Conclusion

Conclusion.
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Chapter Four: Production

NASA is wondering why Challenger's second booster exploded,
while the KGB is wondering why the first one didn't.

From the author's classified file.

The site supervisor, Lieutenant Kryukov, was sober as usual and giving the watchman a dressing-down over the theft of a tower crane. Of course, people stole everything here, from trowels to electrical substations, but a stolen tower crane was a first even for me.

"No, really, just show me the fine lads who dismantled a whole crane overnight! With their help, I'd have finished this site ages ago!" The lieutenant waved his hand dismissively and called out toward our company: "Company! We're not pouring concrete today. We're pouring drinks. Just kidding. Everyone go clean up your work areas."

As for me, I'd have preferred pouring concrete. At least there was some point to it. Safer, too. Just recently, having nothing better to do, we'd been smoothing the walls of a foundation pit until they shone—only to find out it had been dug two meters too far to the left. And right where we had been digging turned out to be a radioactive waste burial site so hot that our company instantly found itself down two soldiers, and the lieutenant colonel in charge of construction found himself down two stars from his shoulder boards. Or another time, on the orders of some other crackpot, we dug a trench and hit a high-voltage cable. The company ended up missing two arms and three legs, and the officers' quarters went without electricity for a week. Or take the neighboring company a month ago, clearing up an oxidizer (melange) rocket fuel leak. At headquarters they laughed about it for a long time afterward: everyone involved, including the Caucasians, turned into blondes, and for quite a while.

Then there was this business of cleaning up. Last week, our unit had to tidy up the steppe. You know, make sure all the wild tulips faced the same direction, and the dust was neatly trampled down. Well, not the entire steppe, of course—just the zone visible from the UAZ jeeps carrying a visiting commission from the General Staff. Five or six square kilometers, nothing more. While they were at it, they knocked down a couple of geodetic triangulation markers. I remember the site supervisor threw a fit later: "They brought them right to me and said they found them! I don't need the damn scrap metal, I need the exact spot where they were standing!"

I headed over to my workstation—the electricians' trailer—and unexpectedly ran into Kochkura. Wait, I thought, when the guardhouse had shift change, he still had two full days left to serve. As if reading my mind, Kochkura said:

"Some old babay is finishing my sentence in there for three packs of Prima. I want to make a run over to Launchpad 113."

Pad 113—an abandoned rocket launch complex—was the hub of Baikonur's counterculture, a dissident nest of sorts. It was massive, three to four times the size of ordinary launchpads. Small wonder that a rocket launched from it back in the seventies (rumor had it, aimed at the Moon, or maybe even farther) hadn't flown very far—just as far as the nearest barracks. When it exploded, it killed (rumor had it again) about 15 people: three or four generals, up to a dozen colonels, and soldiers beyond counting. After the disaster, the project was scrapped; everything of value was stripped, and the rest was left to the tender mercies of the guard detail. Since there were twelve underground levels stretching for kilometers, there was plenty of loot to go around. A pity that by the time I was drafted (1981), almost everything that could be carted off had been carted off, everything that could be drunk had been drunk, and everything that could be broken had been broken. But soon enough the construction battalion reached the pad, and all hell broke loose! The underground levels became home to deserters, washed-up civilian builders, and all sorts of rabble. From time to time, commandant platoons managed to clear the levels after prolonged sieges using "Cheryomukha" tear gas, but the valiant military construction workers, like cockroaches, promptly reoccupied every crack. Among the denizens of the underground, Kochkura and I had plenty of acquaintances. So I agreed right away, and we set off without delay.

The spring sun of Kazakhstan beat down warmly; broken or abandoned machinery lay scattered here and there; the air smelled of wild tulips and burnt tar.

"By the way," Kochkura said, "the tower crane wasn't stolen. The demobs from the neighboring unit just borrowed it. On my tip. I figure—the moment I'm out, straight to work! They were given their demob chord: put a roof on building number two. Their site supervisor thinks they won't manage it in a month, but with that crane, they'll knock it out in a week and head home to civilian life. And as for this rocket, without my autograph—my blessing, so to speak—it's doomed. Mark my words, this one will be my final, demob rocket."

"Oh come on, Kochkura, we've got six months left to sweat out before demob. We'll see plenty more launches."

