by Mike Jenne
“That’s not it, Scott. We’re sticking with the plan as submitted. No deviations on this trip.”
“Then what, Drew?” asked Ourecky. He took a sip from his Oly. “Are you okay? You don’t look so hot. You look sort of peaked, like my mama used to say.”
Looking at the floor, Carson quietly said, “Look, Scott, I need to talk to you, and it has nothing to do with flying back to Ohio. Something’s been weighing on me, a big misunderstanding, and I need to come clean with you. I need to apologize.”
“Apologize? What on earth for?”
“Hear me out. After we came back from our little camping trip in the snow, Virgil sat me down for a chat. He’s under the impression that I did all the heavy lifting out there on the survival exercise, and that I saved your ass, instead of the other way around.”
“So you told him what actually happened?”
“No,” mumbled Carson self-consciously. “I didn’t, and I feel like a real heel for that. He still doesn’t know any different. He was already hell-bent on yanking you out of here, even before we made the paraglider drops, and sticking Russo in your place. At least I talked him out of that swap, thank God.”
Ourecky chuckled. “Yeah, I don’t think you would be content with just simply slugging Russo. You probably would have transitioned to homicide by the second drop.”
Solemnly nodding, Carson wrapped his green wool scarf around his neck before pulling his Arctic parka from a wooden peg.
“Where are you going?” asked Ourecky. “I thought we were going to hang out with the guys.”
“I’m going to Wolcott’s hootch,” explained Carson, donning the sage green parka and zipping it up. “I’m going to set the record straight with Virg. He should know what really happened out there in the snow.”
“Really?” asked Ourecky. “You’re going to confess to Virgil? And just what would that accomplish, Major Carson? What difference could that possibly make?”
“Well, maybe if I took the beating that I deserve, then I wouldn’t feel like such a damned jerk. Maybe if I finally cleared my conscience, I could log a full night’s sleep for a change.”
Grinning broadly, Howard walked up to interrupt the conversation. A rather large hamburger looked tiny in his massive grasp. He took a huge bite, chewed, swallowed, and then said, “Scott, your chow is getting cold over there.”
“Give me a minute, Tom,” answered Ourecky. “I’ll be over there shortly.”
“Sure, Scott. Headed somewhere, Drew? It’s a bit early to be hitting the hay, isn’t it?” With his thumb, Howard subtly motioned back towards the bar. One of the recon pilots, the very same one who had confronted Ourecky earlier, was chatting up the husky Eskimo girl, the only woman in the club. Obviously sensing that someone else was paying her some attention, she looked towards the three men and smiled; at least half of her teeth were black with decay, no doubt the result of a recent intake of sugary foods supplanting her traditionally bland diet of seal meat and fish. “I’ve never seen you abandon such a svelte and fair-haired maiden to fall into the hands of the enemy. What’s up with you, Drew? Is this a sign of the Apocalypse?”
“No, just the end of a very long day, Big Head. I have an upset stomach and I want to grab some sleep before I fly home tomorrow.”
“Suit yourself,” replied Howard. “I’ll see you guys back at Wright-Patt in a week, maybe sooner if they don’t clear the trainer to fly again. Not that that would bother me too immensely.” Howard shook hands with Carson, then turned and walked back to the table to join the other pilots. A Johnny Cash ballad—“Ring of Fire”—blared from the jukebox, and the recon pilots stood in their red-striped chairs, hoisting their drinks as they boisterously sang along. Obviously, Squeaky was showing them a little bit of mercy.
Carson flipped up his parka hood and started to tug on his fur-backed mittens. “See you in the morning, Scott,” he declared, starting for the door. “Chow hall, zero six. Sleep tight, brother.”
“Wait,” said Ourecky. “Answer my question, Drew: What possible good could come out of admitting everything to Virgil? If nothing else, you’ll undermine his confidence in you, and that will just set you that much further back on the flight assignment roster. I’m not going to fly, but you certainly deserve to, so what does it matter if Virgil thinks lesser of me?”
