Blue Darker Than Black

by Mike Jenne

  Morozov nodded.

  “You know, we experienced similar failures with some other satellites,” mused Popov, staring at the ceiling as he scratched his ear. “Six others, to be exact, at least while I was working at Cosmic Intelligence. It caused quite some consternation with the design bureaus. It was almost as if …” Suddenly, for whatever reason, his broad face turned pale, as if he recalled something particularly horrific.

  “Dmitry, what is it?” implored Morozov. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I did. Scores of them,” said Popov quietly. “You should sneak this photograph back into the stacks and forget that you ever laid eyes on it. I know that they told us that the rules are temporarily suspended, but I warn you—nothing good can come of this. This is outside our realm, and the less we know, the better off we’ll be.”

  “But this photograph was in the archives,” said Morozov quietly. “Perhaps no one has realized the significance of it or how it must have been captured. This could be quite a coup. I would gladly share the credit with you.”

  “Credit? This is the GRU,” hissed Popov. “Surely, you are not so ignorant to believe that no one has yet grasped this photograph’s significance. Don’t delude yourself. You can rest assured that they know of this image and how it was taken.”

  “But….”

  Popov leaned across the table. Turning the photograph facedown, he said quietly, “Let me enlighten you, Anatoly Nikolayevich, concerning how much the GRU knows. The facility that built this satellite no longer exists. More importantly, the people who worked at that facility no longer exist. Do you understand? Do you?”

  Morozov swallowed and nodded.

  “Unless you’re in a rush to trot after them, you should drop this matter, particularly before you drag me along with you,” warned Popov. He closed the folder and thrust it towards Morozov. “Walk away from my table, Anatoly Nikolayevich, now, and forget that we ever spoke.”

  Saying no more, Morozov slinked back to his section. Popov’s dire admonitions did little to dispel his curiosity. Placing the intriguing images side by side, he stared at them, as if he might be able to meld them in his mind to draw out the missing clue. It was simple to infer that these men had somehow taken the photograph of the data plate, but how was that possible? Were they espionage agents? Did they fly spy planes? The Americans possessed spy aircraft that flew incredibly high and fast; was it possible that they had somehow developed a system that could collect images through walls or ceilings?

  Scanning between the photos, he studied the names—Carson and Ourecky—yet again, and burned them into his memory. Someday, no matter how long it took, even if he had to wait patiently until he became a Second Class Analyst with almost unfettered access to the stacks, he would unravel the mystery of these two men and how they managed to capture this image.

  26

  SOJOURN

  Petro-Dive Training Institute, New Orleans, Louisiana

  2:15 p.m., Monday, April 24, 1972

  At this moment, Ourecky desired little more than a tall glass of ice water and an opportunity to scratch his incessantly itching nose, but he would have to suffer through at least another miserable hour before he could indulge in either. Encased in a space suit, he was submerged in an enormous water tank to simulate working in the weightless environment of space.

  With three extra layers of protective fabric, his new suit—designed specifically for Extravehicular Activity, more commonly known as EVA or spacewalking—was even more restrictive and rigid than the lighter model he wore during his first two flights into orbit. To realistically practice spacewalking, his suit was fully pressurized, just as it would be in a vacuum, so it was even more stiff and awkward. To compensate for its buoyancy, it was ballasted with small pouches of lead pellets, carefully distributed in strategically placed pockets.

  Wishing that he could somehow massage his aching shoulders, he paused to reflect on the recent events. Since the Krepost briefing last month, their schedule had evolved into a relentless regimen that alternated between two arduous cycles: “Box Weeks” and “Tank Weeks.” Box Weeks had them in the Simulator Facility at Wright-Patt, slogging in the Box—the procedures simulator—or the paraglider trainer. At this point, they were so proficient that the Box was more of a monotonous nuisance than a challenge. It was exceptionally rare when the simulation staff could contrive a glitch or combination of glitches that they couldn’t resolve in short order.