"Let's not argue. The launch is today around seven, we'll see."

Part Five: Threshold of the Underworld

"I vaguely remember something through the hangover:
a lemon with legs. And my daughter is crying:
'Why did you squeeze the canary into your tea?'"

From memoirs.

By this time, we had passed the launchpad's outer electrified perimeter fences—long since dismantled by soldiers to heat the underground levels—and crawled into the first level through a ventilation shaft.

The first level was heavily mined: it served as a public latrine. Although everything had compacted and petrified over many years, water seeped in from outside, creating a truly unique bouquet across the floor. However, this wasn't our first time here, and we quickly found the passage to the stairs. We needed the shortest route down to the bottom, the 12th level. From that level, tunnels with thick, rusted bundles of cables branched out in all directions. Some claimed the tunnels connected all the pads together; others claimed they led straight to the Kremlin in case of nuclear war. In any event, it was well known that anyone who went in there for too long usually didn't come back. In my memory, only Kochkura had once trekked about 10 kilometers down one of the shafts looking for silver wire and returned, which earned him the nickname "Stalker." Mind you, down one of the passages, some clever lads from the neighboring company had pushed fairly far and found huge stockpiles of alcohol, but hadn't managed to haul them out. Kochkura believed that through this floor, one could reach the still-unlooted treasures of the launch complex.

On the 2nd level, under torchlight, a soldier flea market was in full swing. People were selling—or rather, trading—everything under the sun. The currency consisted of alcohol-containing liquids, drugs, or smokes. On the left, an agile Uzbek was hawking silver stripped from submarine batteries. (A paradox, by the way: not a single body of water for thousands of kilometers, yet submarines—present!). On the right, two guys were selling optics torn out of machine gun auto-aim systems. From the demob uniform decorations on sale, you could easily deduce what rockets were made of. How about a badge made from thruster nozzle plating? Gold leaf inserts for your demob album? Or perhaps a glow-in-the-dark model rocket made of enriched uranium?

A bottle of vodka bought you an air conditioner; two got you a TV; three got you an assault rifle with a bucket of ammo. A crate of vodka could fetch you a tank, though you had to steal it yourself from the neighboring combat unit. In fact, recently, two stroibat soldiers had stolen a fighter jet to order, using only the first volume of the flight manual. Naturally, the landing instructions turned out to be in volume two. On the move, Kochkura traded a few cigarettes for a lithium battery for his flashlight, and we descended further.

The 3rd level reeked of spirits and hydrochloric acid. Here, as I knew, moonshine was distilled from acid solvent, BF adhesive glue, and God knows what else. In the center of the hall stood a massive stainless steel sphere filled with a greenish, foul-smelling liquid. Taut, wet hoses snaked upward from it. No power source was visible, yet the liquid was noticeably hot. Standing atop the vat was a hefty, half-naked soldier shouting down into the depths: "Paddle to the left, rookie! Shove the cata... uh... lyst into the hole!" From the bottom of the vat came a sound resembling a plaintive mewing.

Right under the staircase lay the engineer behind this contraption—Private Kushnir from our company—huffing ether fumes through a hose. Without stopping, Kochkura gave him a kick and said: "Regimental inspection tomorrow, you toxic fiend." Kushnir, without pulling away from the hose, muttered: "In which dimension?..." and passed out. "A smart guy, really," Kochkura remarked, "could extract alcohol from a wooden stool, and yet—a solvent abuser." "C-H-three-C-O-O-H, and I already called the company commander asking to extend my AWOL," Kushnir suddenly articulated clearly. Yeah, I thought, distilling alcohol out of vinegar isn't easy; anyone's mind would snap. "Is that a password he's mumbling?" Kochkura pricked up his ears. "Sure is," I replied, "for the other world." Kushnir worked as a thyristor in the power supply unit of headquarters' secret "notebook." To all my attempts to find out about the notebook, he usually replied: "Our Commander Norton says this is classified for ten years ahead, so whoever squawks gets F8." Not a bad deal—far from the data, but his power needs are sorted. Word has it there's a mouse vacancy open there too—everyone pushes down on you, but hey, you're right by the controls.

Chapter Six: Spies Here, Spies There...

