by Mike Jenne
The unseen man shrieked like someone being slowly disemboweled by a giant hook, which could likely be his exact predicament at this precise moment. The retriever appeared to be on the verge of tears. The note fluttered in her hand as she attempted to read it. “How do they expect us to work in these conditions?” she asked meekly. “I don’t sleep anymore. I just go to my apartment and cry all night. My husband doesn’t know what to make of me.”
Morozov’s hands shuddered as he cautioned, “Focus. Don’t dawdle. Give thanks that we are down here and not up there.” Remembering that it was Friday, he looked at his watch, anticipating what would happen shortly.
Suddenly there was a gunshot, followed by a heavy thud. Apparently, the interrogator who “owned” the cell upstairs was a creature of long-established habit. Morozov could set a clock by the sounds that emanated through the concrete at different intervals. In his mind, he pictured the methodical inquisitor as a working class cook with a clearly set regimen of daily specials to prepare during the week. Simple but brutal beatings were the stuff of Mondays. Tuesday’s menu featured hammers, saws, and other hand tools. Electricity and flame were Wednesday’s fare. Some specialized torture tools—which Morozov could not yet picture—were served up on Thursdays. Friday’s offerings were clearly the most gruesome and yielded the most dreadful screams; he imagined that it likely involved amputation and evisceration. And then on Friday afternoon at five, or roughly thereabouts, came the pièce de résistance: a merciful bullet to the back of his prisoner’s head, served up just in time for the torturer to catch the subway home to a meal of buckwheat kasha washed down with a tumbler of Moskovskaya.
There was a faint scraping sound, obviously the noise of a cadaver being dragged across a rough-textured floor, and then blissful silence. Morozov believed that there was a reason that this particular table was set aside for fledgling Third-Class Analysts: to indelibly etch on their thoughts the consequences that could befall the overly inquisitive. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but the feline’s demise was likely swift, not stretched over the course of five agonizing days.
Yet again, Morozov resolved himself to toil as hard as necessary to achieve the ranking of Second-Class Analyst, if for no other reason than he and his archivists would move to the floor below. But besides a respite from the sounds of the tormented, there was another benefit in advancing—or perhaps descending—to Second-Class. Second-Class Analysts had much greater leeway concerning the information they requested and reviewed. Third-Class Analysts such as himself were required to maintain a detailed ledger that accounted for every scrap of information that they saw, and there were dire consequences for anyone caught with something that did not apply to a particular question that they had been called to answer.
Amongst the Third-Class, freelance research was expressly forbidden. Vigilant appraisers, themselves veteran analysts, roamed the floors and audited the ledgers. It was a deadly serious business. If an analyst couldn’t satisfactorily explain his transgressions, then he would be sent upstairs to occupy a chamber until such time as he could.
Besides moving downstairs and having more freedom, what Morozov really desired was to solve the mystery of Hangar Three. The Americans had obviously gone to tremendous lengths to deceive him; he wanted to know why, and he didn’t buy Federov’s conclusion that the Ohio hangar simply housed a now defunct training facility for the Air Force’s MOL program.
Before he left America, he had spent hours reviewing his files and memorizing key names. He strongly suspected that the ultimate key to unlocking the mystery was to gather information about the test pilots assigned to the Aerospace Support Project. He wagered that they had been flying something—if not captured flying saucers, at least something of great significance—and he was determined to discover what that was. Now, it was just a matter of patiently biding his time until he acquired access to the necessary information. And time was something he had, in great abundance; although it was tempting to go to the stacks to just yank out the appropriate cards, he knew that he had to wait until the answers arrived at his table.
24
THE BITTER LEGACY OF SOYUZ “YANTAR”
Burya Test Facility Kapustin Yar Cosmodrome, Astrakhan Oblast, USSR
9:15 a.m., Monday, October 4, 1971
Together with Gogol and Travkin, Vasilyev was jammed into the narrow rear seat of a Zhiguli sedan. The crew had been summoned to the Krepost headquarters to personally meet with Lieutenant General Abdirov, the leader of the project.
