vasilyev sighed as he switched on the radios. His patience was frayed. He felt like a doomed sailor aboard a sinking ship, trapped in a compartment already deep underwater, anxiously listening to the hissing and pops of breaking rivets as he waited for the straining bulkheads to collapse under pressure.
On the other side of the darkened control area, the faintly glowing lights of the Egg taunted him. Supplied with an independent collection of batteries, out of reach behind tamper-proof shields, the weapon’s systems were fully operational and would likely be active for several days after the Krepost had finally given up the ghost. Vasilyev mused that he would soon be dead, but the Egg would still be incubating, ready to hatch oblivion.
Krepost Project Headquarters
7:50 a.m., Monday, October 16, 1972
Yohzin listened as the flight director briefed Abdirov concerning the Krepost’s current status. Mildly stated, the situation did not appear overly promising. With every hour that passed, it looked ever less likely that a rescue mission—if Abdirov even approved such an effort—would reach the stranded cosmonaut before he expired. As much as Yohzin admired Vasilyev and wanted to see him returned safely to Earth, a failed rescue—or perhaps no rescue attempt at all—would likely result with the Krepost abandoned and the overall effort shelved. Perhaps the program might be resumed in the future, but certainly not under Abdirov’s control. At this juncture, that was certainly an outcome that Yohzin favored.
The flight director’s reedy voice interrupted Yohzin’s thoughts. “So even if a Soyuz does make it to the Krepost in time, it still might not be able to dock.”
“How so?” asked Abdirov.
“We have been fortunate enough to focus some very powerful tracking radars on the station,” explained the flight director. “The radars detected a constant and consistent change in aspect ratio, which verifies Vasilyev’s observations that the station is rotating around its long axis.”
“This rotation is not being counteracted by the stabilization gyros and thrusters?” asked Abdirov.
“Nyet, Comrade General. There is far too much torque to overcome, so the gyros and thrusters are ineffective. Vasilyev has shut them down. Unfortunately, unless the rotation is somehow abated, we cannot rendezvous and dock another vehicle.”
“Refresh my memory: Can Vasilyev not manually fire the thrusters to compensate for the rotation?” asked Abdirov.
“The station’s thrusters were never meant to be fired manually,” replied the flight director. “The Krepost was expressly designed to be automatically controlled, without any interaction from the crew. The stabilization gyros control the thrusters during routine operations. When and if the warhead is deployed, the Egg’s targeting computer takes over and properly aligns the Krepost for weapons delivery.”
“So, is there not anything that can be done?” asked Abdirov.
“We don’t think so, sir, at least for the time being,” answered the fastidious flight director. “But on a positive note, our radar studies show that the rotation is gradually slowing. Granted, it’s a preliminary finding, but it lends credence to Vasilyev’s theory that venting gases are effectively acting as a thruster. Eventually, the escaping gases will be completely exhausted, if they have not already been depleted, and then it’s just a matter of time before the inertia is degraded to the extent that the gyros and thrusters can effectively dampen the rest of the rotation.”
“That sounds promising,” said Abdirov.
Removing his black-framed eyeglasses, the flight director shook his head and said, “Unfortunately, according to our projections, even in the best-case scenario, Vasilyev’s electrical power will be gone long before the rotation can be brought under control. Granted, he can likely stretch out his power if he uses it judiciously.”
“I have to imagine that he is using his power judiciously right now,” said Yohzin. “After all, Vasilyev is a very practical man.”
“True,” said Abdirov, studying a graph that depicted power expenditures. “So, at this point, when would be the earliest we can execute a rescue mission?”
“Given the best case scenario, where absolutely everything lines up in our favor, we still wouldn’t be able to launch a rescue mission for at least another week,” said the flight director. “On our side, we are developing options to execute the rendezvous so the least amount of electrical power is expended on the Krepost. We are confident that we can track and control the entire rendezvous from the ground, to minimize reliance on the IGLA rendezvous system on the station.
“Ideally, we should be able to get the Soyuz in close proximity, so that all that remains would be to actually dock. Unfortunately, though, the rescue Soyuz could not dock unless the docking equipment is powered. So, if there’s no power remaining at that crucial moment, the whole effort would be pointless.”
“Agreed,” said Abdirov. “But doesn’t the docking mechanism have an option to facilitate remote activation?”
“Da, Comrade General,” replied the flight director. “Good point. If that option is active, and the Krepost has adequate residual power in the batteries, then the docking mechanism can be switched on from the ground or from the approaching Soyuz.”
Yohzin remembered the remote activation circuit was included in the early designs, when it was assumed that the Krepost would be briefly vacated between crews. After the High Command insisted that the Krepost be occupied at all times, the vestigial circuit remained in the overall design, primarily because it was simpler to leave than to remove. As he looked over Abdirov’s shoulder to examine the power expenditures graph, Yohzin drew his slide rule from its leather scabbard to verify some of the flight controller’s numbers.
/> “So, theoretically, even if Vasilyev was dead or otherwise incapacitated, the Soyuz could dock and another crew could board, correct?” asked Abdirov.
“Da, Comrade General,” replied the flight director. “But—”
Abdirov quickly interrupted him. “And even though the power situation is currently less than optimal, the batteries are still being charged, correct?”
“Da. They are being charged to a marginal extent, Comrade General,” answered the flight director. “But at the rate Vasilyev is expending electricity, the batteries will not accumulate…”
Scowling, with his single eye twitching, Abdirov held up his disfigured hand to silence the flight director. “Colonel, I think that you’re misplacing your priorities, or at least you’re failing to appreciate my priorities. From what you have described to me, the Krepost’s batteries will continue to charge, at least to a limited extent, and as the rotation slows, they will accumulate progressively more power as the solar panels are exposed to the sun longer. Correct?”
“Da, Comrade General.”
Abdirov held out the power expenditure graph towards the flight director. “And according to your graph, the systems that consume the most power are the radios and the environmental systems, correct? If I order Vasilyev to shut those systems down, then it’s almost a certainty that the batteries would accumulate sufficient power to facilitate docking, correct?”
“Da, that’s correct, Comrade General,” answered the flustered flight director. “But if he couldn’t communicate…”