"He tells me: 'What kind of spy am I to you?
I'm just a fine lad from the neighboring farmstead.'
But I'm thinking to myself: there are no Negroes
in the neighboring farmstead."

Testimony of an alert village woman.

Conclusion (Part 2)

On Level 4, CIA agents had been living for about a year and a half. According to them, they had been dropped in to scout out the "Buran" system. Back in the States, they had undergone training in the language, the ability to stand up for themselves, and how to drink without getting drunk. But right from the drop, things went sideways. They couldn't understand our Russian prison cant; a single swig of "krasnukha" (ethanol + hydrochloric acid, strained through a gas mask + baking soda) knocked them out cold. And when they tried to stand up for themselves, they immediately realized that against a "ded’s" crowbar, there is no defense. They tried to surrender, but the infirmary told them there was no dodging out: if you got drafted, you're serving your 2 years. They said even deaf and cross-eyed guys with ulcers and bronchitis serve here, not just spies. Although one of them—Smith—managed to linger in the psych ward, and now he was radioing headquarters to send greenhorns to him for internships. This isn't lounging around in Vietnam, you know.

In short, the only valuable thing they had was real American spy gear, with which they gathered intelligence—by trading equipment for information. Besides, why crawl around launchpads with a camera when every self-respecting "starik" already had classified photos in his demob album?

"Hey, John, want a map of the MZK underground electrical conduits? Then you'll have the complete site blueprints," I said, opening the metal door of the "cell."

John was playing twenty-one on a spread-out copy of Dungeon News and looked noticeably emaciated. Taking a closer look, I realized that a jar of jam went for ten dollars. His gaming partner was "Rama"—a cardsharp from the third floor who always played with a trimmed or "waxed" deck. He earned the moniker "Rama" for his scrawniness—his belly looked like a leather-stretched tambourine. He was a bit touched: on the "100 days until the decree" mark, he didn't shave his head bald, but left a tiny forelock right in the middle of his scalp. He constantly walked around thumping his stomach like a drum, and to the shout-outs of "Hare, Rama," he would cryptically reply: "Rama-rama..." He worked in the infirmary as a medical marvel: orderlies could study almost any known disease off of him. It was also interesting that at shooting practice, he meticulously wiped his fingerprints off the weapons, which gave plenty of food for thought...

"Ah, the maputa has arrived. What do you want in exchange?"

"A compact inflatable boat from your emergency survival kit." Kochkura chimed in:

"What do you need a boat in the steppe for?"

"I'll trade it to the Kazakhs for vodka. They need rubber for demographic purposes. Besides, these CIA guys have nothing of value left anyway. Just dollars." I recalled that I had traded their satellite radio station a month ago for a Buran electronic data module. Now they had the data, but couldn't send it. Buran, meanwhile, was ready to fly anywhere, but lacked the data. In this manner, I too made my humble contribution to Soviet-American parity.

John scratched his armpit, where, as I knew, he kept a holster with a revolver. I had traded away its ammo a week ago and was now angling for the barrel. He had recently carved this barrel with his own hands from a chunk of weapons-grade plutonium, of which he had plenty in his spy kit: Nuclear Bomb: Make Yourself. His previous barrel had worn out after the last great battle against the mutant rats. This one glowed in the dark and increased accuracy. However, John flatly refused to trade the heirloom, probably due to the dedication inscribed on the grip: "To colleague John—from Major Pronin as a token of respect."

"Is the schematic genuine?"

"No doubt about it. A platoon of marshals came for an inspection a week ago. All the schematics were pinned up on the pad a week in advance. See, right there in the corner: 'top secret' and three stars?"

John scratched his other armpit, where, as I knew, he harbored lice that not even patented American remedies could exterminate. Then he grunted and pulled the boat out from the far corner of the room. "If you get anything classified next time—drop by."

"And you go tell your folks in Langley to send demob badges instead; now that's real currency. Otherwise, with your green portrait-covered papers, you'll starve to death soon, especially if you keep playing against a cardsharp."

Rama swiftly shoved his hand into his coat. Kochkura instantly whipped his hand behind his back. Of course, it was a bluff; he had nothing back there. But he could have—for those who knew Kochkura—anything from a pistol to a 40mm bazooka. Rama's hand twitched, and he slowly pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

"No need to fight, boys," John intervened, "I don't mind the paper, I'll just Xerox some more."

