Zenith — Part 1

By Michael Cruickshank

The liquid oxygen boil-off had created an unnatural fog which partially obscured the concrete launch pad. Appearing as little more than a silhouette at this distance, the rocket still towered over the Kazakh steppe. The letters СССР could still be seen of course, the only details which were seen as critical to paint over the bare metal of the hastily built craft.

Over the last few hours, the speakers nearby had blasted out patriotic songs. Now they were silent.

The engineers had told Sasha he should should keep a safe distance.

But one could not.

“Checks complete. Standby for launch”

The speakers crackled back to life.

“60 seconds,” it warned.

“30”

“20”

“15”

Sasha looked towards the rocket’s top, looking for a sign of life. Forgetting of course, that the Zenit had but one window, which itself was covered for the moment by an aerodynamic metal cone.

“Dyesyat”

“Dyevyat”

“Vosyem”

“Syem”

“Shest”

“Pyat”

“Chyetirye”

“Tri”

“Dva”

“Adin’”

The fog flashed bright orange, and then was blasted away as the huge engines came to life. Seconds later the shockwave hit. Sasha’s very bones rattled as the craft began to lift above the pad, ascending on a pillar of flame.

For several seconds he could feel its heat, warming his face like the morning sun. It was almost too bright to look at directly. Sasha’s eardrums threatened to burst as its roar triumphantly flooded the landscape. A caged dragon finally free.

He watched it for as long as it was visible, before it vanished

Sasha returned to the prefabricated wooden hut that the engineers had begun to call ‘mission control’. Inside it was artificially warm, heated by the nest of electronics, wires, antennae and generators specifically designed to track an object moving many times the speed of sound.

Four men sat nervously by a radio microphone. Nastya was pouring tea from the samovar, dropping much on the concrete floor as her hands shook.

Sasha wasn’t even noticed until he spoke.

“When will we know?,” he asked.

No one replied. Dmitri gripped the microphone with white knuckles.

“Korabl-Zenit, this is Baikonur — can you hear us?” he muttered, focused completely on the task.

“Korabl-Zenit — Can you hear us?”

“Anton — Can you hear us?”

“Korabl-Zenit are you there?” he repeated becoming increasingly agitated. We all knew why.

“Anton! Can you hear us?”

Suddenly the static broke, and Anton’s voice could be heard, although it was barely comprehensible. Immediately Dmitri relaxed.

“….Baikonur…. gaining altitude…. everything normal… “

Another 15 seconds of static followed. Sasha’s heart began to race again. Dmitri opened his mouth to once more to hail the craft on the radio, but just as he did, Anton’s voice once again broke through the electronic hiss.

“…very hot… …spinning… engine two… responsive… elp me!”, his voice was now panicked and scared.

“Anton! Repeat! What is the problem!”, Dmitri shouted into the radio.

“…not working… … falling… …cannot…”

“Tell us what is wrong! We can help!” Dmitri’s voice thundered inside the small room.

“…don’t want to… …kill them… …Yana, don’t let them kill her… …the kids… stop them…”

Yana was his wife. Sickened, Sasha knew what the cosmonaut was pleading for. What he knew would happen if the mission failed.

“…don’t … them them fucking… …don’t let them kill them… they won’t….”

“…so hot… ah shit…. Don’t let them!”

“…fuck these Commu… whores… let them kill…. don — — — — ”

A sharp screech ran through the radio for a second, before it returned to a neutral static.

Anton smashed his fist down on the wooden table in frustration. A glass bottle fell from a higher shelf shattering at his feet.

No one moved.

The fourth man in the room was a KGB agent. He nervously fingered a Makarov pistol he had holstered to his leg. Everyone knew what he was here for.

Dmitri cut the radio speaker, immediately silencing the static which had filled the hut. The KGB-man’s leather gun holster was opened with a creak and a click.

“So are you going to it then?” Dmitri asked.

The agent took his hand away from the pistol, averting his gaze.

“You going to fucking kill us too? Like you killed Anton? Like you are going to kill his family?” he shouted. “We told you this would happen. We told you it wasn’t ready. But no, this is your fucking project, your fucking glory.”

As Dmitri shouted, he stood up abruptly, his sedan chair violently pushed forwards, shards of glass crushing underfoot.

The KGB agent took a step back, but then righted his posture. His eyes narrowed as his gaze scraped across the room.

“The Fatherland demands sacrifice! Do not question what is necessary!” he shouted back.

“Fuck the Fatherland — what kind of father leads its children to death?” Dmitri continued to rage. “And for what? So you can score boasting points against the Capitalists? Tell me how the fuck that helps anyone? This is isn’t sacrifice — this is murder!”

The agent was unmoved, replying in a stern but calm tone.

“No — you tell me. Tell me Comrade, how many died in Stalingrad for your freedom? How many died in Leningrad to supply the city while its children starved in the long winter? Have you forgotten what it means to be part of our revolution? Have you forgotten the idea we all serve?” he lectured, as if reciting a practiced speech.

“No! I haven’t forgotten! I was there, and saw what you were too young to even have nightmares about! I did not fight, just to kill people for politics. Do not tell me what it means to sacrifice!”

Dmitri grabbed the broken bottle from the table and brandished it in front of him, swinging menacingly adding further aggression to his shouts. Sasha noticed the KGB agent lower his right hand, back towards his holster.

“Do you know what we had to do survive Comrade?, Anton continued saying the last word with a disgusted snarl. “What we did just to eat during the Siege? How many friends I lost to the Nazis’ bullets and the cold?”

He took a step towards the agent.

“But you are no friend! And if you die, I don’t ca — — ”

Crack. A deafening gunshot echoed within the confined cabin.

Crack crack.

Brain matter painted the radio equipment.

Dmitri’s body hit the concrete with thud.

The agent turned his gun to the other technician in the room, who himself was frozen with fear. Crack, crack, crack, crack. His body slumped into the chair he was sitting in. Blood dripped from his fingertips, still gripping to the armrest.

Nastya dropped the tea, screaming, and ran out through door, almost barreling it off its hinges. Several muffled gunshots followed soon after, punctuated by a tortured scream.

Finally, the agent turned the gun on Sasha who stood shaking as blood pooled at his feet.

“You however, are too important to this project to die,” he said coldly. “For now.”

“Project Zenith will continue, and we will bring hope to the proletariat!” he continued, not really addressing Sasha, but rather some invisible and still living third party within the cabin.

“Glory to the USSR! Glory to the Fatherland!” he proclaimed.

“G-g-glory to the Fatherland” Sasha stammered back.

Zenith is a multi part novel I am currently writing. It will be released in a serial format over the next few months. Stay tuned for the next instalment.