Much had happened since their “Kochevnik” Soyuz mission last year. In May, Vasilyev had lost his entire family in a Moscow automobile accident. Vasilyev had been participating in a survival training exercise at the time, and the exercise directors hadn’t even pulled him out of the field to inform him that his family was killed. Scarcely returning home in time for the funerals of his beloved wife, Irina, and the two young daughters that they adored, he was still bitter about the incident and its aftermath.
He had barely been granted time to mourn. Because he was assigned to the prime crew for a critical strategic mission, Vasilyev was effectively expected to set aside his grief, summon his fortitude, and dutifully trudge on with their training. It was the soulless Soviet system at its worst.
The past several months had been a miserable ordeal. He and Travkin despised Gogol, but could do nothing to escape his clutches; they were destined to fly with him, whether they liked it or not. Most of their routine, like working in the simulators for hours on end, was just painfully monotonous. They had their procedures down cold but were essentially marking time until the long-anticipated Krepost station was completed.
To make matters worse, at least whenever they were at Kapustin Yar and not training at another site, Vasilyev returned to a cold and empty apartment at the end of every day. To their credit, Travkin and Ulyana did their best to console him, but his heart was shattered. As much as they strived to convince him that he would be healed by the passage of time, he ached for Irina and their toddlers and wished that he could see them just one more time.
In late June, Vasilyev was impacted—although indirectly—by another horrific tragedy, a terrible accident that brought all Soviet manned spaceflight to an absolute halt. The incident occurred during the historic Yantar—“Amber”—Soyuz mission, in which a three-man crew—Vladislav Volkov, Georgy Dobrovolsky, and Viktor Patsayev—docked with and occupied the Salyut-1 space station. After spending twenty-three days in orbit, the three cosmonauts succumbed to asphyxiation when a faulty vent malfunctioned in their Descent Module just prior to leaving orbit.
Although the rest of the Soyuz spacecraft’s automatic systems functioned correctly during reentry, the three men were found dead, strapped into their contoured couches. The disaster was the second fatal incident involving the Soyuz spacecraft; on its inaugural manned flight in 1967, cosmonaut Vladimir Komarov had been killed when his parachute failed to deploy after reentry.
The Yantar tragedy caused great consternation in the Krepost project, since the effort was so dependent on the Soyuz. Although the designated crews were slated to continue orientation and training missions until the Krepost was ready for flight, those sorties were grounded until further notice. Consequently, only two crews—Gogol’s and one other—had actually flown in orbit. More importantly, even if the Krepost was delivered on schedule, it could not be occupied if the Soyuz was still grounded.
9:50 a.m.
An aide escorted the cosmonauts into Abdirov’s office, where they occupied leather-upholstered chairs in front of the general’s desk. Try as he might, Vasilyev would never be comfortable in the presence of Abdirov. The general’s grotesque appearance was more than disconcerting. If he had suffered such ghastly injuries, Vasilyev would be strongly tempted to chew on the muzzle of his Makarov.
Assisted by the aide, Abdirov deliberately and painfully rose from his chair, slowly walked around his desk, and stood next to Vasilyev. The general’s posture was stiff, like a pine plank. P
lacing his scarred hand on Vasilyev’s shoulder, he softly said, “I am truly sorry for your loss, Pavel Dmitriyevich. I apologize for not personally offering my condolences before today.”
“Thank you, sir,” answered Vasilyev, trying mightily to maintain his composure instead of yielding to anger. “Losing my family has been terribly difficult for me, but I am truly fortunate that I am able to focus my energies at such a truly worthy effort as the Krepost.”
“Then I am happy for you,” said Abdirov. “Speaking from experience, I know just how easy it is to become mired in pain. When calamities strike, it is crucial for us to go on living and continue our service to the Motherland, since our daily sacrifices are the best memorial we can offer for those who have been lost.”
As strange as it seemed, Vasilyev sensed that Abdirov was truly sincere in the sentiments he offered. As Abdirov gradually returned to his seat, his secretary circulated through the room, cordially pouring tea and serving spiced pryaniki biscuits from a silver tray.
