“One of the engineers drew up a diagram. Sending it through to your suit now. Look it over on the helmet’s heads-up display and let me know if you have any questions.”
“Uh, we may want to postpone that,” DeSantos said.
“Shit,” Uzi said.
“What’s going on?” Maddox asked.
“We have visual of the Russian spacecraft. It’s firing its descent stage engine. Pretty cool sight—if they weren’t coming to kill us.”
“Fall back,” Stroud said. “Give them room. Let’s assess their actions before we jump to any conclusions. We’ve gotta complete those parts of the mission we’re able to. Once we interact with the Russians, we’ll have a better sense of what we’re dealing with.”
“Meet me back at the Raptor so you can pick up your side arms,” Carson said.
DeSantos maneuvered the LRV in a tight arc and drove back toward the Raptor.
“Copy that,” Uzi said. “On our way.”
55
Keflavik, Iceland
Vail and Rusakov bid good-bye to Zero, who helped them hold up their part of the bargain by bringing Uglov back to the ambulance, injecting the driver with ethyl alcohol, and calling the police to report the suspicious ambulance.
They had asked Uglov what he knew about Lukas DeSantos, and he provided nonspecific information on the man and his career. He gave no indication that he had knowledge of the kidnapping. They informed Uglov the general was missing, that he was likely snatched by Russian security forces, or men hired by them, and that they would check back with him in twenty-four hours to see what he could find out.
Uglov had become a CIA asset. In the near future, they would again contact him, surreptitiously, for more assistance. This time it would involve forward-looking intel on President Yuroslav Pervak’s intentions before he carried them out.
If Uglov refused to cooperate, two anonymous packages would be delivered to the FBI and France’s General Directorate for Internal Security, reporting Uglov’s true identity and providing the forensic evidence relative to the bombing. How the law enforcement agencies would proceed was unimportant—the threat that hung over Uglov’s head was what mattered. It would be his motivation for cooperating. In the spy business, this was a time-honored method of recruitment.
Vail and Rusakov drove to the US naval base in Keflavik, where Boeing P-8 Poseidon antisubmarine jets were stationed. The base, shuttered in 2006, was resurrected ten years later when the Icelandic government, whose military consisted of only its coast guard, grew concerned by increasing Russian flyovers and circumnavigation of the isolated island as well as sudden patrols of the North Atlantic by Russian submarines.
Vail and Rusakov did not board a Poseidon because its maximum flight distance was not great enough to reach Washington. Instead, McNamara had a nondescript 737 leave Andrews Air Force Base at the same time Vail and Rusakov boarded the flight to Russia. Since Boeing had modified its standard 737 to create the militarized—and renamed—P-8 Poseidon aircraft, no one would question a gray 737 bearing the same external appearance as its sister P-8 flying into the naval base at night.
Vail and Rusakov touched down at Andrews six hours later—having caught up on their sleep—in time to start their workday after a quick shower and change of clothes.
They entered a secure room in the black site at the industrial park to be debriefed by McNamara, director of Central Intelligence Laurence Bolton, and CIA director Earl Tasset. As the meeting got underway, Douglas Knox arrived. Eisenbach was conferenced in on an encrypted video chat.
“We now have a pretty clear idea of what’s going on and why,” Tasset said. “China doesn’t appear to be a malevolent player here—their only goal appears to be securing the caesarium before we have the ability to cut off access to the Moon. Still, their goals are incongruous with ours—and, one might argue, an obstacle to long-term peace on this planet. So the portion of our mission dealing with China remains unchanged.”
“Russia, however, is another matter,” Knox said. “Ronck is clearly the perpetrator of corporate espionage, but the close ties between President Pervak and Ronck are undeniable. Not to mention Russia is also trying to obtain the caesarium—and is likely going to use force, if necessary, to bring it back home should we intervene.”
“And I think it’s safe to assume,” Tasset added, “that they’ll realize our men have disabled the Chang’e. So the only way for Ronck—and Pervak—to get their $5 billion payday is for Russia to bring back caesarium and deliver it to China.”
“And then there’s the matter of General DeSantos’s kidnapping,” Bolten said.
“We hope to have some information from our source by this evening,” Tasset said. “Meantime, we have to follow leads and conduct a standard missing persons case investigation.”
“There’s nothing standard about this case,” Vail said.
“Right now this is our only avenue,” McNamara said. “Standard or not, you are the best investigator we have. You and Alexandra will get on this trail and stay on it like fucking bloodhounds until you end up at the general’s front door—wherever that may be.” The artery in his temple began pulsing. “Is that clear?”
“Yes sir,” Rusakov said.
McNamara looked at them. “Then what the hell are you waiting for? Get to it.”
56
Taurus-Littrow Valley
Cowboy,” Carson said. “We’ve got company.”
Stroud, DeSantos, and Uzi ambled over to Carson, who was standing near a strut of the Raptor.
On the ridge a few hundred feet away was the tip of the front of a rover and two men in pressure suits: cosmonauts. They were standing there, unmoving, facing the Raptor.
