Laika...: A Love Story

By J.F. McCarney

True love... is magical...

Laika... A Love Story, is a steamy, suspense filled, romance novel that is set in the middle of one of history's most important events.

This

• Language: English
• Publisher: Franklin Publishers
• Release date: Jan 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9781962973984

Book preview

Laika…

A Love Story

ByJ.F. McCarney

Copyright © 2024 J.F. McCarney

All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-962973-98-4

Printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Laika…

Copyright

DEDICATION

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

THE END

DEDICATION

ToBarb,myinspirationforromanticlove, andforalsoshowingmehowtocareforallthewonderfulanimalsinourlives...

PROLOGUE

Life as a child for Ayana Kenes in her native Kazakhstan was nothing like her life today.

World War Two was underway and her parents did not think there was much to worry about for themselves or their eight year old daughter. It was 1942 and thebattlesbeingfoughtwerefarawayfromtheircommunalfarminthesouth of Kazakhstan. The agricultural world of this Soviet Socialist Republic was not astrategictargetforNaziGermany’smilitary.Theficklenessofhowweather affected the harvest was of more concern then the battle for Stalingrad in Russia. Ayana’sdayswerefilledbyworkingwithhermom,Sesem,onthefarm.Evenfromsuchayoungageshefollowedinthestepsofothersthatweredefinedby centuriesoftraditions.Shehelpedwithwashingclothesinnearbyhotsprings, or pulling up sugar beets, or helping with livestock.

Probably her favorite leisure activity was hanging out with the animals. Cows were her favorite. She would sit on a bale of hay and tell them story after story of Kazakhstani legends and myths after her supper. Many a night her mom would remove a sleeping Ayana from the barn.

Her father, Miras, worked on keeping the harvesting equipment up. Ayanaalways seemed to end up making her way over to him as he worked. He would smile and let Ayana help repair the equipment as she had an unusual curiosityfor how it all worked.

Life was simple but satisfying…

That all abruptly changed with the siege of Stalingrad by the Germans. Herfather and any able-bodied male were ordered into service to help defend Mother Russia. It was a service from which they never returned. Many a night Ayana’s mom would cry herself to sleep.

And things got worse. One day her mom brought her a set of woodenMatryoshka nesting dolls. She tearfully showed Ayana how to play with them. Ayana was confused at her mom’s crying. Her mom struggled to tell her that they had gotten word that her father, Miras, had been killed in the war. Ayanahugged her mom, sobbed uncontrollably.

Ayana, wiped her eyes as she noticed her mom had her clothing wrapped in a large bundle tied on a stick and proceeded to put it up on her shoulder. Several Russian trucks pulled into the village and chaos reigned supreme. All the able-bodied women were being taken away just as the men had been. Sesem kissedher daughter Ayana goodbye. Her mom was herded up along with all the other women and loaded in the back of the trucks. They tearfully looked down at their children as old women tried to console them as they waved goodbye to their mothers in the trucks as they drove away. Their mothers, like their fathers before them, would not return from that war.

Many years passed and that little girl, who lost both her mother and father to that war, was no longer a member of that communal farm.

No,farfromit…

CHAPTER 1

I

t was October 4, 1957 and I feverishly worked on a mathematical calculation in the control room of the Korabl Space Launch facility in Kazakhstan.

AsIlookedoutthroughmyscholarlyglassesinmypristinewhitelabcoat, IrealizedhowimprobableitwasthatI,AyanaKenes,anoverachievingyoung scientist,waseventhere.Asotherswerefrantic,Iwascalmandcollectedworking onthemathematicalcalculation.TheSovietUnionwasabouttoattempt somethingthathadneverbeendone.Somethingthatwouldchangetheworld forever: launch an unmanned satellite, Sputnik One, into orbit around planet Earth. The dawning of the Space Race with the dreaded Americans was upon us... A mighty, glistening white rocket stood at attention, aimed at the celestialsky on the launchpad. The letters CCCP and the Soviet flag were painted on its side.AsIhelpedprepareforthelaunch,Ipeekedoutanobservationwindow. The mammoth rocket and all its metal and technology rose above the remote surroundingarea.Thenewbuildingmadeoutofsteelandconcretecompeted withjaggedrocksandflowingfieldsofagriculture.

A lone farm was visible in the distance, and the early morning sun’s rays rippled over the wheatfields. I thought about how no workers would be allowed in the fields that morning because of the launch. The same sort of fields I worked in just a few short years ago to the south of here.

My less-than-obvious Asian features and straight, dark hair contrastedwith those who worked alongside me. Everyone else in the Space facility wasprimarily from the Moscow area. The men were the only ones who seemed tonotice me, and it usually was to check out my ample curves as I walked by. I paid them no attention.A crisis was at hand. I watched as the monitors seemed to pulsate withinformation. Everyone was desperate. A middle-aged scientist, Dimitri Alexi, with thick glasses and a lab coat that looked like he had slept in for weeks, was frustrated.

The weather was supposed to clear! he exclaimed.

Helookedaroundateveryoneandthenatthemagnificentrocketoutside. And then the realization that unless the mission was successful, he would be to blame.

This is Mission Control’s fault. They should have considered the possibleweather complications. Why do you all look at me like that?

I was too busy doing calculations to observe the glare of his staff focused on his demise. He would be the scapegoat for sure. But would we all be blamed also? He slumped into a chair in front of his monitor, probably wondering whether hewouldeverseehisfamilyagain.Theweightofitallpresseddownonhim…

Dimitri ran his hands through his hair, knowing the mission had to bescrubbed. While it was no longer the oppressive Stalin regime that ruled the country for over half a century, Dimitri knew an unsuccessful launch would not bold well for himself or his family. His demeanor was as if he was signing his own death certificate as he gave the command…

Shut it down-No! I screamed.