“But . . .”
“And have you considered the possibility that you might anger ol’ Virg to the point that he sends you out for another five days in the wilderness? Are you sure that you want that, or do you want to get back to the Box and try to make some headway? Besides,” said Ourecky, slowly shaking his head, “sitting out there in the frigid cold was an interesting ordeal, but I can’t tell you that I enjoyed it, because I didn’t. I don’t intend to go back out there of my own volition, so please excuse me if I don’t volunteer to share your penance.”
Carson heaved a tired sigh. “I really don’t think Virgil would send me back out. We’re too far behind the power curve as it is. Look, Scott, I really want to clear my conscience of this.”
Ourecky stepped forward and subtly grasped Carson’s upper arm. “Are you that sure? Maybe you should think about it a little more. If you’re so damned intent on compelling Virgil to believe that you’re a weak sister, don’t be too surprised if you find yourself flying the Box with Russo sooner than later. Moreover, you may find yourself over on the right side of the cockpit. Is that really something that you want? Flying right-seat to Russo?”
Carson flipped his hood down and swiveled his head to look towards Russo. “I hadn’t considered that scenario,” he said softly. He closed his eyes and whistled quietly.
Ourecky nodded. “Drew, you and I know what happened, and that’s enough, isn’t it? I know you’ve learned your lesson, and I would trust my life with you in any circumstances. Why don’t you let this one go? Like you said out there in the cold, let’s just let it be our little secret. Okay?”
“I suppose you’re right,” answered Carson, unzipping his parka. “Our little secret.”
Headquarters of the General Staff of the Soviet High Command
Arbat Military District, Moscow, USSR
10:15 a.m., Monday, October 21, 1968
Lieutenant General Rustam Abdirov cursed under his breath. He had been waiting in this vestibule, outside the meeting chambers of the General Staff, for over an hour. He had requested an audience with them over a week ago, and now that he was finally on the agenda, they kept him cooling his heels, obviously to further assert their authority.
A comfortable chair was provided for him, but he didn’t want to sit down. As painful as it was to stand for long periods of time, it was even more agonizing to rise from a seat. He also hadn’t taken his morning dose of codeine, which exacerbated his misery, since he wanted to be completely clear-headed for this critical meeting. He had much to accomplish in a short period of time, and his objectives probably wouldn’t be attained if he were suspended in an analgesic fog.
The door creaked open, and an aide gestured for him to enter.
“Grab those materials, please,” said Abdirov, motioning to stack of documents and a cardboard tube that occupied the chair in the hall.
Glancing up from a report, the Chief of the General Staff said brusquely, “State your business.”
Standing at attention, Abdirov reported: “Sir, I am here to respectfully request significant changes to the Skorpion mission.”
“Are you not content with the task entrusted to you?” asked the Chief, removing his reading glasses to scratch the bridge of his nose. “Are you not receiving the resources that we pledged to accomplish it?”
Conscious that his time was limited, Abdirov struck right to the heart of the matter. “Respectfully, General, I fear that the Skorpion design, in the form that I received it, will not be operational in a timely manner.”
“So you feel that you’ve been dealt a rotten onion?” asked the Chief. “Am I to assume that you have a plan to rescue Skorpion?”
/> “In a sense, yes,” answered Abdirov. He motioned for the aide to disperse the document and charts among the members of the General Staff. “I propose that we scrap the Skorpion design, and substitute an alternative design that I call the Krepost.” As Abdirov waited for the senior officers to scan the documents and examine his drawings, he contemplated the name he had chosen for his project. A krepost was a fortified outpost, like a citadel or fortress. An individual krepost was typically part of a larger system of unified fortifications, like the Krepost Sveaborg that the Russians built to protect Helsinki in the First World War.
“This appears to be a manned space station,” noted the Chief.
“That’s correct, Comrade General. It will be manned by three military cosmonauts, who will be responsible for deploying the nuclear warheads. Although the crew will receive their orders from the ground, the Krepost will also be capable of autonomous operations, in a severe emergency, such as if the command and control network was neutralized by an American first strike.”
