Gunpowder Moon

  Standard: mumbling a planned introduction under his breath as he waited for his boss to appear before them.

  Thatch: silent and moody.

  A young woman wearing a marine dress uniform, who must have been Hale’s lieutenant: sitting quietly, unmoving.

  And Dechert at the other end of the table from Hale, observing all. Always a damned observer. Even when he was in action—flying the supply hop from Peary Crater to LEO-1 or jumping into the open mouth of a crater in a prototype jetsuit or firing at guerrillas in the orange streets of a sandblasted desert town—he always had the sensation that he was observing the event rather than participating in it. It was this way even when he had killed men, the act itself only vaguely registering as something he was doing in the present. He fired his weapon as if from behind a lens, looking down at himself, creating photographic evidence to be exposed and analyzed later on.

  Dechert had been blamed for detachment before. By his mother after his father’s funeral, when he had sat in an old-fashioned wool suit and eclipse sunglasses a few feet apart from his family and refused to cry or shake hands with the mourners or even acknowledge the priest, who explained his father’s flat spin into the Indian Ocean as part of God’s plan. And by old lovers who saw his passion turn into accommodation at the onset of dawn. Even his friends saw the distance he kept; his roommate at flight school, with a dark smile that showed he was only half joking, had once summed Dechert up as a “cold bastard.”

  Maybe that was why Lane was so surprised when he told her that he would fight any effort by the U.S. government or the Chinese or anyone else to start a shooting war on the Moon. She had never seen him champion a cause before, not like this, and he was still wondering whether it was hubris to think he could make a difference.

  The hologram popped and buzzed, and the apparition of Commodore Yates appeared before them. He was a gaunt man, with cheeks that pinched inward and sank into gray in the hollows above his jaw. His eyes were of a blue that barely counted as a color, and his thick white eyebrows permanently arched toward the top of his skull so that he looked to be in a constant state of displeasure—which, given his job, he probably was. The crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes were chiseled by skepticism rather than laughter, and even his thin, curved nose looked haughtily Roman. Dechert always respected Yates’s cold efficiency, but there was little else to like in the man.

  “A crowded room,” Yates said with annoyance, looking poisonously at the young Air & Space Marine who had just popped his head above the table, and keeping his eyes fixed on him as the flustered soldier made a retreat from the mess. Nobody spoke—what were they supposed to say to that?—so Yates hunched his shoulders forward, squeezed his hands together, and continued.

  “I’m sure Commissioner Standard had a prepared introduction for us, but new events have unfolded that demand brevity.” He cocked a quick, mocking glance at Standard and then surveyed the room again. “The president has authorized DEFCON-2 for all terrestrial and space commands and has fully militarized Low Earth Orbit 1, Low Lunar Orbit 1, and the Moon itself. This happened two hours ago, after the Chinese broke off emergency talks and one of our LLO satellites picked up activity in the Montes Apenninus, outside the accepted perimeter of Chinese operations. General Trayborr is transferring his flag to Peary Crater; he should be arriving at 1100 Earthtime tomorrow. The SMA is rendering full authority over to the military and placing all of its assets at their disposal.”

  He paused, looking around the table yet again, this time catching the eyes of every person seated there. “All of its assets, ladies and gentlemen, which would include each of you. I know some of you aren’t prepared for this, and frankly neither am I, but I can’t help with that. It’s a little too late to ask for a week off.”

  Yates rubbed his hollow cheeks with a wrinkled hand, making a sound like sandpaper being pulled over a pine bole. He sighed, and Dechert couldn’t tell if he was trying to appear tired or sympathetic.

  “Only the dead have seen the end of war, Santayana once said. Unfortunately for us, I think the Chinese are trying to prove him right.”

  The buzz and pop of the hologram heightened the human silence after he spoke, giving the room an electric tension. Standard cleared his throat after a few moments and straightened the Touchpad in front of him as the rest of them looked at one another in differing states of disbelief or resignation.

  “Thank you for the update, sir, and rightly said.”

