Eagle Station

by Dale Brown

  Grimly, he nodded. “Yeah, they are.” He sighed. “Which is going to make figuring out what Leonov and Li Jun are really doing a hell of a lot harder.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Penglai Pavilion, Zhongnanhai, Beijing, People’s Republic of China

  Some Days Later

  Once a walled imperial garden, the Zhongnanhai compound’s palaces, halls, pavilions, and other buildings were now the sole province of the higher echelons of the Communist Party’s leadership cadre. In his capacity as general secretary of the Party, President Li Jun conducted most of his day-to-day administrative work inside the compound. Its spacious grounds and buildings were also used for meetings—both public and private—with important foreign dignitaries.

  Penglai Pavilion occupied the southern end of an artificial island built six centuries ago for an emperor of the Ming Dynasty. Connected to the rest of Zhongnanhai only by a stone bridge, it was an ideal location for a top secret honors ceremony. Details of soldiers and stern-faced plainclothes security guards now blocked the bridge at both ends. No one without the highest possible clearance could get anywhere close to the island, let alone to the two-story pavilion.

  Deftly, Marshal Mikhail Leonov finished pinning Russia’s highest decoration, Hero of the Russian Federation, on Captain Dmitry Yanin’s chest. The five-pointed gold star with its white, blue, and red ribbon dangled next to China’s Aerospace Meritorious Service medal, awarded moments before by Li Jun. He shook the younger cosmonaut’s hand warmly and stepped back.

  Each country had, appropriately in Leonov’s view, reserved its highest decoration for its own members of the Federation 2 crew. That was why cosmonauts Lavrentyev and Yanin were now Heroes of the Federation, while taikonauts Tian and Liu had just received China’s Order of August the First from their own leader.

  Beaming with pride, the four men stiffened to attention and saluted.

  Gravely, Li Jun and Leonov acknowledged the salute. They watched in silence while security guards escorted Tian, Lavrentyev, and the others away. All four crewmen had an enormous amount of hard work and rigorous training ahead as they prepared for further military space missions.

  When the two leaders were effectively alone, with their nearest aides well out of earshot, Li Jun turned to Leonov with a pleased smile. “I congratulate you, Comrade Marshal. You argued that many in the West would swallow our deception plan whole. And you were right.”

  “Does that include the American government?” Leonov asked.

  Li nodded. “I’ve received a report from my Ministry of State Security. Our sources in Washington confirm what we hoped. The prevailing view among official circles is that the Pilgrim 1 mission was exactly what we said it was—an unmanned test flight.” He shrugged. “Naturally, a tiny handful of people remain suspicious. But they are seen by most of those in the American government as either paranoid or wildly unrealistic.”

  “Even by President Farrell?” Leonov asked skeptically.

  “Perhaps not,” Li admitted. He smiled again. “But the American president is not an absolute ruler. Whatever his personal beliefs might be, he is still constrained, to a degree, by the views of Washington’s bureaucracy. And those officials are both risk-averse and unimaginative by nature and experience.”

  Leonov nodded. That much of what the Chinese leader said was true. After all, the former American president Martindale had created Scion, his private military and intelligence organization, largely because he’d so often been frustrated by bureaucratic inertia and caution while in office. But in this case, even if Farrell turned to Scion again, there should be little its paid mercenaries and spies could do. They were trained and equipped for covert operations on Earth or in low Earth orbit—not for missions in deep space or on the moon.

  He looked at the other man. “Then you agree that we should press on with Heaven’s Thunder?”

  “Of course,” Li said. His pleasant expression changed character, becoming infinitely colder and crueler. Plainly, the humiliating defeat the Americans had inflicted on him in the Paracel Islands still rankled. “And as rapidly as possible. For the moment, the Americans are still blind and deaf, totally ignorant of our true plans and capabilities. But even they will not slumber on in ignorance forever. By the time they do wake up, it must be entirely too late.”

  Twenty-Nine

  The White House Situation Room, Washington, D.C.

  Several Weeks Later

  President John Dalton Farrell watched the damning sequence of high-resolution satellite photos play out across the Situation Room’s wall-sized screen. His broad, square-jawed face settled into a thoughtful frown.

