Dark Side of the Moon

by Alan Jacobson

  The three main parachutes’ nylon/Kevlar broadcloth material had a surface area that covered nearly an entire football field and had eighty suspension lines that, when placed end to end, stretched ten miles in length. While this eleven-parachute setup was extensive, it was essential to providing the necessary braking power to slow the crew module before it hit the water.

  But this massive amount of material had to fit inside the ports at the top of the module—and they had to deploy properly, on demand. Failure would be catastrophic. The solution was to compress them to the density of oak with a powerful hydraulic device.

  “Braking is according to specs,” Carson said. “So far, so good.”

  They had been paying close attention to the altimeter and speedometer, not trusting the automated chute deployment system to run unmonitored. Because of its importance, even without threats of malware, they would be watching to make sure the system worked as engineered.

  “We should hit the water at seventeen miles per hour,” Carson said. “Exactly as they drew it up.”

  DeSantos twisted left to look up at Carson. “Except we have no idea what the Russians—or Chinese—are doing. If they’re coming for us, we’ll be sitting, or bobbing, ducks on the lake. Kind of literally.”

  “We’ll find out in ninety seconds.”

  The sense of falling continued as Uzi called out updates. “Ten seconds. Five seconds. Two. One.”

  Even landing in water, Patriot impacted with a powerful jolt.

  “Woohoo,” Carson yelled. “Welcome home!”

  They unbuckled quickly and removed their helmets, then tried to climb over to the windows to get a look outside.

  “Damn,” DeSantos said. “I feel like a ninety-pound weakling. Hard to stand up.”

  Carson laughed. “After ten days in space with little to no gravity, it’s gonna take a while to adjust.”

  DeSantos made it over to the window. “Good news. No Russians or Chinese with rifles pointed at us. No gunships and no heat-seeking missiles.” He struggled to stand on his seat to reach the top hatch.

  Uzi helped release the lock and push open the door. They both fell backward into the lower tier of seats.

  “Oh man,” Uzi said. “Can’t even support my own weight.”

  In between two large orange nose cone balloon-like floats, a cloudless baby blue expanse stared down at them—but the choppy ocean was tossing them about, bobbing the capsule up and down.

  “Never thought I’d be so happy to see something as simple as the sky,” Carson said.

  “Uh-oh.” DeSantos tried to push himself up, but his arms felt like jelly.

  “What’s up?” Uzi asked.

  “Out the forward windows. Two fighter jets approaching from the, uh, northeast … and I don’t think they’re ours. Maybe Flankers.”

  Carson fumbled to remove a side compartment, where he found a pair of binoculars. “Camouflage blue. Definitely Russian Flankers.”

  Uzi had his own lenses pressed against his eyes and was looking out the rear windows. “Two—no, four—F-18s coming from the northwest.”

  DeSantos took the glasses from Carson and located the jets. “They fired—”

  A flash of light appeared high overhead, followed by a loud boom. Two more zipped by from the other direction.

  “Much lower than they should be,” Carson said, “couple thousand feet at most. What’s up with that?”

  “Ohhh shit,” Uzi shouted. One of the missiles struck the lead Flanker. It exploded on impact, scattering black smoke and shrapnel in all directions. “Close the hatch!”

  The fiery hulk struck the water as Uzi and Carson struggled to lift themselves up to button down the crew module before any debris hit them.

  “Who shot who?” DeSantos asked.

  “We hit one of the Flankers,” Uzi said, letting go, his boots hitting the floor with a thud.

  “Fire in the hole!” Carson said. “Get down.”

  Another flash—and boom.

  “Direct hit,” DeSantos yelled. A second Flanker smashed into the water to the north, splintering into dozens of pieces. “Two for two, brutha!”

  Uzi and Carson joined DeSantos at the windows as the four F-18s flew a wide circle overhead, securing the airspace.

  “Patriot, this is CAPCOM, do you read?”

  “This is Patriot,” Carson said. “We read. Great to hear your voice, Bob.”