  In their past simulations and actual missions—in even the worst cases—they generally had at least a week to study and absorb the sequence of planned maneuvers necessary to close with a target satellite. With the new scenarios, they were often locked into the Box with a day’s preparation or less, in some cases executing an intercept from a virtual cold start. The rapid-paced simulations were a prelude to a sprint to orbit to beat the Soviet Krepost crews.

  But as much as Ourecky had come to despise the Box, he dreaded Tank Weeks even more. Tank Weeks were spent here, at the Petro-Dive Training Institute, a defunct commercial diving school in New Orleans. Petro-Dive, which had suffered bankruptcy last year, was home to a massive indoor pool built to train hardhat divers to service offshore oil platforms. The deep tank was sufficiently large to immerse a complete Gemini spacecraft mock-up, as well as other mock-ups used as practice targets. So with very few exceptions, if they weren’t in the Box, they were underwater in the Tank.

  Every day in the Tank was a painful ordeal. He was thirsty and had an excruciating headache as a result of his dehydration. Even though it was made exactly to his specifications, the suit constantly chafed at his hips, shoulders, and other locations. Because pure oxygen—with no moisture added—was piped down through his umbilical, the mucous membranes in his mouth and nose were habitually dry and his lips were constantly chapped. The suit’s coolant loops often failed to keep pace with his exertions, so he had to carefully pace himself to prevent his visor from fogging up.

  He paused for a moment to mentally work through his next assigned task, a seemingly simple drill of deploying an experimental work platform for later chores. The sturdy platform was mounted at the end of the boom previously used to extend the Disruptor hoop. It was intended to alleviate many of the problems experienced during NASA’s EVA missions. Once the boom was extended, Ourecky would make his way to a pedestal where he would lock his boots into secure footholds. A chest-high titanium T-bar extended up from the pedestal’s base; by shifting his feet to lean into or against the T-bar, he could use it as a fulcrum to apply a significant amount of leverage when using various tools.

  In a sense, the platform was not unlike a homeowner’s stepladder. The apparatus was an expedient solution, hastily devised from scrounged components. The secure footing and solid base certainly offered him greater mechanical advantage than floating free, but there was also a considerable amount of risk involved. He and Carson had to work in close concert, orchestrating every act, to ensure that Ourecky wasn’t accidently smashed against their target.

  After opening the hatch and standing up, a tedious process that required roughly thirty minutes to accomplish, he had to slowly pivot around to face the adapter end of the spacecraft to deploy the work platform. So now, although he theoretically stood upright in his seat, the spacecraft mock-up was oriented so that he was effectively lying on his right side. That probably would not be too bad, except he had been in this same position for the past hour. Although the exercise planners could pretend otherwise, the laws of gravity were still very much in effect, and they were wreaking havoc with his muscles and circulation. His right shoulder ached as if it had been pounded with a sledgehammer, and his right arm was partially numb.

  His cumbersome gloves significantly hampered his dexterity; he wiggled his knotted fingers in an attempt to improve blood flow. Every action required a concerted effort, even simple acts like grasping tools, so he was mindful of the need to think ahead to maximize efficiency and conserve energy.

  For every action,
Newton’s third law of motion stipulated, there was an opposite and equal reaction, except that the reactions seemed greatly exaggerated in a weightless environment. Just the simple act of turning a wrench could send him in an uncontrollable spin. To compensate, he paced himself, moving cautiously and deliberately, in virtual slow motion.

  Ignoring his various aches and pains, he mustered his strength to begin the process of deploying the boom-mounted platform. Once it was locked in place, he would clip onto a safety cable and work his way along a handrail to shimmy to the top of the platform. Once there, his first job was to wield a “snake stick” to cut an inch-thick metal rod that simulated the barrel of the Krepost station’s automatic cannon.

  The snake stick was a ten-foot pole with a two-foot crossbar at the end. A noose protruded from either end of the crossbar, much like the pole-mounted nooses that snake handlers used to snare rattlers. Once he positioned the nooses on the target, he switched on an electric motor to cinch them on the rod. The first noose was a flexible braided metal tube containing an incendiary material called thermite; once ignited, the burning thermite sliced through the rod. The second noose was simply an anchor cable that allowed him to retrieve the rod once it was sheared.

