by Mike Jenne
1:25 a.m., Sunday, October 22, 1972
As the mission was in progress, Mark Tew kept vigil from his habitual vantage point during flights, the glass-enclosed Executive Observation Area located at the rear of the Mission Control facility. He was happy, if not still apprehensive. So far, the sortie was proceeding entirely as planned, but they were still a long way from climbing up to the Krepost and destroying it.
Tew glanced at the mission clock on the front wall, past the first row of controller consoles. Just starting their third orbit, Carson and Ourecky had been up for slightly less than five hours. A few minutes ago, Virgil Wolcott had called from Flight Operations here on the base, to announce that he had returned from Cape Kennedy. Admiral Tarbox was at the Pentagon, ostensibly to keep General Kittredge and other high-ranking officers appraised of the mission’s progress.
Watching the controllers at work, Tew felt his pulse at his neck. His heart had fluttered several times in the past few days, accompanied by stabbing pains in his chest. His current medications didn’t seem to be having much therapeutic effect. If all went well, this mission should be concluded in forty-eight hours or less, so he promised himself that he would report straightaway to his cardiologist the moment they had confirmation that the boys were safely back on the ground. In the meantime, there was still much to be done and little time to squander, so his health be damned for the moment.
He heard Wolcott’s distinctive Oklahoma twang and looked down to see his counterpart, still dressed in his flight suit, entering the facility through one of the lower side doors. Ted Seibert, also attired in sage green Nomex, was with him. The two had obviously come straight from the flight line without changing.
Wolcott customarily made his rounds on the floor before coming up to the observation area, but today he strolled directly up the sloping aisle between the rows of consoles. Wearing concerned expressions, he and Seibert entered the observation room together.
“I think you need to grab a chair, Mark,” declared Wolcott, as the door swung closed behind him. “Ted has some hot news that just came over the wire, and it ain’t soundin’ good.”
Tew took a seat behind one of the unoccupied desks, took a deep breath, and said, “Go on.”
“We apparently have an ugly situation developing, General,” confided Seibert, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. His face bore a faint outline of his oxygen mask, and his hair—usually perfectly coiffed—was matted down from his flight helmet. The intelligence officer was normally fastidious about his appearance; Tew had never seen him even slightly unkempt.
“Something that could affect the mission?” asked Tew.
“Most definitely,” answered Seibert, nodding solemnly. “We just received this week’s message from the source at Kapustin Yar. He indicated that the Krepost might still be manned.”
Tew gasped. “What? I thought we had solid verification that a Soyuz had undocked from it, reentered, and the crew was successfully recovered.”
Seibert cleared his throat and said, “He claims that they only sent one man home.”
“Oh.”
“Like I said, Mark, this ain’t good,” interjected Wolcott. “It don’t bode well at all.”
Seibert bent down, unzipped his left calf pocket, and pulled out a briarwood pipe and a leather pouch. He stuffed the pipe’s bowl with tobacco and started to light it with a wood match, but stopped when Wolcott faintly shook his head.
Nodding in affirmation, Siebert put away his matches and continued. “There’s more. According to the source, the Krepost may be damaged in some manner. The Soviets apparently are planning to launch a mission to rescue the man on board. The source at Kapustin Yar also apparently suspects that he is in danger of compromise, because he has requested an emergency extraction for his family and himself.”
“That ain’t good,” declared Wolcott.
Nervously toying with his pipe, Seibert stated, “We also have information from another source that indicates that the Soviets know that we are aware of the Krepost and that it is armed with nuclear weapons.”
“So the Soviets know that we’re conscious of the Krepost?” asked Tew angrily. Convulsing slightly, he clutched his chest and began to wheeze. As casually as he could manage, he reached into his desk drawer, found a flat tin containing nitroglycerine tablets, and slipped one in his mouth.
“Probably,” answered Seibert.
