by Mike Jenne
Two days after the new message was passed, he would return to his study just after midnight, to set up a miniature shortwave radio to listen for a coded confirmation message that the extraction plan would be executed as he requested. He knew from a previous message that his American handler—“Smith”—had already approved the plan and made the necessary arrangements, so now it was just a matter of setting those wheels in motion.
Confident that he had done what he could do to safeguard his family, Yohzin focused his thoughts on another matter of grave consequence. He was tormented by the knowledge that if he had not stolen Perimetr’s secret code and passed it to Abdirov, he wouldn’t be in this terrible predicament. He had to stop Abdirov’s plot, regardless of the terrible costs he might incur. It was not merely a matter of sacrificing himself to save his family, but he was compelled to do so to save the world.
Now, he had a plan. Once he was sure that Luba and his sons had safely departed Kapustin Yar, he would diligently attempt to persuade Abdirov not to follow through on his scheme. If he failed, and if it was coming down to the wire, he would simply go to the GRU and divulge the truth, ideally before Gogol was launched. Of course, he had no doubt that both he and Abdirov would be arrested and subjected to horrendous ordeals, but if that sufficed to spare the world from thermonuclear destruction, then so be it. So long as Luba and the boys were safe, he could endure any agony that the GRU could see fit to mete out.
Krepost Station, On Orbit
22:30 p.m. GMT, Friday, October 20, 1972
GET: 36 Days 21 Hours 45 Minutes, REV # 590
For at least the fifth time in less than an hour, Vasilyev was jolted awake from a terribly realistic nightmare. He dreamed that he was drowning; as he awoke, his heart pounded furiously in his chest, and he gasped for breath.
He finally concluded that the recurring nightmares were actually an instinctive mechanism of his unconscious brain, and that they served to warn him of a very real danger. The distressing sensations he experienced were symptoms of carbon dioxide poisoning.
Without the air circulation normally provided by the scrubbers, the station’s atmosphere was effectively stagnant. Even if the cabin was theoretically saturated with oxygen, as he breathed, he drew in oxygen and exhaled carbon dioxide. Without some mechanism to stir the air into motion, even gently so, a pocket of carbon dioxide would eventually accumulate in the vicinity of his mouth. The situation reminded him of his first flight into orbit, when Gogol tried to convince him that it was safe to smoke. Gogol had lit a match, the matchhead burned for a few seconds, and then was snuffed out as the surrounding oxygen was depleted. Likewise, Vasilyev’s life would be extinguished almost as abruptly if there was no oxygen around his mouth and nose, regardless of how much there might be just a half-meter away.
Even though Control had ordered him not to switch on his scrubbers, he had to do something about this situation, because it was only a matter of time before he failed to wake up.
How would Travkin handle this? he thought. He studied the dimly lit control area, and considered the potential resources available to him.
Gripping his penlight between his teeth, he wielded a screwdriver to unfasten and remove a protective panel from the instrument console, and then extracted a small electric fan that was intended to cool a cathode ray display. He wired the miniscule fan to a spare flashlight battery, and in short order had improvised a ventilation fan to churn the air around his face as he slept, to dispel the build-up of carbon dioxide. And that’s what Travkin would do! he mused, grinning. Now, once he became accustomed to the faint buzzing sound, he would be able to sleep without interruption.
But if his sleep was not interrupted by carbon dioxide poisoning, there were plenty of other things to keep his mind from rest. He could not help but feel despair about his probable fate; he still kept up with his estimates, and he just could not see how he could be still be alive by the time a rescue mission arrived. He had come to the conclusion that their priority was to charge the batteries so they would have adequate power stored to actuate the docking mechanism later, but unless Control arrived at a timely solution to run the oxygen regenerators without power, it wouldn’t matter if the docking mechanism worked or not, because he would no longer be alive to rescue.
