Rocket Dawn

by Richard Tongue

  “Colonel Knox, we’re here to take you to the Archives,” Glazkov said.

  “At two in the morning?” Antonova asked, walking out of her bedroom, shrugging on her jacket.

  “That is by far the best time, Major. The streets are as quiet as they ever will be, and there are few prying eyes to watch our movements.” Knox opened the door, and Glazkov continued, “This is Professor Morozov. He came from the University of Vladivostok to assist you in your investigations.” Glancing at the dour-faced historian, he added, “I suspect that he hopes to be lecturing in a different institution in the near future.”

  “Perhaps the Space Force can see about that,” Knox replied with a smile. “You ready, Major?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said. She looked out of the window, and shivered, “Cold, even for here.”

  “I’ll have someone pack up your room,” Glazkov said. “You won’t be coming back here. It’s not safe. If there’s anything you don’t want to risk losing, you’d better take it with you.” The two of them hurriedly snatched a few small items, stuffing them in their pockets, then followed the driver out of the room, walking quietly along the dark corridor. The faint blast of roaring music was barely audible in the distance, and Glazkov said, “The manager’s holding a party downstairs. Lots of cheap drinks and worse singing. We thought it best to provide a distraction.”

  Knox chuckled, and said, “I like the way you think, Corporal.”

  “It was the General’s idea, actually.” He led the group into a service elevator, and said, “This will take us right down to the basement car park. In two minutes, the limousine that brought you here will be heading to the Spaceport with two actors in the back who bear something of a resemblance to you. Both of them are well aware of the risks they are running, though I suspect there will be few willing to launch another attack tonight.”

  “What about the Archives?” Antonova asked.

  “Oddly enough, two companies of Siberian Marines are holding night exercises in the old park next to it, and I am led to understand that some of them are choosing to stand inside rather than wander around in the cold.” He smiled, and added, “Discipline is so hard to maintain under these trying circumstances, I find.”

  The elevator jerked into life, shaking and rattling as it made its way down the shaft, Knox glancing across at the controls to see a pair of dangling wires where the emergency telephone had once been, the lights flickering on and off as they descended to the basement. The mechanism had likely never been properly maintained, even at the best of times, but now it was one quick malfunction away from a disaster. It was a relief when the doors opened, and the group bustled into a battered van, the engine already running, another soldier at the controls. They scrambled into the back, sitting on cramped wooden seats, and Glazkov tugged the door closed as the van drove into the night.

  “We ran through some checks on our suicide bomber,” Glazkov said. “Apparently her children received substantial payments in Euros to their bank accounts yesterday. All of them were on flights to Tatarstan by the time their mother set off the bomb. We’re not talking to them at the moment, so we’re having trouble working with the local authorities, but it’s a reasonable guess that they’re in one of the EuroFed Trust Territories by now. The Maghreb Union, maybe. Odds are we’ll never see them again.”

  “No argument there,” Knox replied.

  “They’re really taking this seriously, aren’t they,” Antonova said.

  “Maybe. Or maybe someone else is taking advantage of that fact.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Payment in Euros, passage for the children to a Euro-friendly successor state? Just seems a little convenient. They’d have to know that we’d go through all of these checks, one way or another. They couldn’t be so arrogant as to think that we wouldn’t work out what they were doing sooner or later.” He paused, shook his head, and said, “It’s probably nothing. I may just be overthinking this.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” Glazkov replied, as the van thudded and bumped over a deteriorating road. “We will be at the Archives in a moment. This van is normally used by the cleaning staff, and we are taking their place in the schedule tonight. The building itself will be closed tomorrow for maintenance on its bathrooms. It has been made clear that there will be most unpleasant odors in the air.”

  Frowning, Knox asked, “You said you were a Corporal?”

  “For the last eight years. Promotions are few and far between.” He cracked a smile, and added, “General Baker has been most generous in recent months, I confess.”

  Shaking her head, Antonova replied, “Perhaps it would be better for you to labor for your country.”

  “This is not my country. I simply happened to be here when Minsk was destroyed.”

  “I’m sorry,” Knox replied.

  “So was my first wife,” Glazkov said. “It was a long time ago, Colonel. That was another man. Not the one I have become.” He glanced at his watch again, and said, “We should be almost there, I think.” The van skidded on the road, then lurched to the left, and Knox heard the sound of heavy doors slamming shut, then hushed voices outside for a long moment before the back door was opened, revealing a cold, dark garage beyond.

  “Not a pleasant entrance,” Morozov said, brushing the dust from his hands as he stepped out of the van. “There is, however, a staircase leading directly to my office. I understand that you are interested in files associated with Soviet unmanned expeditions in the period between 1967 and 69? There are more than a hundred thousand documents that might match those descriptions, but if we can hit the index, we can probably come up with something for you.” He led the way to a battered fire door, pulling it open with an effort to reveal a spiral stairway beyond. He reached for the light switch, cursing under his breath when it yielded no results, and began his climb, the others following.

  “We’re especially interested in any failed attempts at interplanetary missions during that period,” Antonova said. “Any records that the government classified.”