Tew felt the nitro tablet dissolve on his tongue, and then said, “This is terrible news. How about our boys upstairs? At this point, we have to assume that the Soviets must at least suspect that we might target the Krepost. Do you have any indication that they know that we have a mission underway? Are Carson and Ourecky in imminent danger?”
Seibert shook his head and replied, “General, there is no indication that they’re aware that we are currently executing a mission, nor do we think that they even know about this Project. On a negative note, they are obviously being more vigilant than usual, so we suspect that they might be anticipating an attack on the Krepost at some point, but they still seem fixated on the notion that we’re employing an unmanned intercept platform.”
“So, if the Krepost is vacant, our men should be relatively safe, right?” asked Tew.
“Honestly, we have no way of knowing,” answered Seibert. “The man still up there could very well be waiting in ambush. On the other hand, assuming that the information from our Kapustin Yar source is accurate and the Krepost is damaged, there’s no way of knowing if their defensive systems are still functional. Obviously, we should probably err on the side of caution and assume that they are.”
“Agreed,” replied Tew. His head was spinning as a result of the nitroglycerine tablet, and he struggled to maintain his composure.
“So, pard, I s’pose you want to call those boys home now, right?” said Wolcott, loosening the laces of his flight boots. “I’ll go and get Gunter so we can start puttin’ the appropriate plans in place.”
Tew shook his head. “Let’s not be too hasty. As far as I’m concerned, the situation really hasn’t changed that much. This Krepost is still a critical target that needs to be knocked down. Yes, I’m extremely inclined to order those two home, but their past performance has shown that they are going to do as they wish, regardless of what directions we give them.”
“So you ain’t goin’ to order them down?” asked Wolcott, frowning as he raised his eyebrows.
“No. We will give them all the pertinent information that we have, ensure that they are apprised of the risks, and grant them an opportunity to exercise their initiative. I would be more than happy if they decided to come home forthwith, but I strongly suspect that they won’t. After all, we put Carson and Ourecky in that cockpit for a reason, didn’t we?”
“That we did, brother,” answered Wolcott, gazing through the glass at the controllers at their consoles. “Indeed, that we did.”
Gemini-I, On Orbit
6:10 GMT, Sunday October 22, 1972
GET: 5 Hours 25 minutes / REV # 3
“Crypto’s locked in,” announced Ourecky, verifying the green light that indicated the voice scrambler had accepted the cryptographic variable that he had just keyed in.
“I copy that the crypto is locked. Standing by for transmission,” said Carson. “Hey, Scott, just to be absolutely safe, why don’t you switch off the transmitter on the voice side, just so we don’t accidently break the rules?”
“Will do,” replied Ourecky, throwing a series of switches. “Voice transmit is disabled.”
A few seconds passed before they heard the voice of the Mission Controller, who was physically located in a tracking station in California. Because he was transmitting through a scrambler, his voice bore a cartoonish distortion that made him sound almost like Daffy Duck. “Scepter Twelve, this is Track West. Stand by to copy critical traffic.”
Already prepared with index cards and pencils, Carson and Ourecky looked at each other. “Critical traffic?” asked Ourecky. “Wonder what th
is is about?”
He had their answer soon enough. “Scepter Twelve, this is Track West. Be advised that I have a lot of information and will prioritize from most important to least important, in case we lose contact. Be advised that the next station will pick up where I leave off…break…Specific instructions from Golf Mike Tango: You may continue to execute the intercept at your own discretion…break…I say again: Specific instructions from Golf Mike Tango: You may continue to execute the intercept at your own discretion.”
Track West continued: “If you elect not to continue intercept, you are cleared to reenter for PRZ One-Nine on your fifth rev. Current weather is six thousand scattered with twelve miles of visibility. Winds out of Nine Zero at six, gusting to nine. Current altimeter is Two Nine Six Seven. TACAN is Channel Three. I say again, if you elect not to continue intercept, you are cleared to reenter for PRZ One-Nine on your fifth rev. All other contingency recovery zone data remains in effect.
