by Mike Jenne
“Again, Colonel, you’re missing the point. Right now, short of telling him what systems to shut down and instructing him to remain patient until we climb up to rescue him, there’s little that can be accomplished in maintaining regular communications with him. So, shutting off the radios now would conserve more power for the docking mechanism later, agreed?”
“Da, Comrade General,” answered the flight director. “But you must be aware that the power levels would still be marginal. There might be enough to actuate the docking mechanism, but there is no guarantee. Moreover, it’s imperative that Vasilyev runs the oxygen regenerator, at least periodically, or carbon dioxide will eventually kill him.”
“Enough,” stated Abdirov emphatically, tapping one of his few remaining fingers on the table. “Here’s what I want. Draft a message to send up to Vasilyev on the next contact window. Tell him that we have thoroughly studied his power situation. We will limit future communications to one very brief contact window per day.
“He is not to activate his environmental systems, including the air scrubbers and oxygen regenerator, unless we specifically instruct him to do so. Instruct him to check the settings in the docking hub and double-check to ensure that the remote activation circuit is active. Make it abundantly clear that he should reduce his activities to the absolute minimum, so that he is essentially hibernating until we get up there to bring him home. I’ll be here for the next contact window, and I want to talk to him personally, to convey a sense of urgency.”
“As you wish, Comrade General,” replied the flight director, scribbling down notes.
“Two more items, Colonel,” said Abdirov. “Assemble your best people to cobble together some kind of manual mechanism to power the oxygen regenerator. Perhaps they can improvise some sort of bellows to pump air through the lithium hydroxide filters, to scrub out the carbon dioxide. That will keep Vasilyev decisively engaged and maybe lend him a bit more oxygen to inhale.
“Also, immediately begin preparing a profile to send up one man in a Soyuz, rather than two. He and Vasilyev might be up there for at least a little while until the next freighter is ready, so plan on stuffing all available free volume with consumables.”
“Da, Comrade General,” replied the flight director. “Shrewd plan, sir.”
“Go!” ordered Abdirov. “Time is wasting. The next contact window will be soon upon us.”
As the flight director obediently scurried toward the front of the room, Yohzin quietly asked, “A word, Rustam?”
“Certainly.”
“May I speak freely?” asked Yohzin.
“Of course, little brother.”
“I checked those numbers,” stated Yohzin, holding up his slide rule. “You’re correct that the batteries will accumulate sufficient power to actuate the docking mechanism, given a week’s time, but Vasilyev will run out of breathable air if he can’t run the oxygen regenerator.”
“Perhaps, but did you not hear me instruct the flight director to come up with a manual solution to scrub the carbon dioxide?” asked Abdirov.
“That’s a lot of volume to scrub with a manual system. Honestly, Rustam, I don’t think it’s a plausible option. I just don’t understand why you want to lend Vasilyev false hope.”
“False hope is better than no hope,” replied Abdirov.
Yohzin was astounded at his friend’s callousness. For whatever reason he might have, he was effectively sentencing Vasilyev to die.
“Look, Gregor, this hypothetical rescue mission still has to be approved by the General Staff of the High Command,” said Abdirov. “If I was to tell them that Vasilyev would likely be a stiff corpse by the time the Soyuz made it upstairs, don’t you think they would balk at flinging a Soyuz and R-7 into orbit on a fool’s errand?”
“Then if that’s the case, Rustam, why send it at all?” asked Yohzin. “If Vasilyev is so likely to be dead, what’s the damned use?”
“And what exactly makes you believe that I care whether Vasilyev is alive or dead when the Soyuz arrives?” asked Abdirov. “For once, Gregor, be pragmatic. So long as that Soyuz is able to dock, and we can stick a man aboard, I could care less whether Vasilyev survives. Granted, I cannot admit that to the High Command, so I am compelled to paint this endeavor as a rescue mission.”
