Blue Darker Than Black

by Mike Jenne

  “Like I said, you’ll stand the next watch,” explained Gogol. “Petr Mikhailovich and I will go sleep down below, where it’s quiet. You’ll stay up here and make sure that damned computer is secured, so we can carry it home with us.”

  Even though his thoughts were fogged by near-exhaustion, everything suddenly made perfect sense. Beside Gogol, Travkin grimaced, silently pleading for Vasilyev to do something, anything. He didn’t appear to be the least bit enthusiastic about snuggling with Gogol in the cramped Descent Module.

  Gogol yawned broadly, grinned, and said, “And I’m very tired, kitten. I need my rest, so don’t bother us. Just bang on the hatch when your sand runs out.”

  “You’re changing the watch?” snapped Vasilyev. “On what authority? The watch schedule was set by Control before launch. We’re obligated to adhere to it as written.”

  “I am the commander up here, and I will change the watch schedule as I see fit!” ranted Gogol. “It’s my prerogative, and you shouldn’t dare challenge me.”

  Obviously recognizing what was in store, Travkin’s eyes begged for Vasilyev to intervene.

  Recognizing that little could be gained by direct confrontation, Vasilyev took a deep breath and composed his thoughts. “Fine,” he said calmly, gambling on an indirect tack to circumvent Gogol’s scheme. “You’re absolutely correct, Comrade Commander. You are well within your authority.”

  “Hah!” answered Gogol. “I’m glad that you came to your senses long enough to recognize that.”

  Closing his eyes, Travkin looked like he was anxious to just disappear.

  Vasilyev consulted the communications schedule, studied his wristwatch, and then officiously stated, “The next communications pass opens in forty-two minutes. I’ll call Control to let them know we’re altering the watch schedule, on your order, and then amend the logs accordingly. You can initial the entries after you wake up.”

  His face turning beet red, Gogol glared as he gritted his steel teeth. After over a minute of uncomfortable silence, he looked over his shoulder and spoke to Travkin, “Go help him with that damned computer, kitten. I want it properly stowed before I wake up.”

  Turning back to Vasilyev, Gogol added in a menacing tone, “I caution you to watch your step, Pavel, if you ever want to fly again. And be very cautious with your tongue when we get home. This ship is my oyster, and what happens up here stays up here.”

  Cursing, Gogol retreated into the Descent Module and slammed the hatch behind him.

  Vasilyev breathed a sigh of relief. If nothing else, the short-lived clash erased any of his lingering doubts concerning Gogol’s proclivities. Judging by the relieved expression on Travkin’s face, the Second Flight Engineer now subscribed to his theory as well.

  Now that some critical questions had been answered by Gogol’s behavior, the matter shifted from the theoretical to the practical. Even as they heard the roar of snoring from the Descent Module, the pair of flight engineers kept their voices to a quiet whisper, conspiring about how they should react if a similar situation arose again.

  Vasilyev was confident that the two of them could subdue Gogol if a scuffle ensued, but he also knew that it would be an entirely different matter if either one of them had to contend with the commander alone. Like infantrymen covering each other in a pitched battle, they vowed to stick together for the rest of the flight, always remaining in the same module, even if they were off watch. They cataloged the various objects—wrenches, fire extinguishers, helmets—that could be brought into play as weapons, if need be.

  And Gogol was correct; neither of them would ever fly again if they elected to disclose the incident after they returned to Kapustin Yar. After all, it would be his word—the testimony of a Hero of the Soviet Union and a highly experienced cosmonaut—against theirs. After all was said and done, they would be fortunate if they were even able to fly a target drone at a gunnery range, much less a spacecraft.

  Even though the matter was not spoken of again, and Gogol obviously restrained himself from making any more untoward advances, the remainder of the flight was an uncomfortable stalemate. But since they were slated to fly with Gogol again, on much longer missions, Vasilyev knew that he could not delude himself into believing that it might not happen again. Even though they were effectively yoked to Gogol, it was also readily apparent that they would have to be constantly prepared to protect themselves from him.