After his aide helped Abdirov back into his chair, the general announced, “Gentlemen, Major General Yohzin will brief you concerning some significant developments with the program.” He motioned towards a corner, where Yohzin stood. Although Vasilyev had often heard his name, this was the first time that he had actually laid eyes on the Yohzin. Wearing a meticulously tailored RSVN uniform, Yohzin was tall and of medium build, with dark brown hair combed back neatly across his crown. His face was broad, with very typical Russian features; his skin was dry, with a reddish cast, as if he had spent much of his life outdoors.
“As you are no doubt aware, the Yantar incident has dealt us a tremendous setback,” said Yohzin. “The Korolev bureau is reluctant to allow further flights of the Soyuz until an exhaustive investigation is completed and these discrepancies are adequately resolved.”
Vasilyev stifled an urge to laugh. Reluctant? After two fatal accidents, the Korolev bureau certainly had ample reason to be reluctant. They were heavily invested in the Soyuz, and couldn’t risk the grim prospect of even more fatalities. After all, the Soyuz was envisioned to become the mainstay of Soviet spaceflight. Like the ubiquitous American jeep in the Great Patriotic War, the Soyuz could be adapted to perform in a multitude of roles. It could be employed as a taxi to ferry crews to space stations and had been a key component of a planned lunar expedition to beat the Americans to the moon, even though that effort had fallen by the wayside.
Designed from the outset with automatic features that managed all aspects of flight, the Soyuz could be modified to fly as a crewless resupply vehicle or tanker, as well as a platform for various types of other unmanned missions. There was even talk that special military variants might eventually be produced, perhaps including interceptor and reconnaissance versions of the spacecraft. So, with so much at stake, the Korolev bureau clearly wasn’t willing to gamble. Moreover, the bureau wasn’t the sole competitor in the race to produce the next generation of utility spacecraft; other aerospace design bureaus were anxious for an opportunity to finally shove the vaunted Korolev bureau from their high pedestal. Definitely the leading contender, the Chelomei bureau had already made significant progress on a prototype—the TKS transport supply spacecraft—that could readily supplant the Soyuz. To make matters worse, the Korolev bureau had lost its visionary leader, the famed “Chief Designer” Sergei Pavlovich Korolev, in 1966. Now led by Vasily Pavlovich Mishin, contending with budget shortfalls and a plethora of technical complications, the bureau struggled to maintain its preeminence in Soviet manned spaceflight.
“Since unexpected depressurization is the greatest immediate concern with the Soyuz,” said Yohzin, “an entirely new type of pressure suit is being designed. It’s called the Sokol, and it is intended strictly as a precautionary measure, to protect the crew inside the spacecraft in the event of catastrophic depressurization. Until the engineering issues are entirely resolved and the Soyuz is properly recertified, flight crews will wear Sokol emergency suits for the ascent and descent phases of the mission.”
“But the Sokol suits are not ready yet, Comrade General?” asked Gogol, stirring a tablespoon of sugar into his glass of hot tea. He turned up the glass, drank most of the steaming tea in one draw, and smacked his lips afterwards. Abdirov smiled faintly at the gesture.
Yohzin nodded. “Da. That is correct. But even when the Sokol suits do become available, there is still a much greater issue for us. Because of weight and space issues with the Soyuz Descent Module, only two cosmonauts will be able to fly at a time if they are wearing pressure suits. As we speak, the Korolev bureau is working to modify the vehicle to allow this, but it may be at least eighteen months or even two years, before the Sokol suits are ready and the Descent Module is adapted accordingly.”
Good, thought Vasilyev. It sounded as if the circumstances might grant him and Travkin at least temporary reprieve from flying again with Gogol. And maybe, given some extra time and with any luck, Gogol’s aberrant behavior might be revealed in some other way, and the miscreant would be summarily excised from the program.
