Blue Darker Than Black

by Mike Jenne

  Since arriving on orbit, the trio had left the Descent Module and set up shop in the Orbital Module. Compared to the Descent Module, the Orbital Module was spacious; it certainly didn’t seem so during their simulated flights on the ground, but now that they were in orbit, given the benefit of weightlessness, it seemed almost enormous.

  They rarely returned to the Descent Module, except to sleep. Although it was cramped quarters for three men, it was relatively comfortable for one and afforded some privacy. After the inner hatch was closed and the lights dimmed, it provided a welcome sanctuary from the noise and radios in the Orbital Module.

  Their schedule was set so that one cosmonaut rested while the other two were alert and responsive at any time. There was considerable overlap built into the plan, as well as adequate time for non-mission activities—physical exercise, eating and personal hygiene—included in every day. At this juncture, Travkin was off watch. Leaving Gogol and Vasilyev to man the Orbital Module, Travkin was down below in the Descent Module. Although still charged with residual adrenaline from the launch, he was trying to snatch a catnap.

  To this point, as they completed their initial chores after reaching orbit, the three men had been immensely busy. There had been no time for sightseeing, so Vasilyev was somewhat surprised to find Gogol at one of the observation ports, staring down at the Earth through a large pair of binoculars.

  Looking over Gogol’s shoulder, Vasilyev realized that they were making a daylight pass over Mongolia, and wondered if the grizzled cosmonaut might be actually be yearning for someone below. “Looking for somebody?” he asked.

  “Just looking,” growled Gogol, turning away from the window and heading for the food pantry. Vasilyev was constantly amazed at his commander’s casual efficiency in this strange environment. While he and Travkin were still getting accustomed to weightlessness and would likely be clumsily struggling for days to come, Gogol was absolutely in his element. Physically powerful and possessed with unusual dexterity, he was perfectly adapted to weightlessness. Like a cross between an octopus and orangutan, he instinctively gained tremendous leverage by using a free limb to latch onto any nearby anchor. While the neophyte cosmonauts would usually launch themselves into an uncontrolled tumble whenever they tried to use muscle power to accomplish a difficult task, Gogol could apply his considerable strength to virtually any chore. As awkward as he might appear back on Earth, he was at home here.

  After Gogol finished his snack, Vasilyev asked, “Do you want to update the mission log? There are several entries that you need to initial.”

  “Nyet. There’s no need to rush with stupid paperwork. Anyway, I’ve been craving a smoke.” Gogol took a pack of cigarettes from a chest pocket of his blue coveralls, extracted one, and stuck it in his mouth.

  Suspecting that his commander had taken leave of his senses, Vasilyev blurted, “You can’t smoke up here!”

  “Sure, I can.” He used a small screwdriver to loosen a switch on a control panel, and then connected some sort of homemade device to the switch’s exposed wires. Vasilyev could see that the gadget consisted of a resistor, a rheostat, and a small tight coil of Nichrome wire. It was very much like the cigarette lighter that was a common feature in Western automobiles.

  “But it’s too dangerous!” declared Vasilyev. He was convinced that Gogol was playing some sort of practical joke on him, but he still cringed with dire thoughts of being immolated on his first flight in space.

  “Hah! I smoked all the way through my second and third flights,” boasted Gogol. He leaned his face towards the device and twisted the rheostat dial. The Nichrome coil glowed a bright orange. Gogol calmly lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes as he savored the smoke.

  Fearful that the cabin would erupt in an inferno, Vasilyev gasped. He was astonished by Gogol’s cavalier attitude about the volatile hazards. He grabbed a fire extinguisher from a bracket mounted next to the communications panel.

  Happily puffing away, Gogol grinned at Vasilyev’s apprehensive discomfort. “You’re not in peril, kitten,” he said. “Watch.” To allay Vasilyev’s fears, he used a simple demonstration to show why it wasn’t dangerous. He let go of the lit cigarette, allowing it to float in the middle of the cabin. Within moments, the slowly burning tobacco consumed all of the oxygen in its vicinity, and the cigarette snuffed itself out. He relit the cigarette and revealed that as long as he drew on it occasionally, just slightly enough to surround the burning portion with a fresh supply of oxygen, he could keep it burning indefinitely.

