Chapter 8
May 2
Johnson Space Center
Houston, Texas
9:09 a.m.
In the week before the Chinese crew arrived, the surviving members of the Phoenix program had been thrown into a crash course. On top of the regular daily training, there were nightly lessons in Chinese language and customs, as well as endless run-throughs in the simulator, which had been quickly redesigned to match the specifications of the Chinese craft. Compared to the relatively cramped Carpathian, this new craft, named Tai-Ping (“Great Peace”), was like a ballroom. Configured to hold eight people, it offered plenty of elbow room. Benny wished they could say the same about Copernicus. While an improvement over the lunar modules of the Apollo days, holding five people versus the older model’s two, it still felt like piling into a phone booth. Benny was grateful that he would be sitting this one out, although he felt for Moose, who had lost his slot to the Chinese commander.
“Damn it, Benny! We slammed into the LEM again!”
Moose’s angry rebuke shook Benny out of his thoughts. He sighed in frustration. They had been cooped up in the Tai-Ping simulator since six that morning, running and rerunning the docking procedure. The problem for Benny was that the Chinese Shenzhou ship was a different model than what he was used to. Whereas the Carpathian had its roots in Apollo, the Shenzhou ships came from the Russian Soyuz designs. The differences were subtle, but when flying a seventeen-thousand-pound craft in an airless vacuum with around four thousand pounds of thrust behind it, subtle takes on a whole new meaning.
Benny shook his head. “Sorry, Moose. This thing’s kicking my ass.”
“Yeah, I know. My dad always said that if you were going to do something, you might as well take your time and do it right. Come on, let’s run it again.”
As they waited for the techs to reset the simulation, Benny and Moose talked about everything they’d been through.
“This whole joint-mission thing still got you messed up?”
“Shit yeah, Moose. Don’t tell me it’s not bugging you.”
“I’m not saying it’s not. But when I think about it long enough, I realize that the only reason why it’s bugging me is on account of ego. I wanted to fly that bird down to the surface.”
“I’d be plenty pissed if I were you.”
Moose laughed. “That I know. In a way I’m glad it’s not you who got bumped.”
“How come?”
“Because you’re my friend and it always hurts more to see a friend hurt than to be hurt yourself. That and the fact that you’d be so pissed off you’d probably crash the whole thing right through the Moon.”
It was Benny’s turn to laugh. “Got me pegged, eh?”
“You might say that.”
“I tell you, man, I wish I had your cool about this. I dunno how you do it.”
Moose turned to him, a hand running through his scruff of blond hair. “Everything happens for a reason, man. Maybe this is God’s way of showing us that we need to join together to solve this thing. Donovan’s right: this object was placed there for all of humanity. It only makes sense that the Chinese come along.”
Benny looked at his friend. “You’re kidding, right?”
Moose grinned and turned his attention back to the instrument panel. “I was raised in the heartland, friend. We don’t joke about the Big Guy.”
Before Benny could respond, the comm channel buzzed in their ears.
“Sim’s been reset, boys,” the chief technician informed them. “Time to let ’er fly.”
A knock on the sim’s viewport startled them. They glanced up from their instrument panels to see Wilson’s face staring back at them. He pointed toward the sim’s hatch. Benny threw Moose a glance as they made their way over to the portal. They found Wilson standing at the top of the ladder.
“I wanted to speak to the two of you about the other day.”
Benny folded his arms across his chest. “Sir, if this is another pep talk—”
Wilson shook his head. “That’s your problem, Benevisto. You’ve always got a smart-ass remark ready before you know what someone’s going to say.”
Benny’s face flushed visibly. “I’m sorry, sir. Go ahead.”
“What I wanted to say is that I understand your concerns. I don’t very much like that you got bumped from the lander, Mosensen. And I don’t really like the idea of having one of the Chinese taikonauts looking over your shoulder, Benevisto. If it were up to me, this would be our show all the way. But I also understand the practical reasons for making this a joint mission, and I need the two of you to help convince Zell and Donovan of that. I’m fairly certain they don’t trust us any more than we trust the Chinese.”
