A Step Beyond

by Christopher K Anderson

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

2021. Four years after the first manned mission to Mars ends in tragic failure, a joint U.S.-Russian mission blasts off in two ships, each crew equally determined to set foot

Release date: October 1, 2001

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

The Russian Attempt

Mission commander Colonel Alexander Titov, strapped loosely to the ceiling, hung suspended inside the billowing fabric of his sleep restraint. Beneath him was a small desk, upon which he had taped a picture of his wife and two children. A faint glow from the computer display provided just enough light for him to see the pale blue sky of Kazakhstan and a silhouette of his family standing hand in hand upon its arid steppes. His gaze remained fixed upon the picture as he reached behind his head to adjust the volume of the communications channel. Cosmonaut Sergei Demin was transmitting the daily report. He could be heard sipping his coffee while he paused every few minutes to review the material he was about to read.

The silhouettes of Titov’s children were half the size of his wife, and they were waving at him. His youngest child was only two years old. She would be four when he returned from Mars. The thought pained him, but he told himself—as he had countless times before—that the mission was too important to have passed up. His son had just learned how to ride a bike. He was about to turn five and wanted to be a cosmonaut, just like his father. Although Titov spoke with his family almost every night, the eleven-minute delay made it impossible to interact with them.

A rattling snore came from the adjacent compartment, where research engineer Boris Gorbatko was sound asleep. Commander Titov considered banging on the wall, but he knew from experience that it would do no good. Gorbatko would only stop until he fell back asleep, which never took more than a few minutes.

The habitat module contained six personal compartments identical in size and layout to Titov’s, five of which were occupied. It was in the tight confines of these compartments that the cosmonauts enjoyed their only privacy. The module was located at the rear of the spacecraft. Above the hallway that separated the compartments hung the galley. There was no table or chairs, only an oven, a water dispenser, and several drawers of prepackaged food. At the back of the module was the personal-hygiene facility. At the other end was a portal. It was secured. Beyond it lay the health and science module. Through a view panel in the upper quadrant of the portal, assorted equipment could be seen protruding from the walls. At the far end another portal, also secured, led to the flight deck, the foremost cabin of the ship.

At 3:43 A.M. Moscow time a meteoroid less than one inch in diameter, traveling at a speed of thirteen miles per second, pierced the hull of the flight deck and struck a liquid-oxygen tank. The tank exploded.

The blast ripped through the side of the hull and into the flight deck. Cosmonaut Demin had just finished his third cup of coffee and was reaching for his laptop, which was somersaulting at arm’s length from his nose, when he saw the flash. The explosion picked his body up and slammed it against the portal. His head struck the metallic rim of the view panel. He died instantly.

The environmental-control sensors detected a drop in the oxygen level and opened the valve controlling the remaining tank several nanoseconds before the heat and smoke detectors alerted the main processor to the presence of fire. Before instructions to shut down the oxygen supply could arrive, a stream of pure oxygen had entered the cabin. Fueled by the fresh supply of gas, the fire raced voraciously toward the source. There was a second explosion. A swirling fireball engulfed the flight deck. The flight-control panel burst apart, sending shrapnel into the surrounding walls and Demin’s dead body. A closed-circuit monitor and two computer screens exploded. The circuitry for the main processor melted under the intense heat. A chair went up in flames. Wires stretched out from the naked consoles and shot sparks as they collided. Another chair caught fire. The entire compartment was in flames, then suddenly the fire was drawn by the vacuum through the rupture in the side of the hull. The room went dark.

The trajectory of the Volnost was altered by the explosion, causing it to veer away from the unmanned supply ship. Both ships had been in space for six months. The date was October 11, 2017, and the Russians were attempting the first manned trip to Mars. They were better than halfway to their destination.

Commander Alexander Titov rose to his elbows at the sound of the first explosion. As he twisted his head to check the monitors above him, he was thrown suddenly against the compartment walls, bashing his head and nearly breaking his nose. A rush of adrenaline drowned the pain. The general alarm sounded.