  Laughing, Gogol extracted a book of paper matches from his pocket. He struck a match and let go of it; the match burned for a few seconds, in an undulating orb of blue flame, and then likewise died of asphyxiation. He lit a second match; within seconds, it sputtered out as well.

  From that point on, throughout the mission, much to Vasilyev’s consternation, the commander slowly puffed on a cigarette almost whenever he was conscious. Thankfully, since Gogol slept a lot, even during their watch periods, he wasn’t awake that often. He obviously believed that he’d paid his dues on his previous flights and was now entitled to a life of leisure, leaving the chores to the pair of rookies. On a positive note, he seemed to be in a much better mood in orbit; in contrast to his dour demeanor on Earth, he was almost jovial.

  Soyuz “Kochevnik,” On Orbit

  7:10 p.m. GMT (Greenwich Mean Time), Friday, May 8, 1970

  GET (Ground Elapsed Time): 14 Hours 55 minutes / Revolution # 9

  “Emergency action!” blared Gogol from the Descent Module.

  “What the hell?” asked Vasilyev. He immediately felt for the key on the chain around his wrist and saw that Travkin, obviously in a panic, was doing the same. Emergency action? It made no sense; they were currently out of radio contact, so Control could not possibly have transmitted an emergency action message.

  “Five seconds to retro rockets!” declared Gogol, floating up through the inner hatch from the reentry module. “Prepare yourselves for reentry, kittens!”

  Gogol bit off a chunk from a small loaf of dark bread, glanced at his wristwatch, and counted down, “Three … two … one … zero.” Exactly on the mark, he let rip an enormous fart. “Retros functioning normally!” Travkin and Vasilyev gagged as the small cabin’s atmosphere was filled with an overwhelming stench.

  As he listened to Gogol’s guffaws, Vasilyev contemplated the consequences. Given the marginally efficient air scrubber of the Soyuz, already struggling to keep pace with a backlog of stale cigarette smoke, they would likely suffer the reeking aftermath of the commander’s flatulence for another hour or longer.

  Soyuz “Kochevnik,” On Orbit

  10:12 p.m. GMT (Greenwich Mean Time), Friday, May 8, 1970

  GET (Ground Elapsed Time): 17 Hours 57 minutes / Revolution # 12

  Gogol rummaged through the pantry and found himself a suitable snack, which happened to be the entire contents of Travkin’s lunch meal. After stuffing his face, he jammed his body into a quiet corner and then immediately fell asleep. Within seconds, he was snoring loudly.

  “I’m so hungry,” complained Travkin quietly. “That bastard eats all of his chow and most of mine also.”

  “I’ll share my lunch with you, Petr Mikhailovich,” offered Vasilyev. “I won’t let you waste away. Ulyana would be furious with me if you died of starvation.”

  Minutes later, an alarm blared, reminding Vasilyev that there was one crucial chore than Gogol could not duck.

  “Emergency action message!” declared Travkin, checking the communications panel.

  As loud and obnoxious as it was, the wailing klaxon failed to wake Gogol. Vasilyev shook him to jolt him from his stupor. It was the first emergency action drill that they had received, and woe to Gogol if they failed to act in a timely manner. “Emergency action message,” he announced, leaning forward so that his mouth was directly over the commander’s left ear.

  “Damn it!” said Gogol, rushing towards the communications console. “Emer
gency action? Why the hell didn’t you wake me?”

  Gogol arrived at the console just in time to hear Control retransmitting the initial message: “Kochevnik! Kochevnik! Action … Action … Action … Enemy attack in progress … Deploy device on first available contingency target … Deploy device on first available contingency target. Authorization code: Six-Five-Zero-Three-Three … Authorization code: Six-Five-Zero-Three-Three.”

  As he had been conditioned to do in countless drills at Kapustin Yar, Vasilyev immediately memorized the all-important deployment authorization code. Even as Gogol composed himself, Travkin had already jotted down the message. Mere seconds after transmitting, Control demanded verification that they had correctly received the message.