That wasn’t all that concerned him. With every day that passed, he grew ever more skeptical about the intelligence updates. Although he regularly stared at the earth until he was in danger of hallucinating, he still could not detect any discernible evidence that the dispatches were valid. If the updates were false, why would Control subject him to such a charade? He considered an array of their possible motives. On one end of the spectrum, they may have been concerned about his capacity to remain alert after Travkin departed, and employed bogus intelligence reports to motivate him toward a state of enhanced vigilance. Another possibility, certainly reflecting a much darker agenda, was that erroneous reports were part of a devious scheme to trick him into deploying the Egg, now that he was entrusted with an Independent Action Code. Finally, it dawned on him that he really did not know whether the Independent Action Code was truly valid, so perhaps it was all part of an elaborate reliability exercise to determine if he would actually follow through on deploying the Egg if ordered to do so.
If only he possessed some means to double-check the intelligence updates, then he could at least know if they were legitimate or not, and if they weren’t, he might have a clearer insight into Control’s intent.
11
MISSION TWELVE
Launch Complex 41
Cape Kennedy Air Force Station, Florida
6:30 p.m., Saturday, October 21, 1972
Clad in their space suits, reclining in a pair of matching beige Barcaloungers, Carson and Ourecky waited impatiently in the cramped suit-up trailer. It was the same Airstream camper that they had occupied for their prolonged stint on Johnston Island last summer, anxiously waiting for word that the Soviets had launched their massive Proton rocket. In the hours just before Hurricane Celeste came ashore to demolish the PDF launch complex, the trailer—along with a few tons of other specialized equipment—had been hastily evacuated to Hawaii aboard a C-130 turboprop transport.
For at least the tenth time this hour, Ourecky checked over his flight plan notes. “Man, I’m starving,” he grumbled. His stomach growled audibly. “You would have thought they’d plan for some chow. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and that was almost twelve hours ago.”
“Thirty minutes,” announced a suit technician, holding up a walkie-talkie radio. “They’re getting ready to remove the shroud.”
Ourecky sat up and twisted around so he could look through the small window behind his right shoulder. The sun was setting. In the fading light, he glimpsed Launch Complex 41—LC 41—in the distance, slightly less than half a mile away from where the suit-up trailer was parked, near the base of the skyscraper-like Vertical Integration Facility. The launch pad’s main structure, a Titan umbilical tower, was positioned atop an enormous concrete “flame bucket.” The umbilical tower was surrounded by four tall metal structures that resembled radio broadcast towers; they were literally gigantic lightning rods, to prevent stray bolts from destroying the fragile electronics of a rocket on the pad.
The fiberglass shroud had been fitted on the Titan II to disguise it as an unmanned payload for a limited notice operational test. Theoretically, the purpose of the test was to validate ICBM emergency firing procedures under extremely realistic conditions; as far as the outside world—which included local civilians and NASA workers—was concerned, a stand-by ICBM alert crew would be issued launch orders on very short notice, so the Titan II could blast off at any time, day or night. The shroud would be removed and lowered immediately after the sun was completely below the horizon. Most the complex’s lights would remain off, cloaking the remaining launch preparations in darkness.
“Hey,” declared the technician, “if you’re that hungry, Scott, I think there’s a case of C-rations stashe
d in the van. The pad techs like to keep some extra chow around in case they’re working late and can’t leave. Want me to call them?”
“I’m not that hungry.”
“We’ll wait for Virgil,” said Carson, reviewing notes on a clipboard. “He said he would make it back on time, so we’ll just have to trust him.”
The men heard gravel crunching as a car pulled up outside. “I think the chuck wagon has arrived,” noted Ourecky.
Seconds later, the trailer’s aluminum door swung open, and Virgil Wolcott entered, ducking his head to avoid banging into the low doorframe. He bore two brown paper bags. “Catsup, extra onions?” he asked, digging into one of the bags to produce a large hamburger wrapped in wax paper.
“That’s me,” answered Ourecky. He quickly unwrapped the sandwich and commenced to eat.
