Flight of the Cosmonaut

By David Wright

Soviet fighter pilot Georgi Petrov is poised to make history as the first man in space. But can he survive the secret and dangerous world of cosmonaut training behind the Iron Curtain? Volatile rockets, lethal KGB agents, tyrannical commanders, and mysterious rocket scientists. How many lives are they willing to sacrifice to achieve their ambitious goals and who will be the next to die? But if Georgi ever hopes to escape his violent past and start a new life with the green-eyed girl of his dreams, he has to take this one desperate chance for glory.

Flight of the Cosmonaut is an 85 000 word historical thriller which draws upon recently released Soviet documents (such as the Kamanin Diaries) and fifty years of cold war rumors to tell the story of the phantom cosmonauts — the brave, young men and women who sacrificed their lives for the conquest of space.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Wright
• Release date: Mar 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301632107

David Wright

DAVID M. WRIGHT, president and owner of Wright Financial Group, CLU, ChFC®, is a thirty-plus-year veteran in the financial services industry, working with individuals, families, and businesses in many different financial areas. He is Series 65-licensed, specializing in working with those nearing or in retirement. He has helped hundreds of people maximize the utility of their money with non-stock market, income-generating financial products. David currently resides in Sylvania, Ohio, with his wife, Marcia. He has two sons and two beautiful grandchildren, Olivia, Jacob and Ethan. In his downtime, he enjoys singing at his church, playing golf, and relaxing with his family.

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Flight of the Cosmonaut

Cosmonaut Series

Book I

By David Wright

David Wright

Copyright 2013

ISBN: 9781301632107

Smashwords Edition, License Notes.

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Books by David Wright

Codename Vengeance

Vengeance Series: Book I

Free Audio Book

Elf Lord

Elf Book I

I wish to dedicate this book to my family and friends.

Contents

Chapter 1: Devil’s Venom

Chapter 2: KGB

Chapter 3: Star City

Chapter 4: Theme No. 6

Chapter 5: OKB-1

Chapter 6: KSV-1

Chapter 7: Engel’s Aerodrome

Chapter 8: Baikonur Cosmodrome

Chapter 9: Area D

Chapter 10: Land of Fire and Ice

Chapter 11: Moscow

Chapter 12: Nedelin’s Ghost

Chapter 13: Vostok

Chapter 14: 200 Nautical Miles

Chapter 15: People’s Republic

Chapter 16: Hero of the Soviet Union

Chapter 17: The Kremlin Wall

Epilogue

Historical Note

About the Author

Codename Vengeance

Elf Lord

Chapter 1: Devil’s Venom

________________

April 1, 1960

A Soviet colonel arrived at Plesetsk Cosmodrome just above the Arctic Circle in a large American K-car. He wore civilian clothes, smoked German cigarettes and stayed mostly in the shadows. The base manifest identified him by the enigmatic letters SP, but the ranking officer, Marshal Nedelin, addressed him simply as Chief. His real name was Sergei Pavlovich Korolev, the anonymous Chief Designer of the Soviet space program, and he was here to witness what had become a very familiar sight in the Soviet Union these days – a rocket launch.

The Chief stood behind the reinforced concrete bunker with the collar of his blue overcoat up and the brim of his brown fedora down, whether to protect himself from the frigid air or to conceal his features nobody really knew. Patiently and silently, he waited for the wingless monolith on the launch pad to fire up into the night.

It is precisely this sort of delay which will cause us to fall behind the Americans, Marshal Nedelin said abruptly and then swore. He pulled out his silver pocket watch, a sixty-year-old relic from Russia’s Tsarist past, and swore again. It wasn’t a very fierce curse or easily translatable, something about baby birds of questionable parentage and loose virtue.

The Chief, who had worked among rocket mechanics, political prisoners and hotshot air force pilots most of his life, almost laughed. Fortunately, he caught himself in time. To laugh at a major general and a senior member of the Communist Party was political suicide, more certain than drawing a mustache on Premier Khrushchev’s portrait in Red Square.

We cannot allow ourselves to become complacent, to rest upon the success of our past endeavors. You may have put Sputnik into space, Colonel, but last year, the Americans had two suborbital launches with live subjects.

Monkeys, the Chief clarified but Nedelin did not hear him.

And the Atlas Rocket - -

Has not yet had a successful launch.

But it is only a matter of time. Nedelin fumed, the Chief’s sanguine demeanor only serving to add fuel to the flames. Mark my words, Colonel, the Americans are on the verge of sending a Mercury astronaut into space.