  Filyovsky Park, Western Administrative Okrug, Moscow, USSR

  9:35 a.m., Sunday, May 31, 1970

  “So, General, what is so urgent that we have to meet in person?” asked Smith. “This extremely risky.”

  “My circumstances are about to change,” explained Yohzin. “I’ve been relieved of my secondary duties with the GRU, so I won’t have the same freedom of movement. I’m certain that I will still be dispatched here to Moscow, although not as frequently. Once a quarter, at most.”

  “But your primary duties at Kapustin Yar will not change?” asked Smith apprehensively. He looked to be on the verge of panic.

  “Not at all. My superiors have just determined that I should concentrate my attention on my primary task, the testing of medium-range ballistic missile prototypes, so the RSVN leadership has decided that they will no longer loan my services to the GRU. As you might imagine, this caused quite some consternation with the GRU, but I’m confident that they will get over it.”

  Even though he was absolutely sure that the Americans would clamor for information about the Krepost if they knew he had access to the program, Yohzin had already decided that he would not divulge anything concerning Abdirov’s nuclear-armed space station. In fact, he doubted that the Americans were even aware of the Krepost. So if they didn’t know about it, he certainly wasn’t going lead them to the door and direct their eye to the keyhole.

  There was another reason that he was reluctant to reveal the Krepost. In a strange twist of conscience, although Yohzin now felt few qualms about selling out his country, he just could not bring himself to betray his old friend, Abdirov. Consequently, he had conjured up a scheme to provide the Americans with a steady diet of timely information about the medium-range ballistic missile prototypes testing program he had recently relinquished. He convinced the program’s new director to let him read the technical reports, for the sake of continuity, just in case he was eventually compelled to appear at any form of audit or inquiry. It was an easy sell; despite the program’s excellent record under Yohzin’s leadership, the new director was almost overjoyed that he might be willing to shoulder some of the blame if problems arose in the future. So, even as he concealed Abdirov’s Krepost from them, Yohzin should have a steady supply of other fresh grist for the Americans’ mill.

  “You will still be able to furnish us with the same quality of information as before?” asked Smith.

  “Of course.”

  The American breathed a sigh of relief. “General Yohzin, I don’t think I have to tell you that my bosses have been delighted with what you are able to deliver,” he admitted.

  Delighted? thought Yohzin. Of course he knew that they were delighted. How could the Americans not be overjoyed? They had obviously developed an insatiable appetite for the information he regularly delivered on a gilded platter. Surely, Smith here would probably build the rest of his career from this coup. But ironically, the intelligence that he was feeding them, as substantial as it was, didn’t hold a candle to the secrets that he wouldn’t share.

  “While we appreciate you bringing this matter to our attention in such a timely manner, it’s just a minor setback,” said Smith. “If you’re not able to come here on a routine basis, then we’ll need to devise some other mechanism to communicate.”

  “Minor setback?” asked Yohzin. “Did you not hear me say that I will be spending virtually all of my time at Kapustin Yar? And don’t bother to suggest that we communicate by some form of clandestine wireless. Everyone knows that the GRU has a substantial array of RDF equipment there, and they constantly monitor
radio frequencies.”

  Everything Yohzin said was true, but he had another underlying concern. In his opinion, the only acceptable means of passing the information was when he visited Moscow. That was significant in other regard; although verbally negotiated but not formally written, his contractual agreement with the Americans was that he received a substantial payment—which was deposited in an account that would be available to him when he and his family went into exile in the United States—for every transaction. To keep the accounting as simple as possible, for the purposes of the agreement, he was paid every time that he made a drop in Moscow, which had previously happened at least once a month. Now, he would be very fortunate if he made it to the capital city on a quarterly basis. Granted, he was already well on his way towards amassing a handsome sum that would finance an American Ivy League education for both of his sons through the doctorate level. He wasn’t greedy, but he did want to ensure that he was adequately compensated for his efforts.

  “No, Comrade General. Sincerely, this is merely a technical problem. We have people at Kapustin Yar who can get your information out.”

