Operation Moon Rocket

by Nick Carter

  Dr. Sun's eyes widened perceptibly as he walked across the room toward her. They remained riveted on his midsection — and he was damned sure it wasn't just his physique that she found so fascinating. It was the mementos of a half-dozen knives and bullets. A dead giveaway.

  He had to divert her attention. Eglund was a bachelor. His dossier had mentioned that he was a skirt-chaser, something of a wolf in astronaut's clothing. So what could be more natural? A man and an attractive woman alone together in a room, the man naked...

  He didn't stop when he reached her, but suddenly pressed her back against the surgical table, his hands reaching up under her skirt as he kissed her, his mouth hard and brutal against hers. It was a crude performance and it got the hand it deserved — right across his face, momentarily stunning him.

  "You animal!" She stood pressed against the table, the back of her hand to her mouth. Her eyes glinted white with outrage, fear, anger and a dozen other emotions, none of them pleasant. Looking at her now, he had trouble connecting Joy Sun with the frenzied, wanton girl in that pornographic photo.

  "I warned you about this once before, Colonel." Her mouth shook. She was on the verge of tears. "I'm not the kind of woman you seem to think I am. I will not tolerate these cheap seductions..."

  The maneuver had the desired effect. All thoughts of a physical exam were forgotten. "Please get dressed," she said icily. "It's obvious that you're completely recovered. You will report to the Training Coordinator, then join your teammates over at the Simulation Building."

  * * *

  The sky behind the range of jagged peaks was midnight black, pinpointed with stars. The terrain between was rolling, crater-pocked, dotted with spiky outcroppings and splinter-sharp fragments of stone. Steep canyons crisscrossed the rubble-strewn mesa like petrified bolts of lightning.

  Cautiously Nick climbed down the gold-plated ladder attached to one of the LM's four legs. At the bottom he placed one foot on the edge of the dish-shaped pad and stepped out onto the surface of the moon.

  The dust layer underfoot had the consistency of crunchy snow. Slowly he placed one boot in front of the other, then just as slowly repeated the process. Gradually he began to walk. It was tough going. Endless pot holes and sprouts of congealed rock slowed him down. Every step was uncertain, a fall dangerous.

  In his ears was a steady, loud hissing sound. It came from the pressurizing, breathing, cooling and drying systems of his rubberized moon suit. He moved his head from side to side inside the close-fitting plastic helmet, looking for the others. The light was blinding. He brought his right-hand thermal mitten up and lowered one of the sun-filtering visors.

  The voice in his earphones said, ''Welcome back to the Rock Pile, Colonel. We're over here, on the edge of the Ocean of Storms. No, not that way — to your right."

  Nick turned and saw the two figures in their bulky moon suits waving to him. He waved back. "Roger, John," he said into his mike. "Good to see you, good to be back. I'm still a bit disoriented. You'll have to bear with me."

  He was glad he was meeting them this way. Who could tell anyone's identity through sixty-five pounds of rubber, nylon and plastic?

  Earlier in the Lunar Simulation ready room, he'd had a close call. Gordon Nash, captain of the first reserve team of Apollo astronauts, had stopped by to see him. "Did Lucy get to see you in the hospital?" he'd asked, and Nick, misreading his sly grin, had thought he was referring to one of Eglund's girlfriends. He'd made a faintly off-color crack and had been surprised to see Nash frown. Too late, he'd remembered the dossier — Lucy was Eglund's younger sister and Gordon Nash's current romantic interest. He'd managed to alibi his way out of it ("Just kidding, Gord"), but it had been close. Too close.

  One of Nick's teammates was collecting rocks from the lunar surface and stashing them in a metal collection box while the other one squatted over a seismograph-like device, recording the agitated flutterings of its needle. Nick stood watching them for a few minutes, uncomfortably aware that he didn't have the slightest idea of what he should be doing. Finally the one working with the seismograph glanced up. "Hadn't you better check out the LRV?" His voice crackled in N3's earphones.