The Chief assumed a grim expression. Delays are necessary.

You have no idea what pressures I’m under. Premier Khrushchev –

Premier Khrushchev suffers delays poorly, the Chief interrupted, his words bordering on treason. But he suffers failure not at all. Besides, it is not the R-16 that I am here to see.

No? Then what?

It is the test pilot, the Chief said simply.

As if on cue, the preliminary launch warning sounded over the loudspeakers and a man in a bright orange flight suit emerged from the distant blockhouse. He was not an unusual man at first glance. He had a thin face, for a Russian, wavy brown hair and a faint scar on his otherwise attractive chin. He stood about even with the busy flight technicians who flanked him on either side carrying his life support equipment.

But there was an air of confidence in his brown eyes that distinguished him from any other man on the tarmac. His was the look of the master bullfighter or the lion tamer entering the ring – the consummate professional. He was a man marked for death, yet there was no apparent fear at the prospect of riding a fireball into the stratosphere.

He strode casually towards the awaiting rocket, and the milling engineers, soldiers and technicians parted in awe. He stopped before the gantry to give his final salute and only the Chief noticed as he made a very quick movement with his left hand to touch something under his collar. And then he was up the gantry elevator and into the capsule.

Korolev turned back to Nedelin. I would like to talk to him…if he survives. Nedelin was appalled by the Chief’s pessimistic attitude, but Korolev merely shrugged. The R-16 is not my rocket. General Yangel has a new design team at NII-88, mostly Germans. They abandoned my R-7 Semyorka booster in favor of a modified V-2 rocket design.

Korolev had often wondered where Yangel had really found his design for the R-16. It was quite a departure from the V-2 rockets that they had captured from Germany after the war and unlike anything they had worked on together. Korolev couldn’t imagine that Yangel was smart enough to come up with a new idea on his own, at least not one that worked. So where did the R-16 come from?

It’s sleek, radical and revolutionary, Korolev continued, but highly unstable. The Chief lifted his fedora and looked directly at Nedelin with his cold, gray eyes. They’re using devil’s venom.

Nedelin raised an eyebrow, but did not respond.

Devil’s venom, otherwise known as nitric acid hydrazine, was a propellant so volatile that it burned whatever it touched and ate the very metal that housed it. Many attempts had been made to safely harness the lethal rocket fuel, but sooner or later they all ended in disaster.

You know those German engineers, Korolev continued casually. They’re all so convinced that their alternative fuels will provide more thrust. I prefer more conventional approaches, small improvements on tried and tested designs. I find we go through fewer test pilots that way. But I have been over-ruled on this one. It is out of my hands.

Nedelin was tempted to argue with the vaunted Russian rocket scientist. After all, as Marshal of Artillery, it was his decision to turn the manned-flight program over to General Yangel. It wasn’t that he doubted the Chief Designer’s genius. After all, this was the man that had put Sputnik, the first man-made satellite, into space.

But Nedelin was an impatient man, nervous of his superiors, and especially the Americans. He was convinced that Wernher von Braun, Korolev's opposite number in America, was about to send a man into space. Von Braun was on the verge of designing functional ICBM’s sixteen years ago. Who knew what he could have accomplished by now with the almost unlimited resources of the United States? Certainly more than the cautious and secretive Russian engineers like SP Korolev.

Marshal Nedelin was about to make a bold statement to this effect when white steam billowed from the R-16’s starter rockets and the final countdown began. Nedelin and the Chief slipped on their protective goggles and all conversation ceased.

Nedelin wanted very much for Yangel’s rocket to succeed, not so much for the life of the brave test pilot, but to prove that the Chief Designer’s delays were unnecessary. Hadn’t the Soviet Union already had countless successful rocket launches? If they could put a dog in the nosecone of a rocket and launch it into space, surely they could do the same thing with a man. It did not concern him too much that they had not yet found a safe and reliable way to bring the dogs back alive. Such details were best left to lesser men.

The ground shook as the massive first stage engine ignited and condensation crystals cascaded down from the metallic cylindrical body in a shower of white. Billowing clouds of smoke filled the million-square-foot stadium as the R-16 rose slowly under its powerful rocket to a height of nearly a thousand feet. Nedelin opened his mouth to congratulate himself on his wisdom and foresight when the powerful rocket veered slowly to the horizontal and exploded in a brilliant fireball like the fireworks on May Day. Moments later, the stars above were obscured by an impenetrable wall of black smoke. The air was thick with the smell of burned rocket fuel.