  With a wry smile, the academic replied, “We have many such files here, some that even the Russian Federation judged too sensitive to release. That is of little importance now, of course, but I simply have not the budget to allow anything other than the most cursory examination of these records. It would be better if they could be transferred to a facility that would permit their preservation. As it is, I fear they are simply doomed to decay.”

  The doors slid open, and they walked down a dusty corridor, half the light fittings bereft of bulbs, a pair of Siberian marines standing sharply to attention as they entered the Professor’s office, stacks of dusty journals and boxes of worn disks scattered all around. He gestured to an archaic computer with an apologetic air, walking over to the well-used keyboard and entering in a long password. Corporal Glazkov nodded, waiting outside with the guards.

  “We have better equipment, of course, but so many of the records are stored on old computer mediums. I think the last big digital archive project we had was begun under Yeltsin. I have some engineers at the University who once operated supercomputers, now working into the night to keep old eight-bit machines working.” He sighed, and said, “Such is the way of things, I suppose. Can you tell me anything more specific about what you might be looking for?”

  “I can operate this machine,” Antonova said, looking over the disks. “Professor, are any of these a catalog of the rest, some sort of index?”

  “The top one. I thought it would interest you. I brought those I could think of up here when Corporal Glazkov indicated your interest, but the rest can be obtained as you wish, along with any paper records you might want. Most of them still survive, at least in theory, but the storage conditions have proven terrible. The cold, the damp. I hate to think what state our records are in. I cannot even begin a proper survey. Mind, Colonel. The legacy of generations is rotting in this frozen wasteland, lost and forgotten.”

  “Perhaps som
ething can be done about that in the future,” Knox said. “Professor, do you know of any Soviet missions to asteroids? Anything planned, even?”

  “There were many plans, few of which evolved into reality, Colonel, but I don’t believe I ever heard of anything progressing as far as the hardware stage. Though there were probe types that could perhaps have accomplished such a mission, and as long as it was close enough to Earth in terms of delta-V, certainly the Soviet Union had the capability to launch such a mission, though whether or not it would have been successful is another matter altogether.”

  “What about this,” Knox said, reaching for his phone and displaying the image of the Blok-D booster gathered from Parker Observatory. “I know what it is, but can you tell the vintage?”

  “That’s a very early design. From the days of the Soviet lunar program, as far as I can tell. They dreamed great dreams in those days.” He frowned, then said, “They were used in some missions, of course. Notably the Zond probes to the moon. There’s a bit of a puzzle regarding those.”

  “Zond 4,” Antonova said. “I should have thought of that. It never made that much sense.”

  “What’s so strange about that mission?” Knox asked.

  “It didn’t really go anywhere. It was launched on a trajectory well away from the moon, executed a figure-eight and returned to Earth. Except that it was destroyed prior to landing, when its return trajectory was off-course. It was always claimed that the mission went precisely as had been intended, of course. My assessment was that it was an attempt to cover up some sort of accident, something that went wrong.”

  “Major,” Knox began. “Hit the archives, see if you can find…

  “Way ahead of you,” Antonova replied. “There isn’t much here, though. Professor, I’m getting a listing for a series of physical files that don’t appear to have been transcribed.”

  “I’ll send someone to go and fetch them,” Morozov said, rising wearily from his seat and making for the door. “The Zond probes could easily have undertaken the mission you are talking about. They certainly had all the needed capabilities in terms of delta-V and endurance.”

  “Those were testbeds of the planned manned lunar craft, weren’t they,” Knox said.

  “But by then, I think it was obvious that we weren’t going to get to the moon first,” the academic replied. “The hardware was used for whatever purpose could be made of it, regardless of its original design intentions.” He opened the door, muttering instructions to one of the guards, while Antonova slid a disk into her computer, a faint whirring sound resounding from the disk drive.

  “Data from the probe,” she said. “It was marked confidential. Course computations. Nothing significant, unless it ended up going a lot further than the records suggest.” She turned to Knox, and said, “Though surely if your tracking networks had spotted a Soviet probe going further than history records, there’d be some notification about it somewhere. Even if it never made the public domain.”

  “We’re talking about more than six decades ago. That’s a long time. Paper records converted to digital, then again as recording mediums changed. Though it’s certainly worth investigating. I just wonder…”

  “Got it,” she said, a cursor winking on the monitor. “It’s been a while since I’ve worked with something this archaic.” She pulled out her phone, bringing up the carefully calculated course computations for the incoming asteroid, and turned to Knox with a look of triumph on her face. “It matches. The probe launched at precisely the right time for an intercept, two million miles from home. Eight times as far as history records. Zond 4 wasn’t a failed lunar probe at all. It went exactly where the men who launched it wanted it to go.”

  “And blew up on its way home,” Knox replied. “Though that just adds to the list of mysteries.” He looked at the monitor, and added, “Major, that’s not a flyby trajectory. Look at the Blok-D burn. It rendezvoused with the asteroid. It stayed there.” He looked at her, and said, “What if it never left?”