  When and if they intercepted the Krepost, retrieving the gun barrel was a secondary task. Tew and Wolcott wanted it essentially as a souvenir, for sentimental reasons, but the more pragmatic reason for grabbing it was to prove to the world—if need be—that the Soviets were putting weapons in orbit, in defiance of the 1967 Outer Space Treaty. It was an ace in the hole that they wanted in the unlikely event that the Blue Gemini project was ever revealed, so as to prove why such an aggressive action was justified.

  Ourecky’s primary EVA task was to use the snake stick and other tools to disable the docking mechanisms and related Igla radar equipment, in order to prevent the Krepost from being occupied. The physical layout of the Krepost, particularly its diameter and the positioning of several antennas, precluded employment of the Disruptor, but other means were being studied to destroy the station.

  As Ourecky practiced his spacewalking chores, Carson rehearsed various emergency procedures—disconnecting the umbilical and closing the right-side hatch—that would become necessary if Ourecky was disabled and unable to return to the snug sanctuary of the cockpit. He also maintained a sharp lookout for his right-seater, acting as an extra set of eyes to spot potential hazards and to ensure that the two vehicles remained close but not too close.

  As miserable as Ourecky felt, he knew that the Tank was also taking its toll on Carson. Working in the suits sapped their strength. At the end of the day, they were physically spent. The routine had also put a significant damper on Carson’s social life. After a day spent underwater, they had barely enough energy to take a shower or eat dinner. As the days dragged into the week, they had to exert substantial willpower just to climb out of bed and go to work.

  As Ourecky watched the boom extend, a SCUBA-equipped diver drifted nearby, casually snapping pictures with a Nikonos underwater camera. Ourecky heard the exercise controller’s voice through his earphones: “Scott, this is Topside. How’s it going down there?”

  “Just fine,” he replied. “Be aware my right shoulder is cramping.”

  “Okay,” replied Topside. “Look, cease what you’re doing. I’m sending down the safety divers to bring you up.”

  “No thanks,” replied Ourecky. “This is the last evolution for the day. We’ll have this finished in an hour. We’re in the homestretch, so I want to finish it before I come out of here.”

  “I admire your tenacity, Scott, but you’re done in the Tank. Virgil just called. You and Carson are flying out to the PDF tomorrow morning. It’s on.”

  Dayton, Ohio

  6:48 p.m., Monday, April 24, 1972

  Ourecky was packing in the bedroom when Bea got home. Squealing with glee, Andy scampered to him and hugged him around the waist. It still surprised him that Andy was no longer crawling. It was as if he had just blinked and somehow missed several crucial stages of his son’s development. In a sense, he had.

  “Going somewhere?” she asked. She was still in her blue Delta stewardess uniform; occasionally, she changed at Jill’s place when she picked up Andy, but must not have had time. Andy sat down on the floor to play with some wooden alphabet blocks.

  “Uh, yeah,” he replied. “And I have to leave tomorrow.”

  “I know that look,” she said, unbuttoning her jacket. “Let’s not beat around the bush, Scott. This is obviously not going to be just an overnighter. How long this time? A week? Two weeks? That’s usually what one of these flight tests take.”

  “Bea, I may not be back for a few months,” he replied. He regretted that he had not broached this issue before, to at least get her somewhat accustomed to the notion of his extended absence. “I could be gone until November.”

  Fuming, she plopped down on the bed and kicked off her shoes. “You’re leaving tomorrow and you won’t be back until November?” she asked angrily.

  “Bea, you weren’t listening. I may not be back until November. I’ll probably be back much earlier than that.”

  “Okay,” she answered. “It’s not as if we can ever make any long-term plans, anyway. Where will you be?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Can’t say or don’t know?”

