Uzi slapped DeSantos’s shoulder. “Same here.”
“That’s peachy,” the launch tower technician said. “Because we’ve gotta go.” He helped DeSantos seat, and then lock down, his helmet and guided him through Orion’s trapezoid-shaped hatch.
He and Uzi had been inside the mockup many times during the past week, and had spent several hours in the simulator learning how to operate basic functions of the flight system software. But this was different. His heart rate had increased and the level of anxiety swelled in his chest. They were really doing this. They were rocketing into space.
Carson and Stroud were already strapped into their seats going through the preflight protocols on the cockpit user interface. They did not acknowledge DeSantos or Uzi, as they were engrossed in their checklists and communicating with the flight director over the radio.
DeSantos did as he had been trained, taking seat number three beside Uzi, who was in four, in the two-up and two-down stacked arrangement. A touch screen had been mounted to the lower chairs—a military variant of the standard Orion—originally designed to enable Welding and Norris to participate in crew module tasks. The displays now provided Uzi and DeSantos the ability to continue their self-paced training curriculum.
After fastening his restraints, DeSantos turned his attention to launch control and the chatter that was going on between the capsule and mission planners.
He suddenly became aware of the gentle vibration in the metal chair. He had avoided thinking about what they were about to do; they had been so absorbed in learning, and retaining, everything they needed to know for the mission that he had not wanted to engage in mind-wandering philosophical thoughts that provided perspective on the nature of the operation: unlike anything he—or any special operator—had partaken of in history.
And like everything about this mission, it would not show up in history texts … at least not those printed in the next few decades. Perhaps there would come a time where it, and its details, would be declassified. But that all hinged on whether or not they were successful, and at what cost.
During the next two hours, DeSantos and Uzi continued their tablet-based studies and largely ignored the radio chatter, technical conversations, questions, and answers being exchanged between Carson and Stroud, CAPCOM—capsule communications—and launch control engineers. They checked the stabilization and control systems, telemetry and radio frequencies, tracking beacons and attitude and guidance systems. They armed the pyrotechnic bolts, checked internal flight batteries and the automatic sequencer, pressurized the reaction control system, and updated the altimeter.
DeSantos had zoned out several times, the lack of sleep settling in and the adrenaline dump starting to clear his bloodstream. He was craving a double shot of espresso. He was going to miss Bernie Anderson’s cooking; his healthy, calorie-controlled meals were surprisingly satisfying.
DeSantos was pulled out of his reverie to hear the update:
“All going well at this time; two hours, forty seconds and counting. This is launch control.”
“Remember, guys,” Stroud said, “from this point forward, the Orion crew module will be known by the call sign Patriot. Once we move into the lunar lander and undock from Patriot, we’ll be known as Raptor.”
“Copy that,” DeSantos said.
“We’re named after a bird of prey,” Uzi mumbled. “Brilliant.”
“Boychick, you’ve got a live mic.”
Uzi twisted his lips: oops.
The next ninety minutes passed quickly, DeSantos’s apprehension building again as the clock ticked down. Was it the humongous engines? The seventy-two-metric-ton, thirty-two-story rocket—taller than the Statue of Liberty—filled with explosive fuels exposed to searing high temperatures and extreme velocities? He found it within himself to chuckle. It was all of that—and more.
He glanced at Uzi and he could tell, even through the helmet glass, that his friend was feeling the same sense of anxiety: tense face, set jaw. And although Uzi was staring ahead at his screen, it did not look like he was absorbing any of the material.
“We are at T-minus thirty minutes and counting. Still looking at a final liftoff at 9:45 AM. This is launch control.”
He and Uzi shared a look as the launch pad director gave them two thumbs up and told them all systems were go—which they already knew because the engineers were blabbering techno terms in their headsets. She uttered a nondenominational “Godspeed” blessing, then she and a coworker swung the hatch closed and secured it.
“OKAY BOYS,” Stroud said. “You ready for the ride of your lives?”
“As ready as I can be,” Uzi said.
“All systems go,” Carson said. “Launch control, do you show go for final launch status check?”
Uzi’s shoulder muscles tightened at the mention of the phrase “final launch status check.” This was it. They were starting the “go/no go poll,” in which the flight controllers gave their readiness assessment for each of the systems. Go meant clear for launch, while no go meant the item needed to be examined—and a hold would be placed on the countdown.
Uzi had tried to force this moment from his mind, but his subconscious would not let him shove it aside. Instead, as each of the voices ticked off their status in his headset, he tried to take the analytical approach: scrutinizing each step of the process. Liftoff was one of the most tense, and dangerous, times of the mission. The eleven minutes it would take them to reach Earth orbit were particularly risky because of the extreme forces involved. A single malfunction could spell instant disaster.
The checks continued in his headset:
“Booster,” the flight director said. The engineer’s response: “Booster is go.”
Retro. Retro is go.
Guidance. Guidance is go.
