A Step Beyond Read online

  “Yes,” Chertok replied.

  Titov opened the portal separating the aft cabin and mid-cabin, allowing Chertok to step through. Upon entering the cabin, Chertok stopped to survey his surroundings as the door closed behind him. By the dim light of the emergency lamps, he could make out the microscope on the laboratory bench to his left, and directly above him a stationary bike; the control console was to his left on the forward wall. The room was compact and for that reason had always seemed disorganized, but as far as he could tell everything was in its proper place.

  He carefully made his way toward the control console. Upon reaching the console he engaged the emergency power and switched on the lights. The sound of his breathing, amplified by the silence, reverberated through his helmet as he rotated slowly. The room was hauntingly still. He spoke into his microphone.

  “Everything appears to be in order, nothing damaged or disturbed. I will proceed to the forward portal.”

  “Be careful.”

  Chertok obtained a high-powered flashlight from a supply cabinet and propelled himself in the direction of the flight deck. Although he had expected some damage, he was not at all prepared for the devastation he saw. For nearly a minute he stared in disbelief, without speaking, without hearing Titov’s voice demanding a response. There was a blackened body, arms extended, floating in the middle of the room. Chertok felt a surge of nausea. He started gasping for air—and as the initial symptoms of hyperventilation seized him, he regained his senses enough to decrease the oxygen flow through his suit. He became aware of Titov’s anxious voice ordering him to report.

  “Sergei . . .” He swallowed and began again. “Sergei is dead. I can see his body. The flight deck console is destroyed.”

  “Clarify ‘destroyed,’ Mikhail.”

  “It is not there. Gone. Torn from the wall. Just a bunch of dangling wires. Hold on . . . There is a hole.”

  “How wide is the breach?”

  “Approximately twenty centimeters in diameter.”

  Twenty centimeters, thought Titov. What in the world could blow a hole in the side of his hull twenty centimeters wide? A meteoroid possibly. The Volnost was constantly being bombarded by micrometeoroids; in fact, Russian scientists had estimated the ship would be struck over two billion times in the course of its journey by particles less than one-ten-thousandth of a gram. But the Volnost had an outer shell that protected it against such collisions. He estimated the object would have had to be at least a gram in size to pierce the shell. The odds were less than one in ten thousand that they would be struck by a particle that large.

  It was more likely that the breach had been caused by an internal explosion, he thought. Considering the amount of time and effort expended to ensure the safety of the ship, such an explosion seemed unlikely. But not as unlikely as being struck by a meteoroid large enough to wreak this degree of havoc. The Russian engineers had not provided him with the probability of such an occurrence, just their assurance it would not happen. It was a recognized danger, and contingency plans had been prepared, but their effectiveness depended upon the extent of the damage.

  “Any indication of what may have created the hole?” Titov asked.

  “It is too dark to make out much detail.”

  “Is the metal at the edge of the opening bent inward or outward?” Gorbatko asked. His thoughts regarding possible causes had paralleled Titov’s.

  “I cannot tell from here,” Chertok responded.

  “Commence depressurization of the cabin,” Titov said.

  They had the equipment and materials to patch a breach. It was a standard drill, and they had practiced it several times underwater. Titov was more disturbed by the damage to the flight-deck console. Without the console they would be unable to alter the course of the Volnost. He wondered how Gorbatko was progressing. Pushing against the wall, Titov propelled himself toward the engineer.

  “Appears we’re going to have to do without the main processor,” Gorbatko said.

  Titov nodded that he understood. He sat down and brought up the directory for the habitat computer. It contained many of the same files as the main processor, but was not powerful enough to perform some of the more complex functions. He was studying a schematic of the ship when an image of the forward cabin appeared on monitor one. Chertok had entered the flight deck and was scanning his surroundings with the remote video camera. The burned shell of the cabin swung back and forth on the monitor. Pieces of the console floated within a maze of twisted metal and loose wires. The camera lingered on Demin’s charred remains for a moment, then turned away. Chertok located the breach. It enlarged and filled the screen as the camera zoomed in. Titov could see stars through the hole. Although he had anticipated the damage, he had not expected it to be so bad.