  “You know the answer to that,” he replied, cramming a pair of sneakers in his bag. “Why do you even ask? You know damned well I can’t tell you, Bea.”

  He thought she was going to pout the rest of the evening, but her face grew strangely calm. “When I go to the airport in the morning, I’m going to turn in my two-week notice,” she stated matter-of-factly.

  It took him aback, so much so that he couldn’t speak for a moment. “Bea, that’s great, but I’m not asking you to stop flying,” he finally replied, sticking an extra tube of toothpaste in his shaving kit. “I’m thrilled that you’ll be able to spend more time with Andy, but I was gone almost all of last year, and you were still able to fly.”

  “I’m not quitting for you, Scott,” she replied, removing her jacket. “Jill is sick. The doctors don’t know what’s wrong with her, but it looks bad. She’s still working at home, but she can barely do that now. She’s helped me so much by taking care of Andy while I’m flying, so I figure that helping her with Rebecca is the least I can do. If you’re going to be gone, I might as well just stay with her until she gets better.”

  Ourecky nodded. “She’s lucky to have a friend like you. And I’m lucky to have you, too, Bea. I love you.”

  She stood up, undid her scarf, and hung it on a peg inside the closet. “Look, Scott,” she said softly. “I love you, too. I don’t understand whatever it is that you’re mixed up in, but I’m not in the mood to argue. I just hope that someday you figure out what’s important, and I hope that you figure it out before it’s too late.”

  But I do know what’s important, he thought. But how could he explain to her that he had inadvertently made a pact with the Devil and that his choices were no longer his own? Zipping closed his kit bag, he wondered if there was a clear path out of this predicament. But if nothing else, he had learned something that was probably unknown to any other human being. With every day that passed, it became increasingly clear that the Devil wore cowboy boots.

  Pacific Departure Facility, Johnston Island

  6:15 p.m., Thursday, July 27, 1972

  Ourecky reclined in a chaise lounge in the shade of their “veranda,” a section of tent canvas that they had rigged to the front of the suit-up trailer. The rickety chair’s pale green webbing was sun-dried and frayed; every other strap was missing or on the verge of breaking. The faded canvas flapped and rustled in the evening breeze.

  Scrutinizing a topographic map of a Contingency Recovery Zone in New Guinea, he struggled to remain awake in the sultry heat of late afternoon. He had reached the point at which further study was futile; his brain was practically saturated with technical data, m
ission details and the like.

  Virgil Wolcott had definitely hit the nail square on the head; in the three months they had been holed up on the Island, they had an overwhelming abundance of leisure time. They had bided that time until calendars and clocks were meaningless, and they had twiddled their thumbs until the digits were cramped and bleeding.

  There was literally little to do but wait. While the pace was considerably less hectic than the past year’s, the monotony was all but excruciating. It was incredibly hard to maintain any degree of fervor about anything. They were almost delirious with boredom.

  He contemplated calling home, but quickly abandoned the thought. The operations shed had a shortwave radio that could reach a MARS—Military Affiliate Radio Service—network station back in Ohio, where a participating HAM radio operator would patch the radio call into the local phone network.

  As much as he missed Bea and their son Andy, Ourecky hated making the calls on MARS. Amongst other things, the MARS protocols required that they say “over” after every sentence, so a call seemed less like an intimate conversation and more like an official transaction. And while he enjoyed hearing Bea’s voice, there was just very little that they could talk about.

  He could say nothing of what he was doing or where he was, and since she spent almost every waking moment with her friend Jill, there was little she could say except to report—as always—that Jill was growing progressively sicker. Worse, every time he called Bea, he was painfully aware that it might be the last time they spoke, since this mission might be the time when the law of averages finally caught up to him.

  Since it had never been intended to be fully occupied for extended periods, the PDF had evolved extensively to support the new mission. Before this latest sojourn, Ourecky had never lingered here for more than four days prior to a launch; during the rapid spate of launches last year, the launch crew had refined the procedures to the extent where he and Carson rarely even stayed overnight before launching.