“I guess the other’s mine,” noted Carson, taking the other hamburger that Wolcott proffered. “You’re a lifesaver, Virgil. Thanks a million.”
“Glad to oblige,” drawled Wolcott. “You boys are mighty lucky. Those came straight from the Sunrise Diner, best danged burgers in town.”
“How much, Virg?” asked Carson, talking around a mouthful of burger.
“Seven bucks for the both of you, pard.”
“I’m a little short at the moment,” declared Carson, patting his chest pocket. “I left my wallet back in Ohio. I’ll pay you when we get back, provided we get back. Besides, it’s legal for me to put meals on my travel voucher, right?”
“Danged good point. If you’re stickin’ it on your voucher, why don’t we call it ten bucks even, then. Hell, I should rate at least a sawbuck for pre-flight caterin’.” Wolcott sat on a wooden stool between the two recliners where Carson and Ourecky reposed, and asked, “Are you gents comfortable with what you’ve got?”
“I don’t like the thought of flying the intercept without the radar,” replied Carson, squirting catsup into a small paper sack of French fries. “I know we have plenty of support from the ground, and everything is supposed to be perfectly synchronized, but I’m just not comfortable relying on someone else’s fix. We’ve done this deed countless times in training, and seven times for real, and we’re used to the radar.”
“Duly noted, pard,” said Virgil, snitching one of the catsup-drenched French fries. “But even though that durned Krepost is supposed to be unoccupied, we just can’t afford to take any chances. And you, Ourecky? Any major reservations on your part?”
“Other than riding a rocket to work?” asked Ourecky, crumpling the hamburger wrapper and hurling it toward a cardboard box that served as a trash repository. “None to speak of, Virgil. I have to admit, I’m with Drew concerning the radar, but other than that, I’m anxious to fly this thing, kill the target, and then get back home so I can move on with my life. You’re sure that General Tew intends to make good on his promises?”
“Absolutely, son, absolutely,” replied Wolcott, nodding vigorously.
“Then, like you say, Virgil: if you need someone to go upstairs to sweep out the attic, then we’re your huckleberries.”
Eating quickly, enjoying their last minutes on Earth, the two men were silent for a few minutes.
“The van is outside,” announced the technician, listening to his walkie-talkie. “Time to go, guys.”
“Guess you fellers have to skedaddle,” said Wolcott, patting Ourecky on the shoulder. “Best of luck to you. We’re countin’ on you two to get this deed done.”
“Thanks,” answered Ourecky. “We’ve had plenty of practice runs, so it’s great to finally go after the real deal.”
“Thanks, Virg,” said Carson, just before finishing the last bite of his hamburger. “We’ll do our best.”
Ourecky sat upright, cinched the elastic thigh strap on his kneeboard, and then jammed his slide rule’s leather holster into his right calf pocket. He stood up, bent over to retrieve his helmet, and then announced, “I’m ready to roll.”
“Give me a minute,” replied Carson, squeezing Colgate toothpaste onto his index finger. He briskly rubbed his teeth with the finger, and then swished out his mouth with water from a paper cup. “Okay, buddy, let’s hit the road.”
8:41 p.m.
Ourecky slid down his clear visor, locked it into place, and then did a quick scan of his instrument panel. All readings looked nominal for launch. He checked the computer console again, ensuring that its knob was set to ‘ASC’ for Ascent mode and made sure that his kneeboard was securely in place on his left thigh. Confident that he was ready, he granted himself a minute to close his eyes to think about Bea and Andy before saying a quick prayer to request a safe flight.
For various reasons, this was a ground-directed mission, in which he and Carson would have very little input into the intercept process. Their orbital track would be paced by a virtual armada of tracking stations based on ships and airplanes, supplemented by several ground-based tracking locations.
