Pale Blue

by Mike Jenne

  Grabbing the flight director by the back of his lapel, Yohzin yanked him down into his seat. He leaned over his shoulder and whispered, “Shut up, idiot. Look at your calendar.”

  “Anything else?” asked Abdirov.

  No one spoke.

  “Then get back at it,” he said.

  As the others departed, Abdirov gestured for Gogol to remain.

  “This new Perimetr development is intriguing,” said Abdirov quietly, placing his disfigured hand on Gogol’s shoulder. “But your ultimate task has not changed, not in the least. Understood?”

  “Completely, Comrade General.”

  “Are you ready to leave tomorrow? All of your affairs are in order?” asked Abdirov.

  “Entirely, Comrade General.”

  “Then we will see you off tomorrow evening. Get some rest tonight.”

  Yohzin waited for Gogol to leave and then asked, “A word, Rustam?”

  “What is it, Gregor?”

  “Rustam, surely you know that I have more hands-on experience on the R-7 than anyone else assigned to this project, right?”

  “I’m sure that’s true.”

  “Since I am at a lull with my other chores, maybe I could lend the launch crew some assistance with resolving the issues with their rocket.”

  “Excellent idea, little brother!” declared Abdirov. “I know that I can always count on you. But, listen: Luba and the boys leave tomorrow, don’t they? On the noon train, correct?”

  “That’s right, Rustam. Thank you for your help in expediting their travel documents. Your signature carried a lot of weight with the KGB. They approved the papers without delay.”

  “Excellent,” said Abdirov. “Listen to me, little brother: don’t stay here all night working. Go home to see your family. I am confident that you can fix this rocket tomorrow, and then we can get on with what needs to be done.”

  Residential Complex # 4, Znamensk (Kapustin Yar-1)

  11:45 p.m.

  Try as he might, Yohzin couldn’t sleep. Just before midnight, he slipped out of bed and quietly padded to his study. He locked the door behind him and lit a cigarette. He retrieved his miniature shortwave receiver, strung up its wire antenna, and switched it on to await the message.

  As he waited, he thought about the events that would unfold tomorrow. In less than twelve hours, certified travel documents in hand, Luba and his sons would board the train to begin an arduous four-day journey to the west. With several stops and transfers, the railroad would take them as far as Odessa, from which they would proceed further west by bus or car.

  The final leg would be by a donkey-drawn cart, proceeding along a rough dirt track, to a rustic single-room cabin in the wilderness. Luba’s parents resided in the remote setting because her father served as a watchman of sorts for a large natural gas pipeline. He had one simple chore, to daily read a set of gauges at a pressure monitoring station; if the readings were out of range, he would use an ancient Navy wireless radio to contact the pipeline’s control station at Chisinau. And that was it. Beyond that, the old couple had plenty of time to tend to their vegetable garden, hunt wild game, and enjoy their solitude. A wagon occasionally came by to deliver supplies and the mail, but that was the extent of their contact with the outside world and other humans.

  If the truth be known, the assignment was simply a make-work posting, awarded to him because of his valiant military service. Luba’s father had been a highly decorated tank officer who had risen from platoon commander to division commander over the course of the Great War. He hadn’t been a brilliant tactician, by any means, but his incredible personal bravery inspired his men to victory in several momentous engagements. He always led from the front, taking the lead tank into battle. He was devoted to his men and they were devoted to him; they would follow him anywhere, straight through the portals of hell if need be. Since his tank division was largely comprised of former militia units from his region, he knew many of the men personally. He had grown up alongside them, and counted scores of them as friends.

