"Ground Control to Major Tom" by mrua7 for THE WRITER'S AND READER'S CHOICE!

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

I first posted this story in 2014 as an homage to the early NASA space program, but given it's the 50th anniversary of the first men landing on the moon, I thought it a good story to repost.  It involves a certain blond Russian who becomes an unwilling participant in the NASA program.

“This is Houston, what is your status Mercury 10?”

Static filled air in the command center for several minutes.

“I say again this is Capcom calling Mercury 10, what is your status, Brotherhood 7?”

“This is (cough) Illya Kuryakin; I inadvertently became locked inside the capsule while trying to subdue an impostor who was planning to blow up...well, sabotage your mission.”

In the struggle that ensued Illya killed the saboteur, however, the door to the capsule closed on him, and was locked by the ground crew, not knowing what had taken place inside.

It was too late as the ignition sequence had begin. Illya, quickly thinking, stripped the dead man of his space suit and buckled himself in place as the Atlas rocket ignited and took off, sending them hurtling into the stratosphere.

“A Russian? What the hell is a Goddamn Russkie doing in my spaceship?”

A man wearing a light blue short sleeved shirt barked to those surrounding him. He was in charge and reminded everyone of that as he bellowed his disbelief. His high and tight haircut belied his past as a military man and that being said, he demanded answers; his voice getting louder.

The other men still seated at their consoles at Mission Control could do nothing but shrug their answer to the Capsule Communicator, who was the only person allowed direct contact with the spaceship,

“I think I can explain,” a handsome dark haired man smiled charmingly at them, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. He drew a gold identification card from his suit pocket, presenting it to the personnel there at building 30, the main hub for NASA.

“My name is Solo, Napoleon Solo and I’m with the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement and that so-called Russkie is my partner.”

“Your partner, a Russian?”

“Yes, U.N.C.L.E. is after all an international organization and we…”

“I don’t give a crap if the Pope is one of your people. I want to know what your Russian friend is up to in an American spaceship, God dammit!” Capcom slammed his fist on a nearby console.

“If you’ll let me get a word in edgewise Mr. Bederman,” Napoleon spoke calmly,” I’ll explain what happened.

"You have one minute."

“We were investigating a threat against the current mission and discovered your astronaut was an imposter. He was tasked with destroying the capsule, and it was essentially a suicide mission for him. It was his job to put the U.S. space program in a negative light. Mr. Kuryakin went after him and well, you know the rest.”

Though Napoleon basically repeated what Illya had already told Capcom, it was to no avail.  Bederman wouldn’t accept the story, that was until a red telephone on his desk called his attention when a light on the front of it began to flash.

He hesitated picking it up, but took a deep breath as he reached for the receiver, knowing who was at the other end.

“Hello Mr. President,” Bederman spoke in a conciliatory tone of voice. “Yes sir, I know sir but… yes sir I understand. I will, immediately sir.” He hung up the phone, looking back at Napoleon.

“Okay Mr. Solo, your story has been verified by the President of the United States, so you will have our full cooperation for the moment.”

“Thank you Mr. Bederman, and by the way the Pope is but one of our many assets... now what can we do to get Mr. Kuryakin back safe and sound?”

Capcom sighed. “That might be easier said than done Mr. Solo.” He switched on his microphone, turning his attention back to the flight.

“Capcom to Mercury 10 do you copy?”

“Kuryakin here, yes I copy.”

“Where is Eugene King?”

“The imposter who is with me here in the capsule is dead.”

“Shit,” Bederman cursed.”Listen Russkie do you have any piloting skills like flying a MIG?”

“My name is not Russkie it is Illya and yes I have piloted a MIG-21 clocking an airspeed of Mach 2.1. I have countless experience flying more simplistic aircraft such as Lear jets and helicopters, many of them American.” The tone of his voice was obviously one of annoyance.”Do you also need to know how many hours I have logged as a pilot?”

“All right, don’t get your britches in a twist. Now we need to do what’s known as a retrofire to slow the spacecraft and we need to do it quickly as we don’t have much time if you want to get back alive. Do you understand? You have limited fuel and burn capacity so there’s no room for error.”

“I understand completely, and I do know what a retrofire is if you could just direct me to the correct switch on the control panel and when to do it, as well as the duration of the burn?” He spoke confidently, almost arrogantly but that was masking what he was feeling inside. Illya Kuryakin was plain scared, and couldn’t recall when he last felt this frightened. The fatalist in him was whispering that he was going to die.

“Yeah, umm right. Give us a few minutes as we need to recalculate due to the extra weight onboard. Everything is based upon only one passenger. How much do you weigh Illya?”

“Approximately 65 kilograms,” Illya paused,” that is around 145 pounds. I am slightly underweight at the moment.”

“I know how to convert kilos to pounds you damned Russ...Illya.”

After some quick calculations the duration of the burn was reconfigured and Kuryakin followed NASA’s directions to the letter knowing his life depended upon it.

Things didn’t go as planned.

A problem arose with one of the yaw-thrusters.The capsule's automatic stability systems weren't working, forcing Illya to manually maintain his altitude. Here Kuryakin’s piloting abilities were put to the ultimate test.

He took hold of the with controls with a slight trembling in his hands. Illya inhaled a deep breath and listened carefully as Mission Control walked him through everything.

Back in Houston no one thought this flight in their wildest dreams could turn out to be the agency's first fatality in space, especially given the man at the controls was a Russian. The situation could sound the death knell for the program.

