by Mike Jenne
“You’re on, Petr,” announced Vasilyev. “I reluctantly relinquish the controls to you, if but briefly. No big changes: the stars still twinkle above us, and the good earth beckons below. All is sound and shipshape, my slothful comrade, so the bell is rung and the watch is officially yours. “Floating up from the docking hub, Travkin yawned broadly, zipped up his light blue coveralls, and then replied, “I officially acknowledge that I have the watch, my most officious commander. So, Pavel Dmitriyevich, are you up for another marathon round of durak?”
Vasilyev pondered the thought of playing cards for the next several hours, groaned, and shook his head.
“Cribbage perhaps? Or maybe chess?” queried Travkin. “Unless you’ve grown weary of constant defeat…”
“Nyet,” answered Vasilyev. “No games today. We have a targeting update in ten minutes. I’ll spell you on that one and give you a break.”
“Thanks. My hand is still cramped from yesterday’s.”
Although their responsibilities were great, and the consequences of their actions potentially greater, their watch chores weren’t particularly demanding. As they passed over their communications windows in the Soviet Union, they monitored the radios for any updates or instructions. During daylight passes, they were expected to spend at least part of the time peering down through powerful binoculars, watching for missile contrails, mushroom clouds, or any other telltale evidence that the civilized world had suddenly pitched into wide-scale thermonuclear war.
The station was also outfitted with a substantial battery of detection systems to warn of missile launches, including a sophisticated electro-optical sensor array. The electro-optical sensors were intended to detect sudden flashes, but the cosmonauts had found that they were almost too effective at doing so. The detectors could be accidently triggered by lightning flashes, such as those common to the massive thunderstorms passing through the same areas of the American Midwest where ICBMs were maintained in underground silos. Consequently, Vasilyev and Travkin were compelled to occasionally tweak the detectors to inhibit their sensitivity. Additionally, Control routinely kept them posted on weather conditions at the locations where American ICBMs were known to be stationed.
They regularly rehearsed deploying the Egg, usually during drills initiated by their mission controllers back on Earth. Additionally, at least once during every twenty-four-hour watch cycle, they were expected to conduct at least one emergency drill, to rehearse their procedures for such contingencies as an immediate evacuation, an electrical failure, a micrometeorite strike or onboard fire. But since their main tasks were merely to watch and wait, they had a tremendous abundance of leisure time. Vasilyev was constantly amazed at the amount of idle time he had, particularly since he rarely slept more than six hours at a stretch. And six hours was plenty, because if he slept any more than that, then he would dream, and his dreams invariably dwelled on the past that he wanted to forget.
10:07 a.m. GMT, Monday, September 18, 1972
GET: 4 Days 9 Hours 22 Minutes, REV # 70
Hoping to snatch a catnap, Vasilyev had barely gone to sleep when he was jolted awake by the emergency alarm, a wailing klaxon not unlike the alarm used on submarines. He punched the red plunger button on the bulkhead, silencing the earsplitting noise, grabbed the cloth satchel that held his emergency breathing mask and other gear, and immediately soared “downstairs” toward the control module.
“Petr! What’s up?” he yelled, skimming effortlessly through the air.
“Action message!” replied Travkin, as yet unseen at the far end of the station. “Immediate deployment!”
“On my way!” shouted Vasilyev, listening to the action message amplified over a loudspeaker in the control module: “Krepost! Krepost! Action…Action…Action…Enemy bomber attack in progress…Deploy device on first available contingency target…Deploy device on first available contingency target. Authorization code: Eight-Zero-Two-Two-One…Authorization code: Eight-Zero-Two-Two-One.”
As he had been conditioned to do in countless drills, Vasilyev immediately memorized the all-important deployment authorization code. He was aware that Travkin would already be entering the sequence into the Egg’s targeting computer.
He arrived in the control module just as Travkin punched in the last digit of the authorization code into the Egg’s targeting computer. Hovering over the Egg’s control console, he studied the read-out display as he plugged in the jack to his communications headset. He corroborated the numbers, keyed his microphone and concisely stated, “Control, this is Krepost. I verify receipt of deployment authorization code Eight-Zero-Two-Two-One to deploy device on first available contingency target.”
