There!
Through the binoculars he could see the actual smoke trail; squinting, he thought he could just make out the brightness of the flame. Good. No delays today. He checked his watch again, and went over the timing. The second stage would separate after about five minutes, and its fall to Earth would take another nine or so. In fourteen minutes, they’d know.
“Start the engines!” he called to his brothers, still staring hard through the binoculars to track the change in smoke that signified rocket staging. It was his job to spot the falling rocket body, and then there would be a race to get to the impact site. Whoever got there first had salvage rights. Just in case, each truck also carried a rifle.
He saw the smoke change, and knew his prize was now on its way. Letting the faint smoke of the third stage of the rocket drift out of sight to the east, he concentrated on where the falling section must be. Sometimes it would glint in the light as it tumbled down. He adjusted the binoculars slightly, hoping for a glimpse.
Was that a flash? He wasn’t certain, but it was right where it was supposed to be. Chot could feel his heart racing. The rest of his family was staring upwards as well, everyone straining to see it first.
His young son had the sharpest eyes, and called out in his high voice, “I see it!” The boy pointed up and slightly south of where they were.
“Keep your eyes on it!” Chot ordered.
There was an odd roar of wind noise, a streak of something moving fast, and then an echoing thump of impact—a cloud of frozen dirt thrown up by the impact. “We’re close!” he yelled, marking the direction. He jumped into the passenger seat of the ZIL, pointing out the direction for his brother.
I hope there’s fire. They could use the smoke as a beacon.
And there it was! A small dark plume as the last of the hypergolic fuel burned itself out, released to the air by the impact. His brother saw it and pushed the truck to its limits, bouncing heavily over the rough ground, leaving the smaller van behind.
Chot scanned left and right, and saw no one else. A great day! His experience and cunning would provide for his family.
They came around a copse of evergreens to see the wreckage itself, largely intact on a long, sloping hillside, the smoke fading. No one else was here. The salvage was theirs!
His brother swung around and braked to a stop, carefully upwind to avoid the noxious fumes, and shut the truck off. In the distance they could see the bukhanka following their track. The hunt was over. Now they could get down to the business of stripping the carcass.
Chot looked to the sky. He didn’t know where the rocket was going or what it was carrying, or even if there were people aboard, and in truth he didn’t care. He was just happy that the Soviet Union had a space program.
It fed his family.
19
The Beach House, Cape Canaveral, Florida
“Pull!”
Kaz had already cocked the trap mechanism, rotating it back against the heavy spring. Hearing the yell, he yanked smoothly down on the nylon cord. An orange clay disk spun out of the track at the tip, arcing smoothly up and across in front of the beach house.
Blam!
The harsh, spitting sound of the 12-gauge shotgun echoed loudly off the clapboard and out across the beach, fading into the breaking surf of the Atlantic Ocean. The flying clay disk instantly disintegrated into shards. Hitting such a moving target took complete concentration, and was a fun distraction for three men about to undertake an unprecedented military mission in space.
“That’s four dead pigeons out of five. Beat that!” Luke said, turning on the wooden deck to challenge Michael and Chad, lounging in their deck chairs. The grinding sound of the blender carried out onto the deck. JW was in the kitchen making margaritas.
Michael drained his beer and stood up, taking the gun and earmuffs from Luke. He yelled to Kaz. “You okay for five more?”
“All set!” Kaz, in the shade by the corner of the building, saluted him with his half-empty beer.
Michael put on the earmuffs, adjusting them around his sunglasses. He loaded two new shells into the shotgun barrels, braced his left foot, cocked and raised the gun to his shoulder and yelled, “Pull!”
The disc flew, and Michael tracked it with the long barrel, matching and leading its motion. He pulled the trigger, the recoil slamming the gun hard into his shoulder and cheek. The orange disk continued on its flight, falling and shattering amongst the saw palmetto.
“Uh-oh—bird away!” Luke called.
“I’m just getting sighted in.” Michael repositioned and yelled “Pull!” again. He hit the next two, ending up with three out of five. “Looks like a silver medal for me,” he said ruefully. “Your turn, Boss.”