Dazed, Titov checked the monitors, where the messages FLIGHT DECK—O PRESSURE and FLIGHT DECK—FIRE were flashing red. He coughed to clear his throat as he extracted himself from his sleep restraint. Before releasing the safety latch of his compartment, he verified that the pressure in the habitat module was one hundred kilopascals, standard sea level. It appeared that only the flight deck had been affected.

Colonel Titov was the first to emerge into the open space of the habitat module. The yellow lights of the emergency system cast ghostly shadows about the room. Pushing with his legs, he propelled himself toward the control panel, where he switched to the emergency oxygen supply and strapped a portable oxygen mask to his head. Just then, Mikhail Chertok, the ship’s pilot, sprang half-dressed from his compartment. “What the hell’s going on?”

Titov pointed toward the oxygen masks, then flipped the switch to the electrical backup system. The shadows faded as white light filled the cabin.

Chertok watched as his commander threw several more switches. He was activating emergency backup systems that had not come automatically on-line. The computer monitor blinked brightly. Within seconds, the local processor had booted and prompted for instructions. Titov attempted to access the main processor but failed as the message SYSTEM UNAVAILABLE flashed on the screen.

“Check the portal,” directed Titov, his eyes fixed on the monitor while he tapped at the keyboard.

As Chertok pushed his way toward the portal, the other three cosmonauts tumbled from their sleeping compartments, disheveled and confused. Squinting from the sudden change in light, the cosmonauts surveyed their surroundings. They were relieved to find the cabin intact, but they were still fearful. Titov turned to address them.

The sight of the oxygen mask, attached like a spidery creature to Titov’s face, heightened their fears. The commander motioned for the others to don their masks.

“There has been an explosion on the flight deck,” began Titov. “The extent of the damage is unknown. I am unable to access the primary computer. The emergency warning system indicates there is a fire in the forward cabin, and the pressure is zero kp’s. I cannot verify this.” He pointed at the console behind him. “Boris, I want the main processor back on-line.”

“Commander,” Mikhail Chertok said as he peered through the portal, “the laboratory does not appear to be damaged. I can’t see beyond the second portal—everything is dark. I should be able to see some light.”

“Not necessarily,” Titov replied. “The emergency lights may be too dim to see from here.”

Chertok and the others knew this to be false, but said nothing. It was unlike Titov to be less than truthful. A terrible silence followed as they slowly realized that something else was wrong.

“Where is Sergei?” Boris Gorbatko asked finally.

Surprised, they all looked around to verify that Sergei was indeed not with them. All except for Colonel Titov, who stood perfectly still as he observed and noted each reaction.

“He was on the flight deck,” said Titov, when their gazes eventually returned to him.

Eleven minutes after the explosion, Cosmonaut Sergei Demin disappeared from the screen that dominated the front wall of the Russian Space Agency’s control room. The sudden shift in brightness was enough to divert Yuri Tretyak’s attention from the environmental data on his monitor. FLIGHT DECK—0 PRESSURE flashed across the main screen. Moments later an alarm sounded as the second message FLIGHT DECK— FIRE appeared. Tretyak did not immediately grasp the meaning of the messages. He stood up. His throat went dry, and he was unable to swallow. He looked down at the controls on his panel and keyed in the instructions to bring up the flight deck transmission. Nothing happened. He read the messages again, and as he read, it occurred to him that perhaps Demin was dead. He had been on the flight deck. It occurred to Tretyak that the others might also be dead. He was growing frightened. The main screen went blank. Several of the smaller screens were flashing red.

A numbness enveloped his body as he realized they had lost contact with the Volnost. He looked to his colleagues for an explanation. They had risen to their feet and were staring dumbfounded at the blank screen. It was the rising pitch of the alarm that finally startled Tretyak into action.

“Oleg, try to contact the cosmonauts,” he said to the communications engineer. “I must call Schebalin.”

“What does it mean?” asked one of the scientists.

As Tretyak dialed the operations director, his mind raced with possibilities. He knew that even a small mishap could be fatal, and with the craft several million kilometers from Earth there was little hope of rescue. If they were not already dead, they would almost certainly soon be. But he mustn’t jump to conclusions. He was overreacting, he told himself. He must be. But what if he weren’t? This was to be Russia’s greatest technological and political triumph, the crowning glory of the New Republic. Details of the mission were being publicized worldwide. A disaster now would be a major political embarrassment. Tretyak felt ashamed. The political consequences should be secondary.