“I confirm your receipt of authorization code Eight-Zero-Two-Two-One,” replied Control. “Execute deployment.”
“Key check,” said Vasilyev, displaying the arming key attached to a small chain around his left wrist. Travkin held out his left hand to solemnly display a matching key. Vasilyev nodded and said, “Keys are verified. Open the code locker.”
Travkin opened the safe and extracted the targeting book that Vasilyev had updated just slightly more than three hours ago. He traced his finger down the target list, double-checked the mission clock, and announced, “Comrade Commander, the first available contingency target is Seattle, Washington: Latitude 47 Degrees 36 minutes North, Longitude 122 Degrees 20 Minutes West.”
Travkin’s manner was usually lighthearted and jovial, but he was strictly business right now. As well he should be; both cosmonauts stood to earn a mission bonus of ten thousand rubles if they precisely executed all of their tasks in a timely manner. Although this could be an actual Egg deployment, where the stakes were at their highest, it could be one of the many scored reliability exercises they would undergo during their mission. So, for very tangible reasons, even the simplest error was unacceptable; their incentive payoff was contingent on receiving nothing but perfect scores.
Vasilyev examined the target list. “I verify that the optimal target is Seattle, Washington: Latitude 47 Degrees 36 minutes North, Longitude 122 Degrees 20 Minutes West. Enter the information.”
Without comment, Travkin dutifully punched in the coordinates into the Egg’s targeting computer.
“I verify the target coordinates,” stated Vasilyev, looking at the numerical readout over Travkin’s right shoulder as he compared the displayed digits to the target list. “Lock the fix.”
“I am locking the fix,” replied Travkin, swiveling the red key that locked the coordinates into the computer. “Platform aligning. Stand by for deployment data estimate.”
“Standing by.”
While he waited for the computer to complete its calculations, Travkin tucked the targeting notebook into its cloth pouch and replaced it in the code safe. Two minutes later, a green light pulsed on the computer display. He checked it, and announced, “Comrade Commander, platform is aligned. Twenty-two minutes to braking rockets.”
Twenty-two minutes? Vasilyev whistled shrilly and then ordered, “I verify twenty-two minutes to braking rockets. Man your interlock station and stand by for deployment.” With that, he lightly kicked off the lower bulkhead and drifted upwards to his own interlock station approximately four meters away. Once the target fix was locked in the computer, both men had to simultaneously turn their arming keys. The final step to complete the sequence was for Vasilyev to press the Arm button.
After their keys were turned and the Arm button pushed, they would linger at their stations just long enough to receive verification that it was a live drop or a reliability exercise. If it was not just another reliability drill, explosive bolts would fire to jettison the Egg.
After activating a time-delayed explosive charge to destroy the Krepost, Vasilyev and Travkin would scramble to the Soyuz docked at the other end of the station, close the hatches, assume their positions in the cramped cockpit, power up the electronics, and undock. Afterwards, they could linger in orbit for up to five days before descending to a designated recove
ry site. Of course, if the Egg was actually dropped, then it was a foregone conclusion that they would eventually return to a world vastly different than the one they left.
“Insert arming key. Rotate arming key on my mark,” declared Vasilyev.
“Arming key inserted. Standing by for your mark,” replied Travkin.
“Five, four, three, two, one, mark.” He gritted his teeth as he swiveled his arming key and then pushed the Arm button to initiate the deployment sequence. Was this the end of the world? Was this the nuclear showdown that he so dreaded?
“Deployment sequence commenced,” confirmed Travkin.
Holding his breath, Vasilyev stared at the verification light. Several seconds passed before it blinked yellow three times, signifying that the drill was merely a reliability exercise. He breathed a sigh of relief, checked his chronometer, smiled, and said, “Stand down from the drill. Once again, Petr, we have instigated Armageddon in record time.”
Aerospace Support Project Headquarters
8:12 a.m., Monday, September 18, 1972
Ourecky trudged into the Project’s headquarters, presented his credentials to the guard at the security desk, and then slowly slogged up the four flights of stairs to the Flight Crew Office. As part of his morning ritual, he rinsed out his white porcelain coffee mug in the sink and poured a cup from the percolator. Turning around, he was surprised to see Carson seated at his desk.