Nedelin felt robbed of his opportunity to make his point and then suddenly remembered the Chief’s unfortunate test pilot. I’m afraid, SP, that you have just lost another future cosmonaut, Nedelin gloated.

The Chief rubbed his chin thoughtfully, but it was difficult to read the expression on his grim, intelligent face.

#

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.

Chapter 2: KGB

________________

April 2, 1960

Colonel. Colonel Korolev.

Korolev turned to see a small man in civilian clothes standing unobtrusively in the hospital hallway. Korolev hadn’t noticed him on his way in, although he must have walked right past him. He wasn’t a doctor or a patient and Korolev wondered what he was doing in a private military hospital and, more importantly, how he knew his name.

Yes? Korolev replied guardedly.

The man stepped forward and offered his hand. My name is Colonel Viktor Kizim. I’m from the Committee for State Security. In Russian, the Committee for State Security was Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti or KGB. Korolev shook Kizim’s hand reluctantly.

Surely you are aware, Colonel, that my identity is a state secret and that my name is never to be used in public.

Of course. You prefer to go by your initials, SP. Please forgive me, the KGB Colonel apologized, assuming a furtive grin as if he were enjoying a private joke. I understand you are on your way to visit the downed pilot and to offer him a new assignment. I wonder if I might accompany you.

Korolev looked at Nedelin but the Marshal seemed only to share his surprise. Korolev hesitated only a moment and then, nodding to the KGB officer, continued down the hall.

Of course he did not want to be accompanied by the KGB. He had been promised a free hand without the bureaucratic meddling that plagued every aspect of life in the Soviet Union. He had been promised complete secrecy for his work and for his team, and yet this stranger knew precisely what he was doing even before he did it. As angry as he was, Korolev knew he could not refuse this KGB Colonel. Despite their equality in rank, they were not equals. Whatever promises had been made, they were not binding and they could easily be revoked. Korolev would have to accept this reality or resign himself to a life of utter obscurity in a Siberian gulag. He would rather die than go back to that frozen hell on earth again.

I wonder, SP, Kizim said, apparently still enjoying his cloak and dagger play-acting, if you might tell me a bit about this pilot that crashed the Raketoplan, a space ship worth twenty-million rubles, and why it is that you are still interested in him.

Korolev knew that Kizim was attempting to provoke a reaction by being deliberately antagonistic. Georgi Petrov was not responsible for the destruction of the space ship prototype and Korolev bristled at the thought of the young man being made a scapegoat before he could be put to good use. Petrov was an experienced pilot, having flown the new Sukhoi fighter and having shot down two U.S. fighter jets over the Sea of Japan. He’d flown a dozen experimental prototypes for the military, set speed and altitude records, and had just survived one of the most spectacular rocket explosions Korolev had ever seen. He had many good reasons for going after Lieutenant Georgi Petrov, none of which he intended to share with the KGB.

He’s expendable. Korolev shrugged and Kizim laughed morbidly.

Yes, I understand that is an essential quality for one of your test pilots, but as you know, a cosmonaut is much more than that. We intend to put a new communist man in space. The eyes of the world will be upon him. He will carry the hopes and dreams of the Soviet people and prove the righteousness of our doctrine to the decadent –

Korolev stopped abruptly in front of a hospital room door and looked directly at the KGB Colonel, but it was impossible to read his thoughts. His face was as if chiseled from stone. One day very soon we will send a new communist man into space and it will be a glorious day for the Soviet Union, he said coldly. But first I must send up a few dogs.

Marshal Nedelin made a surprised grunt but Colonel Kizim made no reply whatsoever. He seemed momentarily speechless. Korolev took advantage of the silence to step past the KGB officer into the hospital room. The room was empty, the sheets on the beds neatly washed and folded. Korolev turned back to face the Colonel. Kizim was smiling.

If it is dogs that you are looking for, Kizim said smugly, may I suggest you look in the local kennel.

This is highly irregular. Korolev could no longer hide his anger. A crashed pilot is held for observation for a mandatory twenty-four hours. It’s standard procedure.

Kizim held up his finger. Not when that pilot is charged with assault.

Assault?

Kizim smiled. Apparently, your test pilot struck a doctor.

This is outrageous. Korolev looked to Nedelin for support, but the Marshal seemed to have lost all of his bluster in the face of the Soviet special police. Korolev turned back to Kizim. His voice was low but menacing. I demand to see Lieutenant Petrov.