Moose glanced at Benny, then back to Wilson. “I think we understand that, sir. But we’re all willing to do what it takes to make this a successful mission. However, I do have to agree with Benny, in that I think there will be some negative media coverage once this story breaks.”
“Then get ready,” Wilson said with a sigh. “As I understand it, the President will be breaking the news this afternoon.”
“You’re thinking bad, sir?” Benny wondered.
Wilson smiled halfheartedly. “The worst.”
May 3
Ellington Field Joint Reserve Base
Hangar 616
Houston, Texas
5:13 a.m.
Despite Wilson’s fears, the President’s speech went over better than anyone had anticipated. In measured, even tones, she explained to the American public—as well as the world at large—why the United States and China had to mount a joint mission. Point by critical point she had laid out her argument, stressing how the significance of the object buried on the Moon required the two most powerful spacefaring nations in the world to join forces. She even hinted at the possibility of reconciliation by suggesting that the mission would foster better diplomatic relations between America and China. Mutual cooperation would be likely as the two nations studied the object and disseminated their findings to humanity.
“If the object placed on the Moon so many millennia ago suggests anything,” the President remarked in her address to the nation, “it is that mankind is not alone in the universe. The question before us now is whether or not humanity reaches out to that intelligence together—or if we choose the path of divisiveness, pettiness, and distrust. With this joint mission, we have chosen mutual cooperation. We have chosen unity. We have chosen to reach across the expanse in brotherhood and in friendship. We have chosen to greet the future not as a group of nations, but as a single people, resolved and united for the common good and the peace of our world.”
The speech received high marks and helped ease the tensions that had erupted into street violence following the Phoenix 5 accident. Moreover, the President’s words gave many people hope that the Taiwan situation would soon reach a peaceful solution. Yet some in the press looked at the President’s speech and the forthcoming joint mission more cynically. Famed syndicated columnist Goldie Mae Horning wrote that America had “resigned not only its preeminence in space exploration but also its moral authority by capitulating once again to China’s demands of sovereignty over Taiwan.” None of these sentiments, however, prevented representatives of the world’s press corps from descending on Houston the day the Chinese taikonauts were due to arrive.
In order to avoid a media circus, American and Chinese officials had agreed that the crews would meet at Ellington instead of at the Johnson Space Center. The Chinese crew had arrived overnight and been spirited away to an isolated corner of the base. Despite having gotten only an hour’s sleep on the long flight, each of them had arrived at the hangar precisely on time. The same could not be said for the Phoenix team, who straggled in ten minutes later, bleary-eyed and complaining about the unseasonably cold morning air. When they spotted the Chinese crew patiently waiting, the American astronauts felt the urge to clean up their act. They eyed the new members of the team. One of them, a steely mi
litary man with a close crop of black hair, was standing almost ramrod straight in an impeccable dress uniform. The second, neatly clad in jeans and a black golf shirt, sported shaggy hair under a Yankees baseball cap. He peered at the world through a small set of round wire-framed glasses. The third was a smartly dressed woman with shoulder-length hair in a charcoal-gray business suit. Even though she had spent nearly the last entire day flying across the Pacific Ocean and half the American continent, she looked as sharp, refreshed, and alert as if she was about to address an academic committee. Donovan, Zell, and the others greeted them and were met with polite, but curt nods.
“Good morning, crew!” Wilson’s voice sounded like a rifle shot. He strode into the hangar at a brisk clip. “I’m sure you’ve all had a chance to get acquainted, but let me formally introduce our guests.” He motioned to the silent military man. “This is Commander Yuen Bai, PLA Air Force. He’ll be leading the team on the surface. Additionally, he’ll be the first out the door when we arrive at the landing site. Next to him is Dr. Bruce Yeoh, the noted computer specialist and physicist. As Dr. Yeoh helped design the Tai-Ping, his job will be to make sure everything runs smoothly on the mission, as well as relay intel from the surface back to Mission Control.
