Blue Darker Than Black

by Mike Jenne

  At this juncture, the two men had completed seven missions in orbit, more than any other American. Although they held the record for number of flights—unpublished, of course—they couldn’t lay claim to the mark for overall endurance; that auspicious record belonged to NASA spacefarer James Lovell, who had logged over 715 hours during his four flights into space.

  Blue Gemini’s leadership dynamics had changed immensely over the course of the past year. Virgil Wolcott had gradually drifted towards greater authority as General Tew’s health continued to decline. Tew still called the shots—at least notionally—but most often he just rubber-stamped whatever Wolcott offered.

  After they flew their last mission in January, Blue Gemini had lapsed into something of a hiatus. Although there were no missions currently scheduled, Ourecky was painfully aware that two more complete stacks—each consisting of a Titan II and Gemini-I combination—were held in readiness at the San Diego HAF. The two last arrows in the quiver were obviously earmarked for special targets, which Wolcott had yet to reveal.

  Although Wolcott wasn’t forthcoming about their potential mission or the prospects for the future after Mission Twelve, it wasn’t any secret that he was aggressively lobbying to have Blue Gemini extended for at least another six missions. Six more missions? Ourecky was close to the breaking point and wasn’t sure that he could make it through six more flights. Wolcott repeatedly promised that more pilots would join Blue Gemini when and if they transitioned to the next phase, and he insisted that Carson and Ourecky would migrate to a training role. As it stood, though, no one seemed inclined to interfere with a machine that consistently worked, so he and Carson were obviously destined to fly the next two missions, regardless of the targets.

  Besides the pair, only Wolcott and Colonel Seibert were present in the office; General Tew was supposed to be here but apparently had checked into the base hospital for an extended series of tests. Seibert wore a blue knit shirt over khaki trousers; he looked as if he was destined for the golf links as soon as the briefing was over. As a counterpoint, Wolcott looked as if he was on his way to compete in a rodeo; then again, Wolcott always looked as if he was on his way to compete in a rodeo.

  “Gents, Colonel Seibert has something momentous to share with us,” announced Wolcott gleefully. “Mark Tew and I have already seen this, and all I can tell you is to prepare to be amazed.”

  “I’m sure that you’re aware that the Soviets launched a small space station last year,” stated Seibert, wielding a slightly warped yardstick to gesture at a diagram on a briefing chart. “They call it Salyut. It’s very similar to the Skylab station that NASA plans to launch next year.”

  Seibert sneezed, wiped his nose with a handkerchief, and then continued. “The overall Salyut mission profile is almost identical to Skylab. The station is launched unmanned on a UR-500 booster rocket, which the Soviets now also refer to as the Proton launcher, and then a crew is launched later to occupy it. Salyut-1 was launched last year in April, and the first crew was sent up in a Soyuz three days later.”

  “They docked, but weren’t able to enter the station,” stated Seibert. “Another crew went up in June. They docked successfully and occupied the station for twenty-three days. They lost cabin pressure during reentry and all three cosmonauts died. According to NORAD, the Salyut station succumbed to orbital decay last October.

  “Here’s the next item that the Soviets have up their sleeve,” said Seibert, flipping over the briefing chart to reveal another image. “What you’re looking at here is a military equivalent of Salyut. It’s called Almaz, which means ‘diamond’ in Russian.” He tapped his finger on the drawing and glanced towards Wolcott. “We’ve been aware of this jewel for over a year now. It shares some major components with the Salyut, but the two stations are produced by competing design bureaus.”

  Noticing that Carson was having difficulties reading the chart because of a glare coming through the window, Seibert shifted the chart stand slightly and continued. “Almaz is intended to remain in orbit for a year or longer. The Soviets plan to swap out crews roughly every ninety days and restock consumables with unmanned supply ferries. It was developed by the Chelomei design bureau, primarily for military reconnaissance and surveillance missions.