  "Right." Nick's ten-hour education had included this term — fortunately. LRV stood for Lunar Roving Vehicle. It was a moon car powered by fuel cells that rode on special cylindrical wheels with spiral blades instead of spokes. It was designed to be landed on the moon ahead of the astronauts, so it had to be parked somewhere on this sprawling ten-acre simulation of the moon's surface that lay at the heart of the Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston.

  Nick moved out across the barren, forbidding terrain. The pumice-like surface beneath his feet was brittle, sharp, full of hidden holes and jagged outcroppings. Walking on it was torture. "It's probably still over in the ravine at R-12," the voice in his ear said. "The first team was working with it there yesterday."

  Where in hell was R-12? Nick wondered. But a moment later he happened to look up and there, along the edge of the great black, star-punctured roof of the Simulation Building, he saw grid-marks running from one to twenty-six and, along the outer edge, from A to Z. Luck was still with him.

  It took him close to half an hour to reach the ravine although it was only a few hundred yards from the Lunar Module. The problem was reduced gravity. The scientists who'd constructed the artificial moonscape had reproduced every condition to be found on the real thing: A temperature range of five hundred degrees, the most intense vacuum yet to be created by man, and feeble gravity — only one-sixth as strong as the earth's. That made it almost impossible to keep one's balance. Although Nick could lope along with ease, even go gliding through the air for hundreds of feet if he chose, he didn't dare move at more than a slow crawl. The terrain was too rugged, too uncertain, and there was no way of coming to a sudden stop.

  The ravine was almost fifteen feet deep and steep-sided. It ran in a tight, zigzag pattern, its bottom gouged and pitted by hundreds of artificial meteorites. There was no sign of the Lunar Vehicle at Grid 12, but that didn't mean much. It could be only a few yards away, hidden from view.

  Cautiously Nick edged his way down the steep flank, testing each hand- and foothold before putting his entire weight on it. Tiny meteorite pebbles went bouncing down ahead of him, dislodged by his boots. When he reached the floor of the ravine, he turned left, heading toward Grid 11. He moved slowly, picking his way over the tortured convolutions and spiky outcroppings of a simulated ash flow.

  Because of the steady hissing sound in his ears and because of the vacuum outside his suit, he didn't hear anything behind him. But he either saw or sensed a sudden flash of motion and turned.

  A shapeless thing with two glaring orange eyes came bearing down on him. It turned into a giant insect, then a weird four-wheeled vehicle and he saw a man in a moon suit similar to his sitting at the controls. Nick waved his arms wildly, then realized that the man had seen him and had purposely put on an extra burst of speed.

  There was no escape.

  The Lunar Vehicle came hurtling toward him, its huge cylindrical wheels with their razor-sharp spiral blades filling the ravine from wall to wall...

  Chapter 6

  Nick knew what would happen if those blades tore his suit.

  Outside, the simulated two-week lunar day was only minutes short of high noon. The temperature was 250°F. Higher than the boiling point of water — higher than that of human blood, too. Add to this a vacuum so intense that pieces of metal welded themselves together spontaneously when they came in contact, and you had a phenomenon known to scientists as "ebullition."

  This meant that the interior of the exposed human body would boil. Bubbles would begin to form — first in the mucous lining of the mouth and eyes, then in the tissues of other vital organs. Death would occur within minutes.

  He had to keep clear of those flashing, blade-like spokes. But there was no room on either side. Only one thing was possible. Hit the ground, let the monstrous three-ton vehicle roll ove
r him. Its weight in the gravity-free vacuum atmosphere was only half a ton and this was further modified by the wheels which flattened out at the bottom like soft tires in order to achieve traction.

  There was a slight depression a few feet behind him. He swung around and went sprawling into it, face down, fingers clawing at the scoriaceous volcanic rock. His head inside the plastic bubble was the most vulnerable part of him. But it was lined up with the space between the wheels and the ravine was too narrow for any maneuvering by the LRV. His luck was still running.

  Silently it came rolling over him, blotting out the light Intense pressure slammed into his back and legs, crushing him against the rock. The breath exploded from his lungs. His vision momentarily dimmed. Then the first set of wheels had passed over him and he was lying in the rushing darkness beneath the 31-foot-long vehicle, watching the second set come hurtling toward him.

