“Say good-bye to our home away from home,” Uzi said. “Raptor served us well.”
“More like a Motel Six,” Carson said. “Next time let’s go for a Marriott. M Club.”
Uzi chuckled. He looked over, expecting to share the laugh with his buddy, but DeSantos was stone faced, as if he had not been paying attention. “That was funny, Santa. You sure you’re okay?”
He turned to them. “Doing great. Let’s get back inside Patriot and blast this thing to bits. Motel Six is right.”
“T-minus nineteen minutes ten seconds,” Carson said. “Let’s get moving. We don’t want to be anywhere near that baby when she blows.”
Rather than leaving the Raptor in orbit until its systems shut down over a period of months—sending the dead hulk crashing into the lunar surface—they rigged the Raptor and the descent stage with their remaining explosive charges. The bombs would reduce the former to twisted fragments of space waste and the latter to lunar rubble.
They completed the docking, transferred their backpacks to the crew module, then took their seats and watched the Raptor get smaller as they pulled away.
With Stroud gone, Uzi took the copilot’s chair beside Carson, who had assumed the role of mission commander.
They left the Raptor behind as they swung around the Moon, preparing to fire their engine for two and a half minutes while over the far side. This added three thousand feet per second to their velocity and set them on a return course to Earth—a maneuver called TEI, or trans-Earth injection.
Four minutes later, the Raptor served out its useful life by blasting into thousands of tiny pieces.
“T-minus twelve seconds to TEI,” Carson said.
The computer set their course and the powerful engine lit up as planned. They felt the push back into their seats as the Gs took hold.
“Pressures are good,” Carson said two minutes into the burn. “Total attitude looks good. Standing by for engine off. Five seconds.”
“Four … three … two … one,” Uzi said. “Engine off.”
They were weightless again.
Eleven minutes later, they had passed around the dark side of the Moon and regained comms with mission control.
“Nice to have you back,” Bob Maddox said. “Return to Earth trajectory looks real good. Nice work.”
“Hector and I would like to take credit,” Uzi said, “but we were just passengers on this flight.”
“Patriot,” Maddox said, “I’m going to turn the mic over to Director Knox.”
“Congratulations, gentlemen,” Knox said. “We’ve activated the ring of satellite lasers and the DOD will be test firing them at the Spider. All goes well, there’ll be little sign left of our mission footprint.”
“Understood,” Carson said.
“CAPCOM, I need a moment with the men,” Knox said. “Secure channel, please. Just me and the crew.”
There was radio silence—leading DeSantos to fear they had lost comms again—until Knox’s voice filled the speakers. “Patriot, do you read?”
“Affirmative,” Uzi said. “You’ve got me, Hector, and Digger.”
“I’ll be brief. Hector, you need to know some news has broken. There’s no easy way to say it, so let me just come right out with it. Your father has been kidnapped. We’re reasonably certain the Russians are behind it. I believe they did it to leverage you into sabotaging your mission so they could be assured of bringing the caesarium back.”
There was silence.
Uzi studied his face.
“Patriot, are you still with me?”
“We are,” DeSantos said. “Thank you for telling me, sir. Is he—is my father still alive?”
“We’ve got reason to believe he is …” Static interrupted his sentence. “ … And trying to … but …” The remainder of Knox’s comments were garbled into incoherence.
Uzi unbuckled and floated down to the seat beside DeSantos. “You knew. How?”
DeSantos kept his gaze ahead, his demeanor steady. “Oleg told me. Just like Knox said, he wanted me to cut a deal. My father’s life for the caesarium.”
“Are you serious?” Carson asked. “You didn’t think that was an important thing to share with us?”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Uzi said.
“What good would it have done?” DeSantos’s voice was distant, emotionless. “It was irrelevant.”
“It was anything but irrelevant, Santa. If you’re honest with yourself, you’ll know that’s true.”
“That’s why you hesitated during liftoff,” Carson said. “You were thinking of not blowing up their ship.”
“I was thinking of my dad,” DeSantos said. “But I was never seriously considering letting the cosmonauts live. They couldn’t. We couldn’t let them bring caesarium to Earth. My father’s basically a POW. He spent his whole life as a soldier. He knows the deal. I’m sure he’d understand.”
“Bullshit. Sounds good—and from his point of view, you’re probably right. That’s exactly what he’d think. But not from your perspective. He’s your father.”
“Spoken by the guy who doesn’t talk to his anymore.”
Uzi worked his jaw before composing himself. “If my dad’s life was in danger, all that … stuff gets tossed aside. I’d do everything I can to help him, to save his life.”
DeSantos looked at him. “Including looking the other way, harming your team, your country, the world? Don’t lie to me, Uzi. There’s no way you’d do that.”
Uzi sat there silent for a moment, the very slight movement of the ship—now traveling a mere six thousand feet per second—allowing him to think. “You’re right. I wouldn’t. But I’d find a way of changing the rules. A way of keeping Russia from getting the caesarium and getting your dad back. Alive.”
“LOST THE SIGNAL AGAIN,” Maddox said, studying his screen.
