“I don’t think Moscow realizes how dangerous it is for Mir to go to such a low orbit, Nikolai Aleksandrovich. It will take a great deal of propellant to bring the complex back up to a safe orbit.”
“I know Moscow doesn’t realize the implications. Our job is to comply with the order and then generate the request for another cargo ship loaded with fuel. But that will come later. For now we must comply.”
“I understand.”
Strakelov smiled. He had a lot of respect for the tall Frontal Aviation pilot. She had joined the cosmonaut training program only five years ago in spite of knowing that the odds were against her. The Cosmonaut Training Center was highly selective in the students it chose. The fact that she had not only been accepted, but had also managed to graduate, told Strakelov plenty. Only the very best were accepted for cosmonaut training, and unlike in the West, it took more than just top-notch flying to earn the right to become a cosmonaut. Or so he had been told by his superiors. Strakelov found it hard to believe in his heart that a great country like the United States would allow men without many years of education and training to pilot sophisticated reusable space vehicles. Strakelov loved the Rodina. He had loved it even during the days of communism, when he’d had specific concerns about some of the people that were in charge of key governmental positions. One of them had been the head of the Soviet space agency, someone whom Strakelov had not had a lot of respect for after the unfortunate accident that had nearly ended his cosmonaut career ten years earlier.
After graduating with honors from the Polbin Higher Military Aviation School in Orenburg, Strakelov was posted to the Baltic Sea, where he served as a Navy pilot until 1979. That year a representative of the Cosmonaut Training Center had visited Strakelov’s unit to actively recruit young pilots for cosmonaut training. Strakelov was among the few selected, and was immediately sent on to a test pilot’s training course, where he mastered several different types of aircraft and was awarded the qualification of test pilot second class. He had everything going for him until the day of the unfortunate freak accident, during an exercise in an isolation chamber. He flipped a timer switch in the chamber that had somehow come into direct contact with an electrical line carrying 220 volts. Strakelov burned both hands badly and lost consciousness, also injuring his head in the ensuing fall. And the doctors monitoring the exercise were slow to come to his aid, assuming he had simply collapsed as a result of the exhausting exercise.
The head of the space agency tried to have Strakelov dismissed from cosmonaut training because of his injuries, but Strakelov persevered, and through numerous medical checkups, fought his way back to the cosmonaut ranks. A year later he went on his first Soyuz mission.
Strakelov and Tereshkova floated back into Mir and sat on the flight seats facing the complex’s control station.
“Baikonur’s intercept solution has been fed to the computer system, Nikolai Aleksandrovich,” said Tereshkova as she read the information displayed on the screen to her right.
“Time to fire?”
“Ten minutes, thirty seconds,” she reported as fast as she typed the commands on the computer keyboard. Tereshkova had been responsible for the writing and debugging of the thousands of lines of code that were written as part of Mir’s shift to full automation, something Strakelov found amazing. Each new cargo ship brought along a new computerized piece of equipment that replaced old manually driven hardware. The old equipment was stowed away in the ferry and destroyed during re-entry. Tereshkova was in charge of installing the new equipment and updating the central computer program to incorporate each piece of new equipment as part of the total control system on board.
Strakelov nodded. Tereshkova was a very talented and mature young woman. After graduating first in her class at the Moscow Physical-Engineering Institute in three years instead of the usual four, she went through a two-year pilot training course at the Higher Air Force College in Chernigov. She served for three years as a MiG-29 pilot with the Frontovaya Aviatsiya, Russia’s tactical air force, before she managed to get accepted at the Cosmonaut Training Center. Soyuz TM-15 was her first mission.
“Let’s secure the modules, Valentina. I’ll handle Kristall, Kvant-1, and Mir. You go back to Kvant-2 and Soyuz. We only have ten minutes.”
Tereshkova headed aft as Strakelov gently pushed himself toward the multiple docking station. He reached the massive steel ball capable of docking up to five modules. Only three docking units were being used. He moved to the one on the right, Kristall, the state-of-the-art module containing a micro-gravity factory capable of producing a variety of semiconductor crystals. Kristall was also equipped with a pair of new docking units for use with the Russian space shuttle Buran.
He floated in the fairly spacious compartment of Kristall and eyed the ongoing crystal-growth experiments. He checked the timer on the equipment. The last experiment had ended an hour ago. A new experiment had automatically started. Strakelov hesitated for a moment or two before aborting the experiment and setting the machine in standby mode, to prevent the computer system from starting a new experiment. He was concerned that the sudden deceleration necessary to achieve the lower orbit might create an imperfect batch of crystals.
He eyed the rest of the compartment. Everything appeared in order. Nothing floated loose around the ship. Satisfied, he turned and headed back to the multiple docking ball. He went through it straight into the opposite side, where Kvant-1 was docked. Unlike Kristall, Kvant-1 had a mix of older hardware and new computer-controlled equipment. Essentially, the module was also another laboratory to conduct experiments. Kvant-2, though, was dramatically different from its predecessor, since it was not only a workshop, but also the air lock to be used for the new Ikar space bicycle, similar in shape and functionality to NASA’s Manned Maneuvering Unit. Kvant-2 also had the largest of the Mir complex’s existing hatches. At one meter in diameter, it had quickly become the permanent “front door” for all cosmonaut space walks.
Strakelov turned around, satisfied that all was secured in the module. He reached the multiple docking unit, went left, and floated back into the Mir module. Tereshkova was already there waiting for him, strapped into her seat. Her short black hair floated over her head, exposing her ears. Strakelov noticed she wore small diamond earrings, something that was not viewed favorably by Baikonur Control, but Strakelov did not mind. Tereshkova was one of the best flight engineers he’d seen. She should be allowed a few indulgences. A young and attractive Slavic woman having to spend months in space? No, Strakelov didn’t mind at all. She deserved that and more for her many contributions to the Rodina in such a short period of time.
“The Ikar bicycles and Orlon suits are secured, Valentina?”
“Yes, Nikolai Aleksandrovich. I did a visual on each of the suits. They were properly strapped. The external electromagnets show nominal readings.”
Strakelov nodded. The space bicycles were kept outside for storage reasons. In order to ensure they were safely strapped to Kvant-2’s external walls, Strakelov himself had designed an electromagnetic locking method for ease of usage and to avoid wasting precious EVA time — along with limited oxygen supply — on strapping and unstrapping the bicycles to Kvant-2’s exterior walls.