  He looked around the room and up again at the image of Yates and coughed into a closed fist. “As the Commodore has mentioned, our satellite detected heat blooms in the Apennine Mountains, most likely from mobile fusion reactors powering a temporary outpost. They’re in a gap just northwest of Crater Conon.” He looked around the table. “That’s little more than four hundred kilometers from Serenity 1.”

  Standard typed a command into his Touchpad and a topographical map sprung up from the small computer and hovered in ashen gray over the dining table next to Yates, the image zooming in and out until it showed on a wide scale the world inhabited by Chinese and American miners along the Moon’s lava-darkened belly. The Mare Imbrium, or Sea of Showers, appeared as a bruise just north of the equator on the Moon’s near-side face. Its scarlike ridge of mountains, the Apennines, spiked the southeastern edge of the mare with rounded, Rockies-size peaks and a jumble of deep ravines and canyons. Imbrium’s great craters—Archimedes, Autolycus, Aristillus, and Timocharis—stood out in relief, scattered across her basaltic plains like wounds from the blast of an enormous shotgun. New Beijing 2, the home of their fellow central-Moon miners and now perhaps their enemies, appeared as a red dot within Archimedes. The heat blooms in the mountain range were shown as ominously blinking orange dots. And just east of the mountains lay the Imbrium’s equally dead lunar sister, the Sea of Serenity. Menelaus Crater pitted Serenity’s southernmost shore, thirty kilometers wide, rimmed and ribboned with fields of white ejecta. Tucked into a cranny along the crater’s northern impact wall was the station in which they sat.

  “We didn’t retask the satellite for a closer look because we didn’t want to tip off the Chinese, but we must assume the worst,” Standard said, pointing at the two small dots in the Montes Apenninus. “A mobile launching platform, maybe, or at least a forward observation post from which they can easily conduct reconnaissance or strike missions into the Mare Serenitatis. Whatever their purpose, they shouldn’t be there, especially not with the very large power supply they brought with them.”

  Lane leaned forward to look over the topographic hologram. “They could be running test bores for an ilmenite mine. The deposits are pretty rich up there, and that’s close to where their cave-in occurred last year.” She looked over at Standard before he could respond. “I’m not suggesting that’s what they’re doing, Commissioner, I’m just saying it’s possible that they could be there for reasons that aren’t hostile.”

  “You may be right, Officer Briggs,” Yates interrupted, glaring down at her as he said it. “They might think they are there for legitimate reasons, but our government doesn’t agree with them. And we can’t afford to hope their intentions are benign. The military has looked this over and they want to send in a reconnaissance shuttle. Trayborr himself gave the order, and that’s where the marines come in.”

  Dechert looked over at Hale. If the Chinese were setting up a military outpost, a shuttle mission to reconnoiter their position would pose a number of extreme dangers, including the most obvious one of being shot out of the sky by a missile, laser, or electromagnetic burst.

  “Why not just retask the satellite and take pictures from orbit? Or use a drone?”

  Yates shook his head. “As Mr. Standard has said, Dechert, we don’t want to tip off the Chinese that we’ve spotted them. This has to be a covert job. Satellite retask would be noticed, and a drone would have to fly within line of sight of their outpost. Only a shuttle can come in from behind the mountains at low altitude, land, and allow an EVA team to do
a proper reconnaissance.”

  Everyone at the table looked over to Hale. He stood up and walked over to the hologram, extending an old-fashioned telescoping pointer, much like one that a high school physics teacher might have used in the twentieth century. “We’re planning to go in at 2200 hours tomorrow, so we need an ingress point that is under their radar dome, assuming they have one set up, and a landing area that would give our team access to an observation point, preferably a high but ascendable peak.”

  He traced a line with the pointer along the southern edge of the topographic map. “Option one, as far as distance is concerned, would take us in over the Mare Vaporum, up through the southern range of the Apennine Mountains, skimming the mountains and staying on the deck to avoid detection, and then landing somewhere southwest of Crater Conon. Zoom in, if you please, Mr. Standard.” Hale tapped on a point in the mountains just below the Chinese heat blooms. “There are a few peaks here that would provide enough cover and field of vision to do the job.”