  “You think the probe might still be out there? That it didn’t burn up at all?” Shaking her head, she added, “Something did. Something must have slammed into the atmosphere. Too many people saw it…”

  “The discarded third stage of the Proton booster used to place the probe onto its outward trajectory.”

  “That fits, well enough. It’s even possible that ground-side tracking networks might have missed the final burn. That’s why it wasn’t recorded.”

  “I’m not sure about that, but we’re definitely heading in the right direction.” Knox smiled, turning to see Morozov walking back into the room, a thick file in his hands. “What have you got there?”

  “Possible proof of your theory. The recorded flight data from Zond 4, all the readings picked up by the instruments. Photographs, spectrographs, magnetic readings, everything. Even if the probe itself didn’t make it back, it certainly sent messages from home.” He tapped the aged cardboard, and said, “This is only some of the information from the scientific package, but it ought to be enough to give us a good start.” He handed it to Antonova, who began to rifle through the paperwork.

  “It’s going to take a while to go through all this. We’re going to need a top geologist, for a start.”

  “I’m sure we can rustle one up. At the very least I’m pretty sure that we’ve found everything we came here to get.” He glanced at his watch, and said, “Professor, is there any more paperwork down there we might be able to use? Anything might be useful at this stage. Design specifications for the booster and the probe, trajectory and communications data.”

  “Perhaps.” He paused, then asked, “What is your interest in all of this, anyway? Forgive an old man’s curiosity, but I can’t help but wonder why the United States Space Force is going to such extreme effort to make a few corrections in the history books, corrections which would likely be to your detriment. I am proud of what we accomplished, but I will be the first to admit that our scientific instruments were somewhat limited in those days. There is unlikely to be anything in our files that tell you anything you do not know already.”

  “It’s quite simple, Professor,” Glazkov said, stepping into the room, pistol in hand. “The moon that our ancestors reached sixty-five years ago is on its way back, and the Space Force wants to steal our heritage, our legacy, our birthright, unless we can find a way to stop them.” He looked at Knox, and said, “No moves, Colonel, or I will be forced to do something that we will both regret.”

  “You’re working for EuroFed,” Knox said, shaking his head.

  “I’m afraid so. I’ve got to support my family somehow, after all. CosmoTech pays well, but not that well. I have significant expenses. You understand, I hope.” He gestured for one of the marines to move forward, relieving Knox and Antonova of their sidearms. “We’re going to be taking a little trip. I have some friends that are eagerly looking forward to your acquaintance.”

  “Why not just kill us all now and get it over with?” Morozov asked.

  With a toothy smile, Glazkov replied, “Not at all, Professor. We’re not going to kill you. The three of you are far more valuable alive, at least for the present. We’ve got far too many questions to ask.” He smiled, then said, “About a wide range of topics, I understand.”

  “What are they paying you?” Knox asked, “We’ll double it.”

  “I doubt you could,” Glazkov said. He gestured to the door, and said, “I think it best we leave the way we came. Nobody will disturb us. After you.”

  Chapter 6

  This time, the ride was even more uncomfortable than it had been before, Knox, Antonova and Morozov unceremoniously dumped in the back of the truck with their hands tightly tied. All of them strained and struggled against their bonds in an attempt to break free, but they had been secured by experts, the knots tied tightly enough to prevent them being worked loose.

  “Where are you taking us?” Knox yelled.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” Glazkov replied. “I wou
ldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  Grimacing as she struggled with her restraints, Antonova asked, “What now?”

  “We wait for an opportunity and take it when it comes. Failing that, they’ll either kill us, or sooner or later the State Department will work out some sort of prisoner exchange and get us home.”

  “Even me?” Morozov gloomily replied. “I doubt my government will lift a finger for an old academic.”

  “Relax, Professor. The Space Force protects its own. We’ll find a way to get you free. My word on it.”

  The truck bumped over the road, then suddenly the ride grew smoother, the vehicle skimming over a better-maintained patch of road. In the distance, Knox could hear noises, the whine of an aero-engine, and the truck skimmed to a stop, the brakes complaining and whining as the vehicle came to rest. The back doors were pulled open, and Knox looked out onto a long airstrip, the surrounding buildings decayed and crumbling, a pair of gleaming fighters in Siberian livery being prepared for launch by a pair of grim-faced technicians.

  “Where’s our ride?” he asked, as Glazkov stepped inside, dragging the prisoners out, one at a time. He lined them up on the runway, the three of them shivering in the cold night air, then gestured for his fellow guard to release them, the ropes hacked through with a knife. Knox flexed his arms, looking around, judging whether he might be able to manage an escape, but quickly dismissing the possibility. He had no idea where they were, only that the empty airstrip would make an excellent killing ground for the lethal-looking rifles nestling in the arms of the guards.

  “Is this the end of the line?” Antonova asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Glazkov said. He raised his rifle, turned, then short his comrade squarely in the chest, turning to bring down the technicians with cold efficiency, dropping them before they could draw their pistols, before they could respond to the unexpected attack. The renegade looked around, sighed, then said, “Those are your rides. I hope you’ve both had practice flying supersonic jets. I had to improvise this part.”