Christ, I’m not going to make it! Michael thought. Every time he’d caught a glimpse of the raft it was getting away from him. He decided to let go of his kit just as he heard the female voice scream, and changed his mind, keeping the strap inside his elbow. He strained again to look, and saw a hand waving. Kicking harder, he pulled as strongly as he could with his free arm, cupping his gloved hand to get the most out of every stroke. He stole another glance and the raft seemed slightly closer.
He heard her voice yelling again—“Da, Da!”—and kept pulling, timing his strokes with each wave, clumsily trying to bodysurf with the kit in between crests. He thought her calls were getting louder, and craned his head up, relieved to see the raft just 10 feet away. “Syudah!” she shouted again, with one of her arms over the side, reaching for him. He gave a final maximum-effort stroke and found her hand, their gloved fingers locking together. She reached over the edge with her other hand and grabbed the kit as he twisted to find a handrail. Kicking and heaving with the last of his strength, with Svetlana pulling on the back of his neck ring, he got his upper torso onto the inflated curve of the raft, and with one final kick, tumbled in against Chad and Svetlana.
A jumble of bodies crammed into a pitching three-man raft, being blown steadily away from their spacecraft towards the open, empty, windswept Pacific.
Michael spoke first, in heaving breaths, to Svetlana. “Thank you! How do you say it? Spasiba?”
“Nyeh za shto,” she responded. It was nothing. She handed him the kit, anticipating what was inside.
Michael took a breath to gather himself. He unzipped the package, pulling out two heavy, army-green metal blocks. He held them up to her. “Radio!”
Svetlana nodded. “ Znayoo.” I know.
Michael twisted his wrist rings to release his gloves from the sleeves of the suit, and peeled the heavy wet fabric off his hands. He tucked them into his leg pockets, and with bare fingers slid the cylindrical battery into the radio, twisted the cap into place and clicked the thumb-wheel to turn it on. Immediately there was an audible hiss of static, and he screwed on the whip antenna. He knew from training that they were now transmitting an emergency beacon signal, and that by pushing the button on the side, they could talk.
“Give me that,” Chad said. “I’ll call in the helos.” He held out his hand.
Michael looked at him across the length of the raft, paused for a second and then shrugged. “You’re the boss.” He leaned forward, handing it over. Svetlana, watching the exchange, understood what had just happened. Tipeechny. Typical.
Chad held the radio up to his ear and pushed the button. “Rescue Forces, this is the Apollo 18 crew. We’ve exited the spacecraft and are secure in the raft.” He looked back at Pursuit in the distance as the waves bobbed them up and down, and up at the Sun. “We’ve been blown about a hundred yards downwind, to the northeast, and are continuing to drift, with sea anchor deployed. Crew is fine, and so is the cosmonaut.” He released the button and turned the thumbwheel up until he could clearly hear the static, waiting for a response.
There was none.
He was bringing the radio to his mouth to transmit again, when he saw the sea begin erupting between them and Pursuit. Michael and Svetlana had been watching his face as he talked; when they saw his change of expression, they whipped around to look.
It seemed like the waves were calming somehow, and then as if they were parting. The dark water went suddenly clear in the sunlight, weirdly distorting up and over some unseen shape, the waves turning white as they broke alongside it.
Emerging from the depths, the broad, jet-black hull of an enormous submarine crested out of the water. All three of them looked back along its length to the upthrust conning tower, its diving planes protruding out like stubby wings. There were no markings on the glistening black hull; it was like a monstrous metal whale, unexpectedly there beside them.
A head appeared over the edge of the conning tower, and a megaphone appeared. They heard a brief squeal and then a male voice hailed them in Russian, the sound distinct above the wind and the waves.
“Major Gromova, welcome back to Earth. We are launching a rescue boat. Stand by to be brought aboard.”
“Holy shit!” Michael yelled. “Chad, I don’t know what he just said, but we need Navy helo support ASAP!” As they watched, a hatch pivoted open on the submarine’s forward deck, and men started climbing out onto the wet flat surface.
Chad nodded, his mind racing. He pushed the button again on the radio. “Rescue Forces, this is the Apollo 18 crew. A submarine has surfaced and they’re taking the cosmonaut. Need assistance immediately.”