“Interesting,” mumbled the Chief, frowning. “But not practical. We appreciate your diligent work, Abdirov, but your task was not to develop and send up a space station, and we’re not going to entertain these notions. You need to improve upon the Skorpion design and have it operational as soon as possible. You are dismissed.”
But Abdirov remained. “I thought I was granted absolute autonomy over this effort, Comrade General,” he stated. As he calmly spoke, he stared past the Chief at a patriotic illustration—“On Approaches to Moscow,” painted by Vladamir Bogatkin—on the far wall.
“You were granted absolute autonomy, but your actions are still subject to our approval, and you can rest assured that we will not indulge you with your own private manned space program.” The Chief paused and added, “Did you not hear me say that you are dismissed?”
Abdirov stood fast; he and his staff had spent countless hours working on this proposal, so he was not inclined to turn and meekly walk away. “But if the ultimate intent was to build a space-based nuclear bombardment system, and I have determined that the Skorpion design is flawed, then wouldn’t it make sense to substitute a superior design to accomplish the intent?”
“Be very wary where you tread, Abdirov,” warned the Chief.
But Abdirov did not relent. “If the General Staff doesn’t have the authority to approve these changes, then shouldn’t this matter be elevated to a higher authority?” he asked.
Looking toward the window on the east side of the meeting room, the Chief frowned and swallowed. It was obvious that he was cognizant that Abdirov was making a veiled threat to involve his patrons at the Kremlin, if need be. But Abdirov knew that short of killing him outright, there was little that they could do to punish him anymore than he had already been punished. His every day brimmed with agony, so even death would be a respite rather than a punishment.
The Chief sighed and said, “Strictly for the sake of theoretical discussion, let’s hear the rest of your plan.”
Abdirov continued: “The Krepost will be outfitted with a state-of-the-art control system that will allow nuclear warheads to be delivered to any location on earth, under its orbital path, with a high degree of precision. This targeting system will facilitate constant updating of potential target locations. Because we intend to equip the Krepost with this new capability, I recommend that the station be armed with multiple smaller nuclear warheads, rather than the single nuclear warhead of the Skorpion design.”
“Nyet,” stated the Chief. “That’s not something we’ll approve, at least for the time being. You’ll stick with the warhead you have.”
Seeing that he might be at least slightly overcoming the Chief’s resistance, Abdirov concluded, “Along with some specialized components that will be produced by my bureau, most of this concept draws from equipment being designed by Korolev and Chelomei bureaus. The life support components will be built around Chelomei’s Almaz space station. We also intend to employ the Chelomei bureau’s TKS unmanned resupply craft for replenishment. The Krepost will remain operational indefinitely. It will be crewed on a rotating basis, with the cosmonauts arriving and departing on the Soyuz spacecraft, produced by the Korolev bureau. My bureau will focus on the control module for deploying the warheads.”
“I think you meant to say warhead,” interjected the Chief.
“That’s correct, Comrade General.”
“You’re expecting the Korolev and Chelomei bureaus to cooperate on this Krepost of yours?” scoffed an Air Force general. “That’s not likely.”
“If this plan is approved, I will send liaison officers to their facilities, and they will produce their components independently. My personnel will take care of integrating their contributions.”
“Still, it’s very ambitious,” said the Air Force general.
The Chief loudly cleared his throat and then said, “Since our time is limited, let’s be clear: I understand that you’re proposing this Krepost scheme because you’ve arrived at the conclusion that the Skorpion design is flawed. Is that accurate?”
“Da, Comrade General,” replied Abdirov. “Frankly, given our current technological capabilities, I don’t think that the Skorpion design can be realized. Perhaps within the decade, maybe, but now.”