  “Looks like the explosion was caused by an external force,” Gorbatko said. “The metal of the opening is definitely bent inward.”

  The camera made several slow circles outside the hole, revealing sheets of twisted metal blackened by the explosion. Titov grew pale as he studied the monitor.

  “I think it is the remnants of the main oxygen tank,” he said. “Mikhail, if you could scan to the left. Back a little. It looks as if both tanks are gone. Boris, check the reserve tanks.”

  “One second,” Gorbatko replied. His throat went dry. The two reserve tanks were located in the aft cabin and contained a forty-eight-hour supply of oxygen for six men. Titov had already switched over to the reserve tanks.

  “Ninety-five percent full,” Gorbatko replied. They were six months from Earth with less than two days’ worth of air. A long minute passed in uneasy silence. Titov could see the fear building in the eyes of his men. A thought occurred to him, but in the back of his mind he wasn’t sure if it would work.

  “We still have a chance,” he said. “It may be possible to dock with the supply ship.”

  He had their attention. They all knew that the supply ship had been designed to accommodate the crew in the event the Volnost experienced catastrophic failure.

  “Without a flight deck we are unable to control the Volnost, but Kaliningrad can still control the supply ship. If they can bring her in close enough to dock, we could transfer over. I will contact ground control and consult with them regarding the rendezvous. They can perform the calculations to determine the feasibility. Meanwhile, we need to proceed with our investigation of the damage.” He switched on his microphone. “Mikhail?”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  “We have less than forty-eight hours of oxygen. It is imperative that we act quickly. We need to salvage what we can, as quickly as we can. I want you to gather the necessary gear to patch the breach so that we can restore pressure to the flight deck.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Titov turned to face his crew, and said firmly, “I would appreciate any other suggestions that you may have.”

  Colonel Leonid Schebalin stood in the main hall of mission control with his hands clasped behind his back. He appeared to be unaware of the noise and commotion that surrounded him. His uniform was sharply pressed and crisp, his boots recently polished; despite his haste to reach mission control that morning, he had taken extra care to make himself presentable. He knew that before the day was out he would be delivering a statement to the press.

  “Play back the video,” ordered Schebalin. There was no need to review the video again; the first time he saw it, he knew the deck was beyond repair. But it seemed so unreal, the charred cabin with floating wires and the blackened body and a breach in the hull the size of a man’s head. He watched it as he had watched tapes of the Challenger explosion, over and over again, his thoughts shifting between disbelief and curiosity. Perhaps there was something he could spot that might make a difference; that was his hope and the hope of the people who occasionally glanced up at him. Forty-seven hours, he thought, might very well turn out to be a blessing.

  He checked the clock on the wall. It was five o’clock; most of Russia was still in bed. Sipping fro
m his coffee cup, he peered over the rim at Emil Levchenko.

  The disheveled scientist shuffled from one terminal to the next, shaking his head, obviously not pleased with the information his colleagues were providing him. He picked up a printout from one desk and, after a quick glance, threw it back down. He spoke with the scientist at the desk and could be heard throughout the control room as he raised his voice to instruct him to redo his calculations.

  Schebalin went to his office and closed the door. On his desk were several contingency plans. He sat down to review them, and was soon interrupted by a knock on his door. It was a propulsion specialist with an update. After several hours of reviewing contingency plans and listening to progress reports, he had learned nothing to give him hope. With a growing sense of defeat, he closed his eyes and prayed. It was an unusual act for him, for he didn’t believe in God. Then he wondered how Levchenko was coming along. If there was a solution, he felt certain that Levchenko would find it. The young scientist was the architect of the Mars mission, the driving force behind the reinvigorated Russian space program. Schebalin picked up the phone and called him to his office.