  Yohzin chuckled. The American was either very innocent or very arrogant, or perhaps just extremely uninformed. “Bosh,” he said. “You cannot be serious. The security at Kapustin Yar is absolutely airtight. You have no one there. It’s not even remotely possible.”

  “We do have people there,” replied Smith. “Granted, they aren’t of James Bond’s caliber, but they are certainly sufficient for this task. We’ll devise a new dead drop for you to pass your information to them, and then they will convey it to us.”

  Clicking his tongue like he was admonishing a child, Yohzin shook his head. Servicing a dead drop at Kapustin Yar was not even worth discussing. As much as the Americans might have been accustomed to the steady flow of valuable information, a dead drop at the cosmodrome would entail far too much risk. For Yohzin, personally, the rewards could never be commensurate with the hazards.

  “A new dead drop would be no simple task,” said Yohzin. ” The GRU regularly conducts aggressive surveillance on everyone at Kapustin Yar, regardless of position or rank. They are sure to discover a new dead drop in short order. The GRU at the cosmodrome are mostly goons, but they are highly motivated goons who are very competent at their work. They are vigilant to a fault; it will take considerably more than a little subterfuge and sleight-of-hand to distract them.”

  “Agreed,” noted Smith. “So, do you have any thoughts on the matter?”

  “I’ll think about it,” answered Yohzin, watching Magnus yawn broadly and twitch his ears. He knew that the communications issue was a greater problem than the Americans could possibly anticipate. He saw a potential opportunity to exploit the situation and seized upon it. “Let me ask you, Smith, if I come up with a reliable means to pass information, then would you be willing to pay a bonus into my accounts?”

  “Certainly, General. Without question.”

  19

  MANDATORY RETURN

  Mission Control Facility

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

  2:25 p.m., Friday, June 12, 1970

  Hobbling into the Mission Control on wooden crutches, Ourecky was met with a wave of boisterous applause. It was his first visit there since Mission Four. In the interim three months, he had endured several major surgeries and intervening periods of recuperation.

  Carson trailed shortly behind. After shaking scores of hands and exchanging greetings with the controllers, the two studied the mission status screen projected at the center front of the large room. Crew Three was currently upstairs, executing Mission Five. The large graphic display showed that Jackson and Sigler were roughly half an orbit—approximately forty-five minutes—away from intercepting a Soviet military communications relay satellite.

  “How was Walter Reed, pard?” asked Wolcott, strolling down from his glassed-in office at the rear of the facility.

  “Pretty much the same as always, Virgil,” replied Ourecky. “Hard beds and bad food. But they are serving a new flavor of Jell-O at least.”

  Ourecky had recently returned from a two-week stay at the premier Army hospital, where he had been treated for peritonitis, an inflammation of the lining of the abdomen, as well as surgery to further repair his liver, which had been partially ruptured in the crash. Because his liver was not yet fully functioning, his face was puffy and jaundiced.

  “New flavor of Jell-O? Let me guess,” replied Wolcott, lighting a cigarette. “Lemon? It looks like you’ve been eatin’ it by the barrelful.”

  Gingerly sitting down behind a vacant console, Ourecky laughed and said, “No, Virgil, I come by this coloration honestly. The docs say it should clear up in a week or so. They’re fairly certain that they’ve fixed all my plumbing.”

  “So you’re headed home for a while?”

  “I am. Bea has me penciled in for a lot of babysitting duty. Of course, I’m not sure how effective I’ll be, because I’m pretty sure that the baby can move faster than me.”

  Carson propped Ourecky’s crutches against the console. Drifting away from the conversation, he sat down next to Heydrich’s workstation. “How are they looking, Gunter?”

  “Not good,” stated Heydrich, adjusting his glasses and tapping charred tobacco from a well-worn briarwood pipe. “Parch just doesn’t have your finesse. He doesn’t manage his burns as well. He consistently ends up with residual IVI’s to null out, so he’s depleted a lot of fuel just correcting errors. I’m keeping my fingers crossed, but I’m not holding out very much hope for them.”

  “Man, I feel downright terrible for those guys,” said Carson, shaking his head and frowning. “Is there any chance they can complete the intercept?”

