"Mark," said Rabbit's Nest.
"Roger," replied Spyglass, and the chief flipped a switch to start the aircraft's digital video recorders.
"C'mon, sweetheart," coaxed the chief. "C'mon, be sweet, lift your skirt for me."
The neighboring technician looked askance. He had always thought the chief's near-sexual relationship with the equipment was a little bizarre, but thought it better not to say anything.
Despite the chief's urging, the TV monitor remained blank except for the twilight sky. The Suslov spacecraft was traveling at 17,000 miles per hour, while the Spyglass airliner limped along at a meager 500 mph. That meant the 767 had only a tiny window of time to find the Russian orbiter. The seconds ticked by and the screen remained blank until, finally, the chief sighed and decided the Suslov wasn't coming to him. He was about to start a search pattern with the telescope when a delta-shaped object popped onto the screen.
" Awright!" he howled. "We nailed the little bastard.' Giddy with his success, the chief quickly adjusted the dials for greater magnification. Then he leaned forward to inspect the Russian spacecraft pictured on the monitor. His concentration was so intense that, when the image erupted before his eyes, he involuntarily recoiled from the screen, and it took a few seconds for his mind to comprehend what his. eyes had witnessed. Then it dawned on him. "Sweet Jesus!" he cried while keying his microphone. "Rabbit, this is Spyglass! We got the target on screen and he's firing his retro rockets! I say again, target has initiated retrofire. Christ Almighty, what a picture!"
"We copy that, Spyglass," replied a dispassionate voice. "Put it through on RealTime."
"Roger, Rabbit," he said, while nodding to the neighboring technician, who threw the appropriate switches. Almost immediately the same image appeared on another screen at NORAD headquarters, deep inside Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado.
Twenty-three years of iron discipline in the Soviet armed forces had prepared Dmitri Bulgarin for the next twenty minutes of his life. He had to control the distilled fear and not let the image of his wife and daughter intrude on his thoughts. Their lives had been richer in many ways because he was a cosmonaut. But the state exacted a toll for the privileges it granted, and now the toll was due.
When the retrofire ceased, Bulgarin immediately pivoted the spacecraft into the correct reentry attitude of 32 degrees inclination. The Suslov was on a descent gradient toward the earth and would soon begin striking the first errant molecules of the lower ionosphere. Much like an airborne swan landing in the water, the Suslov would decelerate from a speed of almost 17,000 miles per hour to 1,500 mph in the space of twenty minutes. The resistance of the atmosphere, which provided the braking action for the winged spacecraft, also generated frightful surface friction, heating the leading edges of the vehicle to temperatures of2,800 degrees Fahrenheit. Small wonder that most meteorites were vaporized before they hit the earth's surface.
To keep it from being incinerated, the Soviet space shuttle, like its American counterpart, had been surfaced with heat-resistant silica tiles. Unlike the American shuttle, however, something had gone horrendously wrong during the reentry phase of the Suslov's predecessor, the Buran. While descending from its third voyage into outer space, the Buran had burned into a cinder.
Bulgarin was painfully aware of the previous shuttle's fate as he watched the surface-temperature gauge start to climb and felt the buffeting grow more intense. "Altitude eighty-three kilometers… eighty… seventy-eight…" The strain in Bulgarin's voice became more pronounced and his radio transmission grew weaker as the Suslov plummeted into the "black hole" of reentry. The fireball enveloping the orbiter was so intense that it stripped the electrons from the surrounding air molecules. As a result, for twelve minutes the spacecraft was covered in a sheath of ions that was impenetrable to radio waves.
As a reddish glow filled the windshield, Bulgarin tightened his grip around the control stick.
On its third voyage, the Buran shuttle had been incinerated during its descent through the "black hole."
The Suslov was now reentering the atmosphere from its fourth journey into outer space.
As the spacecraft hurtled above the Indian Ocean, it was tracked by the massive phased-array radar complex on the banks of the Caspian Sea. The Flite Centre's computers digested the radar data and plotted the orbiter's path on the large Mercator map projection, which now held everyone's attention. There was nothing the technicians could do but wait until the Suslov emerged from the radio blackout.
"Eight minutes of communications blackout remaining," announced Mission Commander Malyshev, to no one in particular.
The ground track of the Suslov advanced on the screen, and the tension in the spacious room became palpable.
"Seven minutes." Malyshev's voice was little more than a whimper now, and his throat felt like a dusty road. He started to reach for a nearby cup, but reconsidered. His system simply couldn't absorb another ounce of tea.
The hulking General Shenko took a very long drag on his Chesterfield cigarette and exhaled slowly. He loved the American tobacco more than he dared ever say.
Malyshev's sweat-drenched blond hair was now pasted to his temples. He murmured. "Five minutes."
There was a collective sigh from the technicians. The Buran— which means "snowstorm" — had disappeared with six minutes of blackout remaining. The Suslov had now passed beyond that threshold. Maybe the Buran tragedy had been a fluke after all. Maybe the Russian shuttle was truly a sound spacecraft. Maybe there was reason to hope.
"Four minutes."
Yes, maybe there was reason to hope. Even General Shenko's basset-hound face was showing a flicker of life.
On the plot board, the Suslov's ground track advanced again.
"Three minutes." Malyshev's voice had returned. It looked good now. Very good indeed.
"Commander!" It was the radar liaison officer over the intercom. "I have the Caspian radar station. They say the image is fading from their screen!"
There was stunned silence.
"Confirm that report!" barked Malyshev.
The radar officer held the headset tight against his ears, then slowly relaxed in his chair. "Caspian station confirms, and says the image fragmented before disappearing from their scope."
"Communications officer, try to contact them!" ordered Malyshev.
The young communications officer began murmuring into his microphone, trying unsuccessfully to mask his sobs. Colonel Bulgarin had been his friend. At Star City he was like everyone's favorite uncle — a person who always made you feel special. He followed his orders and signaled the Suslov, but he knew it was useless.
As the young officer's murmurs went on, a communal shock spread throughout the room. Every person felt his mission and sense of purpose had vanished along with the Suslov — every person, that is, save for one.