The phone rang several times before Colonel Leonid Schebalin answered. Schebalin was the operations director for the Mars mission and the second Russian to walk on the moon; difficulties with his inner ear as a result of a cold contracted during his last flight in space had scrubbed him permanently from the program. Until then, he had been the primary candidate for mission commander of the Mars flight.

“Yes,” he said, tired and disoriented.

“Sir,” began Tretyak, “we have a problem here.”

“Who is this?” Schebalin asked drowsily.

“Yuri Tretyak at mission control.”

“Yes, Yuri, what is it?”

“Sir, something has gone wrong. We received a telemetry from Volnost several minutes ago indicating a fire and loss of pressure on the flight deck. Then all transmissions ceased. I called you immediately.” Tretyak struggled to maintain a professional tone. The other scientists were crowding around him. He closed his eyes and waited for Schebalin to speak.

“Who knows about this?”

Tretyak was momentarily taken aback by the coldness in the colonel’s voice. “Just the men on duty. You were the first person we called.”

“Good. It would be unfortunate if this matter reached the press before we were able to determine the extent of the damage; if indeed there is a problem and this is not simply a computer malfunction. We must determine the facts before we release them. It is imperative that you alert no one else. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Tretyak replied automatically.

“Good. I will notify the appropriate people from here. Have you attempted to contact the cosmonauts?”

“Yes, sir. We’re still waiting for their reply.”

“Very well. I will be there within thirty minutes.” Schebalin disconnected the line with a sharp tap. He could sense his pulse quickening. He had spent the last eight years working directly with the cosmonauts, and he counted them among his closest friends. But, he knew, his first responsibility was to the Republic.

Boris Gorbatko, his hair disarrayed like a mad scientist’s (a comparison he would find flattering), viewed the screen with his head slightly cocked. The keys clicked rapidly under his long fingers as he grumbled at the data that scrolled before him. His attempts to access the main processor had failed.

“The main computer is most likely down,” he said while typing, “although I can’t be certain. Whenever I attempt to access it, the comm line returns a disconnected status. The fiber optics may have been severed. The only way to find out is physically to trace the wire. The closed-circuit cameras in the forward cabin are out.” He motioned upward with his eyebrows. “On monitors three and four is the external view, nothing unusual there, but then the cameras were not designed to scan that sector of the hull. The environmental monitors are dead. I am unable to verify the zero-kp reading or the fire. There was definitely an explosion, however. We are several degrees off course.”

“Comm status?” asked Titov.

“I have built a circuit that bypasses the main processor and feeds directly to the high-gain antenna. We are receiving the signal from the tracking satellite. Kaliningrad should know about the explosion by now, but it is still too soon to receive their response,” he said, looking up from his watch. “We should be able to transmit.”

“Patch me in for a downlink.” Titov pushed himself toward a free terminal. Eleven minutes before Earth would receive this transmission, he thought, and another eleven minutes before he would receive a reply—a total of twenty-two minutes, plus the time it would take for ground control to assess the situation and decide upon a course of action. The last environmental telemetry might have alerted them to the problem, hopefully reducing their reaction time. That would be helpful, but he doubted it would be enough. Time was short. He looked into the small lens of the camera above the monitor and cleared his throat.

“There has been an explosion on the flight deck,” he said. “The module lost pressure and might be on fire. The midcabin and aft cabin appear undamaged. The main computer is down. We are still in the process of determining the extent of the damage. Lieutenant Colonel Demin was on the flight deck at the time of the explosion. It is unlikely that he survived. Please advise.”

Titov shut down the link and turned to Chertok, the ship’s pilot. “We shall commence our investigation while we wait for their response. The first step will be to enter the midcabin. Since the risks are unknown, only one person will go. I want that person to be you. Any objections?”

“I will go.”