  He saw it too late. A low-hanging box-like piece of equipment. It slammed against his ECM backpack, spinning him over. He felt the pack torn from his shoulders. The hissing in his ears stopped abruptly. Heat seared his lungs. Then the second wheels crushed into him and pain exploded through him like a black cloud.

  He held onto a thin thread of consciousness because he knew he was finished if he didn't. Intense light scorched his eyes. He struggled sluggishly upward through physical torment, searching for the vehicle. Slowly his eyes stopped swimming and focused on it. It was some fifty yards past him and no longer moving. The man in the moon suit stood atop the control box, looking back at him.

  Nick gasped for breath — but there was none. The artery-like tubes inside his suit no longer carried cool oxygen from the main intake duct at his waist. His ringers clawed at the torn rubber on his back where the Environmental Control pack had been. His mouth opened. The lips moved dryly inside the dead plastic bubble. "Help," he croaked into the mike — but it, too, was dead, the wires of the Communication Power Unit severed along with the others.

  The man in the moon suit had climbed down from the lunar vehicle. He pulled a utility knife from under the seat on the control box and started toward him.

  That action saved N3's life.

  The knife meant that Nick wasn't finished, that one last piece of equipment had to be severed — and that was how he remembered the tiny packet attached to his waist. It was there in case of malfunctions in the backpack system. It contained a five-minute supply of emergency oxygen.

  He switched it on. A soft hissing sound filled the plastic bubble. He forced his tortured lungs to breathe in. Coolness filled them. His vision cleared. He gritted his teeth and struggled to his feet. His mind started to explore his body to see what was left of it. Then suddenly there was no time for taking stock. The other man had taken a long running stride. He bounced once to become airborne and came gliding toward him, light as a feather in the reduced gravity atmosphere. The knife was held low, point down, ready for a quick upward flip that would sever the emergency lifeline.

  Nick dug his toes into a ridge in the volcanic rock. He dropped his hands in a single sweep to the rear, like a man making a racing dive. Then he catapulted himself forward, throwing all of his stored-up power into the lunge. He found himself soaring through the air with frightening speed — but wide of the mark. The other man ducked his head, jackknifed down. Nick made a grab at his knife-hand as he passed, but missed.

  It was like fighting under water. The force field was radically different. Balance, thrust, reaction time — all were changed by the reduction in gravity. Once a motion was started, it was virtually impossible to stop it or to change its direction. He was now gliding to earth at the end of a wide parabola — a good thirty yards away from where his opponent stood.

  He swung around just as the other man launched a projectile of some kind. It slammed into his upper thigh, spinning him to the ground. It was a huge, jagged chunk of meteorite, the size of a small boulder. Impossible to even lift under normal gravity conditions. Pain knifed through his leg. He shook his head, started to rise. A thermal mitten suddenly came down, scrabbling at his emergency oxygen kit. The man was already on him.

  He slid across Nick and in passing struck at his airpipe with the edge of the utility knife. It bounced harmlessly off and Nick brought his right leg up, the heel of his heavy metallic boot meeting the man's relatively exposed solar plexus on a rising angle. The shadowy face inside the plastic bubble opened its mouth in a great silent exhalation, its eyes rolling. Nick surged to his feet. But before he could follow up, the man slithered away like an eel and turned toward him, poised to attack once again.

  He feinted for N3's throat and aimed a ferocious mae geri at his groin. The blow missed its target by less than an inch, numbing Nick's leg and almost causing him to lose his balance. Before he could counter, the man swung around, following up with a pile-driving rear kick that sent Nick tumbling forward over the jagged outcroppings of the ravine floor. He couldn't stop. He kept rolling, the razor-sharp rocks tearing at his suit.

  From the corner of his eye he saw the man unzip a side pocket, pull out a weird-looking gun and take careful aim at him. He grabbed at an outcropping, brought himself to a sudden halt. A streak of dazzling, blue-white magnesium light laced past him, exploding against a rock. A flare gun! The man started to reload it. Nick launched himself at him.

