A Step Beyond (3 page)

“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 from 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.”

B
ehind 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 will 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?”

T
itov 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.

He had been fine until he had talked to her. He was not concerned about himself; he had accepted his death. He knew there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Nor was he overly concerned about her. She was a strong woman. She would marry again and probably sooner than either one of them would feel comfortable predicting. But she had a way of stirring his emotions in unpredictable ways. He felt that all he had worked for, his high hopes of a grand and historic contribution, would now end in an unavoidable setback to the program. He thought of his children and wondered how they would handle his death. His son possessed an understanding of death, and this troubled Titov greatly because he knew his son would suffer. But he also knew that in a few years his youngest child wouldn’t even remember him. And that pained Titov even more. He opened his eyes. To his surprise, he saw tiny droplets of water floating before him. Titov had never seen tears in zero gravity before. They looked tranquil and pure.

With a swift swipe of his hand the tears broke into a thousand smaller tears and scattered across the room. It would not do for his men to see him like this.

The Brick Moon

Four years later . . .

M
ission specialist Dr. Carl Endicott, the Canadian member of the American-led crew, twisted his face into an exaggerated grimace as he brought up the day’s menu on the high-definition screen along the galley wall. Thermostabilized, irradiated corned beef with rehydratable asparagus, two slices of irradiated, natural-form bread, intermediate moisture-dried peaches, powdered lemonade, and peanuts. Endicott, who enjoyed fine cuisine, found his appetite considerably diminished. The dehydrated food they served on the International Space Station
Unity
was a far cry from the thin slices of chateaubriand with béarnaise that had been his last, now deeply savored, meal on Earth.

He pulled six trays from a lower cabinet and attached them vertically to the magnetic strips on the doors of the galley. He opened the drawer marked
DAY 1 MEAL A THRU DAY 5 MEAL C
. Tightly packed side by side and arranged by day, each meal was wrapped in a prunelike plastic bag. He selected the bag marked
DAY 3 MEAL B
. It was not much larger than a book, but it contained enough food for six astronauts. Examining the bag, he sighed. The rehydratable food expanded and slowly assumed a more reasonable size as he injected water into the individual packages. He turned on the small oven and placed the plastic bags and aluminum pouches inside.

Lieutenant Colonel Al Carter propelled himself from the far wall and floated eagerly toward Endicott. He was amused by the doctor’s dislike of space food, and goaded him by sniffing the air suspiciously.