  “Here’s the kicker,” he noted, pointing at a stick-like object in the drawing. “The Almaz is armed with a 23-millimeter automatic cannon.”

  “Armed?” exclaimed Carson, pushing himself up out of his chair and stepping forward to scrutinize the diagram. “It has a gun? Ouch! That’s an ominous development. Do we have any reason to believe that they might be on to us? Why else would they mount an automatic cannon on a manned space station?”

  Wolcott cleared his throat and interjected, “That was exactly my concern also, pard. The intel folks have checked into it. According to what they’re tellin’ us, there’s no reason to suspect that the Russkies are aware of Blue Gemini. It’s more likely in response to the work done on unmanned satellite interceptors like the SAINT.”

  Seibert put up another chart. Ourecky noticed that while the previous charts contained mostly vague drawings, the new chart contained an intricately detailed diagram of a space station very similar to the Almaz they had just seen.

  “And this, gentlemen, is what we have been searching for,” noted Seibert, popping the chart with his pointer. “This is it, at long last, the Holy Grail of sorts. It is the Soviet platform for their nuclear orbital bombardment system.”

  “So it’s real?” asked Ourecky.

  “Very much so. It’s codenamed Krepost. Just so you know, krepost is a Russian term for a fortified outpost, like a citadel or fortress. The Krepost is essentially a conglomeration of components from several different Soviet spacecraft and competing design bureaus. The core block, particularly the crew living space and control module, is fabricated mostly from components of the Almaz military manned space station that we discussed previously. The Krepost will rely on modified Soyuz spacecraft to execute the crew transfer and cargo functions.”

  Seibert clicked on an overhead projector, and used his rubber-tipped pointer to gesture at a diagram on the screen. “I’ll describe the station’s configuration from bottom to top. As this drawing shows, the main hull is cylindrically shaped, approximately sixty feet long and thirteen feet wide, and weighs approximately twenty tons.”

  Pointing at the bottom of the cylinder, Seibert continued. “The nuclear warhead is located in the aft end of the Krepost. Assuming that our intelligence is correct, the warhead is a much larger version of the Soviet’s RDS-37 two-stage design. It’s encased in its own self-contained reentry vehicle. The reentry vehicle—warhead, retro rockets, and associated equipment— comprises over a third of the Krepost station’s overall mass.”

  “Just forward of this is a service module, which contains electronics, the maneuvering system, and fuel tanks. Forward of the service module is a control area, which houses the instrumentation for the platform and the warhead. Moving forward from the control area is the crew’s living space, which contains a galley and individual sleeping compartments.”

  “Your diagram shows three individual bays,” stated Ourecky, gesturing with a Skilcraft ballpoint pen. “Is that accurate? Are we to believe that it’s manned by a three-man crew?”

  “Looks like a mighty tight fit for three folks,” noted Wolcott. “You sure they can bunk three hands in there?”

  “No, sir,” replied Seibert, looking towards Wolcott. “It appears that the Krepost was originally designed for a three-man crew, but our current intelligence indicates that they will staff it with only two, quite possibly to reduce the requirements for food, water, and other consumables. Additionally, we’re aware that they have been recently forced to make some significant safety modifications to their Soyuz, in the aftermath of the fatal accident last year, and we speculate that they can only fly two personnel on a Soyuz now, rather than three.”

  Wolcott nodded.

  “Just past the living space
is their docking hub, which was apparently purpose-built for the this station. It has three docking ports, set at one-hundred-twenty-degree angles, perpendicular to the long axis of the station, arranged like the spokes on a wheel. Each port can accommodate a Soyuz vehicle, in either the crew configuration or cargo configuration. There’s also an inflatable airlock, here,” stated Seibert, tapping the pointer on the screen. “Between two of the docking ports. We suspect that the airlock is only for contingency purposes, since there doesn’t appear to be any logical requirements for extravehicular activities.”