“Good,” replied Titov. “Take the hardsuit. Once you’re inside the midcabin, you will perform a visual check of the flight deck. If it looks safe, reduce the pressure of the cabin to zero. You are to record the entire deck with the video camera. Miss nothing. Above all, proceed with caution. Questions?”

Chertok shook his head to indicate that he had none. “I’ll need some help with the suit.”

“Of course.”

The hardsuit was constructed of metallic tubes and weighed 215 pounds on Earth. The tubes were joined by constant volume joints, which maintained a steady air pressure of 62 kp’s, eliminating the need for prebreathing pure oxygen. Pre-breathing was necessary when using a softsuit and was normally started two hours prior to extravehicular activity in order to purge nitrogen from the blood. Without this precaution, the nitrogen would bubble out and collect in the joints of the body. This condition was known as dysbarism, or the bends. Severe cases could be fatal.

As Titov assisted Chertok with the suit, he wondered if they would survive. He assumed their chances to be slim but was determined to pursue every possible course before admitting defeat. If the damage to the forward cabin was minimal, they should be able to correct the Volnost’s trajectory and continue to Mars. Upon their arrival they could dock with the sister ship, refuel, and conduct repairs. They would then return to Earth as soon as the launch window opened. But for that to happen, the damage had to be minimal, and given what they already knew, that did not seem likely.

“Everybody make sure your oxygen masks are secure,” Titov said once he was certain the fittings of the hardsuit were properly fastened. He held Chertok by the shoulders. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Chertok replied.

Titov opened the portal separating the aft cabin and mid-cabin, allowing Chertok to step through. Upon entering the cabin, Chertok stopped to survey his surroundings as the door closed behind him. By the dim light of the emergency lamps, he could make out the microscope on the laboratory bench to his left, and directly above him a stationary bike; the control console was to his left on the forward wall. The room was compact and for that reason had always seemed disorganized, but as far as he could tell everything was in its proper place.

He carefully made his way toward the control console. Upon reaching the console he engaged the emergency power and switched on the lights. The sound of his breathing, amplified by the silence, reverberated through his helmet as he rotated slowly. The room was hauntingly still. He spoke into his microphone.

“Everything appears to be in order, nothing damaged or disturbed. I will proceed to the forward portal.”

“Be careful.”

Chertok obtained a high-powered flashlight from a supply cabinet and propelled himself in the direction of the flight deck. Although he had expected some damage, he was not at all prepared for the devastation he saw. For nearly a minute he stared in disbelief, without speaking, without hearing Titov’s voice demanding a response. There was a blackened body, arms extended, floating in the middle of the room. Chertok felt a surge of nausea. He started gasping for air—and as the initial symptoms of hyperventilation seized him, he regained his senses enough to decrease the oxygen flow through his suit. He became aware of Titov’s anxious voice ordering him to report.

“Sergei . . .” He swallowed and began again. “Sergei is dead. I can see his body. The flight deck console is destroyed.”

“Clarify ‘destroyed,’ Mikhail.”

“It is not there. Gone. Torn from the wall. Just a bunch of dangling wires. Hold on . . . There is a hole.”

“How wide is the breach?”

“Approximately twenty centimeters in diameter.”

Twenty centimeters, thought Titov. What in the world could blow a hole in the side of his hull twenty centimeters wide? A meteoroid possibly. The Volnost was constantly being bombarded by micrometeoroids; in fact, Russian scientists had estimated the ship would be struck over two billion times in the course of its journey by particles less than one-ten-thousandth of a gram. But the Volnost had an outer shell that protected it against such collisions. He estimated the object would have had to be at least a gram in size to pierce the shell. The odds were less than one in ten thousand that they would be struck by a particle that large.

It was more likely that the breach had been caused by an internal explosion, he thought. Considering the amount of time and effort expended to ensure the safety of the ship, such an explosion seemed unlikely. But not as unlikely as being struck by a meteoroid large enough to wreak this degree of havoc. The Russian engineers had not provided him with the probability of such an occurrence, just their assurance it would not happen. It was a recognized danger, and contingency plans had been prepared, but their effectiveness depended upon the extent of the damage.

“Any indication of what may have created the hole?” Titov asked.