  “Same here. Welcome home, gentlemen. An MV-22 Osprey is en route and will be over your position in four minutes. Open the hatch and prepare to exfil.”

  “Roger that,” DeSantos said. “Thanks for the air cover.”

  “I’ll pass on your thanks to the men and women flying the sorties. They’ve got your six. Looking forward to seeing you in a few hours. Standing by.”

  To lower the risk of a wave flooding the module, Carson had them wait to open the access until the Ospreys were two minutes out. Rather than hand cranking the gearbox to swing the heavy door open, they would use the quicker backup method, blowing the pyrobolts.

  As they swung the thick metal panel open, DeSantos felt the downdraft of the Osprey’s two powerful rotors as it lowered the Navy divers from the Explosive Ordnance Disposal Mobile Unit into the cold waters of the Pacific.

  Three of the men secured a horse collar towing device around the periphery of the Patriot crew module while the others attached a rope to DeSantos, then Uzi, and finally Carson. Moments later, all were onboard the Osprey. Five minutes after that, the divers were back on the MV-22, and the pilots flew a course headed for the USS Ronald Reagan.

  75

  Uss Ronald Reagan

  The Pacific Ocean

  DeSantos, Uzi, and Carson were brought into a small room onboard the USS Ronald Reagan. They were briefed by Eisenbach via the VTC, or video teleconference system, which incorporated a large TV screen and camera pumped through a secure remote laptop.

  What had transpired in the skies above them was exactly what it looked like—a short-lived fight over the crew module between US and Russian forces.

  “Any word on my father?” DeSantos asked.

  “I can answer that.”

  They turned around and saw Karen Vail standing in the doorway. “Welcome home, guys. Well done.” She exchanged hugs with DeSantos and Uzi, and was introduced to Digger Carson.

  “What’d you do to your arm?” Uzi asked.

  “Let’s just say that technology and I don’t always get along.”

  Douglas Knox, Richard McNamara, and Earl Tasset entered seconds later. McNamara checked his watch, then gestured at Eisenbach.

  “General, patch us through.”

  A moment later, Eisenbach’s face was replaced onscreen by a dark scene with a jumpy, green-hued picture and a digital readout in the right corner.

  Operators outfitted in light-absorbing tactical gear and night goggles ran along the tree line of an aged asphalt runway, weeds sprouting from cracks in the pavement. Several mothballed helicopters sat parked along the periphery, rust rendering its airframes non-airworthy. A few were missing their rotor blades.

  DeSantos leaned forward, studying the real-time video. “What are we looking at?”

  “We followed a string of leads,” Vail said, “and found a connection between Russian interests and the computer malware that hit your spacecraft. And—your father. I’ll explain in more detail later. Bottom line, the intel led there, to Veshevo air base.”

  “Veshevo,” DeSantos said. “Russia?”

  “Leningrad Oblast,” McNamara said. “Near St. Petersburg. We sent Team 4.”

  DeSantos pointed at the screen. “That’s Hot Rod. And that’s—” He chuckled. “I’d know that body anywhere, even with the gear on. Alex.” He turned to Vail. “You found my father?”

  Vail placed a hand on his shoulder. “We think he’s being held
at the abandoned air base.”

  “So he’s alive?”

  “We hope so,” Tasset said.

  “Thank you,” DeSantos said, his eyes glazed with tears. “Thank you all. I—”

  “We don’t have him yet,” Tasset said. “We don’t even have a visual. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “They’ve systematically searched all the buildings on the base,” Knox said. “Most are clustered together in one area. Haven’t found him yet—or any obvious indication that anyone’s been there recently. They’re coming up on the last structure.”

  “Klaus,” McNamara said, “can you get us some audio?”

  “Affirm. Audio going live.”

  They heard chatter over the speakers and tactical commands as the team came upon a brick building and fanned out.

  DeSantos found it difficult to stand there and watch—he wanted to be there, leading the way, MP7 in hand and forging ahead. In truth, he wished he could drive automatic rounds through the bodies of the men who had kidnapped and abused his father. On full auto.