Powerful radars at the tracking stations would carefully monitor the orbital position of their Gemini-I as well as their target: the Soviet Krepost space station. The tracking information would be quickly routed to the Mission Control facility at Wright-Patterson, where a bank of high-speed computers would analyze the data to produce very precise instructions for the intercept profile. Those instructions would be relayed back to the tracking facilities, where they would be uploaded by data link to the Gemini-I’s on-board computer.
Compared to previous launches, there was a lot less chatter in his earphones than normal. Like the intercept process, the communications procedures for this mission were also considerably different than their eight previous missions. Although the ground-based CAPCOM—Capsule Communicator—would keep them informed with a running commentary of flight-related issues, Carson and Ourecky would maintain radio silence unless there were circumstances that dictated an emergency abort. They would keep quiet even during the launch, since in theory, anyone—which typically included Soviet intelligence trawlers sitting offshore in international waters—eavesdropping on the radio frequencies would be compelled to believe that the Titan II’s payload was unmanned, as advertised.
“Vehicle is transferring to internal power,” stated the CAPCOM. “Stand by for engine gimballing.”
“Gimbals,” muttered Carson on the Gemini-I’s intercom loop.
“Copy gimbals,” responded Ourecky.
“T-minus one minute and counting,” declared the CAPCOM. “Five seconds to Stage Two fuel valves….Thirty seconds…T-minus twenty seconds….”
Ourecky felt the almost overwhelming sensations that had become so routine in the past three years: the vibrations of the powerful turbo-pumps raced through his spine.
If but only to each other, both men chanted out the final countdown: “T-minus 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4…first stage ignition.”
Gritting his teeth, Ourecky felt a shudder as the first stage engines roared to life. Two seconds later, right on schedule, the explosive hold-down bolts cracked, releasing the rocket to the sky. They were on the way, hoisted by 215,000 pounds of thrust.
“Here we go!” declared Carson. “Lift-off and the clock’s running. Last time, buddy?”
“Definitely the last time.”
Gemini-I, On Orbit
3:50 a.m. GMT, Sunday October 22, 1972
GET: 3 Hours 5 minutes / REV # 2
Ourecky was bored, if it was truly possible for a man to be bored while travelling at 17,500 miles per hour through the cold vacuum of space. It wasn’t that spaceflight had become commonplace to him, but rather that he was accustomed to being so busy that he scarcely had time to even steal a glance out the window. Of course, the mission planners had asserted—repeatedly—that although the initial approach was virtually automated, save for manually executing the maneuvers specified by the computer, he and Carson were absolutely critical for the final phase of the intercept.
As they passed through their communications window, Ourecky watched as the upload light blinked on their on-board compute
r. He scrolled through the computer display’s screens, copying down the key pertinent information on an index card. He tugged his slide rule out of its holster and then painstakingly verified the mission controller’s calculations.
Curious, Carson unwrapped a package of Fig Newtons as he watched the right-seater. He handed two of the fruit-stuffed wafers to Ourecky, ate two, and then tucked the remainder into his side storage pocket. “Uh, Scott, you do recall that this is predominately a ground-directed mission, right?” he asked. “We’re only supposed to cook the recipe they beam up. No deviations or extra spices.”
Ourecky floated the cookies in front of him, nodded, finished his computations, stowed his slide rule, and then compared his numbers to the ground’s. “Looks good,” he commented, double-checking an entry from the computer’s digital read-out.
“So, is there any particular reason that you feel compelled to rework those problems?” asked Carson.
“Well, Drew, I suppose that old habits are hard to break.”
“I guess. So, what’s next on the agenda?”
“Another minor phase shift in thirty-four minutes.”
“Thirty-four minutes? That seems like a day away. I wish that I had brought a book up.”
“Well, you do have time to grab a nap if you want,” replied Ourecky, leaning forward to grab a slowly tumbling Fig Newton between his teeth. “I’ll cover while you’re down.”
“Thanks. The controls are yours, Right Seat.”
“Right Seat has the controls.”
Mission Control Facility, Aerospace Support Project