  After the success of the Sino-Russian lunar mission, he’d urged U.S. intelligence agencies to track Russia and China’s conventional space programs more closely. Despite being caught by surprise by the Pilgrim 1 rocket launches, the CIA, National Reconnaissance Office, and Defense Intelligence Agency had all pushed back hard against his requests. They viewed Russia’s top secret Firebird spaceplane program as a more immediate threat to U.S. space operations. And none of them wanted to risk missing vital intelligence on Firebird just because a satellite was out of position—busy snapping useless pictures over ordinary civilian and military space launch centers.

  Two years of experience as the nation’s chief executive had taught Farrell several hard-earned lessons. First among them was the painful truth that no president could just snap his fingers and expect his orders to be obeyed. The career officials who managed the federal government’s departments and agencies had long ago mastered the art of nodding agreeably whenever a president made demands—and then going right back to doing things the way they wanted as soon as the Oval Office heat was off.

  So it had taken unremitting pressure to make sure that any of the handful of operational U.S. spy satellites were retasked to do the snooping he wanted. Pressure that included a number of personal presidential visits to the National Reconnaissance Office’s headquarters out in Virginia, south of Washington Dulles International Airport. It was comparatively easy to “file” a White House request sent by email or on paper. Not many could manage the same trick with a stern-faced J. D. Farrell himself staring them squarely in the eyes.

  His efforts had paid off.

  During the past week, repeated satellite passes over Russia’s Plesetsk and Vostochny launch complexes had spotted several heavy-lift Energia-5VR rockets and smaller, medium-lift Angara-A5 cargo rockets either ready for launch or in the final stages of preparation. And similar passes over China’s Wenchang and Xichang rocket facilities showed another four Long March 5 boosters out on the launchpads, with additional rockets under assembly.

  With the last of those satellite photos still up on the screen, Farrell swung back around to his assembled national security team. Worried faces looked back at him. “So there you have it,” he said bluntly. “Those multiple Russian and Chinese launches for their Pilgrim 1 moon mission were just the start of whatever’s going on. Right now, those sons of bitches in Moscow and Beijing have a shitload of space vehicles just about prepped and ready to go . . . and we’re still stumbling around in the goddamned dark.”

  “Which is exactly where Marshal Leonov and President Li Jun want us,” Kevin Martindale said. While it was unusual for any former president to participate in a national security meeting, no one around the table had been prepared to argue against his inclusion. Every member of the administration knew how much Farrell valued Scion’s military and intelligence capabilities . . . and besides, it was a treat to have the popular, dynamic, swashbuckling former president here in person. “I don’t think that’s an accident.”

  “Meaning what?” the CIA director demanded. Unlike her predecessor, Elizabeth Hildebrand was a thoroughgoing intelligence service professional. She’d been working hard to repair the damage done to the agency’s operations and analysis directorates during the previous administration, but it was an uphill battle.

  Martindale grimaced. “That it seems increasing
ly likely that the Firebird spaceplane program we’ve all been fixated on was nothing more than a ruse. Right from the beginning, Firebird was intended to distract us from their real plan.” He sounded disgusted. “We’ve been played for suckers, all of us—starting with me.”

  Farrell waved that off. “Save the blame games for later, Kevin. We all chased that same rabbit off into Leonov’s briar patch. But right now, we need to square up and figure this situation out.”

  His White House science adviser, Dr. Lawrence Dawson, leaned forward from his place farther down the crowded Situation Room table. “On that score, Mr. President, my guess would be that Moscow and Beijing are both still looking toward the moon.”

  “Is your assessment based on that new satellite the Russians just launched toward the Earth-Moon L2 point?” Martindale asked.

  The rail-thin astrophysicist nodded. “Correct.” Two days ago, one of Russia’s Angara-A5 rockets had lifted off from Vostochny Cosmodrome. The satellite it had carried was currently on course for the same Lagrange point halo orbit currently occupied by China’s Magpie Bridge communications relay. Dawson continued, “Naturally, I’ve asked Director Polikarpov for details of this mission.”