  In the course of several battles, his division was brutally decimated during the summer counteroffensive in 1944. Hurled against overwhelming German firepower, all of his tanks were destroyed and over ninety percent of his men were killed. Terribly wounded, he should have died with them, but his ever-faithful subordinates would not let him perish, despite his pleadings to leave him be. He was evacuated to a field hospital and spent years after the war recuperating. He was entirely broken by his wartime experiences. Ghosts followed him everywhere he went, and he fell down weeping whenever he encountered widows of his subordinates. His behavior deteriorated to the extent that he could no longer be around other people, and his wife—Luba’s mother—begged the government officials for some sort of relief. And that’s how they came to settle in the wilderness, since he had served the Motherland with such bravery.

  Yohzin’s sons had never met their grandfather, and they were anxiously looking forward to the trip as if they were embarking on a grand adventure. They were, of course, but certainly not what they expected.

  Tomorrow, as his family travelled, Yohzin intended to finally resolve the crisis he had caused. His plans had drastically changed in the past few hours. Until he learned of the problems with the R-7 booster, Yohzin had intended to wait until his family was safely away from Kapustin Yar and several hours to the west, and then he would go to the GRU before Gogol launched. He would confess to stealing the secret code from Perimetr, and describe how Abdirov was plotting to use the code to drop the Egg. In short order, in Yohzin’s mind, the GRU would immediately inform the General Staff of the High Command, and the launch proceedings would be halted immediately.

  Yohzin knew that certainly he wouldn’t emerge unscathed in the aftermath, since he was still guilty of treason, no matter how the onion was sliced. He would probably join Abdirov on the gallows when the accounts were settled and this ordeal finally ended.

  Today’s problems with the R-7 had yielded a serendipitous opportunity, one in which he might be able to derail Abdirov’s scheme and yet still survive. After visiting the pad earlier and conversing with the launch crew, Yohzin knew exactly where the problem resided, and also how to quickly correct it. Tomorrow, under the pretense of helping the launch crew, he would bide his time until he announced that he had found and corrected the problem. While he was at it, he would sabotage the R-7. In his long experience with the venerable booster, he knew well its idiosyncrasies and vulnerable points. He was confident that he could place a tiny snippet of wire in a critical valve in such a manner that it would be entirely undetectable, but it would cause the rocket to explode moments after it left the pad. And the best part was that if his new plan came to fruition, the only casualties would be Gogol, whose demise could certainly not be counted as a great loss to humanity, and Vasilyev, since it was highly unlikely that another mission could be mounted quickly enough to save him.

  If for some reason he was unable to sabotage the R-7, he could still resort to his original gambit—confessing to the GRU—as a fallback. He sighed, knowing that while he could not predict his own fate in the coming days, he was confident that the world would not be pitched into a thermonuclear war.

  Yohzin checked his watch, stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, switched the radio on, adjusted the dials, and listened as an announcer read a repeating stream of illogical phrases and seemingly nonsensical strings of numbers. In a few minutes, his heart jumped as he heard the droning voice announce the set of words and digits intended specifically for him. His plan was approved. The die was set. All that mattered now was to send Luba and the boys on their way.

  He took down the aerial, carefully stashed the radio, and returned to the bedroom.

  He pulled the blanket up to his chin, turned toward Luba, and held her close. “Wake up,” he whispered, hoping not to wake the boys. “I need to tell you something important.”

  Yawning, she stirred. “What, dear? What is it?”

  “No matter w
hat happens, you must leave this place tomorrow,” he confided. “It’s not safe to remain here. Promise me that you will be on that train at noon.”

  “Of course, darling, I promise. What in the world has you so bothered? You’ve been tossing and turning all night, so I know that you haven’t slept a wink.”

  “Listen,” he said. “I have done something terrible, and I must undo it tomorrow, or many people will suffer.”

  “What could possibly be so terrible?”

  “I cannot tell you, but please just trust me, Luba. No matter what happens, leave here tomorrow. It will be too dangerous to stay. Don’t be surprised if you see people acting strangely. If they do, stay your course and make sure that you and the boys get all the way to your parents’ place before you stop. That is the only safe place for you. Will you do that?”

  “I will, Gregor.”

  “Promise me,” he demanded.

  “I promise.”