  “Possibly,” replied Heydrich, working a slide rule as he scribbled down numbers. “But highly unlikely. At this point, they’ve burned so much fuel that they’re hovering right on the mandatory return threshold. I can’t lay all the blame at Jackson’s door, though. Sigler has flubbed his calcs at least four times so far, so that just compounded the problem.”

  Squeezing a tennis ball, Carson studied Heydrich’s figures concerning the mandatory return threshold. According to the mission rules, no matter how close they came to completing the intercept, there had to be sufficient fuel set aside to maneuver back into position for reentry.

  Once their maneuvering fuel dipped even slightly below the threshold, they were obligated to terminate intercept operations and shift their focus to safely returning home. Of course, all of this was contingent on the accuracy and honesty of the numbers; if the crew was overstating their PQI’s—Propellant Quantity Indicated—they might have already exceeded the margin.

  “Wow. They’re mighty close to flying on fumes,” observed Carson. “Are you absolutely sure that they’re correctly reporting their PQI’s? If they’re gunning hot to make the rendezvous, they might be fudging the numbers.”

  “Ja. Perhaps,” replied Heydrich, fingering his glasses up on his nose. “But if that’s the case, Jackson will be headed to the moon on his next flight, because Virgil will kick his ass at least halfway there, and lunar gravity will pick up the rest of the tab.”

  “Well, if we give them the benefit of the doubt and accept these numbers as the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” said Carson, flexing his sore fingers. “Is there any chance that Virgil and Tew will bend the mission rules for them, even slightly?”

  Heydrich shook his head and chuckled. “After all the close calls you’ve been through, Drew, especially that last one? Not a chance in hell. Personally, I think that the rules have been bent as much as they ever will be, so I only see by-the-book flying from here on out.”

  Carson heard a tapping sound behind him and looked up to see Wolcott gesturing for him to come up to the back office. He did so, joining Wolcott as he gazed out over the nerve center through the big plate glass window. As they watched through the glass, Ourecky gingerly pulled up his shirt to display his
collection of scars to the flight controllers. After they had all marveled at his new wounds, he pulled out his wallet and yanked out a string of baby pictures.

  “He’s proud of that baby,” observed Carson. “He has to be the most obnoxious new father ever.”

  “Well, shucks, he sure went through hell to make that baby’s acquaintance,” said Wolcott, turning away from the window. “With all he’s been though, you might reckon he’s indestructible.”

  “Far from it, Virgil. He’s just as fragile as the rest of us, and he sure knows it now.”

  “Amen to that, hoss, but I don’t think he comprehends just how close he came to kickin’ the can,” observed Wolcott, shaking his head as he took a long drag from his cigarette. “The surgeon at Guantánamo said that if he had landed on their operating table just five minutes later, he would have bled out completely. As it was, he was on the table for twelve hours, all touch and go. Everyone at Gitmo donated blood for him, at least those folks who were compatible. He could probably take Iwo Jima all by his lonesome, with all the danged Marine blood that’s coursin’ through his veins.”

  “If I can ask, Virg, what happened that night? After we dropped off Scott at the airport, he flew to Cuba and I caught a boat to Miami. I’ve never heard any of the other details.”

  “You ain’t heard the particulars?” asked Wolcott. “Ultimately, Ourecky owes his life to three people. That dude Henson apparently went to a lot of effort to call Homestead to let them know Ourecky was headed to Cuba. Homestead notified Gitmo, and Gitmo had an ambulance standing by at the airfield and all of their surgeons waiting at the hospital. The PJ—Baker—kept your buddy alive on the flight from Haiti, and that was no mean trick in itself.”

  Wolcott continued. “And last but not least, pard, he’s got that bootleg pilot to thank. That guy—Taylor—knew they were burnin’ a mighty short fuse, and he punched straight through Cuban airspace to arrive at Gitmo as quickly as possible. The Cubans scrambled two MIGs to intercept, but it didn’t faze him. If he had flown the standard approach route in that crate of his, it would have been another twenty minutes to Gitmo. Ourecky wouldn’t have survived.”