He exhaled loudly through his nose and walked towards Proton’s pointed tip, to look at the real purpose of all this engineering: Almaz. His baby, no matter the long gestation period, was in position at last, attached with explosive bolts to the third stage of the rocket that would push it to orbital speed. He glanced to his left. All of this complex plumbing would be garbage then, the first and second stages tumbling to crash onto the empty Kazakh/Altai steppes, the third stage falling into the Pacific Ocean.
His eyes followed to the right, along the smooth shape of Almaz’s protective shroud, sculpted down to the pointed metal tip that would be forced up through the air. The shroud wasn’t just to help with the aerodynamics, though, but to disguise the shape of Almaz so it wouldn’t give away its many secrets to curious launch guests and media cameras. Or the American satellites spying from above.
A klaxon sounded, interrupting his thoughts. He heard shouts of readiness from the workers along the rocket, and the deep rumble of the green and yellow diesel electric locomotive filled the hall. The giant sliding door just beyond the nozzles of the rocket began to move sideways on its tracks. He walked quickly towards the opening, ready to see the spectacle of his rocketship moving out into Baikonur’s late March sunshine.
The phone rang on General Sam Phillips’s desk. He leaned forward and saw one of the three secure lines flashing. He picked up the receiver and pushed the button.
“Phillips here.”
“Sam, it’s John McLucas. Got some good news.” McLucas was head of the National Reconnaissance Office. “Looks like the Russkies have rolled their latest Proton out to the launch pad at Baikonur. We got lucky on timing with the KH-9 satellite we launched and caught them raising the rocket to vertical at the pad. We’re pretty sure it’s the launch you and Schlesinger were asking about.”
Phillips glanced quickly at his desk calendar, counted days and nodded in satisfaction. The timing for Apollo 18 still made sense.
GO for launch.
They were a strange little group.
Three men, a woman and a boy dozed on the bench seats of two battered vehicles. Another man was awake, outside leaning on the rusting square front bumper of his olive-green ZIL-157 truck, staring at the sky. Occasionally he would glance at his aged watch and raise a pair of powerful binoculars, peering intently at the western horizon.
A good time to rest. The hard work would start soon.
His six-wheeled truck had a heavy winch mounted on the bumper, and strapped into the covered rear flatbed was an assortment of acetylene tanks, torches, cutting tools, hammers and wrenches.
The second vehicle was a four-wheel-drive UAZ-452 camper van, called a “bukhanka” for its homely resemblance to a loaf of bread. It had basic cooking facilities and fold-down cots, plus a heater for the cold nights. The early April days were only occasionally getting above freezing, and everyone was bulkily bundled in many layers of woolen clothing as they dozed, their heavy rubber boots lined with thick valenki felt.
The man on watch took a long, deep drag on his cigarette, welcoming the searing heat into his lungs. His name was Chot, and he was descended from the original inhabitants of these northern foothills of the Himalayas. The borders of four countries met just to the south of where the trucks were parked, and his features reflected the history of them all: Mongolia, China, Kazakhstan and the Soviet Union. His nationality was Soviet, but he was proudly Altaian.
He checked the time. “Oi!” he called, loudly. Chot’s wife, son and brothers began to stir. Two p.m. in Baikonur. Time for a rocket launch.
The flight path of every Soviet rocketship on its way to space, ever since Sputnik, had passed directly over the Altai Oblast. As the rockets had gotten bigger, the Moscow designers had added multiple stages—sections that would boost the rocket in height and speed, and then, empty of fuel, separate and fall to Earth. Hulking cylinders of pressure tanks, engine bells, electronics and metal, tumbling violently to the ground on a regular basis. The Soviets knew roughly where the impacts would occur, and warned the villages directly under the predicted flight path to evacuate as needed. In reality, the Soviets played the odds, counting on the sparse population and political unimportance of the region to make any collateral damage of low concern. When there was a rocket failure, and the fuel-rich impact explosions led to loss of life, Moscow would pay recompense to the families and ensure there was no publicity. Cheap insurance to allow the space program to function.
Chot fixed his binoculars on the horizon. Having seen many launches, he knew exactly where to look. Sometimes the sun and cloud would align so that he could see the flame and smoke of the rocket itself, especially the larger ones. Today was the biggest: a Proton. He’d looked at the upper clouds and surface winds the night before, estimating from experience how they would affect the trajectory. The rocket’s second stage would fall close to where he had positioned his family. If he had guessed wrong, some other group would find and claim the wreckage. He hoped he was right—the metal was worth a lot, and they needed the money.