After a few nervous minutes, the capsule slowed once the successful burn had been completed, sending it back on target to earth. Kuryakin’s efforts were a success.

“Now very shortly,”Capcom said,”you’re going to experience a communications blackout Illya as you reenter the atmosphere.

“Yes I know. It is caused by an envelope of ionized air around the craft, created by the heat from the compression of the atmosphere by the craft. The ionized air interferes with radio signal.”

“Umm, that’s correct.” Bederman tried not to let that intelligent answer color his jitters, but the fact that the Russkie had a good understanding of things would had made all the difference so far.  He just hoped the guy was legit and wasn’t really some sort of Soviet spy.

As the capsule began its descent the communications signal was lost as expected. It lasted for what seemed an eternity. Still Napoleon and everyone else at Mission Control held their breath.

The only sound heard was the beeping of the communications panel as it tracked the Mercury 10 capsule.

After four minutes the voice of the reluctant astronaut broke the silence.

“This is umm...Kuryakin here."

There was a communal sigh of relief as Mercurity 10 had communications NASA.

“Standby Mercury 10.” There was applause in the control center as the cameras caught sight of the capsule, being filmed by chase helicopters from the aircraft carrier Intrepid.

At 30,000 feet, the small stabilizing drogue parachute deployed, and as Mercury 10 passed through 11,000 feet three parachute deployed, slowing it even more as the capsule hit the waters of the Atlantic with a giant splash.

Minutes later, divers were lowered from a Marine chopper, securing a flotation collar around it before opening the hatch. They didn’t want a repeat of the near disaster that had happened with Mercury 4 sinking after splashdown.

Once that was done, Illya Kuryakin, the inadvertent astronaut emerged, giving a thumbs up to the divers waiting for him outside the capsule.

They attached a harness and he was raised up to the rescue helicopter, and taken to an awaiting aircraft carrier where medical personnel were ready to examine him. In spite of the President’s intervention, the CIA and FBI wanted to interrogate the Russian just to make sure he wasn’t complicit in this attempted attack against the space program.

It took just over forty-eight hours before Illya Kuryakin was medically cleared and released by the American Security personnel, with no charges being brought against him.

Upon his return to New York, he experienced a hero’s welcome at headquarters, as word had spread of his so-called space flight among most of the personnel. Though Illya was unaccustomed to such a reception, since he was still often looked upon as the Pinko-Commie by some.

Today that was not the case and the blond agent shyly waved his acknowledgement, though somewhat embarrassed, to the accolades given to him as he made his way to Waverly’s conference room. There his partner and the Old Man awaited his return.

The doors opened and the Kuryakin stepped through, being immediately greeted by a smiling Alexander Waverly; a demeanor not often associated with the Continental Chief.

“Welcome back, and might I say a job well done. I am officially authorized to extend the gratitude of the President of the United States for your brave actions.”

“Yes partner mine, how does it feel to be an astronaut, albeit an unwilling one?”

“I prefer the title Cosmonaut,” Illya cracked wise. “It was an invigorating experience and the view was breathtaking but I am glad to be back on planet earth and have no wish to repeat such an undertaking again. I do have limitations on my scientific curiosity.”

“I would have thought you’d have loved it,” Napoleon asked, just slightly surprised at his partners reaction.

“I did but, as spectacular as it was looking out that small window in the capsule upon the earth, I felt quite alone and had no wish to possibly die in space.”

“Unfortunately the news of your flight will be relegated to the top secret archives due to American National security. There will be no public disclosure. The flight of Mercury-Atlas 10...referred to ironically as ‘Brotherhood 7 ’ has been wiped from the official records. Mercury 9 has now been listed as the last flight in that series, and any on-going missions will now be under the name of Gemini.”

“So you’re a hero but not, tovarisch,” Napoleon said.

“That is fine by me, as anonymity is my preferred state of existence. I am just pleased that I was able to prevent the destruction of the flight which would have been detrimental to their space program. Though the mission for NASA ended in failure, at least it was not under explosive conditions as the imposter had planned. Do we know who he was? T.H.R.U.S.H. I presume…”

He was passed a folder stamped ‘Eyes Only’ that came round to him on the conference table; Illya’s eyes going wide with surprise upon reading it.

“The man I killed was...Soviet?”

“Yes, Vladimir Mikhailovsky was assigned to sabotage the American space program, though the Kremlin vehemently denies it.  Your involvement in the entire situation, as it were, has been redacted from any of our information sharing with the Soviets on the incident. It’s bad enough your KGB considers you a traitor for not spying on the Americans for them, but there is no doubt in my mind this incident would have sealed your fate with them.”

Napoleon stood, clasping a hand on his partner’s shoulder.

“It’ll be our little secret and safe with us.”

“Yes safe with U.N.C.L.E. but what about the Americans and NASA?”

“I have been assured all documents and recordings dealing with Mercury 10 have been sealed. All NASA personnel involved have been briefed and sworn to secrecy. It’s as if the mission never took place.”

Napoleon continued where Waverly left off.

“Should someone talk, there will be absolutely nothing available to verify their story, which will come across as merely a ‘flight of fancy.’

Illya couldn’t help but roll his eyes as yet another of his partner’s puns.

“There’s not much more that can be done at this point Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly added. “We must trust to fate that word of your involvement won’t fall into the wrong hands.”

“One can only hope sir,” the young Russian shook his head.