“Back already?” asked Ourecky, stirring a teaspoon of sugar into his coffee. “I thought you were supposed to be in Pensacola for at least another week.”
“Virgil called me back last night,” replied Carson, barely looking up from his newspaper. The compact pilot wore tan chinos, a powder blue Ban-Lon knit shirt, and Adidas athletic shoes.
“So, could you tell me again why they sent you down there?”
Carson folded the paper, set it aside and replied, “To get qualified to land on aircraft carriers. The Ancient Mariner has a wild scheme about using them as contingency landing sites. You know that, Scott.”
“Still smells very fishy to me,” observed Ourecky.
“Everything that Tarbox says is at least a little bit fishy. That’s new to you?”
Ourecky nodded as he struggled to clear his throat. He sat down and examined the newspaper’s front page. The headlines were dominated by stories concerning a massive wheat export deal with the Soviet Union, a clash between Israeli and Syrian forces, and President Nixon’s campaign to curtail the flow of heroin into the United States.
“Landing on carriers? I just feel like there’s a lot more to the story,” said Ourecky.
“Maybe. So, how was therapy?” asked Carson, changing the subject.
“Miserable. It’s a lot like getting your lungs scoured with a steel wire brush,” grumbled Ourecky. “And how was your morning?”
“Clearly, much more pleasant than yours. Hey, Scott, don’t get too comfortable yet. I bumped into Virgil before I came up. They want us downstairs at ten hundred. Tarbox arrived this morning, too, so I’m guessing that something big is going on.”
“Hmmm…Tarbox? I didn’t think he was supposed to visit again until next week.” Ourecky blew lightly on the surface of his steaming coffee, cleared his throat, took a tentative sip, and mulled over the situation. More often than not, when he paid a visit to the Project’s facilities, Admiral Tarbox usually arrived with an entourage of Pentagon bigwigs in tow. “Do you think it’s another VIP visit? You know, for an organization that’s not supposed to exist, we sure are getting more than our share of visiting dignitaries lately.”
“Nope,” replied Carson. “I don’t think it’s another VIP boondoggle. I’m pretty sure it’s an operational situation, maybe even another mission.”
Ourecky grimaced. “This does sound ominous. Do you really think we’re going up again?”
“Looks like it,” answered Carson, folding his newspaper. “Something is definitely in the wind. I swung by Gunter’s shop after I saw Virg, and he had all hands on deck, running trajectories and intercepts on some mystery target. I asked Gunter about it, but he wouldn’t share.”
Ourecky nodded; he was more than familiar with the German engineer’s tendency toward stubborn reticence. He coughed repeatedly and then blew his nose. “I’m still on the mend,” he observed. “Surely they can’t expect to send me back up in this condition, no matter what’s upstairs.”
“Maybe,” answered Carson. “But if this thing is as big as I suspect it is, what choice do they have?”
Ourecky sat down at his desk, pondered Carson’s rhetorical question, and replied, “Yeah, Drew, I suppose you’re right: What choice do they have?”
9:55 a.m.
Taking his place in the conference room, Ourecky studied his surroundings as he waited for the meeting to commence. Much had happened in the brief interlude following their last mission. As Admiral Tarbox gradually gained influence, the Project was swiftly evolving into a different place, with a decidedly different atmosphere.
Looking around, Ourecky realized that this very room was a tangible reminder of Tarbox’s broad sway. Once an austere briefing area, with spare trappings reminiscent of a battlefield command post, the space had been recently outfitted as a lavishly appointed, extravagant conference room. No expense was spared in the renovation. It was certainly the most well-appointed meeting space that Ourecky had ever been in, and probably rivaled similar facilities in the headquarters of major corporations. An adjacent room had been repurposed as an audio-visual projection room replete with a state-of-the-art 16-millimeter movie projector, a 35mm slide projector, and an elaborate sound system.