  Heads nodded around the table. Polikarpov was the head of Roscosmos, the government megacorporation running Russia’s civilian space program.

  “And?” Farrell prompted.

  “He assures me their new satellite is merely a backup for China’s Magpie Bridge communications relay.” The dry expression on Dawson’s thin, ascetic face plainly revealed his skepticism.

  Patrick McLanahan nodded. “Yeah, that’s definitely grade-A pure, unadulterated bullshit.” He turned toward Farrell with a soft whine of servos from his LEAF exoskeleton. “Our best estimate puts the mass of this Russian satellite at considerably more than a metric ton. That’s at least twice the size of the Chinese com relay.”

  The president frowned. “And that’s too heavy?”

  “For a basic communications satellite? Absolutely,” Patrick said. “No one wastes mass on any space mission. It’s already incredibly expensive to put anything useful in orbit, let alone deadweight.”

  “So what’s the real purpose of this Russian spacecraft?” Farrell wondered.

  “I strongly suspect it’s a sophisticated radar and infrared surveillance satellite, something in their Kondor class,” Patrick said. “And if I’m right, pretty soon the Russians and Chinese will be able to track all space operations in lunar orbit, especially on the far side of the moon.”

  Farrell scowled. “Where we’re totally blind.” Patrick nodded again.

  “Which brings us back to the central question,” the president commented. “What can Moscow and Beijing hope to gain here? If you add up the costs of all those rockets they’ve got stacked up and ready to launch, you’re looking at billions of dollars on the hoof.”

  “Maybe they’re trying to beat us back to the moon,” his secretary of state, Andrew Taliaferro, suggested. The former congressman’s North Carolina drawl was even more pronounced than usual. “Considering how much political capital we’ve already invested in our helium-3 mining plan, seeing a couple of cosmonauts or taikonauts strolling around up there way ahead of us would be one hell of a kick in the teeth.”

  Grimly, Patrick shook his head. “I’m pretty confident the Russians and the Chinese have already won that particular race,” he said flatly. “So whatever they have planned, it’s got to be something considerably more dangerous to us than just sending a couple of men out onto the lunar surface for a few hours.”

  His blunt assertion drew startled looks from everyone else in the room.

  “That’s a mighty bold claim, General McLanahan,” Farrell said calmly.

  “Yes, sir, it is,” Patrick agreed, with equal coolness. “But since just about everything Moscow and Beijing told us about their so-called Pilgrim 1 mission was a lie, I don’t think it’s really much of a stretch.”

  “Go on.”

  In answer, Patrick pulled up a set of images from his personal files and transferred them to the computer-controlled wall screen. As a security precaution, White House rules prohibited smartphones and personal laptops in the Situation Room. But those rules weren’t designed to cover someone with his peculiar abilities and equipment. His LEAF exoskeleton contained wireless links, a neural interface, and its own powerful computer—enabling him to access information from a vast array of databases around the globe anywhere and anytime.

  Farrell and his top national security advisers stared at the same expanding cloud of radar reflective particles Brad and Nadia had spotted near the docked Federation 2 spacecraft and Chang’e-10 lunar lander. Patrick zoomed in on the computer-enhanced image. Seen close up, the cloud looked like a swirling, glittering mass of sharp-edged crystals.

  “What you’re looking at was originally written off as evidence of a simulated waste or atmosphere dump . . . as just another test of normal spacecraft systems,” Patrick said quietly.

  Farrell raised an eyebrow. “And that was wrong?”

  “Dead wrong.” Patrick zoomed in even farther, isolating several of the brighter fragments. “Neither ice crystals nor frozen atmospheric gases reflect microwave energy efficiently—especially not radar pulses that have to travel 250,000 miles out and 250,000 miles back.” He pointed at the screen. “Whatever those fragments are, they sure as hell aren’t ice or clumps of frozen oxygen.”

  “Then what are they?” the president asked.

  “Well, sir, that took some serious figuring,” Patrick said with a hard-edged smile. “And a fair amount of supercomputer time.” He zoomed back out to show the whole cloud as it expanded. “Boiling it down, what I did was take the observed motion of every identifiable component of this debris field. Then I had the computer extrapolate backward through time, taking into account possible collisions between fragments and the effects of the moon’s gravitational field.”

