Dark Side of the Moon

by Alan Jacobson

  “No idea,” Uzi said. “It’s going system by system. So far it hasn’t found any problems.”

  “Digger, see if you can raise CAPCOM,” Stroud said.

  Carson tapped his display. “CAPCOM, this is Patriot. Please respond.”

  No static—but no response, either.

  “Looks like we’re gonna have to solve this ourselves,” DeSantos said, “at least until comms comes back online … assuming it does.”

  “Soon as that diagnostic finishes,” Uzi said, “we’ll have a better handle on what we’re dealing with. We’ve had four distinct failures. We need to know if they’re related, and how. And why.”

  31

  Flight Operations

  Vandenberg Air Force Base

  The flight control engineer studied his screen, zoomed in, and turned to the adjacent monitor on his left. “Sir. A moment.”

  Kirmani walked toward the man’s workstation. “Problem?”

  “NORAD picked up a launch from Russia.”

  “A Soyuz headed for the ISS?”

  “No launches scheduled for the space station,” the engineer said. “Not for another six weeks. And this is a much larger rocket.” He rattled off the specs from the readings he had taken.

  “What the hell? Put it up on the main screen.”

  The man worked his keyboard and looked to the front of the room, where the rocket was shown via satellite image. It was climbing higher, a trail of fire-like exhaust burning from its bottom. “Obviously that’s a super heavy lift vehicle, sir. And given what’s been going on—”

  “We have to assume this is headed to the Moon.” A phone began ringing. Kirmani walked back to his desk and answered the red handset. He listened a moment, then hung up as Eisenbach entered mission control.

  “Should we have NASA contact their counterparts at Roscosmos?” Kirmani asked, referring to the Russian Federal Space Agency.

  Eisenbach shrugged. “We do have a relationship with them because of the space station. They know the US monitors this stuff, so I think it’d be strange if NASA—or NORAD—doesn’t contact them and ask what they’re doing.”

  “Not that Russia will give them a truthful answer.”

  Eisenbach laughed. “With Russia, if there’s one thing we can count on, it’s subterfuge.”

  32

  Black Site

  Vail returned to the interrogation room four hours and three minutes after they showed Lansford the video of his family. They had been watching him and felt he had reached the point where he would be most pliable and open to cutting a deal for his wife and kids.

  He was sweating and his shirt was punctuated by perspiration stains. His hair was greasy and his eyes were red. He had repeatedly refused food and drink.

  The room was warm, humid, and musty and reeked of the kind of body odor that came with anxiety.

  “I think you’ve had enough time to think,” Vail said. “Tell us what we want to know and we’ll release Renata, Kathy, and Zach.”

  He wearily lifted his head. “And if I don’t? You’ll harm my family?”

  “If you don’t, I leave and turn you over to Veronika and she makes the call. As you probably surmised, she’s a ruthless bitch. I don’t like her. I don’t trust her. And I work with her. Take my advice and give us the information.”

  Lansford bit the inside of his lip and locked gazes with Vail—who did not blink. He closed his eyes.

  The seconds became a minute. Then two.

  “You’re testing our patience, Jason.” She turned to face the two-way mirror, where she knew Rusakov was observing. “Make it easy on yourself. And us. You make it easy on us—” she shrugged—“we’ll make it easy on you. Simple. Everyone wins.”

  He laughed sardonically. “Without effort, you can’t pull a fish out of a pond.”

  Vail spun around. “What did you say?”

  Lansford shook his head, as if annoyed that she did not understand. “Nothing’s easy. Or simple. Nothing.”

  “No, that’s not what you said. You said, ‘Without effort, you can’t pull a fish out of a pond.’”

  Lansford swallowed. “So?”

  “I knew someone who used to say that. A guy in Brooklyn. Brighton Beach.” In truth, the crime group Vail was surveilling with a wire used that phrase repeatedly. After a while, it became an idiom ingrained in her lexicon. “You know Brighton Beach, Jason?”

  “Heard of it. So what?”

  “It’s a predominantly Russian area of Brooklyn. A lot of Russian immigrants. The Russian mafia operates there.”

  Lansford’s forehead spotted with sweat. “And why are you telling me this?”

  Vail stared at him. Watching him squirm, giving him the opportunity to say something that would implicate himself—or the person who was directing this operation. “I think you know.”

  “You’re fishing,” he said with a chuckle, trying to recover his composure.

  “Oh, I’m fishing all right. Just not in a pond.” She studied his face.

  “Heart’s galloping,” Jones said. “Bingo. You did it.”

  Maybe. Not yet. “So it’s not China you’re working for, it’s Russia. Tell me who your Russian handler is.”

  She saw the worry settle anew on his face like a mask: knitting brow, taut lips. Perspiration bled out from his armpits. His right knee began bouncing.

  “Most significant response he’s had thus far,” Jones said. “Well, except when she gave him the hand job. Stay with this line of questioning.”

