Dark Side of the Moon

by Alan Jacobson

  “Bob’s given me a quick and dirty rundown of what you’re facing,” Issachar said. “I think it’s possible this could work, but I’ve gotta be honest with you. The odds are long.”

  “The odds of survival are zero if this doesn’t work,” Uzi said. “Long odds may not sound so good to you. But to us any odds are better than the alternative.”

  “Ten-four. We’ll try to design a coupler that’ll enable you to transfer the Chang’e fuel. We’ll need some decent photos of the fitting, multiple angles—and include something of consistent scale if you don’t have a ruler.”

  “I’m on it,” DeSantos said.

  “You’re also going to need some kind of pump and a way to power it. You could use one of the drive motors on the Chang’e rover to provide the cranking, but the pump’s another story. It’ll have to be manufactured by the printer too. Don’t worry about it, we’ll take care of that. But—there are a few other things you need to be aware of—full disclosure.”

  “Uh-oh,” DeSantos said. “Never good when you start with, ‘full disclosure.’”

  “There are a lot of different propellant blends used in rocketry. Propellants are the combinations of fuel and the oxidizers needed to burn it. Kerosene’s a typical fuel used for first stage boosters because of its high density and good performance when combined with liquid oxygen. For orbits or landing on the Moon, hypergolic propellants are used. These are liquids that automatically ignite when mixed together. So you’d have some form of hydrazine fuel, like MMH, and nitrogen tetroxide, NTO, as the oxidizer. The Raptor uses MMH and NTO. We think the Chang’e 3 used UDMH and NTO.”

  “So they’re not compatible?” Carson asked.

  Issachar chuckled. “Best answer is maybe yes, maybe no. An engine designed for MMH could work with UDMH, but I’m not sure that’s ever been attempted. Rocket engines are highly engineered machines, designed to mix the fuel and oxidizer at precise ratios under tight pressure and temperature constraints. Putting a different fuel in could easily result in burn-through of components not designed to handle the higher temperatures that might result. But, hey, beats getting stuck on the Moon.”

  Yeah, DeSantos thought, sure beats that.

  “The Chang’e NTO would be the same as what our engine uses,” Carson said, “so maybe it won’t be an issue.”

  “I’ll do my best to get you some answers. But if it’s never been done, there may not be any to get.”

  “Understood,” Carson said. “But we’re bumping up against a bit of a deadline. Won’t it take awhile to print metal parts like that, assuming it’s possible?”

  “Couple of days, best guess.”

  “Man,” DeSantos said, “that’s gonna be tight.”

  “And there’s one more issue. You’re likely talking about thousands of pounds worth of liquids, or several hundred gallons. You’ve got to get it from one vehicle to the other. Are the two close to each other?”

  “Not at all,” Uzi said. “Put it on our list of things to figure out.”

  “That’s our job,” Maddox said. “We’ll sharpen our pencils and see if we can come up with a solution.”

  “Then here’s one more thing to put on your list,” Uzi said. “The difference in the ship’s mass. The Chang’e 5 was designed to lift off with a payload of rocks. We’ve got eight hundred pounds between the four of us, plus all the supplies and equipment that goes with keeping a four-man crew alive—”

  “Understood,” Maddox said. “You’ll have to dump a lot of stuff, for sure. We’ll do the math and get back to you.”

  Uzi removed the solar panel and took it in his hands. “Thanks for your help, Issachar. The sooner you can get us some answers, the better.”

  DeSantos came up behind them and watched Uzi gently place the device on the ground. “Great idea about the 3D printer, Boychick. But what if it takes two days to print that fitting and something’s not quite right? If we need to start over again … we’ve only got four days of food, water, and oxygen.”

  “Can this get any worse?” Carson asked.

  For sure, DeSantos thought. Just wait till the Russians land.