“As you are aware, the first Krepost station will be ready for launch early next year,” revealed Yohzin. “Because of the pressing need to make it operational as swiftly as possible, the General Staff has authorized us to fly the Soyuz for our missions, on an interim basis, to deliver crews to man the station.”
Yohzin continued. “The Korolev bureau has agreed to support this, with certain stipulations. Until the Sokol emergency suits become available, Krepost crews will wear SK-1 suits, just like the one you wore on your Vostok missions, Gogol, during the ascent and descent phases of their mission.”
Gogol laughed. “Now, I regret burning my old pumpkin suit in China. It fit very comfortably.”
“And because of the requirement to install some temporary fittings for oxygen flow and to rapidly pressurize the SK-1 suits in an emergency,” said Yohzin, “only two cosmonauts may fly in the Descent Module, just as with the Sokol suits once they are delivered.”
The foolhardy scheme did little to instill confidence in Vasilyev. He felt like they were gladiators being ordered to ride on a chariot with loose wheels and an axle on the verge of breaking. If the glaring technical glitches with the Soyuz didn’t yield sufficient cause for concern, the SK-1 pressure suits were based on outdated technology. The heavy orange suits were awkward and unwieldy at best.
Abdirov cleared his throat and spoke. “Which brings us to the most pressing question, gentlemen: Which two of you will fly the first mission to occupy the Krepost?”
As the three cosmonauts leaned forward in anticipation, Abdirov wasted no time in delivering the punchline. “After reviewing your qualifications, here is my plan: Lieutenant Colonel Gogol, you will fly with Major Vasilyev on the first mission. Major Travkin will continue to train with this crew as a back-up.”
Since they occupied three chairs arranged roughly in a semi-circle in front of Abdirov’s desk, Vasilyev clearly saw the reactions of the other two men. The corners of Gogol’s thick lips turned up slightly, in an almost imperceptible smirk. Obviously relieved that he was spared from flying with Gogol, Travkin flashed an involuntary smile, which he quickly—and quite consciously—turned into a frown. As for himself, Vasilyev didn’t need a mirror to know that he had probably scowled at the unwelcome news.
Furtively, Vasilyev turned to glance at Abdirov. Although it was virtually impossible to read the general’s horrifically scarred face, it was clearly obvious that Abdirov was puzzled by their responses.
“On to another matter,” said Yohzin. “As you might imagine, this turn of events has compelled us to make changes with other Krepost systems. Obviously, the deployment control system for the warhead will have to modified, so that the deployment sequence can be activated by just two men and their keys, instead of three. Once these changes have been incorporated into the simulator mock-up, you will begin training with the new procedures immediately.”
Imagining what it was going to be like t
o fly by himself with Gogol, Vasilyev struggled to focus on Yohzin’s words.
“There’s yet another modification to the weapon deployment system,” said Yohzin. “We have to anticipate circumstances where the two of you may be required to deploy the warhead without a prior authorization from the ground, in the event that hostilities have already commenced and communications links have been neutralized. To address that contingency, your code safe will contain a set of autonomous action codes, one for each of you. Between the two of you, you will have to agree to autonomous action, and both of you would have to enter your personal codes and turn your key within the allotted time, so the procedure still precludes the possibility of one of you overpowering the other.”
“And lastly,” said Abdirov quietly. “We have to contemplate one more contingency, and that’s the very unlikely possibility that one of you might become incapacitated, either due to illness or injury, during a mission. Since we still must ensure the capacity for autonomous action, should it be necessary, we will radio up a special independent action code that would allow one of you to deploy the weapon by yourself. The independent action code would override the second key station, so that turning one key would suffice to deploy the weapon.”
One key? Vasilyev could not comprehend that one man might be granted so much power. To possess a fifty-megaton nuclear warhead that could be directed on any spot on Earth? And that Gogol might be granted such authority? It was just too much to conceive.
“Lieutenant Colonel Gogol,” said Abdirov. “I have to ask, just for my own edification, would you be willing to deploy your warhead using the autonomous action codes or the independent action code, if the circumstances warranted such action?”