  “We know you met with her when you were at Grand Central.” It was a bit of a gamble—if she was wrong, it would weaken her hand. But she was fairly certain that, if true, it would unnerve him. “Light brown hair, mid-thirties. You met her in front of the Apple store.”

  He cast his gaze toward the ground. More tellingly, he did not deny it.

  “How many times have you been to Russia?”

  “Never been there,” he said, his voice low, less confident.

  “We can find out, Jason.”

  The door swung open and a man Vail did not know wheeled in a crude-looking device perched on a stainless steel cart. It took a second for Vail to realize that it was a greasy car battery with cables hooked up to the positive and negative poles. I hope that’s just a threat.

  “What’s that for?”

  Vail knew she had to play it straight. “C’mon, Jason. You don’t need me to spell it out. I tried to warn you. See, you’re the only one in this room who’s been lying.”

  Lansford squirmed in his seat, bent his torso forward a few degrees.

  “What’s your handler’s name?” When he did not answer, Vail pressed forward. “How long have you been working with her?”

  His gaze flitted over to the car battery. “I don’t know anyone from Russia. I’m not working with anyone.”

  “Karen,” Zheng Wei’s voice said in her ear. “Got something for you. Come into Room A5. Just down the hall.”

  Vail rose from her chair and walked over to the stainless steel cart, where she set her right hand on the copper alligator clamp. “I don’t believe you, Jason. And I’m going to give you five minutes to reconsider your answer.”

  Vail headed down the barren hallway, passing the breakroom on the left, and found A5. Zheng was seated at a table with two other men hunched over military-style laptops.

  “We’ve gotten hold of Lansford’s credit card bills,” Zheng said. “He made six trips to China over a two-year period—we knew his brother lives there, so that in itself isn’t a smoking gun. But I looked at his latest visit because it was easiest to get those records, and there are charges in Beijing at a number of restaurants, markets, electronics stores, coffee shops.”

  “That’s what we’d expect to see if he went to Beijing. Not very helpf—”

  “It is exactly what we�
��d expect, which makes it suspect.”

  “That’s ridicul—”

  “Hear me out. I looked at the actual receipts, at the signatures I was able to get hold of. And they don’t match Lansford’s.”

  Vail nodded slowly. “So someone used his charge card and signed for the merchandise. As cover for him because he was somewhere else?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “And that goes right to my theory.”

  “Want to share it?”

  “You’re familiar with Beijing?”

  “Very. Why?”

  Vail turned and opened the door. “Walk me through what questions to ask.” She explained what she was looking for, then stepped back into the interrogation room.

  “Let’s try this again, Jason. You say you’re not working for Russia. I’ll accept that as the truth—for now. So let’s go back to China. We know you’ve been there a number of times. And we know you’ve got family in Beijing. So tell me. What’s your favorite place to eat when you go there?”

  “We never go out to eat.”

  “Never?”

  Lansford shook his head.

  “You’ve never gone out to eat in a restaurant in Beijing.”

  “I don’t know how else to answer that question. No. Never.”

  “Where do you go when you visit?”

  Lansford shrugged. “Around.”

  “These are bullshit answers,” Zheng said in her ear. “And it doesn’t match the receipts.”

  “Ever go sightseeing?”

  “I’m there to visit with my brother and his family, not play tourist.”

  “So you just sit in the apartment all day? Every day?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You’ve never gone out, not once in all your trips?”

  “Went to the Great Wall once.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Big. Long. Very old.”

  “I could’ve told you that and I’ve never been to China.”

  Lansford shrugged. “I’m not big on adjectives.”

  “So other than a visit to the Great Wall, you’ve never left the apartment? How am I supposed to believe that?”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “Actually, it’s yours. Because we’ve got your credit card receipts.” Zheng coached her on the places that appeared on the charge log. “We’ve got one from Capital M restaurant for 880 yuan. And one from Shoulashou Electronics City for 915 yuan. Ring a bell?”

  “Oh, yeah. Forgot about that.”

  “When were those charges?

  “I, uh … I can’t remember.”

  “Last trip or the one from three years ago?”

  “Look, who the hell remembers when they buy stuff or go out to eat?”

  “Especially when you didn’t make those charges. I thought you said you never leave the apartment. And that you don’t eat out.”

  “As I said, I forgot.”

  “I don’t think so. I think your brother had a nice dinner at Capital M and bought a flat screen TV. On your dime, as a cover. Because you were somewhere else. Weren’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The signatures don’t match. The signatures on the charge slips have your name but they don’t match the ones you signed for recently in DC.”

  “I had an identity theft. Someone stole—”

  “No. You didn’t. We checked.”

  Lansford clenched his jaw.

  Vail watched him a moment as she worked it through her brain, trying to fit the disparate facts together.

  “This is Alex,” Rusakov said. “Just spoke with Hot Rod. Lansford’s last trip to China, a day after he arrived, there’s surveillance footage of him in Adolfo Suárez Madrid-Barajas airport in Spain boarding an Air Europa flight to Paris. And another flight on Vueling Airlines three hours later to Moscow.”