  Standard ran his finger over the Touchpad, and the mountain range and surrounding canyonlands zoomed into greater definition. A true run through hell, Dechert thought. Crumbling peaks. Giant boulders tossed up by ancient eruptions and meteor strikes. Ravines and gullies that would turn into sheer walls and then drop again into fissures or box canyons. And they’re going to navigate that mess in a shuttle on a blackout run, flying on the deck in full nightside? Jesus. Dechert wouldn’t want to fly that mission himself, and other than Waters, he was the best pilot on the Moon. He looked over at Waters and Thatch, and both men shook their heads.

  “Looks great on a topo-map, Captain, but that’s some alien terrain to be flying in nightside,” Thatch said. He leaned his bulk over the table and the seams of his heavysuit strained under the armpits as he waved a hand across the lower edge of the hologram. “Things might have changed since the last time that area was laser-mapped—peaks might have collapsed, and new craters could have been made. We haven’t flown the southern Apennine in more than a year, and now you’re going to have a squad of marines go in at low altitude on infrared, in blackout conditions? That’s like running through a minefield and hoping to keep your legs.”

  Hale looked at Thatch and swung the pointer up onto his shoulder. After a long silence he nodded toward the young officer sitting next to him.

  “Lieutenant Cabrera will be flying the mission, and I don’t see many other options. We come in from the south or from the north, but either way, we’ll be flying on the deck in blackout conditions. FLIR and passive radar only.”

  “Shoot,” Waters said, stirring beside Thatch and putting his hand on his shoulder, “if you have to do it, at least come in from the north.” He got up and walked around the table, past Hale, until he hovered over the map, casting a shadow that slightly distorted the hologram. “It’ll take you closer to Archimedes and New Beijing 2, but at least it’s terrain we’re familiar with.”

  “Go on,” Hale said, stepping back even as Cabrera leaned forward to pay attention.

  “All right. You fly north-northwest over the heart of the Serenity basin, and do a near-one-eighty just east of Mons Hadley, near the Apollo 15 landing site.” He traced a thick finger above the hologram. “Bring her in over Crater Aratus, and drop into this box canyon just south of the Hadley peaks, here. Zoom that in. There, that would give you a vantage point on those blooms you’re tracking. We drilled some test bores in the area last year. I can dig up telemetry on the shuttle run.” He looked back at Cabrera skeptically. “To be clear, though, we did the mission when the sun was high in the sky, and I wasn’t worried about getting shot out of space by some damned Chinaman toting a handheld.”

  Hale rubbed his chin and looked at Vernon and Thatch, and then Cabrera, who nodded. “Okay, give us your data and we’ll look it over. What’s the total distance on the run?”

  “Maybe twelve hundred klicks.”

  Yates cleared his throat and everyone looked up at him. “I’ll leave the mission planning to Captain Hale and Lieutenant Cabrera, but I want a full briefing before launch. We’ll tap in on the low-gain antenna so we can get a live feed, if my communications people say it won’t be detected.”

  Dechert looked up and saw Yates glaring at him, then turned his head to Lane and raised his eyebrows. “Officer Briggs, mission safety?”

  “I’ll coordinate with Captain Hale and the lieutenant on a SAR plan,” Lane said, nodding to Cabrera. Yates frowned at the mention of a search-and-rescue, but she went on. “This operation is outside our standard safety envelope. I’m going to need your data on Chinese radar domes, and I don’t think we even have specs for a nightside run through the mountains.”

  “Work with the lieutenant to draw up new ones then, Officer Briggs,” Yates said. “And get used to improvisation. If this conflict expands, a great number of things will be done for the first time on the Moon.”

  “Jonathan . . . propulsion?” Dechert asked.

  Quarles was slouching with a somewhat awed look on his face. He sat up straight. “Um, I’m going to have to look over the marine shuttle. I can probably add a few maneuvering thrusters and plug all of them into the fly-by-wire hardware.” He looked over at Cabrera. “We can definitely give you some redundancy and maybe even strengthen the airframe. I’m going to need a crew count and full mission weight, including equipment.”