“This is current intelligence concerning your target. First, assume that it has sustained some form of damage, extent unknown, but is likely still manned and crew will probably aggressively defend target if they detect your approach. Stand by…stand by…stand by…”
As they waited for more, Carson whistled. “Isn’t this something? This definitely isn’t the walk in the park we anticipated, Scott.”
Ourecky nodded.
“Scepter Twelve, this is Track West. Be aware that we have some last breaking developments to pass on. Stand by to copy.”
Seconds later, Track West announced: “Tango Two-One has reported a significant anomaly with the target vehicle.” Ourecky knew that Tango Two-One was a ship-based tracking station that employed a powerful radar to monitor the Krepost and accurately determine its position in space. Like the other tracking radars that would guide their rendezvous, Tango Two-One had been switched off until this phase of the mission, since the Krepost was in such a predictable orbit, but was now illuminating the station in short duration “snapshot” pulses of radar energy.
“As of an hour ago, Tango Two-One indicated that there are now multiple radar targets in the immediately vicinity of the target, as well as multiple targets trailing it in the same orbit. Their observations have been confirmed by another terrestrial station as well as an airborne station.”
Track West continued: “Earlier guidance remains in effect: You may continue to execute the intercept at your own discretion. Regardless of your decision, you should proceed with extreme caution. Acknowledge this transmission by breaking squelch three times, and then switch circuit for data upload on my mark.”
“Scott, switch to voice,” said Carson.
Ourecky rotated a knob and stated, “Voice on.”
Carson keyed his mike three times.
“Copy acknowledgement,” replied Track West. “Switch circuit to data upload on my mark…three…two…one…mark.”
Ourecky checked the computer display and verified that the DCS data upload light was lit.
“Whew,” said Carson. “That was a lot to absorb. What’s your take, Scott?”
“Honestly? All that sounded pretty interesting, and it was really nice of General Tew to extend us the courtesy of deciding whether to continue or not, but it really doesn’t change things.”
“How so?” asked Carson, unwrapping a stick of Juicy Fruit.
“Even though we were told that the Krepost would be unmanned, we’ve always assumed that they might have some remote or automatic system for firing the gun. To me, the only difference is that they apparently know or suspect that we’re coming.”
“Point taken.”
“The new development is what concerns me. If there are additional radar returns, that either means that they’ve experienced some sort of catastrophic accident, like Ground implied, or…”
“They’re dumping some sort of chaff to spoof our radar,” interjected Carson. “And that’s actually a good sign, if they believe we need to light up our radar to make our approach. Chances are that they also have a gizmo like ours to detect radar frequencies. So if we creep in with a cold nose, they might not even notice us until it’s too late.”
“DCS upload is complete,” observed Ourecky, watching the computer console. “The computer has accepted the DCS data. So, Drew, it sounds like you’re intent on proceeding. Is that the case?”
“You know I can’t order you to do this, Scott,” answered Carson. “You have a wife and family to go home to, and I don’t. Personally, I would just as soon go ahead and execute, but it’s your call. What say you, Ourecky?”
Ourecky thought for a moment. He thought about Bea and Andy at home, and wanted nothing more than to return to them as quickly as he could, but he also thought of the millions of people who would be living under this monster’s menacing shadow if they failed to act.
“They sent us up here for a reason,” he said. “If it’s all the same to you, Drew, I would prefer to follow through.”
12
THE LONGEST SUNDAY
Krepost Station, On Orbit
7:10 a.m. GMT, Sunday, October 22, 1972
GET: 38 Days 6 Hours 25 Minutes, REV # 612
Swaddled in his makeshift sleeping bag, Vasilyev wedged his body against the frigid aluminum facing of the Egg’s control panel so he could use its faint glow to illuminate the calculations penciled in his notebook. Two days ago, Control had notified him that Gogol would reinforce him, and that his launch was scheduled for tomorrow. While he did not fancy Gogol’s company, he had been enamored with the notion that he would at least have the means to return to earth once the Soyuz was docked. Unfortunately, the timing was definitely not in his favor, since it was highly unlikely that he would survive long enough to welcome Gogol with salt and bread.