  When Levchenko appeared several minutes later, Schebalin motioned for him to take a seat on the other side of the desk. The scientist’s shirt was partially untucked and looked as if it had been slept in. He sat down and began bouncing the eraser of his pencil against his right knee. He smiled nervously at Schebalin.

  “Well?” Schebalin asked impatiently.

  “It can’t be done. The supply ship will never make it to them in time,” responded Levchenko.

  “Why not? The ships are supposed to be within two days of each other at all times.”

  “They are, assuming the Volnost can maneuver. But it can’t. Their current trajectories make it impossible for the supply ship to reach the Volnost in two days. We have run several simulations, and even with best-case coefficients it would take approximately four weeks to complete the rendezvous. Basically, the two-day dock required the Volnost to be maneuverable, not the supply ship. Additional time was also required to compensate for the deviation in course caused by the explosion. Twenty-seven days is the best I can do.”

  Schebalin had suspected the damage would be too great, but all the same he was taken aback by the number of days required to complete a rendezvous. The supply ship was to be no more than two days away. How could two days possibly stretch to twenty-seven? As though he could read Schebalin’s thoughts, Levchenko shoved his paperwork across the desk.

  “A contingency for this sort of accident was never developed. It was considered fatal. Frankly, they are lucky to be alive.”

  “I’m not so sure of that.”

  “You know what I mean,” Levchenko responded, hurt by Schebalin’s tone.

  “Sorry.” Schebalin took a deep breath, pushed his chair back, and looked up at the ceiling. “Well, then, we need a miracle.”

  “A miracle would be helpful,” responded Levchenko. “The damage could be superficial. In which case, they could repair the flight deck enough to maneuver the ship. However, the video gives us good reason to believe the damage was anything but superficial.”

  “Could they build a bypass?”

  “They have lost critical circuitry.”

  Schebalin had to agree about the damage.

  “Any other miracles?” he asked.

  “None come to mind.”

  “If their only chance is to repair the Volnost, then we will concentrate our efforts on that objective.”

  “Why give them false hope?”

  Schebalin paused at this. “Would you rather give up?”

  “No,” Levchenko replied meekly. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable; although he sympathized with Schebalin’s desire, he did not share his optimism and felt guilty because of it. He didn’t want to appear uncaring, but he had to be realistic.

  “I just—” began Levchenko, attempting to explain.

  They were interrupted by the buzz of Schebalin’s intercom. “Yes.”

  “Sir, the general is here.”

  “Send him in.” Schebalin smiled awkwardly at Levchenko. “I need to speak to the general alone.”

  Behind a glass panel overlooking the control room sat the wives and a few of the older children. They watched a timer, a computer image in the lower corner of the main monitor, which tracked the remaining minutes of the emergency oxygen supply. Ten hours, forty-three minutes, and fifty-two seconds flashed across the screen, and with each second that appeared and disappeared they knew there was one less breath of oxygen for their husbands, their fathers, to breathe. The cosmonauts had been informed that morning, thirty hours after the explosion, that a rescue attempt would not be possible.

  Each family was waiting its turn to send a final transmission. They were allotted fifteen minutes apiece, and had to wait nearly thirty minutes for the response. Katrina, Gorbatko’s wife, was the first to return. She was smiling, her makeup streaked with tears, and although she walked with her head held high, she had to be guided by two cadets. She did not see the floor before her; her eyes were blank, her thoughts consumed by images from the transmission. As they entered the waiting room, Valentina Titov went over to Katrina and assisted her to a chair. They sat and hugged each other. Katrina cried softly as her eldest son handed her another tissue. Valentina thought of her children, who were home at her husband’s request. He wanted to spare them the ordeal. He would send them a special transmission that they could view at home. Several minutes passed before Valentina realized the two young cadets were still there, standing at attention only a few feet away. She looked up, puzzled.

  “Mrs. Titov, whenever you are ready.”

