Stepanov’s expression said he took none. He spoke calmly. “Major Gromova doesn’t speak English, and might be injured because of this new situation. There is no question. I must go also.”
The Captain looked at his XO. “He’s got a point, and our orders are clear that we provide full support to the cosmonaut. Put him on the same helo as Kaz, keep him out of trouble.”
The XO started to speak, thought better of it and nodded. “Aye aye, sir.” He nodded at the two men and headed rapidly towards the ladder leading down to the deck. “You come with me. We’ll get you outfitted fast and on your way. We’ve got a lost space capsule to catch.”
Kaz looked around inside the Sea King as it throbbed noisily, powering nose-low through the air at max speed towards the southwest. He was relieved that this wasn’t a typical Apollo recovery crew, with safety divers and medicos. Filling the seats around Stepanov and himself were six large men, all wearing coveralls and heavy boots, each cradling an MP5 submachine gun on a shoulder strap, with a Colt M1911 pistol clipped on their webbed belt. The XO had decided that with the Soviet ship nearby there was potential for military action, and these men were the masters-at-arms of the New Orleans—the cross-trained sailors responsible for law enforcement at sea.
Sitting to Kaz’s left was a black-haired man with a wide black mustache, the senior rate in the group. He’d shouted instructions as they’d hurried aboard the helo, and Kaz leaned close now to make himself heard through the earplugs, above the din.
“I’m Lieutenant Commander Kaz Zameckis, detailed with NASA. What briefing did your team get?”
“Petty Officer First Class Colombo, sir. We didn’t get much of a briefing; the XO said the Apollo capsule has two astronauts and a cosmonaut aboard, be nearby for a show of force and take action only if needed.” He looked at his men. “We had some pretty hairy times up the Vietnam coast and in the P.I., and have been training together this whole cruise. We’re ready if something happens.”
Kaz nodded. “Some of you may have to go into the water.”
“Yep, we’ve got gear.” He pointed at several large duffel bags inside the aft loading ramp. “I’ll get the guys dressed when we’re closer. No use overheating for now.”
Kaz leaned farther, talking directly into the man’s ear so he wouldn’t be overheard. “If the XO didn’t tell you, the guy with me is a Soviet attaché, likely military. Need to keep an eye on him.”
Colombo nodded without looking and said, “My men can handle it.”
Kaz sat back, satisfied. Stepanov was sitting motionless, staring straight ahead. Kaz thought back: the Russian had shown no surprise when they’d learned the capsule was landing short. Then again, he hadn’t yet shown any emotion. Did he somehow expect it? Kaz had spent another full hour of the night in his bunk thinking through possibilities before finally falling asleep, and had briefed Al Shepard over breakfast. They’d agreed direct crew communication from Moscow might have been possible; this event only heightened the concern.
He turned back to the mustached Colombo.
“I’d like a gun as well.”
Colombo turned and spoke into Kaz’s ear. “We have extra in the bag. I’ll get you one at a good moment.”
58
Splashdown Zone
The g-load came on even more suddenly this time, like a skipping stone badly thrown into a pond; instead of skimming into the water at an angle, Pursuit was falling, nearly vertical, into the rapidly thickening air below. Michael called out the readings on the digital display, grunting more and more as the weight increased.
“There’s five. Now six.” He strained to take a quick breath. “Seven, eight . . . there’s nine!” The flames on the other side of the glass deepened to an intense yellow, the cockpit glowing like it was on fire. On Pursuit’s belly, the three-inch-thick protective plate of fiberglass and epoxy resin took the brunt of it, burning off and vaporizing in the 5,000-degree, friction-driven heat. Through the windows the three of them watched the roiling sheets of flame and continuous sparks of burnt resin whipping past.
And then they were through. The crushing force disappeared like someone had just lifted it off them, and the windows filled with the blue of the sky. The capsule was now simply a skydiver plummeting straight down at 250 miles an hour, 5 miles above the Pacific, waiting for her parachute to open.
Bang! The noise of small explosives came through their helmets as a metal cover blew off the top of Pursuit and two small drogue chutes mortared out behind it. The beyond-hurricane-force wind caught the fabric and snapped the unreefing chutes fully open, yanking the lines taut, pushing the crew hard down into their seats.