  There’s something else,” he said. “In the coming days, at some point, a man will come to see you. He will ask you what it is the fastest way to travel to Tiraspol. That’s how you will know that he is the right man. You should answer that he can travel by train, but an airplane would be faster. That’s how he will be sure that he should talk to you. No matter where you are, no matter how ludicrous it might seem, that’s how you should answer.”

  “That sounds so silly,” she said. “You are causing me to worry, dear. Please stop it.”

  “Remember that he will ask you the fastest way to travel to Tiraspol,” he reiterated.

  “Tiraspol,” she said.

  “And how do you reply?” he demanded.

  “I will tell him that he can travel by train, but an airplane would be quicker.”

  “Good. You can trust him. Do whatever he says, no matter how crazy it might seem. He will be there to protect you and the boys. You must do what he says, without question.”

  “But how about you?” she asked.

  Closing his eyes, he swallowed deeply and replied, “I’ll follow along as soon as I can.”

  “You know I love you, Luba, right?” he asked. “You and our sons are my entire world. Please do these things for me.”

  “I will. I love you too.”

  Mission Control Facility

  Aerospace Support Project, Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio

  6:53 p.m., Sunday, October 22, 1972

  The large room had been overtaken by a flurry of activity since Carson and Ourecky had established contact with the Soviet cosmonaut roughly eight hours ago. Even as they intently monitored the ongoing Blue Gemini mission, Heydrich and his mission control team orchestrated a crash project to render assistance to the Soviet pilot, who had since identified himself as Major Pavel Vasilyev.

  The cosmonaut was communicating directly with the Project’s far-reaching web of communications sites, planes and ships. To ensure greater clarity, the Project was being augmented with a battery of Russian linguists, borrowed from several Air Force Security Agency sites around the world. Other technical specialists were being drafted as well. As they arrived and were assigned to compartmented work areas, the reinforcements were told exactly what they needed to know to perform their jobs, and nothing else.

  As they watched the hectic proceedings, Tew and Wolcott waited in their glassed-in office at the rear of the facility. A visitor—Major Ed Haney—had just arrived from NASA’s Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston. Haney was an Air Force officer notionally assigned to NASA as a military liaison. The nephew of a prominent New England senator, Haney possessed an impeccable social pedigree, and it was a virtual certainty that he would be eventually selected as an astronaut. Glancing through his personnel file summary, Wolcott was confident that Haney intended to use his pending astronaut experience as a springboard to a political career. Of course, mused Wolcott, Haney might have to be very patient as he bided his time, since NASA didn’t appear inclined to hire on any new hands, particularly since their manned spaceflight program was on the verge of stalling.

  Wolcott grinned at the frantic Gunter Heydrich and then spit tobacco juice into an empty Mountain Dew bottle. He generally despised guys like Haney, but they were presently compelled to deal with the sycophant because of a unique aspect of his background. By happenstance, Haney was a quasi-authority on the Soviet Soyuz spacecraft. To occupy his time, since neither NASA nor the Air Force made any significantly pressing demands on his work hours in Houston, he was actively attending the joint NASA/Soviet meetings associated with the ASTP—Apollo-Soyuz Test Program—effort, which was intended to develop an international space rescue capability. According to Wolcott’s contacts at NASA, Haney was also taking Russian language lessons, in hopes of eventually flying on the ASTP test mission, in which a specially configured Apollo spacecraft would dock with a Soyuz in Earth orbit. His was a very ambitious goal, thought Wolcott, since he hadn’t even been fitted for a space suit yet.

  Still clad in sweaty Nomex, Haney had come straight from the flight line after landing his NASA T-38. “Gentlemen, I’m Ed Haney,” he announced, throwing up a half-hearted salute before plopping an aviator’s chart box on the table and casually taking a seat. “I didn’t get a briefing before I left Houston. How might I be of help?” Haney was a couple of inches shy of six feet, with an athletic build and handsome features. He wore his dark brown hair in a crew cut.