  “No problem,” she said. “Let’s go down to the hangar and look her over after the meeting. I’ll take any edge you can give me.”

  Hale nodded, but no one spoke. The room was frozen for an enduring moment in a trancelike state, the light staccato popping of the hologram the only sound to reach their ears as they all remained locked in their own thoughts. Dechert closed his eyes. Had it been this way throughout history? A group of people sitting around a table, planning the first mission that might lead to the first battle and finally to open war, having their talk about tactics and contingencies, and then mulling the consequences of that discussion in reverent silence? And at that final moment, before the council’s break, whether it was Pericles or Westmoreland leading the proceedings, did that silence have any meaning, or was it just a momentary lack of noise?

  “That’s it, then, ladies and gentlemen,” Yates said. “Keep me apprised of the planning, and remember, we are in full communications blackout.” He paused and put his hands on the desk in front of him. “Captain Hale, I’d like a secondary briefing at 0900 tomorrow. And, Commander Dechert, would you stay for a moment? I’d like to speak to you alone.”

  All eyes turned to Dechert, who nodded. “Of course,” he said.

  Standard started to speak but stopped. He rose and left the table, his shoulders tense despite the lack of gravity. Dechert continued to look straight ahead, a disinterested look on his face that didn’t quite reflect what he felt inside, while the others retreated from the room. He could hear Lane and Cabrera talking to each other as they departed, and he realized it was the first time he’d heard two women speaking to each other in more than three years. What a godforsaken place this is!

  When the hard seals snapped into place on the pressure door, Yates sighed and leaned back in his chair. He rolled an old-fashioned gold pen through his fingers like a tiny general’s baton. “Standard told me you had concerns that you wanted to address with both of us, but I assume you’d rather speak directly to me. I’m a busy man and I’m getting busier, Commander, so let’s hear it.”

  “Yes, Commodore,” Dechert said. He rubbed the back of his crew cut with an open hand and leaned forward. “As you probably know, I object to my crew being used for what is becoming a military intervention. I think they should be pulled out as soon as the preparations for the shuttle run are complete. I can stay in the CORE and help Hale run the mission.” He looked up into Yates’s eyes, undeterred by a gaze that bordered on the predatory. “I’m the only one with military training. You don’t need the others here.”

  Yates held the staring match for a second and then squinted in annoyance an
d shook his head, putting the pen down on his obsidian desktop. “Your people knew the hazards when they signed up for off-Earth mining, and they knew that they could be deputized. This is a quasi-governmental program, Commander. Your title alone should remind you of that.”

  “We can be deputized for an emergency, yes, but this is looking like a goddamned war.” Dechert stood and paced behind the table before gripping the back of his chair. “They aren’t soldiers, Commodore. They could do more harm than good.”

  Yates clenched his jaw until the bones protruded from his face and his cheeks sank inward even farther. He leaned into the holo-cam and his face filled the screen. Dechert could see the red capillaries in his eyes and almost imagine the smell of whiskey on his breath—Yates was rumored to be a drinker.

  “We don’t have the time or the assets to pull your team out, Mr. Dechert. I’d like to evacuate my people as well, you know, but that has become impossible. And they wouldn’t be a whole lot safer at the North Pole anyway.”

  Dechert ran through his mind how far he wanted to go with Yates. He didn’t have enough evidence yet, not enough of a hand to put everything on the table. Should he tell the commodore of his suspicions?

  And there was more than that, something deeper that scratched at Dechert’s skin like an old scab. Wasn’t he still a soldier, for Christ’s sake? If a fight was inevitable, didn’t he have a duty to see it through, to help the grunts who would be flying a shuttle into a nightmare they couldn’t possibly imagine? Their chances of remaining alive would be greatly increased if his whole team helped to run the operation. Nobody knew that terrain better than Waters and Thatch, and nobody was better on mission safety than Lane. By asking for them to be removed from duty, wasn’t he risking a disaster for the marines?

  Dechert shook off his doubts. The marines weren’t his problem, not anymore. Lane, Thatch, Quarles, and Waters were. He did have a duty, and it was to them. And that meant he had to try to get them the hell off of the Moon.