  51

  Dulles International Airport

  Vail and Rusakov arrived at Dulles thirty minutes later. Rodman met them at security and handed them two carry-on suitcases containing packets with new identification, passports, coach tickets for the flight to Russia, and a kit for them to carry out their op.

  With Uglov having diplomatic immunity, there was no legal way for them to arrest or detain him. It had to be done on foreign soil, with classic black, deniable methods.

  Before leaving their car, they removed wigs from their go-bags and colored contact lenses. Because of Vail’s cast, Rusakov had to assist with her transformation.

  Their “disguises” would not defeat facial recognition cameras, but they would help with face-to-face eyewitness identification. Rusakov, however, had a pair of glasses in her kit constructed with a prism designed to fool the computer algorithms. Vail had used the technology during a previous case in England and made a mental note to ask McNamara for a pair to keep in her go-bag.

  Vail’s injury was less than well-timed, but as Rusakov had noted on the drive over, with a cast and sling, no one was going to suspect her of being a spy or foreign agent. Unless, of course, the idea was to fake a broken arm, Vail pointed out. Rusakov told her any situation could be overanalyzed and that every op, mission, and maneuver presented risks and handicaps. She should just be flexible, go along with whatever transpired, and be quick and creative with solutions. Vail’s injury was an indisputable fact and was not going to change. She should use it to her advantage if the situation presented itself.

  They boarded separately, after a forty-five-minute delay due to “mechanical issues” that made for a grumpy group of travelers who were facing a long flight to begin with. They were informed that it turned out to be a faulty light on an air traffic controller’s panel, not a problem with the aircraft.

  Vail overheard a flight attendant tell her colleague that she did not quite understand the explanation for the delay, but whatever—they were cleared for takeoff and with the padded schedules and jet stream, they would likely make up most of the time.

  As they started to button down the aircraft, Vail’s phone vibrated. She fished it out and saw it was Troy Rodman. She debated whether or not to answer—she had to be very careful not to let anything slip out on her end of the conversation.

  “Hey. Can’t really talk.”

  “You’re gonna want to hear this.”

  Vail glanced up, cradling the phone out of sight in case the flight attendants told them to put their devices in airplane mode. “Go.”

  “We looked into your man there. A thorough backgrounder, ran it through everything we’ve got. And Interpol got a hit. Kind of weird because it goes back to a real old case in France. A twenty-five-year-old named Arkady Barndyk set a charge off in a radio station that was critical of the Soviet Union’s attempted economic reforms and their plan to combat rampant alcoholism in the country by significantly raising the price of booze.”

  “Okay.” Is Barndyk now known as Uglov? She wanted to ask, but would not dare utter those names. “What’s the relevance of that story?” She saw a flight attendant headed her way. “Quickly.”

  “Uglov is Arkady Barndyk and France has had a warrant out for his arrest for thirty years. FBI too because four Americans were killed in the blast. Confirmed by latent prints and facial recognition of photos we gave them. This Russian diplomat is not who he says he is.”

  “Right. That could be very helpful.”

  “One more thing. Barndyk had a colleague at the time in the KGB. Name of Evgeny Kirilenko. Ring a bell?”

  The guy who built the wireless router they found in my garage. “Sure does.”

  “Miss, we’re pushing back from the gate. You need to en
d your call.”

  “Gotta go,” she told Rodman. After switching off her phone, she took out a Kindle, which had been preloaded to a book she had no interest in reading. In reality, it was there for show—to give her something commonplace and unremarkable to do for the first two and a half hours of the flight. Meantime, while staring at the screen, she tried to piece together what Rodman had told her—and figure out how she could use it.

  Just prior to arriving at the airport, McNamara had laid out the particulars of the plan: Vail was going to get close to Uglov and give him a fast-acting drug that would simulate a heart attack. How she accomplished that was left up to her.

  She was provided with four methods of administering it—an intramuscular injection; a patch with microscopic needles invisible to the human eye; a chemical placed in the palm of her hand that would take a bit longer to have its effect but would largely be undetectable; or a small vial of clear, tasteless liquid that could be emptied into his drink.

