Al nodded. “Did you see anyone out on the ramp?” Then, before Kaz could answer, he asked, “Did you go out on the ramp?”
Kaz was startled. “Me? No, I didn’t go out on the ramp, and there was nothing unusual that I remember.” He closed both eyes, trying to picture it. “There was a T-38 starting, with the normal two groundcrew, one out front and one by the tail.” He opened his eyes. “And a fuel truck.”
Al looked at him. “Fueling what?”
Kaz shook his head slightly. “I’m not sure. It was driving out towards Tom’s helo, but I’m not certain which aircraft it was headed for.”
Al drilled further. “Who all did you see at ops and in the hangar?”
Kaz pictured his path, step by step. “Standard gate guard, a couple of the instructor pilots. Chad was there—he’d flown the LLTV before Luke. There was some sort of tour group with a NASA security guy. Normal faces at ops and maintenance.”
He shrugged. “Sorry, Boss. I don’t remember anything strange.” He paused, then said, “Why you asking?”
Al looked around the plane. Everyone but them was dozing after the early-morning intensity of the launch. He leaned close and briefed Kaz on the facts of what the accident investigator had found.
Kaz made a low whistle. A backed-off bolt was someone’s serious fuck-up. Or worse. He stared at Al, his eyes asking the next obvious question.
Al didn’t answer, just said, “I don’t think there’s any point in telling the crew, do you?”
Kaz nodded. “And not the family, until we confirm the cause. Likely good if Gene Kranz knows, but otherwise this can wait till they get back.”
He could see Al relax slightly. He pulled down the window shade, and tipped his chair back. “Agreed. I’ll tell him. Now I’m going to shut my eyes until we get to Ellington. We’ve got a very busy few hours coming up.” His voice was flat. “Looking forward to having Almaz behind them, and firing the engine to head towards the Moon.”
Kaz’s fake eye’s socket was stinging with fatigue and the dry airplane air. He pushed the button to recline his own chair, and tried to find a comfortable position to doze, deliberately turning his mind away from all the troubling implications.
Navy pilots need to learn to nap anywhere, anytime. Soon both men were asleep.
The telex from the Kavkaz made the beige desktop machine in Severo-morsk, home base of the Soviet Northern Fleet, chatter noisily as it printed the one-page message. The naval communications operator waited until the noise stopped, then leaned across to scan the security clearance and destination printed across the top. His eyes widened and he flicked his gaze away, deliberately not reading the contents.
He took extra care tearing it off the printer roll, and placed it neatly into a pinkish internal mail envelope marked ОСОБОЙ ВАЖНОСТИ—TOP SECRET. He hand-carried the envelope down the hall to the office of his superior, knocked briefly on the door, then set it into the man’s inbox like it was hot to the touch. Keeping his gaze averted, he retreated quickly, glad to have done his part properly. Glad it wasn’t his responsibility now.
His boss yawned, reading a message from a submarine commander who was taking his vessel back to dry dock. It was essentially a list of the major systems that needed work. He sighed, thinking, Our fish are fast, but our parts don’t last. He scrawled his signature on the forwarding envelope, addressed it to the Severomorsk Quartermaster, put the multi-page message inside and flipped it into his outbox. He added an annotation to the tracking table in his green baize notebook, and reached across to his inbox for the new arrival.
Pink folder. TOP SECRET. Atleechna! Something worthwhile, hopefully!
He hadn’t gone into Naval Communications and qualified for the highest security rating so he could push shopping lists around like a flunky clerk in a warehouse. He unwrapped the string holding the flap closed, and slid the page out.
He read it quickly once, and then again, more carefully. He thought for a minute, and then double-checked who the Captain of the Kavkaz had directed it to. He flicked his notebook open to the last page, to the list of naval departments and interfaces with other government organizations.
Nodding, he swiftly made a couple of neat notations on the routing envelope highlighting the urgency, and added a subsequent destination. As he started to slide the page back inside, he stopped and rechecked the message timestamp. Frowning, he glanced at his watch, and then reached for his desk phone. He ran his finger again down the list in his book, found a number and dialed it.