Knox kicked the chair. “Just get me through to them! Can’t you people keep a stable conn—”
A command and control technician flinched at the sudden display of anger. “We’re being jammed, sir.”
“Who’s jamming us?”
“Working on it. We’ll have an answer for you in a minute.”
McNamara lifted the secure phone and made a call. While it rang, he cupped the mouthpiece. “Bob, why don’t you just switch to a different antenna?”
“Not sure we can.”
Eisenbach and Kirmani entered the room. Knox explained—along with a few not-so-carefully-chosen expletives—what had occurred.
Maddox leaned back in his chair and canted his head toward Knox. “It’s the Russians.”
Kirmani balled a fist. “Of course it is.”
“In three hours we can hand off to our antenna array in Australia, but there’s some kind of problem with the transmitter.” Maddox leaned forward and made eye contact with an engineer a few seats to his right. “We’re trying to figure it out.”
Knox ground his jaw. “Any danger to our men?”
Maddox shook his head. “This comms breakdown is on our end, not Patriot’s. I think they’re okay.”
Knox blew air through his lips. “Fine. Just … do what you can to reestablish communications.”
“Most of the flight is automated from here on out,” McNamara said. “Handled by the computer. That should make me feel better. But it doesn’t.”
“No,” Knox said. “It sure doesn’t.”
69
Space Flight Operations Facility
Vandenberg Air Force Base
The president has been fully briefed?” McNamara asked. He, Eisenbach, Kirmani, Earl Tasset, and Douglas Knox faced the large screen, where director of Central Intelligence Lawrence Bolten, director of the National Security Agency Elliot Stern, and the new White House chief of staff Wilton Adams were appearing via secure video feed.
The Space Flight Ops center was adjacent to mission control—so they were not far away if new information on the Patriot became available.
“And President Nunn is reluctant to take action against Russia?” Eisenbach asked. “Did I understand you right?”
Adams held up a hand and dropped his chin. “Please, gentlemen. I realize this is not what you wanted to hear, b—”
“Wanted to hear?” Eisenbach said. “We’ve got three men hurtling toward Earth and we can’t assist them, let alone coordinate recovery procedures. Or even simply talk with them.”
“Problem is,” Adams said, “that we can’t start a conflict with Russia. We’re culpable. They’re convinced our men killed their cosmonauts, who were on a peaceful, exploratory mission and—”
“Bullshit,” McNamara said. “They were there to get caesarium before we restricted access to the Moon. They came armed and they murdered one of our men. Not to mention they used a network of spies to plant dangerous malware on our spacecraft.”
“I understand all that.”
“Does the president?” Tasset asked.
Adams maintained his composure, which was more than McNamara could say about his own burgeoning temper.
“I assure you,” Adams said evenly, “this was all discussed with him.”
“Besides,” Knox said, “Russia jamming our communication arrays is an act of war in and of itself. Two of those antennas are located inside military installations.”
“The president and his advisers feel there’s enough blame to go around. No one’s innocent here. We were walking a fine line in deploying the lasers in lunar orbit and launching a black op against the Chinese lander. There’s no precedent for any of that. And the spy Russia had in place was technically working for a private company, not the government.”
“C’mon,” Tasset said. “That’s bullshit and you know it. The Russian president stood to make a mint on that mission. And he’s in charge of the space program. Ronck didn’t launch a mission to the Moon. Russia did.”
Adams held up a hand. “Yes, Russia intended to bring back the most powerful WMD known to man. The president understands that. But we’re not blameless here. And when you live in a glass house, you can’t throw stones. And right now, there are wall-to-wall windows all around us.”
Eisenbach leaned both palms on the table in front of him. “And he wants us to stand down and not engage them? What the hell are we supposed to do?”
Adams shrugged. “Find some other way of communicating with the Patriot.”
Kirmani laughed. “Oh, of course. Why didn’t we think of that?” His grin evaporated. “It’s easier said than done, Mr. Adams.”
“Is there an imminent threat to our astronauts?” Adams asked.
“No,” Eisenbach said. “But given the Russian malware they’ve dealt with, who knows what’s coming?”
“Yes,” Adams said with a frown. “We certainly don’t know what’s coming. This entire incident has been an indictment of US intelligence, if not a complete failure. You’ve left us blind and deaf to what’s going on.”
Tasset physically took a step back. He opened his mouth to speak but said nothing.
Bolten bowed his head. “Understood. We’ve already been spanked. But—”
“No buts. Find another way to get in touch with your men or talk with them after they splash down.”
“So that’s it? We sit on our asses waiting for something to go wrong?” Kirmani asked.
Adams’s face went taut. “Think about what will happen if the media gets hold of what really went on up there. We can’t have a war break out over this—definitely not over jammed communications. It could escalate very quickly.”
“I disagree,” Tasset said. “Thing is, nothing would happen. Both Russia and China suffer from insecurity. They desperately want to be seen as superpowers. So neither would want to publicly acknowledge their lunar missions because they’d both have to admit they ended in failure.”
“Not to mention that they were trying to mine nuclear material for a powerful weapon,” Bolten added.