  Vail squeezed his shoulder. She knew what he was feeling. He put his left arm around her and brought her close—he needed that.

  “Steel door,” Rodman said. “Can’t breach without a charge.”

  “Copy that. Same around back. Windows welded shut. Set charges. We’ll do the same and detonate on your mark.”

  DeSantos took a deep breath. He felt another body beside his. Uzi brought an arm around both him and Vail as they watched the scene unfold.

  Seconds later, the explosives blew the hinges off and they pushed the metal door aside, moving forward into the dilapidated bunker.

  The operator with the helmet cam engaged two tangos—and took them out with quick suppressed rounds to the head. He stepped forward and killed another. It was like watching a video of the old shoot house they trained in—except this was no exercise.

  The team finished clearing all the rooms.

  “What about the second floor?” DeSantos asked. He knew they couldn’t hear him, but he could not help himself.

  “Single story,” Uzi said. “I saw on their approach.”

  Rodman’s voice: “Building’s clear. No sign of the general.”

  DeSantos’s shoulders noticeably slumped. Vail brought him closer. “He’s gotta be there,” DeSantos whispered.

  “What about Patrone? Any sign of him?” Vail asked.

  Eisenbach relayed the question and Rusakov replied: “Not among the dead. My guess, he’s in the wind.” She knelt down and moved her hand along the floor. “Hang on. Hey, over here!”

  The camera bobbed up and down, left and right as the operator made his way to Rusakov’s side. “Give me a hand. Trap door.”

  Three men came around and covered the opening as Rusakov and Rodman lifted the lid.

  On his knees, bound and gagged, looking up at them with a bruised face and swollen left eye, was Lukas DeSantos.

  “Touchdown,” Rodman said.

  “Dad,” DeSantos said under his breath.

  Uzi and Vail shook him in celebration.

  “We got him, Santa. He’s safe.”

  “Thank you,” DeSantos said, pointing at the screen. “General Eisenbach, please tell them.”

  “Already done, Hector. Congratulations.”

  76

  Uss Ronald Reagan

  Sir.” Two men entered the room and pulled Tasset aside. One spoke by his left ear.

  Tasset drew backward. “What do you mean it’s not there?” He stepped in front of Carson, who was shaking DeSantos’s hand.

  “Where the hell is it?”

  “Where’s what?” DeSantos asked.

  Tasset spoke slowly: “A small flat metal box.”

  “I …” DeSantos looked to Uzi and then Carson. “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence.”

  “That’s assuming there’s intelligence to insult,” Uzi said.

  Vail grabbed his arm, well aware of Uzi’s rocky history with Tasset.

  “Sir,” Uzi said, outwardly showing respect but clearly mocking him. “I’m sure you’re not talking about caesarium. Because our orders were not to bring it back with us. Isn’t that right?”

  “Those were the orders,” Knox said. “You mind explaining, Earl?”

  Tasset looked at Knox, then turned away. “Stroud put a box in his backpack for me. Its contents were classified. CIA business.”

  “Oh, that.” DeSantos glanced at Uzi. “Yeah, we found it when we were getting the cabin ready for reentry. A metal container filled with caesarium. At least that’s what the Geiger counter showed.”

  Knox turned to Tasset. “Tell me this is a joke.”

  “You instructed Cowboy to bring caesarium back?” McNamara said.

  Tasset clenched his jaw but kept his gaze on DeSantos. “Where is that box now?”

  “We didn’t want to disobey orders,” Uzi said, “so we opened the hatch just before we entered the atmosphere and tossed it out. It burned up.”

  Tasset’s face turned beet red and his temporal artery pulsed. “You’re fucking lying. Where’s that box!”

  “Where would we hide it?” DeSantos asked.

  Tasset looked away, his lips pursed in anger. “On whose authority did you dispose of it? You had no right. Stroud was mission commander.”

  “Was mission commander,” Uzi said.

  “He was also a CIA operative,” DeSantos said. “Wasn’t he?”