  Rusakov had the identical kit in case Vail was unable to complete her mission.

  Given her injury, there was one method that Vail considered easiest to deploy. She would take Rusakov’s advice and use the cast to her advantage.

  Two hours and thirty minutes into the flight, over the Atlantic and in international waters, with Iceland approaching in the distance, Vail got ready to execute her plan. She waited until the two first class flight attendants were busy with passengers, then rose from her seat and passed Uglov on the way to the restroom. Being a commoner from coach, she was not permitted to use this lavatory, but there was no staff in the vicinity at the moment to notice or object.

  She flushed the toilet and walked out. En route to her seat, she suddenly lurched left and tripped forward, into Uglov’s chest. He was watching a movie and did not know what hit him—it was the air splint, square in the chest.

  He locked eyes with Vail and she, flustered, apologized profusely for bothering him. “I tripped and … again, I’m so sorry, sir. This broken arm, I couldn’t stop myself from falling.”

  She extended her right hand to shake and he took it. She held it there while she blabbered something about no one was going to believe this at the office—it never would’ve happened if they’d bought her a first class ticket instead of coach, like they did for him—and maybe next time he could put in a good word for her.

  She was talking fast and figured he had no idea what she was going on about, but he was probably not even listening to what this attractive woman was saying to him. Then she headed back to her seat, twenty-three rows back, and the next phase was set in motion.

  Moments later, two hours and forty-two minutes into the flight, Uglov was shifting about uncomfortably and tugging on his shirt collar. He tried to stand but only got halfway out of his seat. He fell and landed in the aisle.

  Vail could not hear it—the white noise rush of air and the distance from his seat made it impossible—but despite the first class divider she caught glimpses of the commotion.

  Rusakov was at Uglov’s side. The plan was for her to inform the flight attendant that she was a physician and offer her services. As a former combat surgeon, Rusakov was well accustomed to the role—no playacting required.

  They apparently accepted Rusakov’s assistance because she was taking Uglov’s pulse, then opening the unconscious diplomat’s shirt and removing a stethoscope from her carry-on. She listened a moment, then started talking to the woman, telling her that the passenger was having a heart attack and that he required immediate medical attention or he was going to die. Vail went over and explained that she was Mr. Uglov’s assistant at the embassy and demanded to know what was wrong.

  A stocky man in his thirties walked over and leaned on the seatback. “Anything I can help with here?”

  Vail glanced up and instantly identified him as a federal air marshal. She knew there were four of them on international flights, and that they would need permission from their team leader to render, or offer, assistance. But they had no formal medical training other than basic first aid. And they would not blow their cover in a situation like this—meaning they would not identify themselves. If Vail and Rusakov played this right, the marshal would have nothing to do and, to avoid calling attention to himself, return to his seat.

  “Are you a doctor?” Vail asked.

  “Uh, no, ma’am. Just wanted to see if there was anything I could do.”

  “We’re good here,” Rusakov said. “I’m a physician. We’ve got it under control.”

  The marshal hung around another moment, then left. Vail glanced back to see where he was headed. She would need to keep an eye on him until they had successfully deplaned.

  Although it was unlikely the marshals were informed that a diplomat was onboard, the flight attendant staff had probably been notified. If so, it could make Vail’s and Rusakov’s job easier because the airline would not want to be responsible for failing to take appropriate action while presiding over the medical emergency of a high-ranking Russian representative.

  Vail again lamented that her boss had not bought her a first class ticket and instead stuck her in coach—otherwise she could’ve prevented his collapse. Rusakov told Vail that was not the case, that her boss was having a heart attack and that they needed to get him immediate medical attention in a hospital if they were to save his life. Vail created a bogus medical history of prior heart trouble and started rattling off details of his previous treatment.