  Travkin held out his notes. Gogol plugged the jack of his communications headset into the console, nodded at Travkin, and keyed the microphone. “Control, this is Kochevnik commander. I verify receipt of emergency action message to deploy device on first available contingency target. My authorization code is Six-Five-Zero-Three-Three.”

  “Correct,” replied Control succinctly. “Execute.”

  Vasilyev smiled. And now the fun begins. The deployment drill was a timed event, in which several steps, requiring the cosmonauts to work in unison, had to be executed correctly in a set timeframe. The entire process was electronically captured by an onboard recording machine, so that the exercise could be reviewed later on the ground. It was widely assumed that Gogol’s trio was destined to be the first crew to occupy the Krepost, but that might not come to pass if they could not properly drop the Egg. A failure would be an indelible blot on their record.

  Gogol immediately moved to the mock-up weapons deployment station installed in the stern end of the orbital module. It did not contain all the hardware of the actual station that would be installed on the Krepost, but it did contain a fully functioning version of the targeting computer, which was based on Gemini spacecraft computer technology stolen from the Americans. During an actual deployment, Gogol would man the deployment station, and the two other men would move to two lock stations dispersed throughout the station. In order to deploy the Egg, the last step required that each man had to enter an activation code—memorized before the flight, and unique to him—and turn a special key at their individual station. The three activation keys had to be rotated no more than one second apart. The timing and spacing between the stations—at least on the actual Krepost—was specifically intended to prevent the possibility of two men overpowering the third. Even if they had the third man’s key and activation code, it would be virtually impossible for one man to turn two arming keys within the span of a second.

  “Key check,” ordered Gogol, holding out the arming key that he constantly carried on a chain around his left wrist. Travkin and Vasilyev held out their left hands to solemnly display matching keys. Vasilyev nodded and said, “Key check good. Open the code locker.”

  Travkin swiftly spun the dial on the code safe’s combination lock, opened the safe, and extracted the targeting book. He traced his finger down the target list, double-checked the mission clock, and announced, “Comrade Commander, the first available contingency target is Dallas, Texas: Latitude 34 Degrees 47 minutes North, Longitude 96 Degrees 47 Minutes West.”

  Gogol examined the target list. “I verify that the optimal target is Dallas, Texas: Latitude 34 Degrees 47 minutes North, Longitude 96 Degrees 47 Minutes West. I will enter the information.”

  As the commander, it was Gogol’s sole responsibility to enter the target into computer, even though all three men had repeatedly practiced this aspect of the drill back at Kapustin Yar. The computer would automatically guide the Egg through the process of leaving orbit all the way to its intended destination. Once the coordinates were locked in, the targeting computer would execute a series of calculations and then assume total control of the station, at least until the Egg had physically separated in an independent reentry capsule.

  After an actual Egg deployment, the three-men crew would remain aboard the Krepost as long as they could safely do so, then depart on the Soyuz. The timing was crucial, since the deployment sequence also initiated an automatic timer for a series of explosive charges that would be dispersed throughout the Krepost. To ensure that the vacated station would not remain intact, potentially subject to inspection and exploitation by the Americans, the self-destruct charges would detonate one hour after the Egg had detached, causing the Krepost to implode upon itself. Consequently, as soon as they completed the last step of the process, at least one of the men would immediately rush to the dormant Soyuz to initiate the complicated power-up process while the other two scrambled to collect the materials—mission logs, documents, personal belongings—that would accompany them home.

  The Egg deployment process could only be interrupted by entry of a recall code—sent up from Control—into the targeting computer. Would there even be adequate time to receive a recall code? Maybe. Although this was notionally an immediate deployment, the phrase “immediate deployment” was actually a misnomer, since the deployment could be exceedingly prompt—even less than a minute, in some extreme circumstances—or could take an hour or longer.

  Gogol hurriedly entered the coordinates and turned the red key that would lock the coordinates into the computer. This was really supposed to be a two-man procedure, with Vasilyev verifying the coordinates before the key was turned. In any event, a red light blinked on, indicating that the computer had not accepted the coordinates as entered.