Surgeon. Surgeon is go …
But liftoff was only the first of many dicey moments, tasks, and maneuvers that awaited them. Next up was the translunar injection, when the Hercules’s third stage engine ignited and literally blasted them out of Earth orbit, on course toward the Moon. Then came entering lunar orbit, followed by landing on the surface, walking on the Moon, lifting off, rendezvousing and docking with the Patriot, reentering Earth’s atmosphere, and splashing down in the ocean. Mechanical failures or human errors, it did not matter. A minuscule, though critical, mishap would blow them into a million bits. The image of the Challenger space shuttle exploding in midflight looped through his thoughts.
Stop it, Uzi told himself. First we need a successful eleven minutes. Then we’ll tackle each step as it comes.
Navigation. Navigation is go.
Control. Control is go.
Network. Network is go.
Recovery. Recovery is go …
He tuned out the crosstalk and tried to clear his mind. He had experienced mission jitters before. This was not uncommon with special operators, spies, and soldiers of all stripes. He knew how to deal with the anxiety and rarely had issues controlling it, but for some reason he was having a tougher time than in the past. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
“Vehicle’s in great shape,” launch control said in his ears. “Weather’s a go. Um, on behalf of the launch team, we’d like to wish you guys good luck and Godspeed. We’ll see you back here in nine days.”
“You are clear to launch, Patriot. Launch sequencer now controlling.”
“Roger that,” Stroud said. “Thanks for your help, launch control.”
“We are T-minus one minute. Now arming the sound suppression water system.”
Uzi took another breath, let it out slowly. He knew that handoff to the onboard computers was due to occur at thirty-one seconds, assuming nothing prevented the launch from proceeding before that.
“T-minus forty-five seconds, handoff in fourteen.”
“Here we go, guys,” Carson said. “Hang on.”
; The rocket vibrated vigorously as the engines built up thrust.
“Standing by for the handoff to Patriot’s onboard computers,” Stroud said. “T-minus thirty-one seconds. And … the handoff has occurred.”
“Firing chain is armed,” CAPCOM said. “Go for main engine start.”
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
On the bright side, Uzi thought, someday I’ll have a great story to tell my grandkids. Oh wait. No I won’t.
Three.
Two.
One.
Zero.
“And we have liftoff!” Launch control’s usual dead-panned, dispassionate communication had considerable emotion behind it, the culmination of a long process of planning, practice, and execution.
The rocket’s intense rumble was like being in the epicenter of the longest earthquake in history. Uzi felt the rapid, violent shake in his head, his throat, his stomach, his fingers and toes.
“You have cleared the tower,” CAPCOM said. “Looking good. You’re on your way, Patriot.”
25
Undisclosed Industrial Park
Springfield, Virginia
Jason Lansford sat in a generous-size room containing only a couple of metal chairs and a small table. He was connected to a polygraph and his hands were handcuffed to the arms of the chair.
Psychophysiologist Terrence Jones resided in an adjacent observation chamber monitoring the results remotely, along with Vail. Although polygraph examiners often plied their trade beside their test subjects, Vail and Zheng felt it was best if Jones took his baseline readings and then communicated the responses via earpiece so he did not interfere in any way with their session.
Zheng Wei walked into the interrogation room and slammed the door behind him. Lansford did not jump. He did not react at all.
“I want an attorney,” he said without making eye contact.
“There won’t be any attorneys. We’re not the police and you’re not under arrest. So you have no rights. This is a kidnapping, pure and simple. Except it’s not ransom we’re after. It’s information.”
“I don’t know what information I could possibly have that you’d want.” He faced Zheng. “My shirt size?”
Zheng stared at him, his expression devoid of emotion.
Lansford looked away.
“This is not a joke. It’s not a prank. You need to answer our questions truthfully.”
“Or?”
“You’ll find out.” Zheng fixed his gaze—and his jaw—for a moment before turning and leaving.
He walked into the adjacent room where Vail and Jones were waiting.
“He’s very composed,” Jones said. “Almost like he’s in a trance.”
“The trait of a good spy,” Zheng said, watching Lansford through the two-way glass. “We have to find a way of getting under his skin, breaking down his defenses. Get to him emotionally.”
“I’ll do my best,” Vail said. “But to do this right, it could take weeks.”
“I don’t care if you do it right or do it wrong. Or something in between. Just get the information. And you’ve got hours, not weeks.”
Vail chuckled.
“This is not a law enforcement operation, Karen. You got that?”
Crystal clear. “He’s got no right to remain silent.”
Zheng locked gazes with Vail. “No rights of any kind.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I got it.”
VAIL ENTERED THE ROOM and walked to a spot in front of the chair where Jason Lansford was seated. She felt naked without her FBI badge and creds.
“Who are you?” Lansford asked.
“Right now, I’m the only friend you have in the world.”
“Great. Then you won’t mind removing these handcuffs.”