“Exactly,” Tasset said. “So Russia and China will keep quiet. As will the US. We don’t want to confirm the existence of a dangerous element that could wreak havoc in the wrong hands. People would freak out, to say the least. So we’ll keep quiet. Nothing will be released by anyone even resembling the truth. Meantime, negotiations will begin, quietly, on a new Moon treaty that specifically prohibits mining of caesarium—and creates an independent inspecting body that forensically examines any mission that returns from the Moon.”
“I’m glad you both have it all figured out,” Adams said. “But things don’t always go the way you think they will. The president’s made his decision. Thank you for your opinions.”
The men were left staring at a blank screen. Finally Eisenbach threw down his remote. “We’re wasting time. We need to find a way to reach our men.”
70
Deep Space
Return to Earth
Sixty-one hours passed uneventfully. DeSantos, Uzi, and Carson took turns catching up on their sleep, one remaining awake and working on his classified mission report while monitoring the Patriot’s progress as the others sawed wood.
Uzi stretched his arms and took a deep, cleansing breath.
“Good morning,” DeSantos said. “Or good evening. I don’t know what the hell time it is.”
“You just have to check the clock.”
“If it mattered, I would have. I’ve been busy.”
Uzi shoved Carson’s shoulder.
He moaned, then rubbed his eyes. “My entire body’s sore. And my hands are still chapped from those suit gloves.”
“What’s our status?” Uzi asked as he pulled himself into his seat.
“Still no contact with mission control,” DeSantos said. “At 41,000 miles from Earth I entered in our flight correction manually, as you wanted.”
“You keyed in hash-65, ENTER, ENGAGE, for an Atlantic splash-down,” Carson said. “Right?”
“Correct. ‘Command up’ to lengthen by 215 nautical miles. I was paying attention.”
“And where are we now?” Uzi asked.
“At 13,294 miles. Around 35,000 we started to get more pull from the Earth’s gravity.”
“I feel it,” Uzi said as he floated over to the aft window. “Definitely moving downhill. We’ll be in the water before we know it.”
“Okay.” Carson stood up. “Let’s get ready for splashdown and recovery. Everything needs to be stowed. And I want to have our manual checklists in front of us in case something weird happens with avionics. Now is no time for a software glitch—intentional or unintentional.”
“Amen to that,” DeSantos said.
71
Opsig Operations Center
The Pentagon
Vail, Rusakov, and Rodman were huddled over a computer terminal as the data came in.
“It’s confirmed,” Vail said. “Get the SecDef on the line.”
Rodman lifted the handset and a moment later was talking with McNamara.
“You’ve got all of us here,” McNamara said. “Directors Knox and Tasset, General Eisenbach, and Captain Bansi Kirmani. Please, Hot Rod … tell us you’ve got something.”
“I believe we’re close to locating General DeSantos,” Rodman said. “We’ve found evidence of a private jet with a diplomatic call sign leaving a small airport in New York. We’ve been tracking the transponder.”
“How can we trust that data?” Eisenbach said. “Wouldn’t they disable the transponder so we couldn’t do exactly what you just did?”
“I asked the same question,” Vail said. “I spoke with the FAA and NORAD and here’s the deal. Something bad has to happen for the FAA and NORAD to monitor every flight plan. That ‘something’ was the kidnapping of a decorated US general. So that’s
the good news.”
“What’s the bad news?” Tasset said.
“It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“But if they’re monitoring every single flight, I don’t see how—”
“Let me put it in perspective,” Rodman said. “Let’s say they took off in a private jet from a small airfield on the East Coast. Small, but not too small. Better to hide in plain sight—because if they turned off their transponder, Canada, the US, the UK, and Iceland air traffic controllers will all get a warning alarm that they just lost an aircraft. But if they keep it on, they’re one of 270 airliners in the air … 1,300 flights a day, 54 flights per hour.”
“The needle in a haystack,” Tasset said.
“Right. So if Panorama Flight Service files a flight plan from White Plains, New York, to somewhere in western Europe, like Keflavik, Iceland, that wouldn’t raise an alarm. If it’d been White Plains to Russia, the FAA would’ve notified NORAD. This way, making a stop in Iceland and then filing another flight plan from Iceland to Russia looks benign.”
“So is that what they did?” Knox asked.
“Yes,” Rodman said. “They took off in an Embraer Legacy 650 at 0300 and arrived in Keflavik around noon, cruising at .85 Mach at an altitude of 45,000 feet. They got handed off from New York Center to Gander Center to Icelandic Center, then Prestwick Center. They landed in Russia—”
“Where in Russia?”
Rodman laughed. “I’m waiting for that information as we speak.”
“Soon as you get it, let me know. That’s probably where they’re holding the general—there or somewhere nearby.”
An encrypted message hit Rodman’s computer. “Here we go.” He drew his chin back. “Interesting.” He pointed at the screen and Rusakov nodded.
“Sirs,” Rusakov said, “satellite data shows it landed at an airfield one hundred kilometers northwest of St. Petersburg, Russia. Veshevo air base.”
“Why is that interesting?”
Dark Side of the Moon Page 37