  The man dropped the gun and evaded the two-fisted punch aimed at his chest. He brought his left foot up, making a last vicious lunge at Nick's unprotected groin. N3 took the boot in both hands and twisted. The man went down like a felled tree and before he could move, Killmaster was on top of him. The man's knife-hand flashed toward him. Nick chopped with the side of his gloved hand at the exposed wrist. It blunted the forward thrust. His fingers closed around the man's wrist and twisted. The knife wouldn't drop. He twisted harder and felt something snap and the man's arm went limp.

  At the same instant the hissing in Nick's ear stopped. The emergency oxygen supply had run out. Searing heat stabbed into his lungs. Yoga-trained muscles automatically took over, protecting them. He could hold his breath for four minutes, but no longer, and physical exertion was impossible.

  Something raw and screamingly painful suddenly cut across his arm with a shock that almost made him open his mouth to breathe. The man had shifted the knife to his other hand and cut his arm, forcing his fingers open. Now he flung himself past Nick, cradling his broken wrist in his good hand. He stumbled off along the ravine, a plume of water vapor rising from his backpack.

  A dim sense of survival sent Nick crawling toward the flare gun. He didn't have to die. But the voices in his ear said: Too far to go. You can't make it. His lungs screamed for air. His fingers scrabbled out across the ground, reaching for the gun. Air! his lungs kept shrieking. It was getting worse by the second, darker. Fingers closed around it. No strength, but he pressed the trigger anyway and the explosion of light was so blinding that he had to clap his free hand over his eyes. And that was the last thing he remembered doing...

  * * *

  "Why didn't you head for the emergency exit?" Ray Finney, the Project Flight Director, leaned over him anxiously as fellow astronauts Roger Caine and John Corbinet helped strip off his moon suit in the Simulation Building's ready room. Finney held out a small nasal-spray dispenser of oxygen and Nick took another deep swig from it.

  "Emergency exit?" he muttered vaguely. "Where?"

  The three men glanced at each other. "Less than twenty yards from Grid 12," said Finney. "You've used it before."

  That must have been the exit his opponent in the moon suit had been heading for. There were ten of them spotted around the moonscape, he recalled now. Each had an air-lock and pressurization chamber. They were unmanned and opened into a subterranean storage area beneath the Simulation Building. So getting in and out would pose no problem if you knew your way around — and Nick's opponent apparently did.

  "Lucky thing John noticed that first signal from the flare gun," Roger Caine was saying to Finney. "We headed for it right away.
About six minutes later there was another one. We were less than a minute away by then."

  "It pinpointed his position exactly," Corbinet added. "Another few seconds and he would have been a goner. He was already turning blue. We cut him in on Roger's emergency supply and dragged him to the exit. Christ! Take a look at that!" he suddenly exclaimed.

  They had removed the pressure suit and were staring at the bloodstained inner garment. Caine poked a finger through the thermal material. "You're lucky you didn't start boiling up," he said.

  Finney bent over the wound. "This looks like a knife cut," he said. "What happened? You better start at the beginning."

  Nick shook his head. "Look, I feel pretty stupid about this," he said. "I fell on the damned utility knife when I was trying to get out of the ravine. I just lost my balance and..."

  "What about your ECM pack?" demanded the Flight Director. "How did that come off?"

  "When I fell. It got caught on an outcropping."

  "There's sure to be an investigation," said Finney gloomily. "NASA Security wants a report on every accident these days."

  "Later. He needs some medical attention first," said Corbinet. He turned to Roger Caine. "Better give Dr. Sun a call."

  Nick struggled to a sitting position. "Hell no, I'm fine," he said. "It's just a flesh wound. You guys can bind it up yourselves." Dr. Sun was one person he didn't want to see. He knew what would happen. She would insist on giving him a pain-killing injection — and that injection would finish the job her confederate had botched up on the moonscape.

  "I've got a bone to pick with Joy Sun," snapped Finney. "She should never have passed you in the condition you're in. Dizzy spells, lapses of memory. You should be at home, flat on your back. What's the matter with that dame anyway?"