“It is too dark to make out much detail.”

“Is the metal at the edge of the opening bent inward or outward?” Gorbatko asked. His thoughts regarding possible causes had paralleled Titov’s.

“I cannot tell from here,” Chertok responded.

“Commence depressurization of the cabin,” Titov said.

They had the equipment and materials to patch a breach. It was a standard drill, and they had practiced it several times underwater. Titov was more disturbed by the damage to the flight-deck console. Without the console they would be unable to alter the course of the Volnost. He wondered how Gorbatko was progressing. Pushing against the wall, Titov propelled himself toward the engineer.

“Appears we’re going to have to do without the main processor,” Gorbatko said.

Titov nodded that he understood. He sat down and brought up the directory for the habitat computer. It contained many of the same files as the main processor, but was not powerful enough to perform some of the more complex functions. He was studying a schematic of the ship when an image of the forward cabin appeared on monitor one. Chertok had entered the flight deck and was scanning his surroundings with the remote video camera. The burned shell of the cabin swung back and forth on the monitor. Pieces of the console floated within a maze of twisted metal and loose wires. The camera lingered on Demin’s charred remains for a moment, then turned away. Chertok located the breach. It enlarged and filled the screen as the camera zoomed in. Titov could see stars through the hole. Although he had anticipated the damage, he had not expected it to be so bad.

“Looks like the explosion was caused by an external force,” Gorbatko said. “The metal of the opening is definitely bent inward.”

The camera made several slow circles outside the hole, revealing sheets of twisted metal blackened by the explosion. Titov grew pale as he studied the monitor.

“I think it is the remnants of the main oxygen tank,” he said. “Mikhail, if you could scan to the left. Back a little. It looks as if both tanks are gone. Boris, check the reserve tanks.”

“One second,” Gorbatko replied. His throat went dry. The two reserve tanks were located in the aft cabin and contained a forty-eight-hour supply of oxygen for six men. Titov had already switched over to the reserve tanks.

“Ninety-five percent full,” Gorbatko replied. They were six months from Earth with less than two days’ worth of air. A long minute passed in uneasy silence. Titov could see the fear building in the eyes of his men. A thought occurred to him, but in the back of his mind he wasn’t sure if it would work.

“We still have a chance,” he said. “It may be possible to dock with the supply ship.”

He had their attention. They all knew that the supply ship had been designed to accommodate the crew in the event the Volnost experienced catastrophic failure.

“Without a flight deck we are unable to control the Volnost, but Kaliningrad can still control the supply ship. If they can bring her in close enough to dock, we could transfer over. I will contact ground control and consult with them regarding the rendezvous. They can perform the calculations to determine the feasibility. Meanwhile, we need to proceed with our investigation of the damage.” He switched on his microphone. “Mikhail?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“We have less than forty-eight hours of oxygen. It is imperative that we act quickly. We need to salvage what we can, as quickly as we can. I want you to gather the necessary gear to patch the breach so that we can restore pressure to the flight deck.”

“Affirmative.”

Titov turned to face his crew, and said firmly, “I would appreciate any other suggestions that you may have.”

Colonel Leonid Schebalin stood in the main hall of mission control with his hands clasped behind his back. He appeared to be unaware of the noise and commotion that surrounded him. His uniform was sharply pressed and crisp, his boots recently polished; despite his haste to reach mission control that morning, he had taken extra care to make himself presentable. He knew that before the day was out he would be delivering a statement to the press.

“Play back the video,” ordered Schebalin. There was no need to review the video again; the first time he saw it, he knew the deck was beyond repair. But it seemed so unreal, the charred cabin with floating wires and the blackened body and a breach in the hull the size of a man’s head. He watched it as he had watched tapes of the Challenger explosion, over and over again, his thoughts shifting between disbelief and curiosity. Perhaps there was something he could spot that might make a difference; that was his hope and the hope of the people who occasionally glanced up at him. Forty-seven hours, he thought, might very well turn out to be a blessing.

He checked the clock on the wall. It was five o’clock; most of Russia was still in bed. Sipping from his coffee cup, he peered over the rim at Emil Levchenko.