  Tasset swung his gaze back to DeSantos but he did not reply.

  “I think we should take that as a yes,” Uzi said.

  “The Agency does not answer to you, Agent Uziel. Or to OPSIG. Or to the Department of Defense. We only answer to the director of national intelligence and the president of the United States.”

  DeSantos jutted his chin back. “The president authorized the recovery of caesarium?”

  Tasset ground his molars, then turned to Knox. “I want full access to the crew module as soon as it’s towed on board the USS Anchorage.”

  “No one but the DOD will have access to the Patriot,” Eisenbach said on screen. “Once it arrives here at Vandy, it’ll be brought to the holding area. Where it’ll remain under guard.”

  “I’ll make sure you’re given full access to run your tests on whatever trace is in the module,” McNamara said. “Once it’s brought to Washington at the end of next week.”

  Tasset pushed the glasses up his nose. “This is completely unacc—”

  “I think we’re done here,” McNamara said.

  Tasset narrowed his left eye, then gave DeSantos and Uzi a stern look. “You people don’t know what you’ve done. We’re not going to get another chance to secure this element.”

  “If we do our jobs,” Uzi said, “no one will. That was the point.”

  Tasset gave them all a look of disgust, then walked out.

  “You didn’t know about this?” DeSantos asked Knox.

  “No. And I’m glad you three got rid of it. Thank you for upholding the integrity of the mission. Hector, a moment in the hall.”

  DESANTOS JOINED KNOX in the corridor.

  “You’re right,” he said in a low voice. “Gavin Stroud was CIA.” Knox raised a hand as DeSantos opened his mouth to speak. “I didn’t know. That’s the truth. Something came up during our investigation and I asked Hoshi Ko to roll up her sleeves. Obviously we couldn’t confirm it definitively, but there are, well, let’s say there are very strong indicators. And unfortunately the same goes for Digger Carson.”

  “Digger—” DeSantos swallowed his outburst. “Son of a bitch. So that’s how the box got into his backpack. Anything happened to either of them, the other would make sure the caesarium got moved from the Raptor to the Patriot when we docked.”


  Knox nodded. “Makes sense. But that’s not why I wanted to talk with you.” He looked down at his shoes. “I’m well aware that you and your father have had issues. Just know that he admires your work with OPSIG, that you put your life on the line, that you’re willing to do that with no safety net, no diplomatic, military, or government protection.”

  “He’s never told me that.”

  Knox brought his gaze up to DeSantos’s eyes. “He’s an old general, Hector. He’s not the best at expressing his emotions, let alone admitting that he was wrong. But he told me. More than once. When I’d gotten a couple of beers into him. Just wanted you to know.”

  DeSantos thought about that a second. “Think he’ll respect my decision to sacrifice him for the good of the mission?”

  “For the good of the country. And likely, the world. So yeah, I have no doubt he’ll respect your decision. He knows better than anyone the sacrifices soldiers sometimes make in a war—that’s what this was, by any other name.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  “Well, good thing is, because of the fine work of your team, including Vail, Rusakov, Hot Rod, and Zheng, you’ll get to discuss it with him yourself.”

  DESANTOS WALKED UNSTEADILY ONTO THE DECK, where Vail was standing beside Uzi, who was leaning against the railing.

  “You guys did stellar work,” she said. “Truly exceptional.”

  “Same goes for you. Means a lot to us, having our backs like that.”

  “You’d have done the same for me.”

  Uzi took a long breath of ocean air. “Wonder what the fallout is going to be.”

  “Russia and China are supposedly thinking of filing a formal protest at the UN,” Vail said. “I’m told that, even if they go ahead with it, they don’t have a case. We’re making them sign this mining treaty with a gun to their heads. So to speak. But tough. Even if they say the US has no right to police the Moon, it’s hard to argue that what we did, keeping caesarium off this planet, wasn’t for the good of humankind—and in the spirit of this new treaty.”

  “I’m sure there’ll be a … robust argument,” DeSantos said.