  “Simply stated, Haney, we’re in contact with a Soviet cosmonaut aboard a Soyuz spacecraft,” said Tew. It was obvious that Tew was equally disgusted by the would-be astronaut. “He has requested our assistance, and time is of the essence.”

  Haney chuckled, and then said, “Obviously there’s been some mistake, General. The Soviets don’t have anyone in orbit right now. The last Soyuz mission they sent up was in June of last year, and those three fellows died during reentry. Besides, I’m confident that you’re aware that if the Soviet space agency needed American assistance, they would be communicating with NASA.”

  “No, Major, there has been no mistake,” replied Tew. “Moreover, this cosmonaut apparently wants to terminate his flight here in the continental United States, so we need your technical expertise to make that happen.”

  “Oh,” said Haney, laughing again. “This is so rich! I get it now, General. This is some sort of exercise, right? No one told me that I was coming here for an exercise.”

  Since Tew appeared ready to spontaneously explode, Wolcott answered. “It ain’t an exercise, bub,” he declared impatiently. “Now, I know you ain’t acquainted with the way we do business here, but we need you to suspend your disbelief and focus on what General Tew is tellin’ you. The faster you latch on to that concept, the faster we’ll resolve this situation so you can hop back on your white pony to zoom back to Houston to hang out with your high falootin’ NASA buddies.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Haney.

  Moreover,” added Wolcott, “the next time you see fit to laugh at something the General says, unless he’s obviously tellin’ a joke or relating an amusing anecdote, which ain’t ever goin’ to happen, I’ll be obliged to rap my knuckles across your forehead. Savvy, pard?”

  “Understood, sir. Sorry that I got off on the wrong foot.” Haney’s eyes grew big as he glanced at some of the pictures on the wall behind Tew and Wolcott.

  Tew handed him a Teletype transcription of a translated exchange between Vasilyev and a Russian linguist aboard an EC-135E “Snoopy” ARIA tracking aircraft flying over the North Pacific. “This is extremely awkward,” said Tew. “It appears that our friend upstairs seems intent on dictating his landing site to us.”

  “He seems to fancy New Mexico,” noted Wolcott, spreading out a large-scale topographic map of the southwestern state. “That’s where those coordinates would have him come to Earth.”

  Haney seemed transfixed on the reentry instructions in the Teletype print-out. “Your cosmonaut is reading this down?” he asked. “Sir, this makes no sense whatsoever.”

  “How so?” asked Tew.
>
  “General, prior to each Soyuz mission, a set of mission reference books are packed aboard the spacecraft,” explained Haney. “One of the books contains detailed instructions for reentry and recovery, for their primary landing sites as well as their alternative sites in case they experience an emergency.

  “The format of these instructions corresponds with how they are formatted in the reference books, but I can assure you the Soviets haven’t yet designated any primary or emergency landing sites in the United States. They might do so in the future, depending upon how the ASTP program shakes out, but at present I think they would prefer that their guys die outright than endure the humiliation of seeing one of their spacecraft land on American soil. I think that they would rather put a Soyuz down in the ocean than surrender one to be picked apart and studied.”

  Haney studied the map of New Mexico and added, “Moreover, sir, if the Soviets did plan for an emergency landing site in the United States, you would have to assume that it was intended for extreme circumstances, and that they would notify us so that we could deploy the appropriate assets to locate their crew, right?”

  “That makes sense,” replied Tew.

  “Agreed,” added Wolcott.

  “If that’s the case, sir,” said Haney, pointing at a spot on the map, “why in the world would they want their guys to come down into a remote wilderness area in the middle of nowhere? Wouldn’t it make more sense for them to drop into an area where there was a greater likelihood that they would be quickly found?”

  13

  GAS LEAK

  GRU Internal Security Office, Kapustin Yar Cosmodrome

  2:50 a.m., Monday, October 23, 1972