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Georgi Petrov had been grumpy all morning. In fact, he’d been grumpy all week. He always got that way when he couldn’t fly. It was as if his mother’s God had made a colossal blunder on the day of his conception, putting the soul of an eagle in the body of a man. He fingered the eagle pendant that hung on a silver chain about his neck. It was the only thing that he had left from his parents and sometimes he imagined his mother’s soul was hidden somewhere inside it. He knew such thoughts weren’t proper for a good communist, but he only ever felt that way when he was grounded. So if Lenin’s ghost wanted Georgi to be a good atheist and sing the Soviet National Anthem, he had to let the eagle soar.
Late that afternoon, Georgi got his wish. Yuri reported in sick with the Russian flu (otherwise known as a vodka hangover), and Georgi was next in line to ride Yangel’s rocket. Officially, it was called the R-16, but Georgi knew it was modeled after secret German rocket designs. He never let politics get in the way of a fast ride, and so far, there was nothing faster than the R-16. With over 500,000 pounds of thrust, it had the potential to launch a man sixty miles above the earth to the very edge of space.
Perhaps Georgi would break a record today, have his name written in the history books. Perhaps there would be a ticker-tape parade awaiting him upon his return. Georgi thought he would cut a fine figure up on the podium in his new, red-striped officer’s uniform. He was not as tall as some of the American astronauts like John Glenn and Alan Shepard, but he was strong and brave. Surely no one would notice the little scar under his chin as the news cameras flashed and Premier Khrushchev presented him with his medal and declared him a Hero of the Soviet Union. Fame, fortune, dreams of a certain unattainable woman -- these were the thoughts that swam ebulliently through his mind as he squeezed into his orange flight suit and stepped out onto the tarmac.
There was an unusually large crowd gathered for this flight and Georgi felt a surge of adrenalin as he strode out towards the awaiting R-16. Apparently, some rather important people had arrived at the Cosmodrome in the night and were now watching from the safety of the command bunker. Whatever the final outcome of this flight, Georgi would give them a good show. He stopped before the gantry and saluted in the general direction of the hidden VIPs. It was a gallant gesture, but Georgi figured the occasion called for it. He wondered if anyone inside the bunker appreciated it. Then he turned to ride the elevator to the top of the hundred-foot rocket. His left hand went unconsciously back to the eagle pendant that hung around his neck. It wasn’t his only talisman. In his other hand, he clutched a tuft of grass – a symbol of the desire of every Russian pilot for a safe return to mother earth. But like Marshal Nedelin who was watching from a safe distance in the command bunker, Georgi was not to have his desires fulfilled tonight.
Ten seconds into the flight and the eight ball was already cockeyed. The inertial guidance system had failed and the R-16 was seven degrees off ballistic trajectory. Georgi knew instantly that the first stage rocket was not producing constant thrust, thus causing the invisible phenomenon of harmonic oscillation. Dangerous vibrations were ripping unseen through the fuselage, weakening its structural integrity and threatening to flatten the hundred-foot ship like a tin can. Twelve seconds in and the section couplings failed. Fourteen seconds and the auxiliary fuel tanks ruptured, leaking highly volatile nitric acid hydrazine. Another few seconds and Georgi would be dead, blown to oblivion with all his dreams of glory left unfulfilled.
Georgi wasn’t about to let that happen.
This wasn’t his first emergency by any means. His mind was clear and his blood was cold. He had an escape plan. It wasn’t an approved plan, and probably wouldn’t even work, but it was a plan, and at the moment, that was all that counted. Georgi had toyed with the idea of sharing the escape contingency with Designer General Yangel in the pre-launch briefing, but had wisely reconsidered. The General would have been appalled by the blatant misuse of his brilliant technology just to save an insignificant pilot. Then his engineers would have locked the controls and Georgi would have been completely helpless. Even now he imagined the heartless engineers estimating his chances of survival at less than five percent.
Fighting the G-forces, Georgi released his restraints and punched out the third stage override. Instantly, he was thrust back into his seat by another powerful surge of acceleration as the third stage rockets fired. The R-16’s first stage megaton booster and second stage rocket separated from the nosecone and then exploded. Georgi felt rather than heard the explosion, the concussion nearly sending him into blackout. He fought it, struggling to orient himself as the damaged craft spun wildly out of control.
The R-16’s third stage payload was a top secret, spacecraft prototype called the Raketoplan. It was designed by Chelomei, one of Yangel’s most promising and eccentric engineers and theoretically capable of orbiting in space and landing on a runway like an airplane. Chelomei had sold his idea to the military long before his prototype had even been built simply by painting a glowing picture of the Raketoplan’s potential to shoot down enemy spy satellites and rule the world from orbit. However, the glorious Raketoplan wasn’t equipped with an ejector seat like the fighter jets that Georgi had flown over the Pacific. The engineers back at Chelomei’s bureau, OKB-52, were of the general opinion that an ejector seat mechanism was just too heavy. It was easier and cheaper to replace a dead pilot than to design an engine with an extra thousand pounds of thrust. But a parachute was light and Georgi never flew without one. It was useless above twenty-five thousand feet, but he wasn’t anywhere near that height at the moment. He wondered vaguely if he ever would be again.
Georgi found the escape hatch release and yanked hard. The circular titanium hatch exploded out and Georgi was thrown free of the cockpit. So much for setting a record tonight, he thought as the Raketoplan drifted away into the night. The winged capsule had an automatic parachute system itself, but it was notoriously unreliable. Georgi wondered if the sleek craft would survive the fall. At least he had given her a chance. Now he had to try and save himself.
In the almost complete darkness of the northern spring, it was impossible to tell how high up he really was. His immediate instinct was to pull the ripcord as soon as possible, but he knew that would be a fatal mistake. He was tumbling violently through the air and would most certainly tangle the chute. He would have to risk a few seconds of freefall to right himself. It was a maneuver that he had done only a few times before and never at this velocity.
His eyes stung from the smoke and his tongue tasted acid. He held out his arms like an eagle spreading its wings. The air rushed against his body like a hurricane. He felt as if his arms would be torn from their sockets. Gradually, his body slowed against the wind. He was still turning slow cartwheels in freefall, but he dared not wait another second. He pulled the ripcord. The chute opened. Georgi grunted as the harness constricted on his chest and took away his air. A few seconds later, he hit the snowy tundra five hundred miles north of Moscow.
Elf Lord