One wall of the conference room was devoted to official photographs of the Air Force pilots assigned to Blue Gemini, as well as the aviators who participated in the Navy’s MOL program. Most struck gallant poses in their space suits. The subjects of the ornately framed portraits included “Big Head” Howard and “Squeaky” Riddle, as well as Ed Russo. Commander Chris Cowin’s picture also hung on the wall, but the Navy astronaut’s smiling visage hardly resembled the bloated, discolored face that Ourecky had witnessed in orbit. Of all those who had been assigned to the Project or the MOL, whether they had flown or not, the sole missing man was Tim Agnew; there was apparently adequate space for dead heroes, but not for the faint of heart who weren’t anxious to join their ranks.
A larger wall was adorned by a rogue’s gallery of Soviet satellites targeted by Blue Gemini. The centerpiece was the crisp image of the brass data plate from the first mission Carson and Ourecky had flown. In retrospect, Ourecky regretted taking that photograph, since his present circumstances would be immensely different if that mission had been a dismal failure rather than a serendipitous success. After the fatal launch accident on the first mission, which killed Howard and Riddle, the Project likely would have been quickly curtailed if he and Carson had returned to Earth as Tew had directed. He would have likely left the Air Force as soon as his initial contract expired and would already have his doctorate from MIT. Instead, even when confronted with a catastrophic failure of their Gemini-I’s main batteries, he and Carson had pushed their luck, against Tew’s orders, but had delivered the goods.
He glanced at his Timex watch and saw that he was almost overdue for one of his prescription medications. He fumbled with a plastic medicine bottle and spilled most of the pills. His clumsiness had nothing to do with his current medical condition. Most of the fingers of his right hand were literally numb from almost constantly shaking hands. In the past two weeks, a steady stream of dignitaries—generals, admirals, and elected officials “read on” to the highly classified Project—flowed through the space. They made the pilgrimage to receive a terse informational briefing—heavily slanted towards the new joint program—and to heap kudos on the heroes who had made it all happen.
Carson helped him collect the last of the pills just as Tew and Wolcott swaggered through the door. Ourecky was mystified by Tew’s demeanor. In recent months, the general’s health had bee
n on a rapid decline. He had devolved into a fragile wisp of the man Ourecky had once known, but this morning he seemed vibrant and animated. Obviously sharing some sort of secret agenda, he and the grizzled ex-cowboy grinned and acted almost like a pair of fraternity brothers scheming up new hazing rituals for freshman rush.
Minutes later, Tarbox strolled in, trailed by Gunter Heydrich and Blue Gemini’s intelligence officer, Colonel Seibert. In contrast to the jubilant generals, the admiral seemed like his normal acidic self, glowering like Ebenezer Scrooge compelled to dole porridge to unwashed foundlings in a Victorian orphanage. Frowning, he nodded toward Wolcott.
“Ted,” drawled Wolcott, gesturing toward Seibert. “Would you be so kind as to share your latest scoop with Admiral Tarbox and our valiant heroes?”
“Gentlemen, we have very preliminary evidence that the Soviets successfully orbited a nuclear weapons platform five days ago,” disclosed Seibert tersely. “A Proton was launched with a large payload into a stable circular orbit at roughly fifty-one degrees inclination. This object was initially cataloged as a discarded booster stage, until we received an intelligence report from a well-placed source that indicated it was, in fact, a weapons platform.”
Exuberant, Tew acted like a fidgeting child eager to rip the shiny paper from his neatly wrapped Christmas presents. If nothing else, thought Ourecky, the monumental piece of news—if it was true—certainly vindicated Tew’s oft-stated assertions about the Soviet’s intent to station nuclear weapons in space. If the intelligence was valid, the general’s long-standing obsession had finally come to fruition.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Colonel,” said Tarbox skeptically. “But is this not the same intelligence information that you disavowed just two weeks ago? Didn’t a source indicate that the Soviets were preparing to launch a Proton, and you claimed the source was just spewing malarkey?”
Chagrined, Seibert stated, “Sir, our initial analysis was incorrect. As it turns out, the Soviets were preparing to launch another Proton, just as our source claimed, only it was launched from Kapustin Yar, rather than Baikonur. Moreover, the same source provided intelligence of another object, possibly manned, originating from Kapustin Yar. They apparently launched an R-7 on the following day and there are clear indications that its payload was a manned spacecraft, probably a Soyuz.”