Krepost Station, On Orbit
7:46 a.m. GMT, Monday, October 16, 1972
GET: 32 Days 7 Hours 1 Minutes, REV # 516
As he waited for the impending contact window, Vasilyev patiently transcribed a Channel Three intelligence update that had been automatically recorded during the previous communications pass. His fingers were so numb that he could barely hold his pencil.
Studying the transcription, he whistled softly through his badly chapped lips. The news was still plenty dire. Throughout the world, all strategic forces of all nations were on high alert. ICBMs were fueled and ready for immediate launch. Bearing nuclear payloads, strategic bombers were either in the air, in holding patterns as they awaited orders, or on strip alert with ready crews aboard. Lurking undersea, missile submarines maintained combat stations, many hovering close to the coastlines of their enemies. It was just a matter of time, perhaps only hours, before open hostilities ensued.
Shivering, he gnawed on a half-frozen energy wafer as he glanced down through the porthole. He half-expected to see the world aflame below him, but saw no clear evidence of impending war. How could this be? Vasilyev did not doubt that the intelligence updates were accurate, but this paradox was exasperating. With such limited access to information, it was like seeing and hearing the world through a tiny keyhole. Perhaps if he had some means to monitor regular radio channels, particularly those of international news stations, then maybe he would verify the veracity of the intelligence reports. If nothing else, if all-out war loomed so close, then surely governments would broadcast public information alerts to grant their citizens ample time to make necessary preparations.
Since his own world was now effectively confined to the control area, he adjusted the layout of his modest habitat to achieve the most efficient use of the space and his resources. He rarely left the meager comfort of his improvised sleeping bag, but now wore it as a sort of padded garment to fend off the frigid temperatures. Most often, he stationed himself close by the porthole, tying a length of cord around his waist as an anchor, so he readily could look at the earth below.
He sloshed as he moved. Concerned that his remaining water would freeze in the reservoir, he had salvaged several used tea pouches from the trash and then painstakingly filled them with the remaining water. He stuffed the pouches into his respirator bag, which he now wore like a bandolier around his neck, and rationed himself one pouch a day.
He switched on the bank of radio receivers, allowing a few extra minutes to lend their circuits adequate time to warm, and then was immediately beset with a prolonged series of agonizing coughs that originated deep in his chest. He regained his composure, then grimaced as he clamped bitterly cold earphones over his tingling ears.
As the Krepost’s revolutions took it over Soviet territory, the station passed over a network of radio outposts. Connected by microwave relays and telephone lines, the transmitters at the outposts were carefully synchronized to broadcast the multiple frequencies originating from Control, to ensure an uninterrupted flow of communications. Approximately two minutes after he powered up the radios, the receiver warbled slightly, and then he heard a single message, previously recorded, repeated several times. Since the Krepost initially came into reception range in the middle of the message, Vasilyev had to wait almost half a minute for the message to cycle through to the beginning.
The lengthy message began with the tracking number—122—and was comprised mostly of technical instructions on shutting down specific systems to conserve electrical power. Vasilyev was slightly alarmed when he heard Control order him to switch on his radio receivers for only one contact window per day, and not to switch on his transmitters—including the circuits for data telemetr
y—unless they specifically instructed him to do so when they initially established contract on any given window, or unless he was experiencing an emergency situation. Keeping the transmitters powered off did make plenty of sense, since they consumed a considerable amount of power. Moreover, any data transmitted on the telemetry frequencies was largely irrelevant now.
The communications limitations bothered him, but far more disconcerting was that Control directed him not to activate the station’s air scrubbers. Fortunately, Control also stated that they were devising an alternative method to exploit the lithium hydroxide in the oxygen regenerator, so that the device could cleanse the atmosphere of carbon dioxide without drawing on electrical power.
The recorded message concluded with General Abdirov’s distinctive voice: “Comrade Major Vasilyev, although we have suffered a setback, your mission has not changed. You are a Soviet officer, and you will act accordingly. Speaking on behalf of the General Staff of the High Command, I expect you to remain vigilant. Given our current difficulties with communications, I expect you to exercise your best judgment in the absence of orders.