  “Save it for the hospital,” Rusakov said. “The cardiologist will need to know all that.”

  The male flight attendant who had been hovering behind Rusakov’s shoulder moved off and grabbed a phone, presumably to talk with the captain.

  Minutes later, the plane noticeably banked left.

  The steward returned and informed Rusakov that they were altering course to land in Iceland. An ambulance would be standing by to transport Uglov to the hospital in Reykjanes. He told Vail she had to return to her seat.

  “I can’t leave him,” Vail said.

  Rusakov placed a hand on Vail’s, displaying a warmth Vail did not know the tough beauty queen black operative possessed. “I’ll stay right by his side, no need to worry. I’ll make sure he gets all the care he needs as soon as we land.”

  Vail looked uncertain. “Can I go with him, doctor? I should. I should go with him. You said it’s important.”

  Rusakov squeezed her hand. “Of course.”

  Getting no objections from the attendant, and with the assurance she “needed,” Vail returned to her row, glancing at the air marshal on the way. A moment later, she saw a couple of passengers help Uglov back into his seat. Rusakov settled in across the aisle from him to better monitor his vitals.

  With the plan in motion, Vail removed the “makeup kit” that contained the remaining mission materials and made for the rear restroom where she would flush the biodegradable items she no longer needed down the toilet. The syringe would remain in her bag, posing as an insulin kit, if anyone asked—but the vials of medication were emptied and rinsed in the sink.

  A knock on the door startled her. “Please return to your seat. Captain has turned on the seatbelt sign. We’re on our approach.”

  Vail did as instructed and had just fastened her restraint when the pilot started his announcement.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, uh, this is Captain Simmons. We have a medical issue on board with a passenger and we’ll be diverting momentarily to the Keflavik International Airport in Iceland to make sure he gets adequate attention. I apologize for this delay, but we don’t anticipate it taking very long. We’ll get you back in the air as soon as possible. Thank you for understanding. At least, uh, you’ll be able to tell people you visited Iceland, the most sparsely populated country in Europe. We’ll be touching down in ten minutes. Flight attendants, prepare for landing.”

  After the wheels hit the tarmac, within thirty seco
nds the plane came to a stop at the gate. Vail rushed forward as Rusakov put on her stethoscope and placed it against Uglov’s hairy chest.

  “Is he going to be okay?” Vail asked frantically, doing her best to sell it.

  “If we get him proper care, he should survive.” Rusakov turned to the flight attendant. “It’d be best if I go with him to the hospital.”

  The attendant furrowed her brow. “I have no idea when there’ll be a flight to Russia from Iceland. Certainly not tonight.”

  “That’s the least of my concerns. Need be, I’ll go back to DC and start all over again. But this man is in grave danger. My oath as a physician is more important than what’s easiest for me.”

  The attendant was hardly in a position to argue as Vail and Rusakov deplaned with their carry-ons, the air marshal and his team keeping their buttocks firmly planted in their seats—with no reason to suspect foul play.

  52

  Taurus-Littrow Valley

  Gavin Stroud positioned the Spider over an area where he estimated Eugene Cernan and Jack Schmitt first noticed the elevated radiation levels forty-six years ago. There was no GPS in those days, so the exact spot was unknown. Recently the lunar reconnaissance orbiter, or LRO, circled the Moon and took high resolution images to map the entire surface. Attempts were then made to match up the Apollo mission discoveries with more precise locations.

  Stroud was working off those calculations, but he figured he would be spending some time trying to find the right area. Geologists did not know where the caesarium had come from, whether it was extralunar—comets or meteorites—or if it originated from within—a less likely scenario because it had not, as yet, been discovered on Earth.

  As a result, it was difficult to say how much of it existed on the Moon. If it was in a narrow vein, he could stick his coring drill into one spot, get nothing, then move over a few inches and poke another hole. He was hoping that would not be the case because if he hit a streak of bad luck, he could be doing this for weeks before he located it.