“Dr. Yeoh and Lieutenant Commander Benevisto will work together as tech support,” Wilson continued. “And lastly, this is Dr. Soong Yang Zi, a forensic anthropologist.”
“Anthropologist?” Benny wondered. “With all due respect, sir, why do we need one on the crew?”
Yuen cleared his throat and stepped forward, his hat tucked in the crook of his right arm. “It is the belief of the Chinese government that the dig site will likely contain the remains of whatever species left that object on the Moon. Since it did not occur to your government to provide an expert in anthropology, the People’s Republic of China has secured the services of Dr. Soong.”
“How generous of them,” Benny muttered to Moose.
“Even in the unlikely event that we are unable to recover remains,” Yuen continued, “Dr. Soong’s expertise in forensics, as well as her professionalism, will prove invaluable on this mission.”
Yuen stepped back and gave the direction of the meeting back over to Wilson. Wilson turned to the new crew and spoke in perfect Mandarin. “It is our honor to have you here,” he said, bowing respectfully. The crew bowed in return. After a moment, Wilson spoke up again. “Okay, people, we have a lot of ground to cover, so let’s head over to the training center and get started.”
With that, Wilson turned smartly on his heel and walked off. Zell walked over to Soong. “Dr. Soong,” he said, extending his hand. “I read your thesis on DNA fingerprinting in the International Journal of Osteoarchaeology. Interesting stuff, though I think your research could benefit from the experience of working in the field.”
Soong raised an eyebrow at his outstretched hand. “Do you?” she asked in slightly accented English. “Well, from what I know of the Zell Institute, I think you and I have a slightly different assessment of fieldwork.”
“And what do you know of the Zell Institute, my dear?”
“Only that your approach to archeology could benefit from less media coverage and considerably more discipline.”
She dismissed him with a nod and turned to leave the hangar. Zell stood there a moment, unsure of what had just happened.
Following the first day of meetings between the two crews, Wilson headed straight for the gym. He needed some time to himself before the press conference tomorrow morning. The gym was always the first place he went when he had things on his mind. He went through his workout almost on autopilot, blazing through calisthenics with no effort, punching the heavy bag with determined, graceful speed. He then hit the track, his feet pounding the clay in an unbroken rhythm. After forty minutes he slowed down, then came to a stop, finally out of breath. Wilson put his head between his knees a moment, then looked back at the track. Six miles a day, every day since he was a teenager. He figured he must have run halfway around the world by now. He smiled at that thought, remembering jogging with his dad and barely being able to keep up.
Wilson’s childhood in Yonkers, New York, was still the happiest time in his life, he thought. Every day when he came home from school, there’d be a note from his father, a mechanic who’d flown a chopper in Vietnam. Usually the note would be just a few words long. “The Revolutionary War” or “Adolf Hitler.” Wilson would read it, then dash into the dining room, where the World Book encyclopedias were kept. Wilson would take all the relevant books down to the basement and sit under the stairs, eating a peanut butter sandwich and reading by flashlight. Every night, he’d hear the door open and his stomach would jump. He’d sprint upstairs and run right into his father’s waiting arms. To this day, Wilson associated the smell of grease and oil with unbridled joy. After dinner, and only after dinner, Wilson and his father would retreat to the living room, where his dad would smoke a Camel—the only vice he had—and discuss what Wilson had learned. These talks could last anywhere from fifteen minutes to two hours and often would travel lazy, winding routes. A talk about the Declaration of Independence might branch off to a story about Medgar Evers, or the history of the Delta blues, before circling back to where they started. One time, Wilson came home to find just one word written down:
Space.