She pulled over another chair and set it in front of Lansford. “Jason, right? My name is Katherine. Tell me about your work for Aerospace Engineering.”
“First you tell me what this is about.”
“My colleague already told you. This is about information. Information you have that we need. Like who you work for—other than AE.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s not the way this is going to work,” Vail said. “Telling the truth will help you immensely. Lying, however, won’t get you anywhere. But it will get you trouble.”
“I’ve been in trouble before.”
“Okay,” Vail said. “Fair enough. But don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. Just trying to look out for your well-being.”
“I’m not lying. I don’t work for anyone other than Aerospace Engineering.”
“We know about your trips to China.”
“I didn’t realize that was a crime.”
“We’re not the police.”
“Lots of people go to China,” Lansford said with a shrug. “They’re tourists, they travel. Others go there on business, some visit family.”
“You appear to have done all three. Yeah, we know about your brother Brad and his family. And we know about his problems with the government. And your pledge to pay off his debt.” A bit of a guess, but if I’m right …
His brow twitched, a slight contraction of the musculature. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Oh, but there’s something. I see it on your face.
“So you agreed to do something for the government. Get them info on something AE’s working on. Corporate espionage. You know, if that’s all it is, if it’s just a matter of trying to help out your family, I get that.”
“Wrong tree.”
“What?”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“We had something,” Jones said in her earpiece, “when you brought up his brother’s problems. A minor response.”
“I’m just saying that if you were passing on info to the Chinese government because you were repaying Brad’s debt with them, that’s just being a good brother. But I need to know what it was that you gave the government.”
Lansford shook his head, as if he were pitying her for her stupidity.
“Helping out your family is a whole lot different than spying for another country, which could be classified as an act of terrorism. The US government takes that very seriously these days—as I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“But you’re not the police.”
“I’ve got debts to repay too. If I turned you over to the Feds, that’d go a long way to paying them off. Unfortunately for you,” she said with a shrug, “you’d never get out of prison.”
“Do what you gotta do. They’d have nothing on me.”
Vail smiled. “Now we both know that’s not true. But if you could explain to them that something happened accidentally … well, that’s not only understandable but excusable. Is that what happened? Did something slip out during a conversation with someone?”
“Nothing slipped out. There was no accident. I didn’t pass any information to anyone.”
“To pay off your debt to the Chinese government. You handed over some … what? Blueprints? Documents?”
“No, nothing like that. Like I said, I didn’t pass any info to anyone, here or in China. How many times are you gonna ask me the same thing?”
“You know, Jason, I had a friend like you. And he thought he was doing the right thing. He accepted some money, was convinced he was helping—”
“Sorry to hear about your friend. But it doesn’t have any relevance to me. I’m not a spy. I didn’t pass information to anyone. I’m just a guy who goes to work every day, does his job, and goes home.”
“He appears to be telling the truth,” Jones said.
Bullshit. I know he’s lying. And I’ve got hours, not weeks, to break him.
For the first time, Vail had the fleeting thoug
ht that DeSantos’s interrogation techniques might be useful. Maybe even necessary—at some point, at some time. Even if it was just used as leverage or a bargaining chip.
No. Stop thinking like that. It’s wrong. Immoral.
And I’m not Hector. So how do I make Jason Lansford talk?
She could not motivate him with threats of prosecution and there was no time to build trust. None of her methods would work in a situation like this, against the clock.
She wanted to put her fist through the wall.
It would not be the first time.
Her friends’ lives could depend on her ability to make this guy talk. And she was no closer than she was when she started. She had come up empty.
There was a knock at the door. Vail took the interruption as an excuse to take a breather, collect her thoughts, refocus, expunge the frustration—because it would not do her any good.
She walked out. Standing there was a smartly dressed young woman with shiny brunette hair. Striking. Stunning. Only one other female she knew had such natural beauty—her friend Roxxann Dixon.
“Alexandra Rusakov.” She held out a hand and Vail shook.
“We met. A few months ago, at the Pentagon. OPSIG—”
“Right,” Rusakov said. “The codex case.”
“What are you doing here?”
She gestured to the adjacent observation room. As they entered, Rusakov said, “I was asked to get over here, see if I could help.”
“You can’t insert yourself into the interrogation without knowing anything about—”
“I reviewed his file, did some … homework while you were in New York. I know what you know. Actually, a little more.” She winked.
Vail turned to the two-way mirror. “They don’t think I can get Lansford to talk?”
Rusakov tightened her mouth as if resisting the urge to smile. “Knox felt you stood the best chance. McNamara wasn’t so sure and wanted me to be ready in case you—well, in case you failed.”
Lovely. And here I am failing. Miserably.
“And don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s what appears to be happening.”
Vail waved it off. “No worries. I didn’t take that the wrong way.” Bitch. “So what does McNamara think you can do that I can’t?”
Dark Side of the Moon Page 15