  Vail grinned. That’s it, the missing piece. “While we’ve been sitting here, Jason, my people have been combing through your phone, piecing together your online activity, watching surveillance video, analyzing your credit card activity, comparing facial recognition and biometric data. There’s not much we do these days that can be kept off the grid—especially when you’ve got our resources and reach. We’ve succeeded in recreating your movements throughout China. And you know what we found?”

  He shook his head but did not speak. His eyes canted toward the floor.

  “Sure you do. You want to level with me now or do I need to spell it out?”

  “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “We know you used your flights to China as a cover to fly on to Russia under an alias. We’ve got you on video, confirmed by biometric data.”

  Lansford looked up and squared his shoulders.

  Time to test my theory. “You’re working for the Russians. They approached you because of your brother and his family. They live in China, which connects you to the Chinese. And your brother’s been in trouble with the authorities for things he’s done with his business. They were on the verge of accusing him of fraud, and let’s face it, sometimes when people are accused of things by that government, they disappear.”

  “So?”

  “So anyone looks at you, they’ll suspect you’re spying for China, paying off a debt for your brother. You cut a deal: spy for them and they don’t kill him. But truth is, that’s not what’s happening at all. That’s why they selected you. The trips to China are just a ruse, a cover for your real work. With the Russians. That’s very clever.”

  Lansford did not say a word. Did not move.

  “This is good,” Jones said. “GSR is off the charts. Heart rate too.”

  “I’m giving you one last chance before I walk out and Veronika comes in again. But instead of another hand job, she’s gonna shock your balls.” Vail leaned in close. “And it’s not gonna feel near as good.” She leaned back. “At least, that’s what the last guy said.”

  “Nice work,” Jones said. “He’s fucking freaking out. Go in for the kill.”

  Vail counted to three, then stood up. “I’ll now be able to sleep. Because I gave you every opportunity to help yourself—and Renata. And Kathy. And Zach. Good-bye, Jason.”

  She headed for the door and had her hand on the knob when he mumbled something.

  Vail turned. “What?”

  “I was given lines of code to insert.”

  She headed back to the chair. “What kind of code?”

  “All spacecraft are run by computers. Even Apollo used computers—rudimentary by today’s standards, but computers. And computers are run by software programs.”

  “Go on.”

  He licked his lips. “Programs are lines of code, instructions, that do everything, run everything, control everything. Computers are getting the ability to think, but only in certain situations. We still have to tell them to execute certain actions using commands. If this happens, do that. Line after line of computer code. Instructions.”

  “And where did this code go?”

  “In the flight software. It runs on a real-time, multi-tasking operating system.”

  “What spacecraft?”

  Lansford sucked in a deep breath. “Orion.”

  Shit, shit, shit. That’s the one Uzi and DeSantos are in. “When did you do this? When’s it going to be used?”

  “Four months ago.” He looked away. “I heard it was going to be used very soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “For all I know, the rocket may’ve already launched. I got the sense it was being prepped. They wanted a final update to the program. We compiled it about six weeks ago.”

  Ten-four. That’s the one carrying Uzi and DeSantos. Operation Containment.

  “What’s the operating system softwa
re used for?”

  Lansford chuckled. “Everything. The avionics consists of the flight computers, software, sensors, effectors, displays, controls, radios, and navigation sensors. They control fuel venting, instrumentation, fuel levels, navigation, environmental control systems, communications. Everything.”

  Alex was right. This could be disastrous.

  She could sense Rusakov glaring at the back of her head through the two-way mirror. “The lines of code you inserted. Specifically, what’s it supposed to do?”

  “No idea.”

  Vail set her hands on her knees, her face a foot from Lansford’s. “Don’t insult me, Jason. I’ve had enough of your fucking lies. You’re a software engineer. You know what those instructions were designed to do.”

  “I—I didn’t look at them. I just inserted them where I was told to put them.”

  Bullshit. “Look,” Vail said. “If that code does something bad, causes something to happen to that rocket, or the spacecraft, it’s as if you did it yourself … as if you pressed a button to make it happen. You put that code into the operating system. Whether or not you knew what it was going to do—which I don’t believe—is irrelevant.”

  Lansford closed his eyes. “It was designed to make the crew think something was wrong with the ship when it wasn’t. So they’d get false readings. That’s it.”

  “That’s it? I’m not a rocket scientist, but I’m pretty smart. If the astronauts get false readings, they’re gonna take action to correct what they’re seeing. Right? And I’m guessing here, but if they do the wrong thing, that rocket could explode.”

  “They could get some readings that would indicate something different is happening from what’s actually happening.”

  “Could get or will get?”

  Lansford stared straight through her, as if she were not there. “Will.”

  Vail frowned. “And who gave you these instructions on where to insert this code? Who gave the code to you?”

  “I want a deal.”

  A deal? “I told you. We’re not the cops. But how’s this: you tell me who’s working with you and Veronika doesn’t put a bullet in your brain. You have my word on that.”