The disheveled scientist shuffled from one terminal to the next, shaking his head, obviously not pleased with the information his colleagues were providing him. He picked up a printout from one desk and, after a quick glance, threw it back down. He spoke with the scientist at the desk and could be heard throughout the control room as he raised his voice to instruct him to redo his calculations.

Schebalin went to his office and closed the door. On his desk were several contingency plans. He sat down to review them, and was soon interrupted by a knock on his door. It was a propulsion specialist with an update. After several hours of reviewing contingency plans and listening to progress reports, he had learned nothing to give him hope. With a growing sense of defeat, he closed his eyes and prayed. It was an unusual act for him, for he didn’t believe in God. Then he wondered how Levchenko was coming along. If there was a solution, he felt certain that Levchenko would find it. The young scientist was the architect of the Mars mission, the driving force behind the reinvigorated Russian space program. Schebalin picked up the phone and called him to his office.

When Levchenko appeared several minutes later, Schebalin motioned for him to take a seat on the other side of the desk. The scientist’s shirt was partially untucked and looked as if it had been slept in. He sat down and began bouncing the eraser of his pencil against his right knee. He smiled nervously at Schebalin.

“Well?” Schebalin asked impatiently.

“It can’t be done. The supply ship will never make it to them in time,” responded Levchenko.

“Why not? The ships are supposed to be within two days of each other at all times.”

“They are, assuming the Volnost can maneuver. But it can’t. Their current trajectories make it impossible for the supply ship to reach the Volnost in two days. We have run several simulations, and even with best-case coefficients it would take approximately four weeks to complete the rendezvous. Basically, the two-day dock required the Volnost to be maneuverable, not the supply ship. Additional time was also required to compensate for the deviation in course caused by the explosion. Twenty-seven days is the best I can do.”

Schebalin had suspected the damage would be too great, but all the same he was taken aback by the number of days required to complete a rendezvous. The supply ship was to be no more than two days away. How could two days possibly stretch to twenty-seven? As though he could read Schebalin’s thoughts, Levchenko shoved his paperwork across the desk.

“A contingency for this sort of accident was never developed. It was considered fatal. Frankly, they are lucky to be alive.”

“I’m not so sure of that.”

“You know what I mean,” Levchenko responded, hurt by Schebalin’s tone.

“Sorry.” Schebalin took a deep breath, pushed his chair back, and looked up at the ceiling. “Well, then, we need a miracle.”

“A miracle would be helpful,” responded Levchenko. “The damage could be superficial. In which case, they could repair the flight deck enough to maneuver the ship. However, the video gives us good reason to believe the damage was anything but superficial.”

“Could they build a bypass?”

“They have lost critical circuitry.”

Schebalin had to agree about the damage.

“Any other miracles?” he asked.

“None come to mind.”

“If their only chance is to repair the Volnost, then we will concentrate our efforts on that objective.”

“Why give them false hope?”

Schebalin paused at this. “Would you rather give up?”

“No,” Levchenko replied meekly. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable; although he sympathized with Schebalin’s desire, he did not share his optimism and felt guilty because of it. He didn’t want to appear uncaring, but he had to be realistic.

“I just—” began Levchenko, attempting to explain.

They were interrupted by the buzz of Schebalin’s intercom. “Yes.”

“Sir, the general is here.”

“Send him in.” Schebalin smiled awkwardly at Levchenko. “I need to speak to the general alone.”

Behind a glass panel overlooking the control room sat the wives and a few of the older children. They watched a timer, a computer image in the lower corner of the main monitor, which tracked the remaining minutes of the emergency oxygen supply. Ten hours, forty-three minutes, and fifty-two seconds flashed across the screen, and with each second that appeared and disappeared they knew there was one less breath of oxygen for their husbands, their fathers, to breathe. The cosmonauts had been informed that morning, thirty hours after the explosion, that a rescue attempt would not be possible.

Each family was waiting its turn to send a final transmission. They were allotted fifteen minutes apiece, and had to wait nearly thirty minutes for the response. Katrina, Gorbatko’s wife, was the first to r