  Lawrence Dawson looked suddenly very interested and clearly impressed. “And you found an origin point?” he guessed.

  “I did.” Patrick nodded. “Or, more accurately, multiple origin points . . . forming a distinct structure.” He sent the result of the supercomputer’s hellishly complex calculations to the screen.

  For a few moments, everyone in the room just stared at the oddly irregular, almost amorphous, blob seeming to hover in space, not far from the docked Sino-Russian spaceships. “What in God’s name is that thing?” Taliaferro asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

  “You’ll see, once the image is suitably enhanced,” Patrick said coolly. As he spoke, the blob sharpened up, taking on added structure and definition, until it bore a striking resemblance to China’s Chang’e-10 spacecraft.

  “A second lunar lander?” Taliaferro said in surprise. “Where did that spacecraft come from? And why did it blow up?”

  Patrick shook his head. “That wasn’t a real spacecraft, Mr. Secretary. It was a decoy, a mock-up of the real Chang’e-Ten. One the Russians and Chinese used to make us believe their moon lander stayed in orbit . . . while it was really down on the lunar surface.” Through the visor of his LEAF helmet, he looked grave. “One thing’s clear: Moscow and Beijing have beaten us back to the moon.”

  Elizabeth Hildebrand frowned. “If that’s true, why would Leonov and Li Jun keep it secret?” the CIA director wondered. “After all, the first successful manned moon landing in more than fifty years would be a huge propaganda coup. Why wouldn’t they jump on the chance to rub that in our faces?”

  “Right now, I don’t know the answer to that question,” Patrick admitted. His tone was somber. “But when we do find out what’s happening up on the moon, I’m damned sure we aren’t going to like it. Which means we can’t afford to screw around anymore. We need eyes on the situation, especially around the far side of the moon.”

  Farrell nodded sharply. “You’ve got that right, General.” He looked around the table. “I’m going to direct NASA to drastically accelerate its plans f
or a manned mission to orbit the moon.”

  “They’ll squawk,” Martindale cautioned. “Their SLS super heavy-lift rockets are still behind schedule and over budget.”

  “NASA can squawk all it wants,” the president snapped. “But I’m going to give them a choice. They either figure out how to go and go soon using their own spacecraft . . . or they buy a ride on one of the private-sector rockets out there.”

  “A manned mission is fine,” Patrick said slowly, thinking through the problem confronting them. “But continuous surveillance of everything going on in lunar orbit and on the surface would be even better. We need a satellite up there, along with our own communications relay.”

  Farrell nodded. “Good point.” He looked down the table at Admiral Scott Firestone, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Any ideas on how we can make that happen . . . and pronto, Admiral?”

  Firestone’s forehead wrinkled. “It’s possible that we could repurpose a couple of satellites slated for launch into Earth orbit over the next several months.” The short, stocky man spread his hands. “But equipping them to handle deep space won’t be easy. Or cheap, Mr. President.”

  “I don’t expect it will be, Admiral,” Farrell told him bluntly. “But don’t let that stop you. Reconfigure those birds and get them on their way—and the sooner, the better.”

  Thirty

  National Defense Control Center, Moscow

  Several Weeks Later

  For once, Marshal Leonov was forced to admit that the theater-sized control rooms Gennadiy Gryzlov had built as a propaganda stunt served a useful purpose. During this status briefing on the progress of Operation Heaven’s Thunder, their enormous, wraparound projection screens made the televised images streaming from the moon even more impressive.

  Right now, he and General Chen Haifeng were watching a recording of one of China’s large Mă Luó cargo landers as it touched down at Korolev Base, high up on the rim of Engel’gardt crater. Its rocket engine flared brightly in the last few seconds and then winked out. When the haze of dust cleared, they saw the spacecraft silhouetted against an infinitely black sky. Beyond it, they could see the shape of another cargo ship and the abandoned descent stages of three manned landers. One belonged to the first spacecraft to reach this site, Chang’e-10. The other two were more recent arrivals.