All eyes in the control room now turned to me. I rushed over to Dimitri and showed him my calculations.

If we reset to these coordinates, the tangible velocity and inward acceleration will keep us on track. Dimitri yanked the clipboard from me and studied the complex calculations.

Are yousure?

I smiled with confidence; like I had a winning poker hand.

Icomputedtheeccentricanomalyandtheproposedtimeofflightandthe upcoming small window of acceptable weather and… And WHAT?????"

And I added a touch of my Kazakhstani improvisation.

Dimitri quickly reviewed the calculations and then stared me in the eyes. Iconfidently stared back. He nodded to his staff, who all went into high gear, implementing the calculations. The mad scramble came to a sudden stop as silence dominated the control room.

All eyes turned to the mighty rocket outside… The exhaust of the engines began to billow at the base of the launchpad. The silence was broken by a P.A. announcer. T-minus… three… two… one…

Pin drop silence in the lab as everyone collectively held their breath. The rocket majestically rose into the air. The CCCP red letters and Russian flag painted on the side disappeared into the early morning sky. You could cut thetension with a knife. Everyone listened to see if the radio beacon would deploy when it made it to its orbit.

No beacon. Dimitri dropped his head in frustration…Then… PING… PING… PING!

The Space facility erupted with cheers. Everyone hugged each other as if they were just rescued from a deserted island. I slipped outside, bent over and exhaled a long sigh of relief.

I quickly gathered myself and put on an air of confidence. Dimitri, teary- eyed, came outside and started to hug me but then thought better of it. While in my native Kazakhstan we were less formal in our conversation, I had become accustomed to the terse, formal nature of the Russian language.

ComradeKenes,Iamrecommendingyouforacommendation…The Premier himself will hear about this.

I hope I have proven my dedication and deservingness, I confidently replied. As Dimitri went back inside to the throngs of a celebratory party, I staredoutatmynativecountrysidewithapridefulsmile.Myeyesweredrawntothe barrenlandscapewiththeexceptionofthelonefarm.Itwassuchacontrastto the newly built Space launch facility.

A couple of years ago, none of this was here except the distant farm. The Soviet government rushed to build this Space facility in this remote location so they could safeguard their scientific secrets from the Americans. I turned and noticed young women now heading to the fields. I was once one of those young women. I symbolically turnedmy back onthose girls andwent back inside.I was somuch different than most of them. Their dreams were of finding a handsome beau and one day getting married; mine was anything but. I was well on my way to insulate myself within a career of science. A career that had no room for such emotional baggage. No, that would not be my destiny… I was sure of it.

To my surprise and many others, I was summoned back to Moscow to beembraced like a prodigal son… except that I was a woman. The propaganda bonanza for Mother Russia was nonstop. Every little black-and-white television orradiotalkedoftheamazingachievementoflaunchingSputnikOneinto space. It was no larger than a basketball, but its meaning seemed more significant than anything since the discovery of the wheel.

RussianTelevisionquicklyhadanimatedreenactmentsofwhatthe diminutive spacecraft looked like, with its small radio antennas poking out like a porcupine’s upright hair. I was given a medal at a ceremony at the Kremlin by Premier Nikita Khrushchev himself. This country orphan from a tinycommunal farm in Kazakhstan would make her parents proud… That is if they would have survived the war. Nonetheless, I was a rising star in a new field, the so-called ‘Space Race’ with the Americans. I would not let myself think about my parents or my rural childhood.

I made visits to the academic institutions in Moscow to inspire other young comrades. It seemed like I was at a different banquet hall every night. While the streets outside were gray and bleak, the academia world was a bastion of culture and formality.

As I raised my glass to receive yet another celebratory toast at yet anotherbanquet, I was surprised to see the Premier again as he showed up to a loud round of applause.

Asthefestivitiessubsided,heinterruptedaconversationIwashavingwith faculty members.

Comrade, I think your unique upbringing along with your scientificaptitude can make a difference in our next endeavor.

Sir?

SomethingthatwillshocktheworldevenmorethanSputnikOne.he stated as he leaned into me.

I was confused but honored he thought I could be of service. And what endeavor is that Premier, sir? I asked.

Be at the Moscow Space Research Laboratory tomorrow at noon sharp, he ordered.

Before I could respond, he moved on to meet other dignitaries.

As the Premier requested, I went to the Space Research Laboratory right before noon the next day. I was let in by a Russian soldier who stood onguard outside the main door. No one even noticed I was there. I sat down on a chair in the corner and just watched everything going on in awe. Scientific equipment that I had never seen. Large green monitors and every sort of glasscontaineryoucouldimagine.Techniciansheatedmetalswithablowtorchand then measured the effects of the heat on the metal with a special gauge. I was fascinated by it all. This is what I had been working towards; what I longed for: scientific achievement.

A Space capsule with a small window was installed on a metal centrifuge and sat in the middle of a large room. A small Russian Bolonka dog was inside and stared out.

An older, pudgy scientist, Igor Yinski, in a lab coat, belted orders. He wentover to a monitor. It was apparent he had a terrible limp, a club foot, maybe. Not only did he have a terrible limp, but the scowl on his face also seemed permanent. Other technicians around him seemed to back away as he was focused on the centrifuge test.

Faster! he yelled.

A thirty-something female lab technician, Ingrid Popov, who looked like she wassewninherlabcoatatbirth,turnedupadial.Shewasslenderandworea surgicalcapoverherextremelyshortblondhair.Nooneelseinthelabuseda surgical cap. I guess she wanted everyone to know how seriously she took her job. I was like a fly on the wall watching it all. I peeked up at the clock, and itwas exactly noon. I fidgeted a bit, but I couldn’t take my eyes off