Looking back, Wilson realized that the boy who had gone down into the basement that golden October afternoon was a very different one than the one who emerged three hours later. His whole life had changed as he pored over the stories of Gus Grissom, Neil Armstrong, Sally Ride, and, of course, Guy Bluford, the first African American in space. When he stepped back into the ebbing daylight, Franklin Wilson knew he was going to be an astronaut.
When Wilson was twenty-two, his father, after years of twelve-hour days and six-day weeks, died of a heart attack. After the small service at Mount Hope Cemetery, Wilson stood over his father’s grave and swore that everything he did from that day forward would justify all the sacrifices his father had made for him. By everyone’s standards, he had more than succeeded. During the war in Afghanistan he had flown several rescue missions and led the air raid during the liberation of Kabul. For his services, Wilson had earned a Congressional Medal of Honor and his choice of assignments. Without a second’s hesitation, he had chosen the astronaut corps.
Wilson had always thought that he had joined the astronaut corps because he had grown tired of war, tired of fighting, tired of death and destruction. Though he had no regrets about serving his country all these years, he had wanted to do more, give something back to humanity. He had also wanted to challenge himself as a pilot and as a commanding officer, and to his mind there was no greater challenge than going into space. Yet now, reflecting on the complexities of this joint mission, he realized that he had also wanted to join the astronaut corps to get away from politics. As a commanding officer, he often had to field questions from the press about the justifications of military actions. Those games exhausted him, and he expected the politics surrounding this joint mission would deplete him further. He just wanted to do his job. But as coleader of this mission, he knew he would have to do much more than that.
It’ll have to be all smiles and glad-handing at that press conference, he thought. Yes, Mr. Reporter from the Times, we’re happy to have the Chinese aboard. Certainly, Ms. CNN Correspondent, we feel the Chinese will be an asset to the mission. How do we get along, Mr. Tabloid? Why just peachy—like old friends.
Wilson shook his head and laughed to himself. So here he was, a lifetime of accomplishments behind him, and the greatest one yet to come, provided he could get these two crews to work together. If he could do that, he could stomach all of the asinine questions the press threw at him, especially the ones about how it would feel to be the first black man on the Moon, a matter he had dismissed as too trivial in this context to even consider. For Wilson, going to the Moon meant one thing: his father hadn’t spent more than half his life toiling in a grease pi
t for nothing. He looked up at the sky, seeing the sun begin to slip down over the horizon. He figured there was time for a few more laps. Standing up, Wilson stretched his legs, exhaled, then began pounding the track again. As he ran, he saw the Moon fading into the twilight sky.
Be seeing you soon.
May 20
Johnson Space Center
Houston, Texas
9:34 a.m.
Benny and Yeoh were sitting in the flight simulator, running through some last-minute checks. Though not speaking about it, they were both surprised that they had become such fast friends in so short a period of time. After reading Yeoh’s file, Benny was surprised that someone like him—a physics genius—could be so easygoing and self-deprecating. He also appreciated Yeoh’s love of American music, particularly Chicago blues, one of Benny’s favorites. Yeoh was equally impressed with Benny, especially after learning that most of the lieutenant commander’s computer knowledge was self-taught. The two sat in the semidarkness, their faces lit by the instrument panels.
“So,” Benny said as they reset the simulator, “whaddya think is waiting for us up there?”
Yeoh looked up from the tattered notebook he was scribbling computations in. “It’s interesting you should ask. I’ve spent so long trying to get this mission off the ground that I’ve hardly had time to consider what could be up there. The short answer is that I don’t really know. Whatever it is, it has the potential to change the world in ways we’ve never dreamed.”
“As if it hasn’t already.”
“This is true, but just think for a moment. Whatever we find on the Moon, it means that some sort of spacecraft had to bring it there. For a craft to travel here from another star system . . . Just for them to have survived the trip means that they’re far more advanced than we are.”
“You’re talking about faster-than-light travel,” said Benny. “It’s impossible.”
“Not if they traveled through a black hole,” Yeoh replied, tucking his pencil behind his ear.
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