Andrew Morgan - Vessel

‘Mikhail,’ she said. ‘Wake up, Mikhail.’

He struggled against her grip, eyes still shut, but she clung on and shook harder.

‘Wake up, Mikhail!’ she yelled, and with a sudden convulsion, he did. He looked around in sudden jerks, his eyes wide with fright. When their eyes met he blinked, and normality fell upon him once more.

‘Sally…’ he whispered. ‘I thought I heard you calling. Are you okay?’

He was shiny with sweat and his veins pulsed under his skin. Sally’s heart calmed to see him acting normal again, and to no longer hear that blood-curdling noise.

‘You were in pain,’ she said. ‘I had to wake you. Was it another dream?’

Mikhail nodded. He wiped his forehead, slicking his fingers back through his hair. ‘I’m so hot,’ he said, and Sally reached out to cup his brow.

‘God, you’re burning up,’ she said, alarmed. ‘Let me get you a damp towel to get your temperature down.’

When she returned Mikhail was looking a little better. She dabbed his head and cheeks, and he shut his eyes.

‘What did you dream about?’ she asked as she leaned forward to run the towel around the back of his neck.

‘I don’t know,’ Mikhail said, eyes still shut. He screwed his face up and shook his head, looking on the brink of tears. ‘I can’t keep doing this…’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Sally asked, and Mikhail opened his eyes. Their faces were inches apart, so close that she could feel his warm breath on her lips.

‘You’re already doing everything,’ he said, and before Sally even knew what was happening, she was kissing him.

This is going to kill me if it doesn’t make me insane , the Director of the Baikonur Cosmodrome thought as he surveyed the Kazakhstani desert, the skies above it as topaz as he’d ever seen them. Another launch re-scheduled, another change of mission and another ridiculous deadline. He had a right mind to make a complaint, for the sake of the safety of his team, but the American — Bales — had been as clear this time as he had been the last. Despite his sleep deprivation, the Director remembered the phone call word for word, as clear as if he were having it face-to-face right there and then.

‘You want what ?’ he’d said, feeling his knees weaken as Bales’ words sank in.

‘I know it’s last minute and I apologise, but the situation has changed and the mission needs to change with it. A specialist has been forced to return, and we need to get someone else up there as soon as we can. I have the people — I need you to build me the rocket. Can you do that for me?’

‘Well,’ the Director had said, his mind torn in two, ‘we’re not far off a scheduled resupply, so I suppose it is possible—’

‘That’s exactly what I wanted to hear, thank you. Don’t think this effort will go ignored, because it won’t. The fate of a lot of people rests on this.’

And then he was gone.

The Director watched the gantry preparations as he recalled the conversation over and over in his head. He knew it wasn’t his business to question the goings on of his superiors, and he knew that NASA had the best interests of the station and its crew at heart, but he couldn’t help but feel that something was off. Nevertheless, the preparations for Soyuz TMA Eleven M pushed on, drawing closer and closer to completion. He squashed the nagging feeling back down again as a cool wind blew in across the expansive launch site, bringing with it the fine sand of the desert. Shielding his eyes, he retreated from the observation balcony and back into the protection of the Cosmodrome. Only one more day of this and it would be done.

Banin pulled up alongside a rough-looking bar just outside of the Moscow city limits, a place only two miles from the crash site. The neon sign — which buzzed in what Banin thought was a painfully stereotypical way — said: The West House . He’d heard of The West House before, and the stories didn’t exactly fill him with glee. This was the place to come if you wanted to hide from someone — or just plain hide someone. Someone usually dead. There was a cruiser already parked outside, and leaning on it, waiting for him, was Abram.

‘Thanks for coming, sir,’ Abram said, walking with Banin to the bar’s entrance. ‘I think I found just what you’re looking for.’

They went in, and Abram led Banin to the bar, behind which a stout, ugly man wearing a dirty shirt and overalls was standing.

‘This is Ruslan, Ruslan Vasnetsov. He’s the owner.’

‘Hello, Mr. Vasnetsov,’ said Banin, offering his hand, which Vasnetsov didn’t take. Banin retracted it again. ‘Right. So, what do you know?’

‘I know lots of things, officer.’

This was going to be difficult. Banin gritted his teeth and told himself to stay calm. ‘I’m not an officer. I’m a detective. What do you know about the night that my friend here’ — he gestured to Abram, — ‘has been asking you about?’

‘I know there was a fight.’

‘Good. Tell me more.’

‘There’s always fights here, and you boys don’t show up most times.’

‘I’m sorry about that, Mr. Vasnetsov, but we’re very overworked and understaffed—’

‘I get robbed nearly every month and you boys don’t do anything.’

Banin took a breath and mentally counted to ten. ‘Well, we’re here now. So what can you tell me about this fight?’

‘Well, it wasn’t much of a fight. Just a punch. This old boy shows up for a drink like he does every night, and then about a hour or so after, a whole bunch of Americans came in and rounded on him.’

Vasnetsov now had Banin’s full attention. ‘Americans?’

‘That’s right. They were in smart suits — about four of them I think — and they were questioning him for a while. They didn’t even sit down, let alone buy a drink.’

‘So when did the punch happen?’

‘Be easier if I show you.’

‘You have CCTV?’

Vasnetsov snorted. ‘Of course I do. How else am I going to get you police to do anything when you finally start paying attention to me?’

He had a point, Banin thought, but he didn’t fancy arguing the toss with him right now, so he bit his tongue and followed him around to the back, to a small, dirty room with an old TV and VHS player, and a stack of tapes.

‘I’ve got all my tapes labelled and I store them in the cupboard there,’ Vasnetsov said, pointing to a bulging piece of flat-pack furniture. ‘I’ve got the one you want all lined up and ready.’

He turned the TV on, and once the static had settled, there was a picture. It was the bar, as seen from above, in soft black and white. In the top right hand corner of the frame there was a man on his own having a drink. Lev Ryumin.

‘Watch,’ Vasnetsov said.

Sure enough, four men entered the bar and walked straight over to Ryumin. They all looked distinctly American, crew cuts and wide jaws, and the one taking the lead seemed familiar to Banin.

‘Abram,’ he said, ‘you recognise that guy? The one with the white hair?’

Abram squinted at the fuzzy picture, then nodded. ‘Yeah — I saw him on the news. He’s the RFSA Flight Director.’

‘Doesn’t look Russian to me,’ Banin muttered.

‘He’s not,’ Vasnetsov said, tapping the screen, ‘he’s American to the bone. I’d recognise that accent anywhere.’

Vasnetsov pressed the fast-forward button, and the picture sped up, taking on a strange, leaning distortion. The Americans had stayed with Ryumin for over fifteen minutes by the time Vasnetsov pressed play again. On the screen, Ryumin leaped up from his chair and squared up against the white-haired American, who backed up a step and held up his hands, as if turning down the confrontation. Ryumin staggered, then took a clumsy swing that the white-haired man easily deflected with his hand.