Xerox... I thought. I assumed paper was used after doing that business, not before. Besides, they weren't even fit for that—they were stiff as sandpaper. John flatly refused to make them softer, citing the regulations of the Federal Reserve.

I took the newspaper from John, and we immersed ourselves in reading. On Level 7—a heptyl leak. Near the second ventilation shaft—a commandant's ambush. Catching weed-smokers, the brutes. On Level 12, a bust. A zombie appeared on Level 11. On Level 4—the famous "stalker" Kochkura. On Level 10, a goblin carved the well-known three-letter expletive on the ceiling in runes (meaning scrawled sloppily).

The editor-in-chief of the paper was Uncle Vasya, a dissident. Nobody knew how old he was, but by his own account, he had seen Chief Designer Korolev in person. He still considered himself lucky, since his "sixties-generation" friends had rotted away in the GULAGs. And the light of truth could just as well be spread in dark dungeons. From time to time, he surfaced to organize protests "Against human interference with cosmic energy" or "For the integration of infinitesimals," or to carry out minor sabotage. Rumors circulated that the "lunar" rocket crash happened because he was drying his footwraps in its thruster nozzles and forgot to take them out.

Kochkura fell into thought. As if in response to his musings, a loud crash echoed somewhere above. Soot rained down from the ceiling.

"Right. The civilians must still be dismantling the launchpad. As usual in the army—radically—using TNT. Going lower is dangerous. We'll exit the usual way: through the back. Forward!"

Chapter Seven: His Team: Forward!

"Little Red Riding Hood, you're a girl again."

— Timur and His Team

...The author will write another couple of chapters about surfacing, provided sponsors are found :-) ... In brief: the shaft's commandant post turned out to be our own guys; they had run out of weed, which was why they were on a rampage. On Level 12, an utter bust indeed awaited us—no treasures to be found. At least according to the nimble fellow who foisted upon us the "Short Guide to Launch Treasures with All Originals and Maps" in five volumes. The zombie on Level 11 turned out to be an ordinary colonel who firmly remembered the commands "left face" and "right face," but had forgotten "about face." So he got lost. We gave him an exit routine: Do {Fuck off to...} While {It hurts...}. He thanked us and even gifted a couple of stars off his shoulder as a souvenir, prophetically, I hope. Strangely enough, we kept running into the famous stalker Kochkura on the other floors as well.

In general, Kochkura's fame as a guide wore me out considerably. First, some grey old geezer latched onto us, muttering something about a den and asking for the way out of Moria via the Endless Stair. Kochkura strained his thinking apparatus and declared that a Balrog can be baited indefinitely. Enlightened (or perhaps having taken a bath in rocket oxidizer), the old man departed. That's how legends are born. Next, some Vanya in bast shoes with a band of armed men asked for directions to the nearest swamp. Kochkura pointed the way. The crowd vanished forever. That's how legends die. Or even better: we ran into an Avatar. A totally badass role-playing hero—in magical armor colored in the third VGA palette. And a dragon, equally badass, breathing heat right at him. Crucially, the whole scene was frozen in place, like a VCR paused with the "II" button. Kochkura casually lit a cigarette from the dragon's flame and said, "The operator went to lunch. No danger here." The rest was trivia: we gave Sisyphus a hand, tamed Cerberus, and shared some liver pâté with Prometheus.

The well-known three-letter word turned out to be "MMM". By the way, the other word some of you were thinking of was written right beside it. Apparently, an established collocation for quite some time now.

...When we emerged outside through the flame deflector shaft, it was still daylight. Kochkura glanced toward the sun and said:

"Around seven already. Let's climb up the gantry."

We climbed the gantry and looked toward site "Two." Over there, the rocket was indeed already primed for launch. There it was, shrouded in smoke; the lateral support pylons began to fall back, relieved of its weight. But what was this? Instead of thundering mightily into the sky and illuminating the steppe with blue light, the rocket suddenly swayed like a wounded beast and grew menacingly enveloped in a red haze. A blue capsule ejected from its nose, while the rocket itself crashed down onto the launch pad and began spinning in place, wrapping the launch structures around itself.

I looked at Kochkura. He was smiling grimly, as if celebrating a victory.

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                                                     Palko O.A.