Oxygen. Oxygen was the issue. There was actually plenty of oxygen in his midst, but unfortunately, at the molecular level, those plentiful and precious oxygen atoms were securely bonded to carbon atoms, and the resultant gas—carbon dioxide—was the thing that would soon kill him. The lithium hydroxide in the oxygen regenerator could break the atoms’ clinging grasp on one another, but Control had forbade him from switching on the power-hungry air scrubbers. They insisted that they were still diligently working on a solution to manually operate the oxygen regenerators, but surely they recognized—as Vasilyev did—the essential devices were buried deep inside the service module and were all but inaccessible.
Updating his daily projections, he clumsily manipulated his slide rule with stiff fingers, squinting at its tiny numbers in the faint light. Not satisfied with his results, he processed the variables a second time and then a third time, but his answers were the same on the subsequent attempts. His best-case estimate was that he would be alive for twelve more hours. On the worst-case end of the equations, he could quite possibly expire within the next six hours.
He let go of the slide rule, allowing it to float before him, and shivered from the cold as he studied the numbers and grappled with his despair. Certainly, he could activate the air scrubbers against Control’s orders. But even in the best-case scenario, before the batteries lost power altogether, the oxygen regenerators could only process enough carbon dioxide to yield roughly twenty-four hours’ worth of life-giving oxygen. So, although he might postpone his demise for another day, there was no way to evade the inevitable: he would still be dead before Gogol arrived. As painful as it was to admit, Control was correct in their decree; since Gogol could not come up any faster, little could be gained by swapping power for oxygen. Unless he elected to take his own life, and perhaps that was an unspoken part of their plan, he was doomed to eventually die from asphyxiation.
Almost delirious from the pervasive cold, he attempted yet again to regulate his breathing to conserve oxygen. He had read that Hindu mystics could meditate with such intensity that they could literally slow their metabolism, so that their hearts rarely beat and they might need to draw just one breath a minute. In the past few days, he had tried to replicate their feats, bu
t his attempts had met with little success. Exhaling a cloud of steam, he gasped, finally coming to the realization that his impromptu breathing exercises accomplished little.
He felt his tiny world collapsing in upon him. Despondent, he knew that his fate was irrevocably sealed; he reconciled himself with the idea that it was just a matter of time before he drew his last breath. The crippled Krepost was a deathtrap.
He wriggled toward the main instrument panel, and checked the power gauges, in the vain hope that the solar panels might now be generating more power. They weren’t. The gauges reflected that there was almost an adequate charge built up in batteries to operate the docking mechanism, but that was the extent of it. As he studied the fluttering needles, Vasilyev contemplated the supposed rescue mission. He surmised that Abdirov’s ultimate intent had nothing to do with rescuing him, but was focused more on getting Gogol aboard the Krepost to ensure continuity of the mission. It made sense. Like Gogol, Abdirov did not seem to be encumbered with a conscience or sense of pity.
His aching stomach growled like a bear waking from hibernation, and he suddenly gained enough presence of mind to realize that while most of his precious reserves were dwindling, he still possessed a considerable amount of food. He had been depriving himself to stretch his larder, but now there was clearly no reason to die of starvation.
And that wasn’t all. When Travkin departed, Vasilyev had vowed not to drink until his mission was over and he was safely home, but it was now abundantly clear that his mission was over, since he would soon be dead. Why should he spend his few remaining hours wallowing in misery? He decided to abandon civility and go out on a well-deserved bender. After all, he still had a copious volume of liquor on board, and it made little sense to let it go to waste. If he accomplished nothing else, then he could at least embalm himself.
He soared up to the galley, opened a cabinet and yanked out a rubber hot water bottle filled with cognac. Unsealing it, he pressed it to his lips. He didn’t drink; he guzzled. He drank like a stranded man happening upon an oasis pool in the searing heat of the Saharan Desert.