All five of the cosmonauts tumbled toward the far end of base block in a chaotic tangle of arms and legs. Russian curse words – “Shit! Damn!” – accompanied the flying scrum. Lazutkin, streaking past the others, was the first to reach a mask. He didn’t put it on, thinking he wouldn’t need it.
Korzun’s order to don oxygen masks took Kaleri by surprise. The flight engineer had assumed the fire was already under control. He lunged toward the far end of base block, followed by Korzun, who reached his mask in two or three seconds; later the commander did not remember retrieving or donning the mask.
“Where’s Jerry?” Korzun asked. Someone said he was in Spektr. “Bring him in here!” Korzun said, springing back toward Kvant. “We all need to be together. Okay. Now, everyone travel in pairs!” In laying out firefighting practices, the Russian trainers at Star City had emphasized how crucal it was to travel in pairs. On Earth, someone who faints or is overcome by smoke will keel over, presumably hitting the ground and prompting those nearby to rush to the rescue. In microgravity, an unconscious person will simply float in space, motionless; unless someone is hovering alongside, you may never know that individual is in trouble.
“Sasha!” Korzun shouted to Lazutkin. “Prepare the ship!”
Korzun’s order was for Lazutkin to prepare one of the two Soyuz escape craft for evacuation. Lazutkin immediately swam off toward the node, where the Soyuz that he, Tsibliyev, and Linenger would use to evacuate the station was docked. There is just one problem: the Soyuz reserved for Korzun, Kaleri, and Ewald was located at the end of Kvant, on the far side of the steadily growing blowtorch in the middle of the module. Simply put, there was no way to get to the Soyuz without putting out the fire. As Korzun recrossed the dinner table with a second fire extinguisher, he saw thick black smoke beginning to pour out of Kvant into base block.
It was at about this time, as the five cosmonauts in base block were scrambling for their oxygen masks, that the station’s fire alarm – a loud, piercing buzzer – finally went off. According to Kaleri, the nearest sensor to the fire was located near the node; the alarm did not go off until the first wisps of smoke crossed the length of base block and approached the node. The alarm triggered an automatic shutdown of the station’s thundering ventilation system; this was intended to prevent the system from blowing smoke into the other modules. In the event, it was only partially successful. Smoke was soon pouring into base block.
The alarm jarred Linenger down in Spektr, where he had already strapped himself to the wall in anticipation of sleep. He was midway through another letter to his son, John, when the alarm went off. In a flash he untangled his legs from the bungee cords securing him to the wall, flew down the length of Spektr and into the node, where he ran headlong into Tsibliyev and Ewald, who confirmed that there was, in fact, a fire in Kvant.
“Is it serious?” Linenger asked in Russian.
“Seryozny!” someone answered. “It’s serious! It’s serious!”
Crawling through the node, Ewald sliced away from Linenger into Kristall, where there was a container of oxygen masks he was familiar with. The Russian oxygen mask worked on the same principle as the SFOG, using a chemical reaction to create a flow of oxygen across the wearer’s mouth. Ewald pulled the ring atop a circular container and lifted out the topmost mask, then strapped the mask across his face. It covered his mouth, nose, and eyes, protecting him from smoke inhalation. Attached to the bottom of the mask was an oxygen bottle. Flipping a switch on the container released a breath or two of oxygen. To activate the full flow of oxygen, Ewald took several quick breaths; the humidity from his breath was supposed to activate the oxygen flow. But as Ewald panted into the mask, he realized nothing was happening. There was no air flow. The mask, like the “candle” spouting fire back in Kvant, should have felt warm if the proper reaction had occurred. Ewald’s mask stayed cold.
Without thinking, he grabbed for a second mask. “At a time like this, you don’t argue with the device,” Ewald recalled months later. The second mask worked. In seconds he felt a warm flow of oxygen across his mouth and nose. He turned and flew back into base block, where he was immediately met by an ominous sight. Thick black smoke was quickly filling the module. It had already shrouded the table where he was sitting moments before. Through the gathering murk he could just make out Korzun fighting the fire in Kvant.
Of the fire itself, all he could see through the smoke was a yellow glow.
