William H. Lovejoy
Ultra Deep
This one is for my friend, editor, and advisor
Paul Dinas
For providing inspiration and for arousing curiosity, especially through his book,
The Discovery of the Titanic,
I owe my gratitude to
Dr. Robert D. Ballard
September 1
Chapter One
“Respectfully, General Oberstev, I cannot…”
“Ah, but Pyotr Nicholavich, you can.” Dmitri Oberstev was not in the mood for defeatism. He did not allow negativism to crowd his own thoughts, and he deplored it in others, no matter their talents and capabilities.
“Yes. Certainly, the problem is not insurmountable, General, but not in the time allotted.”
Oberstev turned to the windows overlooking the control center. Below him, he saw that most of the technicians were seated before their consoles. His aide, Colonel Cherbykov, meandered through the center, stopping to talk to controllers or to inspect information readouts. Many of the monitors, and the large screen at the end of the room, currently displayed a two-mile distant view of the A2e on the launch pad. Actually, it was yet another variant of the A2, though it had not been officially designated. If it were up to him, Oberstev would call it the A2d. The A2 was the orbit-achieving workhorse of the Strategic Rocket Forces, with over a thousand successful launches since its inception.
Floodlights lit the gantry and the area immediately surrounding it with a glaring whitewash. A mist from transferring fuels swirled about the steel skeleton of the gantry, quite ghostly in the night. Beyond the pad was only darkness, with a sparse sprinkling of stars. Dawn took longer to arrive in the latitudes of the Arctic Circle, where the Plesetsk Cosmodrome was located.
Though smaller than the Baikonur Cosmodrome in the Kazakhstan Republic, Plesetsk was still a large operation. From its forty-plus launch pads, it managed to launch at least one rocket a week. Winter launches were commonplace. Most of the payloads were military, ranging from scientific experiments to Salyut photo-reconnaissance satellites.
While Col. Gen. Dmitri Ivanovich Oberstev was not in charge of the cosmodrome, he did have total control over the Soviet Celestial Laboratory Project, called Red Star, and the A2s assigned to him departed the earth at his discretion.
He turned back to the scientist. “It is September the first, Pyotr Nicholavich.”
“Yes, General.”
“It is five-twenty in the morning.”
Pyotr Piredenko nodded his agreement.
“The A2e is scheduled to lift off at eight o’clock. It is the primary event in a month-long celebration of the New Order.”
“I am aware of that, General Oberstev.”
“Not to mention that it carries a significant component for the laboratory.”
“That worries me,” Piredenko said. “I should not like to lose it.”
“We cannot disappoint Moscow.”
“We could very well disappoint Moscow, if the A2e malfunctions.” There was an uncharacteristic resolve in Piredenko’s tone. He did not normally resist the Red Star project director’s wishes.
Oberstev grimaced his displeasure. He asked, “What is the success ratio of the A2?”
“Very high,” Piredenko said, “but we have never attempted a payload of this weight.”
“Soviet space vehicles are celebrated for their massive payloads,” the general argued. “Besides, the boosters will more than compensate for the additional mass. Your very own computers say as much, Director.”
“This configuration is untried on the A2. For that reason, we must not ignore any warning at all, General.”
There was some truth in what the director of the Flight Data Computer Center had to say. For the first time in the Soviet Red Star program, large booster rockets had been attached to the sides of the A2e, an imitation of the American Titan III, in order to provide the initial thrust necessary to raise the oversized payload module into orbit.
Oberstev surveyed the earnest look on the computer scientist’s face and almost reversed his decision to proceed. He had the authority to do so, but others in higher places depended upon him. Moscow had ordered a live telecast of the launch for the citizens of the Commonwealth of Independent States. The event was a rarity, and no one in the Kremlin would appreciate having it canceled. Moreover, they would remember for a long time, and in a negative light, the name of Dmitri Oberstev.
By appearance, the scientist and the general should have switched roles. Piredenko was squat and blocky, with a square-cut face. His outsize nose appeared chiseled from granite. His dark brown hair was cut short. American football coaches would have been interested in the wide and muscular shoulders straining at his white jacket.
The general, who had graduated from Moscow University in aerospace engineering, was slight of stature, barely topping one-and-a-half meters. He wore spectacles with thick lenses, optically enlarging his hazel eyes to gargantuan proportions. They seemed all-seeing. His hair had gone sparse and gray shortly after his sixtieth birthday. Despite his diminutive appearance, however, Oberstev had a firm grip on his authority, which derived, not only from his rank and his knowledge of aerospace, but also from his many friends and acquaintances among the members of the Military Council of Command and Staff of National Air Defense. Not to be forgotten, either, was his brother, a senior deputy to the new chairman of the Central Intelligence Service, the CIS.
Since the days of the ill-advised — in Oberstev’s mind — coup attempt, of course, the CIS and the military had suffered dramatic losses in influence, as well as numbers. The Russian Republic was the dominant member of the remaining republics, but the loose federation of the Commonwealth remained in place to govern those activities of a more encompassing nature, such as space exploration.
The general felt, however, that he had risen to his present position almost solely on his own ability, rather than through the intervention of friends and relatives. Wherever it was possible, he attempted political neutrality. He took a great deal of pride in his achievements and in his capacity for understanding and managing people. There were many methods of obtaining cooperation and satisfying goals.
Oberstev looked at the red numerals of the large digital readout located to the right of the main screen in the control room: Time to Launch: 02:18:43.
Down on the main floor, Colonel Cherbykov was hunched over the console that monitored rocket motor telemetry transmissions from the A2e. He stood upright and looked up at Oberstev, shaking his head minutely.
Oberstev’s observation room overlooking the Number Two Fire Control Center was small, containing four overstuffed leather chairs, two side tables, a sideboard containing a large silver teapot, and a small communications console. Oberstev crossed to the chair next to the console and settled into it.
“All right, Director Piredenko. You say the primary flight control computer is malfunctioning?”
“The telemetry we are receiving indicates that to be the case, yes. In one of the subsystems.”
“But the secondary and tertiary backup computers appear to be normal?”
Piredenko nodded his blunt head. “That is correct.”
“And yet, you would not proceed without the use of the primary machine?”
“I would not, General.”
“What is the nature of the malfunction?”
“It appears that the interface which balances the thrust of the main motor against the booster motors is out of synchronization. It is a programming problem.”