“Copy, Houston, concur. We’ll start now.”
In Moscow Mission Control, known by its Russian acronym, “TsUP,” the communication technician was listening to the American chatter coming back from the Apollo ship. “She’s asking them to let her talk to us, Comrade Director. Something about not allowing them to use her Yastreb suit.” The tech looked puzzled, trying to piece together the one-sided conversation, unable to hear the transmissions up from Houston.
Chelomei stared at him, thinking. Her suit? Why would they want her suit? Was something wrong with theirs?
He blew out sharply through his nose. Damn, I need to talk to her! He glanced at his watch. Nearly midnight. Another night sleeping on the cot in his office.
He stood, curtly telling the flight director, “I’ll be back in the morning. Send someone to fetch me immediately if you hear any other developments.” He turned on his heel without waiting for an answer and strode out of TsUP, his steps echoing loudly down the tiled hallway.
He needed to accelerate diplomacy at the highest level. As soon as Moscow woke back up, he’d call his contacts in the Kremlin.
Michael was undoing the umbilical hoses from Luke’s suit. “Look here,” he said, pointing. Chad leaned in, and saw the ragged metal where the bullet had split the oxygen feed line and regulator.
“That’s what killed him.” Chad scowled at the cosmonaut, who was glaring back at him as she hung on firmly to the crew headrest, covering her rolled-up spacesuit.
“Look at that Russian bear, showing her lack of gratitude,” Chad said disgustedly. “All we did was save her life after they fired on us, and killed Luke here.”
Michael had undone Luke’s gloves and was pulling them off the lifeless fingers. The pale skin was already starting to blotch with death.
“Help me with the helmet,” Michael said as he pinched and released the latch on the neck ring. The two of them guided it clear of Luke’s head, the glass of the visor still fogged.
As the helmet came away, Luke’s sightless eyes appeared, wide open and bloodshot. Chad looked away, muttering “Christ!”
Michael reached in and closed Luke’s eyelids. “Sorry, buddy,” he said. He turned the body over, peeled back the Velcro and snaps, and unzipped the suit’s long pressure seal.
He reached an arm inside around Luke’s body, bending him at the waist, and started prying the upper half of the suit off his shoulders. As he forced the neck ring over the back of Luke’s head, the arms slid out of the sleeves and the upper torso popped free, loosely waving in weightlessness like a released jack-in-the-box, banging into structures, filling the confined space.
“Geez, Luke, you’re scaring me!” Michael forced the joke to try to settle his own nerves. Svetlana had jammed herself into the far corner, as far clear as possible, now holding her spacesuit tightly rolled under her arm.
Chad grabbed Luke’s boots and tugged, moving down the tunnel towards the LM. Michael disconnected the inner plumbing and electrical leads to Luke’s body, and then helped work his legs clear.
The cockpit had become a jumble of floating bodies and gear. “I’ll stow the suit in the LM,” Chad decided, gathering the helmet and gloves and moving down the tunnel.
Michael began removing Luke’s liquid-cooled long underwear, feeling like he should apologize to his friend. This feels too personal. He pulled down the long front zipper and peeled the stiff, tube-filled fabric away, relieved to see that Luke’s low-fiber prelaunch diet had meant he hadn’t shat himself. The underwear was damp with urine, but that would dry before the cosmonaut had to put it on. Tolerable.
“What are you doing?” Chad had reappeared and was looking past Michael at the cosmonaut. She had partially unrolled her suit and, smiling uncertainly, held it out.
Chad frowned. “Had a change of heart, did you?”
“Maybe she understands better now that we’ve got Luke out of his suit,” Michael said.
“Yeah, maybe.” Chad reached his hand out, beckoning, and she released her suit, floating it to him. He looked at her body and then at Luke’s. “Let’s hope this fits.”
They unrolled the suit, flipping it around, inspecting the design differences. “Looks like the Russians enter from the front, through this balloon opening,” Michael said. He raised his eyebrows at Svetlana, and she nodded. They fed Luke’s legs inside, working them down into place, and then pulled the suit over his arms. Chad had to pry hard to get the helmet ring over Luke’s head, as the body was stiffening, but with yanking and pushing, he made it work.