  “Govno! Shoddy damned gizmo!” blurted Gogol. “Must be some sort of short circuit!” He banged on the console with a flashlight, re-tried the process, but the computer still did not accept the coordinates.

  “Would you like me to try?” asked Vasilyev.

  “Do it!” ordered Gogol frantically. It was a significant departure from protocol, but Gogol obviously realized that he was running so close to the acceptable time margin that they would fail the exercise if he didn’t yield the computer operation to Vasilyev.

  Gogol held out the target list as Vasilyev dutifully entered the coordinates into the computer. Once he was confident that they were entered correctly, he looked back and asked, “Would you verify the target coordinates, Comrade Commander?”

  “Da. I verify the target coordinates,” stated Gogol, looking at the numerical readout over Vasilyev’s right shoulder as he compared the displayed digits to the target list. “Lock the fix.”

  “I am locking the fix,” replied Vasilyev, swiveling the red key that locked the coordinates into the computer. This time, a green light flashed rather than a red one. “Platform aligning. Stand by for deployment data estimate.”

  “Standing by.”

  Two minutes later, a second green light pulsed on the computer display. He checked it, and announced, “Comrade Commander, platform is aligned. Eleven minutes to braking rockets.”

  “I verify eleven minutes, Pavel Dmitriyevich,” stated Gogol. “Go to your lock station and stand by for deployment.”

  Eleven minutes? thought Vasilyev. As he kicked lightly off the stern bulkhead to float back to his assigned station, he whistled shrilly through his teeth. In a real deployment, they would barely have sufficient time to retreat to the Soyuz. It would be an ugly situation at best; they would likely have to physically separate from the Krepost before even completing the power-up sequence. The procedure, known as a cold start, would afford them no recourse if the Soyuz’s systems did not correctly regain power.

  “Insert arming keys. Rotate arming keys on my mark,” declared Gogol.

  “First Flight Engineer’s arming key inserted. Standing by for your mark,” replied Vasilyev.

  “Second Flight Engineer’s arming key is inserted. Standing by for your mark,” called out Travkin.

  “Five, four, three, two, one, mark.” The three men turned their keys as if one, and a third green light flashed on the console, indicating that the exercise was successful and executed within the time limits.

 
“And that, kittens,” declared Gogol, floating free and displaying his shiny metal grin as he lit yet another cigarette. “Is how it’s done.”

  Soyuz “Kochevnik,” On Orbit

  10:14 p.m. GMT (Greenwich Mean Time), Saturday, May 16, 1970

  GET (Ground Elapsed Time): 8 Days 17 Hours 59 minutes Revolution # 140

  Up until the eighth day, their flight had been a resounding success; the three men had existed harmoniously as a crew, completing all tasks and exercises in a timely manner, once Vasilyev and Travkin accepted the reality that Gogol had effectively come up here for an extended camping trip. Things were going well, and they had all but validated their compatibility as a tightknit unit. And then something happened that would forever alter the equilibrium between the three men.

  Vasilyev had another hour to go before he went off watch. His bloodshot eyes watered from the clinging pall of cigarette smoke that permeated the spacecraft. He was anxious to go into the darkened Descent Module and close them, after he had a bite to eat and a chance to clean up.

  As of an hour ago, the weapons deployment exercises were officially concluded, so now they were in the process of preparing for their return home. As part of the close-out tasks, he was disassembling the aluminum panels of the deployment console mock-up, so he could recover the critical computer as well as the recording machine. He would carefully pack these two items in a foam-padded box and then stow them in the Descent Module for the return trip.

  Turning a wrench, he heard Gogol’s voice from the far end of the Orbital Module and turned his head to see Travkin next to the inner hatch. Gogol floated beside him; his left hand grasped Travkin’s shoulder.

  “I’m changing the watch schedule,” announced Gogol. “You’ll stand the next watch. Consider this a stress test, so I can see how well you function without adequate rest.”

  Vasilyev groaned quietly. He had been awake for over nineteen hours; since he had been doing his chores as well as Gogol’s, he was on the ragged edge of tired. And besides, Travkin had just come off watch less than two hours ago. What gives here?