Linenger too experienced problems with his oxygen mask. It fitted onto his head but wouldn’t fill up with oxygen. Smoke was already entering the node as Linenger fiddled with his mask, trying to make it work. He held his breath for several long moments, then grabbed for a second mask, flinging the other aside. Tsibliyev, who had easily donned his own mask, watched as he took several quick breaths and, to his relief found the second mask worked as planned.
Leaving the node, Tsibliyev took Linenger into Priroda to fetch the fire extinguishers there. Linenger grabbed for one but was startled to find it was secured to the wall.
“It won’t come off,” he said to Tsibliyev, who had found the second extinguisher would not come loose either. Both men gave the extinguishers a quick tug. Nothing.
Months later, NASA officials analyzing the fire would be deeply disturbed by this incident. The problem of immovable fire extinguishers in Priroda was even raised in a congressional hearing by the NASA inspector general as evidence that Mir was unsafe. In fact, according to Korzun, the problem was a simple but dangerous oversight. When Priroda was blasted into space and delivered to dock with Mir in 1996, its fire extinguishers were secured by transport straps. For some reason, none of the crews who worked aboard Mir in the intervening nineteen months ever released the straps.
This oversight effectively disabled the two extinguishers Tsibliyev and Linenger had their hands on.
Tsibliyev remembered: Jerry wanted to talk, to ask me about it, he was saying, “What? How?” I said, “We don’t have time to discuss it. Drop it. Let’s go to Kvant 2 and get ’em there.”
Shooting quickly back through the node into Kvant 2, Tsibliyev grabbed one of the two fire extinguishers there and handed it to Linenger.
“Give it to Korzun,” he said.
The second fire extinguisher Tsibliyev left on the wall. Training rules dictate always leaving one behind, in case a fire should break out in the module. Linenger took the extinguisher from Tsibliyev and ricocheted back into base block, where he was met by the sight of thick black smoke pouring into the module from Kvant. Handing the extinguisher to Kaleri, he could not see his hand in front of his face. Tsibliyev followed right behind and immediately heard Korzun shouting for more fire extinguishers. Tsibliyev and Linenger turned around and flew quickly to Kristall, where they recovered one more extinguisher, which they handed to Kaleri in base block.
Lazutkin, meanwhile, heard Korzun’s order to prepare for emergency evacuation, headed through the node and into the Soyuz in which he, Tsibliyev, and Linenger would return to Earth. “We were like Pavlov’s dogs,” he remembered. “We have been trained to fulfill the [commander’s] orders. If you have a command, don’t think. Do it.” Lazutkin hunched over and began to detach the dozen or so cables draped across the entrance, including the six-inch-thick white ventilator tube.
“What’s happening?” Tsibliyev asked Lazutkin after a moment.
Lazutkin glanced back into base block. “It’s completely dark,” he said.
“You can’t breathe.” Together the two men shut the capsule’s door to prevent smoke from seeping in.
While his comrades swarmed through other parts of the station, Korzun reentered Kvant to fight the fire, alone. He hovered directly by the near wall with base block, his feet sticking through the hatch into the crawlway between the two modules. Kvant was now totally dark, smothered in smoke.
To Korzun, who could not see his own hands, the flame itself appeared only as a bright white glow, perhaps two feet long, beneath him in the murk. He took the second fire extinguisher, turned on the foam, and shot it in a stream at a point where he believed the fire was hottest. It was difficult to tell, given the visibility, but after thirty seconds or more he didn’t believe the foam was having any effect. The flame was shooting out so fiercely, it seemd to be blowing the foam away. Korzun saw glowing particles of foam swirling around him in the dark. “It didn’t seem to be working at all,” he remembered. “The fire was too strong.”
Korzun turned a knob on the fire extinguisher and switched his stream to water, spraying it all around the glowing white flame. He was struck by how eerie the situation was. With the ventilators shut off, the station had gone quiet. The only sound, other than the occasional muffled comments of Kaleri or one of the others behind him in base block, was the sound of the fire. It hissed at him – “like fried eggs in a frying pan,” Korzun said later.
At first Korzun didn’t think the water was working either. He directed the stream toward the center of the hissing white glow but couldn’t be certain it was hitting the flame. And then, after a minute or so, the fire extinguisher gave out. There was no more water. Korzun turned and slipped back through the hatch into base block.