  “The docking hub is equipped with the Soviet’s Igla automatic docking system. The docking hub incorporates one additional docking port, located at the stern end. It does not have any hatch or other provision for transferring personnel or cargo. It’s there strictly to accommodate yet another variant of the Soyuz, which would be an unmanned propulsion module. The propulsion module would be used to provide additional horsepower, in the form of thrust, to make adjustments to the Krepost’s orbit. This Soyuz propulsion module variant is still on the drawing boards; we anticipate that the Soviets plan to produce and launch it in sufficient time to prevent the Krepost from falling out of orbit.”

  Seibert gestured a pod that protruded from the side of Krepost station. “Unfortunately, gentlemen, the Krepost is also armed with the same automatic cannon that we saw previously on the Almaz.”

  Switching off the projector, Seibert concluded by saying, “This is going to be a mighty tough nut to crack, even if we do get a chance. Although we’re still confident that the Soviets aren’t aware of Blue Gemini, they seem to be obsessed with the notion that we have an operational unmanned satellite interceptor, hence the automatic cannon. Of course, the gun is a moot issue if their station doesn’t have a crew aboard. And that leads to our second problem.

  “This Krepost is an ingenious design,” observed Seibert. “Very diabolical. The three docking ports enable them to efficiently rotate crew ships and cargo ferries, so it can likely remain operational indefinitely, with continuous manning. If that’s the case, it’s very likely that we may never have a shot at it while it’s unmanned.”

  “Gents, if you ain’t figured it out yet, you’re gazin’ at your next target,” revealed Wolcott. “This will culminate Phase One of the Blue Gemini and simultaneously validate some of the things we’ll do during Phase Two, including EVA operations, if Phase Two is approved.”

  Wolcott paused to spit his chewing tobacco into a trashcan and replace it with another lump. “Our objective is to launch as soon as the Krepost has been inserted into a stable orbit,” he stated, tucking his Red Man pouch into his pocket. “We aim to sneak you up there before they launch a crew to occupy the station.”

  Wolcott continued. “Once you’re upstairs, we have three critical tasks for you. First, just like your previous missions, we want you to execute a detailed fly-around inspection. Second, we want you to disable their docking ports to prevent the Krepost station from being occupied. Third, we want you to bring back physical proof that this monster is armed. That would be in violation of the Outer Space Treaty that they signed, as we did also, five years ago.”

  “Virgil, I hate to be obstinate,” said Carson, returning to his seat. “I sure don’t like the thought of the Soviets arming their spacecraft, and I’m aware that it’s a violation of the treaty, just as you said, but isn’t this a bit like the pot calling the kettle black? After all, we’ve been knocking their satellites out of the sky for about three years now. Begging your pardon, but wouldn’t you think that planting explosive charges on their satellites could also be construed as a violation of the same treaty?”

  “There’s a tremendous difference, pard,” declared Wolcott adamantly. Turning slightly redder than normal, he loosened his bolo tie, undid his top collar button, and fanned himself with his white Stetson. “True, you gents did emplace explosive charges on satellites, but there was only one single instance where a charge was actually detonated, and in that single instance a Navy admiral personally pushed the button. The rest of those satellites just eventually became unstable, perhaps of their own accord and perhaps not. But even more importantly, unless someone plans to talk out of school, no one can prove that we ever intentionally destroyed any satellites that didn’t belong to us. Now, Major Carson, you ain’t inclined to blab to anyone about what happened upstairs, are you?”

  Carson shook his head and sipped from his coffee.

  “All of this seems very contingent on timing,” said Ourecky. “I don’t quite understand how we can expect to prepare and then launch in sufficient time in order to beat their crews to orbit.”

  “We have a very reliable intelligence source over there,” explained Seibert. “I can’t delve into particulars, but this Russian is well placed within their Strategic Rocket Forces, and he’s been funneling us detailed information about other programs for over a year. He’s given us substantial information on their mission plans for the Krepost, including specific details on their intended orbital inclination, apogee, perigee and the like. Right now, according to information that he has provided, we have at least a month’s lead time to start preparing.”

