The tech leaned his face close and asked Luke to hold his breath so he could swap the hoses from the ventilator for the built-in ship lines. Luke could feel him making connections, and suddenly sound crackled in his headset. The tech leaned into Luke’s sightline.
“One, two, three, how do you hear me, Luke?”
“Loud and clear, thanks.”
The tech cinched down Luke’s straps, double-checked that the checklists were still Velcroed and clipped in position, and gave his visor a wipe with a chamois cloth. Then he looked Luke in the eye.
“All good?”
“All set,” Luke said.
As the tech retrieved the last of his equipment and gave the cabin a final once-over, Luke looked around. Lying on his back, he could turn his head left and right, its weight supported by his helmet. He listened to the low hiss of ship’s oxygen flowing up and behind his head, feeling it blowing steadily down across his face to keep his visor from fogging. He glanced at Chad and then at Michael; both of them were all business, lit by the sunlight from the overhead windows as they focused on their instruments, double-checking against the checklists mounted in front of them.
Facing the crew was a complex array of over 600 switches, instruments and indicators that allowed them to control the spaceship, now as familiar to each of them as any airplane they’d ever flown. No one could reach all the switches, so they each had specific responsibilities. Squarely in front of Luke were the propulsion system, atmospheric control and the cluster of emergency lights that lit up in yellow and red to signal that something was wrong. There were still a few lights on, as the vehicle wasn’t quite ready for launch, and Luke checked from memory that the pattern was correct.
He felt a tap on his helmet and leaned back to see the tech, his eyebrows raised in a polite question. Luke gave him a thumbs-up, and watched as he checked with Michael and then Chad. Then the tech waved, clambered carefully out and closed the hatch.
Luke looked at the digital mission timer squarely in front of him, counting down: two hours, ten minutes to launch.
Fifteen miles to the east, a ship called the Kavkaz waited patiently. She wasn’t particularly big, and her hull was better suited to the landlocked Black Sea than the open waters of the Atlantic, but she was based on the classic Mayakovsky fishing trawler design and could handle the rougher seas well enough. Only 85 meters long, she had a more-than-ample 14-meter beam, and her 2,200-horsepower single-screw diesel could push her through the water at a useful but unimpressive 12.5 knots.
Kavkaz’s true merit didn’t rest on her hull and engine, though. It was in the gleaming white dome and multiple antenna towers mounted on her upper decks. She was a Primorye-class surveillance ship with high-speed satellite datalinks back to the Soviet Union, and she was patrolling the Florida coast just outside of the US 12-mile limit. And she had been tasked by HQ in Leningrad to observe this final Apollo launch.
The Captain was content. It was not a complex mission, and the mid-April Florida warmth was a very welcome break for his crew. They’d spent the previous two months in the North Sea, and when the orders had come to steam south, everyone had been glad. It was the twelfth Apollo launch, and they’d all been virtually identical. Proshche parevoy repeh, he thought. Simpler than a steamed turnip.
He’d told the chief communications officer to pipe the NASA countdown through the ship’s loudspeakers, and every crewman who wasn’t needed belowdecks was up on the rail, most with binoculars and cameras hanging around their necks.
The American voice echoed through the Soviet ship. “This is Apollo Saturn Launch Control. We’ve passed the thirty-six-minute mark in our countdown, and completed the range of safety command checks, all still going well. A short while ago Spacecraft Test Conductor Skip Chauvin asked Commander Chad Miller if the crew was comfortable up there, and Chad reported back that ‘We’re fine—it’s a good morning.’ ”
The Captain, who spoke English passably, looked across the calm seas towards the Florida shore. I agree, my fellow captain, it’s a very good morning.
The US Coast Guard cutter Steadfast was trailing the Kavkaz by a half mile, making sure they didn’t stray too close. It was a cat-and-mouse game both of them had played many times before, and they were easy with it. The recently signed US-Soviet Incidents at Sea Agreement had made the rules clear for both sides: stay out of each other’s way, follow the regulations and, most important of all, take no hostile-looking actions.
The Captain checked his watch: 15:00 in Moscow, 08:00 here in Florida. Just over a half hour until launch. He checked his binoculars and his camera as well. He didn’t want to miss this.