The Chief nodded and asked, “Then your Krepost is offered as a stopgap, correct?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
Signifying his assent, the Chief scrawled his signature on the front page of Abdirov’s report and then declared, “Your Krepost concept is tentatively approved as an interim measure. You are hereby granted all authority necessary to see it to fruition. If you encounter any resistance from any quarter, you will direct the offending parties to report to us for clarification.”
The Chief continued: “You will pursue this action with three caveats. First, even as your Krepost is made operational, you will continue to refine the Skorpion design, so that the manned Krepost is eventually replaced with the unmanned Skorpion.”
“As you wish, Comrade General,” replied Abdirov.
“Before we get to the second caveat, I must ask: Are you aware of the Perimetr system?”
“Da, Comrade General,” answered Abdirov. He had once received a technical briefing on Perimetr. Obsessed with the specter of their command and control systems being annihilated by an American first strike launched from submarines, some Soviet strategic planners contemplated a vast network of detection and control systems, Perimetr—also nicknamed the Dead Hand—which could automatically trigger a retaliatory strike with minimal human input. Ironically, such an outlandish notion had already been ridiculed by popular culture in the West; the 1964 film Dr. Strangelove, a dark comedy, portrayed a theoretical Doomsday device that inadvertently initiated global annihilation.
“Good. As you work on Skorpion, you will ensure that it can be integrated into the Perimetr system.”
“And the third caveat, Comrade General?” asked Abdirov.
“I like your sketches,” commented the Chief, examining Abdirov’s drawings. “But there’s something missing, and I would like it added. We believe that the Americans have not abandoned their satellite interceptor program. If that’s the case, this Krepost would be vulnerable to a robotic or remotely piloted satellite interceptor. To mitigate this contingency, you will ensure that the Krepost is equipped with adequate means of self-protection.”
“Da,” answered Abdirov. “Comrade General, I will pursue the development of the Krepost and continue development of the Skorpion, and will abide by your caveats. May I ask for your assistance in a personnel matter?”
The Chief nodded.
Abdirov handed a folder containing personnel dossiers to an aide, who presented them to the Chief. “I request that these men be assigned to my bureau,” he explained.
The Chief flipped open the folder and riffled through the dossiers. Pausing at one, he shook his head and slid it to the senior representative of the RSVN, who read it and then passed it to the represen
tative of the GRU. Both men looked up and shook their heads.
“Gregor Mikhailovich Yohzin?” asked the Chief.
“Da,” replied Abdriov.
“Yohzin’s a very competent officer and a superb engineer,” noted the RSVN general. “But we’ve always had questions about his allegiances. That’s why we keep him at Kapustin Yar, so that he can be kept under close scrutiny. I know that he might be invaluable to your efforts, Rustam, but we would prefer to keep him working in his current capacity.”
“Besides,” added the GRU general. “We have some chores for him in the near future.”
“So Yohzin is off limits to me?”
“At least for the time being,” answered the Chief. “But we will take this matter under advisement, and perhaps he can transferred to you later.”
“As you wish, Comrade General,” replied Abdirov.
“So, do you have anything else for us?” asked the Chief.
“Da,” replied Abdirov. “The Americans have a leg up on us in many aspects of aerospace technology. While I am confident that our glorious Socialist system will quickly catch up with them, it would certainly be useful if we were able to learn from their experience and not repeat their errors. If I had access to some of their technology, our program would be greatly accelerated.”
“What is it that you require, Rustam?” asked the GRU general.
Abdirov handed a large envelope to an aide, who brought it to the GRU general. “Ideally, we would like you to procure the actual objects, if at all possible,” he explained. “But in lieu of that, anything would be appreciated: documentation, blueprints, technical specifications, and the like.”
“We will do our utmost to obtain these objects you request, but I don’t see this as very feasible.” The GRU general smirked, rolling his eyes. “After all, you’re asking for some components from their Gemini spacecraft. That program just ended, and I can’t imagine that we could gain physical access to those materials. Certainly this technology is still of great value, especially”—he coughed and continued—“especially if it is superior to ours. I have to imagine that these spacecraft and everything associated with this program must be warehoused for contingency operations.”