  Colonel Schebalin would occasionally look up and over his shoulder at the wives behind the glass window, but never for more than a few seconds. He felt guilty, as if he were to blame. Though he told himself that he was no more responsible than anyone else in the room, somehow that didn’t help. He felt the resentment of the wives and children. They did not display it in their faces or in their manner. It was not outwardly evident at all. But it was there. Whenever he looked up at them, they would smile sadly and politely nod, and he felt more uncomfortable than he would have had they been pointing accusing fingers at him. He was certain they blamed him.

  As Valentina Titov was led away to say her final good-bye to her husband, Schebalin looked down at his watch—it was five minutes until the press conference. He headed straight for the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face, then grabbed a towel to stop the water from running down onto his shirt. He studied his face in the mirror. His eyes were encircled by dark rings. His lips were pale. He ran a comb through his hair and patted his face dry. It seemed to help. He took several deep breaths, straightened his back, and made for the conference room.

  The room burst into blinding flashes of light as he entered. With his arms waving like a blind man’s, he felt his way to the podium. The flashes subsided, and his eyes slowly adjusted. He recognized several of the reporters; many of them were regulars, assigned exclusively to the Russian space program. He also recognized reporters he had not expected to see, famous television personalities from the United States, Japan, and the European Community. They must have flown in last night, thought Schebalin, shortly after the story broke. The Russian press occupied the first several rows. Schebalin felt perspiration roll down his back; the room was unusually warm.

  “Gentlemen and ladies, I have a short opening statement, after which I will answer any questions you may have.”

  With unusual quickness the conversations stopped, and after a brief rustling of papers and shifting of chairs the room went quiet.

  “At 10:00 A.M. this morning we reached the unfortunate conclusion that a rescue attempt would not be possible. Without the ability to maneuver the Volnost, a rendezvous with the supply ship would take a minimum of twenty-seven days. As you know, the reserve tanks held only forty-eight hours of oxygen. The details are outlined in the press kits, which wi
ll be distributed at the doors when you exit. The cosmonauts were informed at 10:05. They decided to continue their investigation of the explosion. We have reason to believe the ship was struck by a meteoroid.”

  Several of the reporters started shouting questions, but Schebalin motioned them to remain quiet.

  “The press kits contain everything we know at this point.” He looked back down at the prepared text. “As I stand here talking to you, the cosmonauts and their families are exchanging final farewells. President Kerimov will be speaking with them after the families. At 4:12 A.M., five minutes before their oxygen supply is scheduled to run out, the cosmonauts will confine themselves to their individual sleeping compartments, where they will take a pill that will painlessly end their lives. The Russian Space Agency deeply regrets the lost of these fine cosmonauts. We are conducting an exhaustive investigation and analysis. With the help of the data Commander Titov and his crew are providing us, our intent is to design ships that will reduce the risk associated with this type of collision and ensure that these brave heroes did not give their lives in vain.”

  When Schebalin finished he looked out at the reporters, his eyes moist and slightly pink. He smiled sadly.

  “They were great men,” he said. “I was privileged to call them my friends.” He paused, not sure what to say next. He wanted to express his feelings. There was an awkward silence; for once, the reporters seemed at a loss for words. Schebalin cleared his throat. “Any questions?”

  Titov was floating in midair, his eyes shut, his legs and arms extended. He had just said good-bye to his wife, who, by now, was listening to the first part of his transmission. He had tried to picture her in his mind, her firm, elegant features, the concern in her eyes, her hands and how they would be cupped properly in her lap. He had told her about his fears of what their failure would do to the space program. This troubled him deeply. He did not want to be responsible for the delay their failure would undoubtedly bring. The Russian Space Agency should have waited for the Americans. Combining the efforts of more than one nation could only result in a safer, more reliable mission. Redundancies were not as cost-prohibitive. He had dwelled on these concerns far longer than he had intended, and suddenly only a few minutes were remaining to him. He’d quickly told her to find someone else. Now he imagined her shaking her head, telling his delayed image that it was foolish even to suggest such a thing, while his image continued to talk, ignoring her objections, telling her how much it loved her.