“You must be cognizant that given the current world climate, we will not abandon the Krepost under any circumstances. At this very moment, we are preparing a mission to reinforce you. To reiterate, until such time that you are reinforced, you must be prepared to exercise your best judgment in the absence of orders.”
It was difficult to assess Abdirov’s tone, particularly since his regular speech bordered on a lisp. He wasn’t sure whether Abdirov sought to soothe or perhaps reassure him, but if nothing else, the most exalted General made it abundantly clear that Vasilyev’s lot was not to cry and whine about his circumstances, but to obediently stay at his post until relieved. As if I have a choice, thought Vasilyev, scratching his numb nose.
He remembered the slip of paper in his pocket, the note that bore the eight numbers of the Independent Action Code, and understood that in the absence of orders, as Abdirov had emphasized, he must be ready to deploy the Egg if he witnessed any evidence that the thermonuclear war had commenced.
Confident that he had captured the salient details of the transmission, Vasilyev prepared to reply. He mused that it was unfortunate that his communications would now be restricted, since he had devoted many hours to developing a predictive model to determine which ground radio sites would be “visible” during any given contact window. He wrapped a towel around his face so that his exhaled breath would not inadvertently create frost on the porthole. He consulted his graph, checked his wristwatch, and patiently waited a few minutes until he saw the familiar terrain of Irkutsk, a Siberian city just west of Lake Baikal, gradually rotate into view. He picked out the communications site, paused until it was almost centered in the glass, and then keyed the microphone button for his terse message: “Control, I acknowledge your message number One-Two-Two. Again, I acknowledge One-Two-Two. Will comply.”
Seconds later, he heard Control’s equally terse reply: “Krepost, we acknowledge your receipt of message One-Two-Two. Control Out.”
And that is that, he thought, switching off the radios. Perhaps Control would be more forthcoming on their next planned contact window, which was slightly less than twenty-four hours away. In the meantime, it was a considerable amount of information to absorb. As he reviewed their instructions, he struggled to understand their ultimate intent.
He tried his best to be upbeat, but still could not shake a lingering sense of doom. No matter how much he juggled the numbers, he couldn’t foresee a favorable outcome. Although their instructions appeared to contradict his calculations, he had to assume that there was some brilliant method to their madness, and that they had divined some mysterious protocol to squeeze out the maximum benefit from what little power remained. Moreover, they obviously knew how quickly a relief mission could be mounted, and he did not, so that was a critical variable that he could not account for. But surely their intent was to keep him alive long enough to greet his reinforcements, so their plan certainly had to be the best potential solution. After all, he was one man with one brain, with his thoughts muddled by cold and fatigue, and they were Control, a conglomeration of some of the brightest minds in the storied RSVN. Surely, they knew what was best, so as miserable as he was, fully cognizant that his conditions would progressively deteriorate, he would obey their orders and remain vigilant, ever ready to execute his most sacred duties.
Krepost Project Headquarters
12:03 p.m., Monday, October 16, 1972
“I have a mission for you, Gogol,” said Abdirov, gesturing for the squat cosmonaut to take a seat. “I trust that your foot has healed sufficiently for you to fly into space.”
“It has, Comrade General, but even if it had not, a single swing with an axe would resolve the issue. Am I to assume that I will be going up with Major Travkin?”
“Nyet,” answered Abdirov. “This may be slightly awkward for you, but you will be taking this journey by yourself. I’m sending only you up to the Krepost.”
“Excellent, Comrade General,” said Gogol. Grinning from ear to ear, he was obviously elated at the prospects of returning to orbit. “I will not disappoint you.”
“Of that I’m sure, but you should be aware that it might be a week or even longer before we have a vehicle ready and a suitable launch window. There’s much work to done in the meantime. Control is revising flight procedures so that you can ascend alone, and as soon as they are ready, you’ll go into the simulators to practice.
“This is all tentative, of course, because even though the hardware and procedures are being readied, we are still awaiting final approval from the General Staff of the High Command. Moreover, when and if you fly, we are not even sure that the Krepost will be adequately stable for you to dock.”
“And my mission, sir?” asked Gogol.