Demand? Kizim’s eyes widened with delight. I don’t believe OKB-1 has the authority to make demands of the KGB. For a moment, the two men faced each other in defiance and the room grew still. Kizim was the first to give ground, holding out his hands magnanimously. But I think I could arrange a supervised meeting. It could prove beneficial for both our divisions.

Korolev could not imagine what possible interest the KGB could have in the young pilot. Perhaps they were just using him to get their hooks in the space program. No doubt, the Chief Designer had a part to play yet, and the great chess master suddenly felt as if he’d just become a pawn in someone else’s game. It wasn’t a feeling that he much enjoyed.

#

An hour later, Lieutenant Georgi Petrov stood in his full uniform before a panel of strangers. The insignia and row of medals on the one man’s uniform identified him as the Marshal of Artillery, Major General Nedelin. A hardliner from a long tradition of hardliners, he was one of the most powerful men in the Soviet military and greatly feared. The short man in the leather raincoat was obviously KGB, but the identity of the third man was a complete mystery. Georgi’s head still hurt from a mild concussion, his left leg apparently had a hairline fracture in two places and his arm was bandaged from an acid burn that he didn’t remember getting. Other than that, he was in perfect health.

Lieutenant, explain yourself, Marshal Nedelin snapped after a long, awkward silence.

I have no excuse for my actions, sir, and I submit myself to my superiors for full disciplinary review. On the surface, the Lieutenant’s words were merely a contrite and formal apology, but Georgi hoped the subtle reference to his superiors would not be overlooked by the military officer. Better to be tried in a military court than to be thrown to the KGB.

That will not be necessary, Lieutenant. Doctor Yazdovskiy and his staff have dropped all charges, the unidentified third man said with just a hint of impatience. The man did not betray any emotion, but Georgi sensed he might have been sympathetic to the Lieutenant’s plight. We would simply like to know what provoked your apparently irrational behavior.

Georgi considered his options, and as he really didn’t have any, he told the truth. The doctor grounded me, sir.

And this angered you?

Yes, sir.

Because you feel it was unnecessary and that you are fit to fly?

Yes, sir.

Marshal Nedelin could no longer contain himself. Look at you, man. You’re a mess. You couldn’t beat my niece in a game of badminton, let alone fly an aircraft.

Georgi wanted to argue, but he knew a reprimand when he heard one. He wisely shut up. And besides, he’d never met the Marshal’s niece and some girls played a mean game of badminton.

And so you . . . Nedelin looked down to read off the official report. . . . you grabbed Doctor Yazdovskiy by the neck and threatened to squeeze his pointed head into a bedpan.

Yes, sir.

And had to be restrained from striking the doctor by five nurses and an orderly.

No, sir.

Nedelin looked up from the transcript. You deny the charges? Nedelin held up a dented brass bedpan with obvious distaste. The nurses claimed to have pried this from your fingers.

Yes, sir, they did, but I would not have struck the doctor with it.

Why not?

Well, sir. I intended to fill it first.

No one laughed.

Lieutenant, I have a question for you. It was the KGB officer and Georgi felt an immediate lump in his throat. What prompted you to initiate the third stage separation prematurely?

Georgi was surprised by the officer’s question. He hadn’t shared his escape plan with anyone and he was fairly certain that the explosion of the R-16’s first and second stage boosters had obscured the separation of the third stage capsule. Again, he considered lying, blaming it on a glitch in the system, but in a strange way, he was just a little bit proud of himself. It was a feeling that he would quickly regret.

She was drifting. The couplings buckled. The tanks ruptured. I thought perhaps I could save the Raketoplan –

Save the Raketoplan? How? By overriding automatic presets? By contradicting established safety protocols?

With all due respect, Colonel Kizim, the mystery man interrupted, failure analysis indicates that the crash was due to a systems malfunction. An access hatch on the second stage came off at lift-off. The hatch was attached with two bolts rather than the eight required by specifications. Aerodynamic forces produced harmonic vibrations of the metal structure which offset the gyroscopes, which in turn provided false signals to the guidance and control systems. He said all this off the top of his head. He paused a moment, apparently aware that any further explanation would be wasted on the KGB officer, and then opted for a simple summary statement instead. The Raketoplan was about to be destroyed along with the rest of the rocket. He spoke slowly as if addressing a child. The Lieutenant’s actions did not --

With all due respect, Chief Designer Korolev, there are larger issues at stake here than the life of one lucky test pilot. The room went quiet and Georgi had a sudden revelation. The third man