  Seibert continued. “Although we have at least a month’s leeway, another source assures us that there will be another UR-500 launch before November. This source works at their Tyuratam launch site, so although he’s sure a UR-500 Proton is being prepared, he can’t absolutely state what the next payload will be, but he says that it’s roughly a sixty percent certainty that it’s going to be a Krepost. As for the time-sensitive issues, he claims he can provide us with at least twenty-four hours advance warning before a launch, and possibly as much as a month’s notice.”

  “That should alleviate your concerns about precise timin’, pard,” said Wolcott, grinning.

  “Sir, it does, but I’m still slightly confused on one issue,” said Ourecky. “What happens if we climb upstairs and find a civilian Salyut instead of an Krepost?”

  “Well, pardner, I s’pose we’ll just cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “And what if we don’t beat the Russians to orbit?” asked Carson. “What if it’s occupied when we close on it?”

  “Yet another bridge to cross, pard,” replied Wolcott. “Anyway, you’ve heard all the good news, so now we have to bestow the part that probably ain’t goin’ to set too well with you. We’ve studied this from every conceivable angle, and the only practical way that we can pull this off, given the criticality of the timing, is to forward-base until the launch.”

  “Forward-base, sir?” asked Ourecky. “What does that mean exactly?”

  “Hoss, the time-sensitive circumstances compel us to lean well forward in the saddle. We intend to stage the next stack at the PDF at Johnston Island indefinitely, at least until our window shuts in November.”

  “That’s great, Virgil,” stated Carson. “But even if the hardware was permanently on pad alert out there, I don’t understand how you could deliver us and the launch crew to the PDF in time to launch. With forty-eight hours, maybe, but with twenty-four hours? It wouldn’t work.”

  Wolcott nodded. “Correct. And that’s why we’re stagin’ everything—lock, stock, kit and caboodle—at the PDF, once we receive word that the Soviets are making preparations to launch a UR-500. So the whole package—the stack, the launch crew, and you two stalwarts—will be forward-based.”

  “Until November?” asked Ourecky, chagrined.

  “Not necessarily,” answered Wolcott. “You’ll be there until you launch. That could be in November, but it could be even a month or even a week after you set up camp at the PDF.”

  Closing his eyes, Ourecky tried not to groan. He pondered about how he could possibly explain this new wrinkle to Bea.

  “You don’t look overly thrilled, hoss,” observed Wolcott. “Let me set this in context. When the time comes, we’re sending you to a tropical island in the Pacific where all you have to do is bide your time and twiddle your thumbs until you re
ceive the word to strap on a rocket and go to work. On the other hand, at this very moment, hundreds of your contemporaries are receivin’ orders to go to much more desolate locales, missile silos, SAC bases, Vietnam, and the like. You savvy, Ourecky? You need to look upon this more as a paid vacation.”

  10:50 a.m.

  After Carson and Ourecky had departed, Seibert packed away his charts and collected the rest of his classified material. He started to leave, thought better of it, and turned back. “A word, Virgil?” he asked.

  “Sure, hoss,” answered Wolcott. “Pull up a chair and take a load off. What’s on your mind?”

  Seibert took a seat at the table. “I’ve got access to all the raw material on this Krepost, although all the source information has been redacted,” he said. “So, while I don’t know who he is or where he is, he had to be fairly high up in the Soviet food chain.”

  “And?”

  “This whole business bothers me,” explained Seibert. “After years of whispers and rumors about a military space program, it took us years to acquire anything substantial about their Almaz platform. Now, this damned Krepost is just falling into our lap. It just doesn’t make any sense. I just don’t like this. It’s almost too perfect, like a pretty little package all tied up in a bow.”

  “Ted, ain’t you ever heard the expression that you never look a gift horse in the mouth?”