“In theory, you and Vasilyev will occupy the Krepost and wait for another freighter and relief crew.”
“In theory, Comrade General?” asked Gogol.
“Da,” said Abdirov, handing him a slip of paper. “Between you and me, here’s your real task.”
“Sir?” asked Gogol, examining the note. It simply contained eight digits: 76810723.
“That’s an Independent Action Code. Memorize it. As soon as you are aboard, I want you to deploy the Egg on the juiciest target that becomes available, preferably a large American city.”
“As you wish, Comrade General,” replied Gogol. He glanced at the paper again, folded it, and nonchalantly handed it back to Abdirov. “It will be done.”
“And you don’t have any qualms about doing that?”
“None whatsoever, Comrade General,” replied Gogol. “But I do have a question, sir.”
“Go ahead.”
“What about Major Vasilyev, Comrade General?”
“What about him?” answered Abdirov. “The chances are that he will be long dead by the time you get up there.”
“But what if he is not, Comrade General?” asked Gogol. “If he is still alive, can I expect him to be cooperative?”
“Nyet,” answered Abdirov. “You probably shouldn’t expect him to be cooperative in the least, so my previous instructions remain in effect. Be prepared to subdue him if necessary, and it’s better that you act sooner than later, while you still might have the element of surprise.”
2:10 p.m., Monday, October 16, 1972
“Gregor, listen to me,” said Abdirov quietly. “I’m stuck in quite a dilemma here.”
“What is wrong, Rustam?” asked Yohzin. “How can I help?”
“I’ve talked to Gogol. As soon as he boards the Krepost, he will deploy the Egg,” revealed Abdirov. “He will use the code that you pinched from the Perimetr people.”
Yohzin closed his eyes and swallowed. So, this is it he thought.
“Did you not hear me, Gregor?”
Yohzin opened his eyes and replied, “I did, Rustam. I know that such a decision must weigh heavily on you.”
“Listen
, little brother, dropping the Egg is not my dilemma. Being unable to fulfill my promise to you is what troubles me so.”
“How so?”
“Do you remember that I told you that I would allow you and your family to visit Luba’s parents when this time was near?”
“I do.”
“Then I regret to tell you that I might be unable to make good on my commitment,” explained Abdirov. “The GRU is still looking for the leak, and until they find the culprit, you’re still under suspicion. I can request authorization to facilitate travel for Luba and your sons, but I am concerned that if I request the same arrangements for you, then none of you will be able to leave Kapustin Yar.”
Yohzin considered the implications. If there was even the slightest chance that Luba and his sons could be delivered into safety, even if he might perish, then his decision was simple. “If that’s the case, then I will stay here, Rustam,” he declared. “And Luba can take the boys to see her parents, if you would be so kind as to request their travel documents. Luba is a very capable woman, and I am confident that she can travel by herself.”
“And you, Gregor?” asked Abdirov.
“You can count on me to remain at my post, Comrade General,” answered Yohzin. “I will remain at my duties until the very end. If my fate is to die for the Motherland, then it will be my honor to be at your side when my end comes.”
Residential Complex # 4, Znamensk (Kapustin Yar-1)
8:12 p.m., Thursday, October 19, 1972
Yohzin composed his weekly message to the Americans. It was simple and to the point. He stated that the Krepost was badly damaged but still occupied by one cosmonaut, and a rescue mission would be launched no earlier than four days from today. He also requested that the extraction plan for his family be executed as planned.
He went through the familiar process of encrypting the message and then transcribing it to the thin paper strip that he would insert into the capsule to be “transmitted” by Magnus tomorrow night. He shook the plastic vial containing the capsules, and realized that there was only one remaining; it was no matter, because he had two more vials filled with capsules of similar composition, except that they were colored dark gray rather than dull brown. He prepared the capsule, placed it on his desktop, and then carefully gathered and cached his secret writing tools. In just a few minutes, he would drop the capsule in Magnus’s kibble, and just a few minutes after that, the message would be on its day-long journey through the dog’s alimentary canal.