“What the hell are they doing?” Carson asked.
“Assessing their enemy,” Stroud said. “Rule number one: see what you’re up against. Are their hearts in this? How well trained are they? How many of them are there? Are they armed?”
“Or they’re getting their lay of the land,” Uzi said. “Like where they think they need to drill for caesarium.” He pressed a button and a heads-up display appeared on the inside of his visor showing a zoomed image. “Could be taking readings. Who knows what kind of equipment they’ve got.”
Stroud pressed the button on the side of his helmet to activate his own display. “They’re just … standing there. Could be another one or two behind the ridge. Hard to tell.”
“They could be assessing how aggressive we’re willing to get,” Carson said.
Uzi twisted toward Carson. In the suit he needed to turn his entire torso. “Good point. So how aggressive should we get?”
DeSantos moved around behind Uzi, trying to get a different angle, stopping a dozen feet to his right.
“Our mission calls for us to prevent China and Russia from securing caesarium,” Stroud said, “without triggering an international incident. Show resolve so they don’t think they can push us around—but don’t cross the line.”
“Puff out our chests but don’t throw the first punch,” DeSantos said.
“This is getting awkward,” Carson said, “them looking at us and us looking at them. Makes us look weak.”
“Let’s start walking toward them,” Uzi said as he zoomed his helmet display to maximum. “Subtle show of force.”
“Agreed.” Stroud started forward, followed by DeSantos. “Just heading that way will be interpreted as a threatening move. We should know in a few steps how they’re going to respond.”
Seconds later, the two cosmonauts turned and disappeared from the ridge.
Stroud stopped. “Interesting.”
DeSantos kept walking another ten feet. “Still don’t know what the hell that was about.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Uzi said. “We sent the right message. And I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of them.”
TWO HOURS LATER, as
DeSantos, Uzi, and Carson unhooked Apollo 17’s spent fuel tank, two cosmonauts drove up in a rover that looked like a cross between the old LRV and the Spider: not as large and not enclosed, but it featured six wheels and three axles, and a flat platform on the back that sported a telescoping arm. It was difficult to see more than that because of the angle of their approach.
They stopped a hundred yards short of the Raptor and sat there.
“Uh, guys?” DeSantos said. “Our friends are back.”
The others turned in unison.
“Is it me, or is this a little creepy?” Carson asked.
“We should see what they’re up to.”
Uzi faced Stroud. “You mean just walk over and ask them?”
“Aside from the fact that we can’t exactly speak to them with these suits on—and we’ve got no idea if they speak English—yeah. Something like that.”
DeSantos grunted. “What’s the point? We know why they’re here.”
“Détente,” Uzi said. “If we had some vodka, we could offer to break the ice, bond.”
“Dream on, Boychick.”
The rover started moving again, making a tight circle and heading back the way they came.
“So much for that,” Uzi said.
“Let’s follow them,” DeSantos said, walking toward the LRV.
“I’ve gotta get back to taking core samples,” Stroud said, “see if I can locate caesarium.”
“Fine,” DeSantos said, not bothering to turn around. “Digger, Uzi, you’re with me.”
DESANTOS AND UZI took the two front seats and Carson climbed onto the rear payload interface and stowage area, which they had cleared of equipment while Uzi was wiring in the solar arrays.
“Hang on,” DeSantos said as he drove forward. “Are the panels pointed at the sun?”
“We’re good,” Uzi said. “Batteries are charged too. System’s working fine.”
“At least something is going as planned.”
They arrived at the Russian spacecraft thirty-five minutes later. It was slightly larger than the Raptor but roughly similar in appearance: utilitarian piping, fuel tanks, struts, and a long ladder to a rectangular main cabin that was mounted near the top. Two cosmonauts were standing outside at the rear of the rover doing something with the telescoping arm.
“I think that’s their drill,” Uzi said. “For mining.”
“Your eyes go to the science and technology,” DeSantos said. “And mine go to weapons systems. “He’s packing a side arm.”
“Sure is,” Carson said.
One of the men noticed them and stopped, elbowed his colleague. They turned and looked at the Americans.
“Here we go again with the awkward stares,” Carson said. He got off the back of the rover and started toward the cosmonauts. They put down their tools and took steps in their direction.
DeSantos activated his heads-up display. “I think we’re about to make first contact.”
“Copy that,” Carson said.
The two Russians and three Americans stopped a few feet from one another.
DeSantos got a better look at the large pistol on the Russian’s hip. DeSantos had one too—except his was a bluff rather than a functional weapon. By design it was buried in his pocket to hide the trigger guard, which was a dead giveaway to the fact that there would be no way for him to fire it.
He was playing a high stakes poker game—with a losing hand.
“Keep away from your Glocks,” DeSantos said. “If we don’t draw, maybe they won’t. Because once we do, game’s over.”
One of the cosmonauts stepped in front of his partner and motioned for the Americans to lift their sun visors. It was unnerving looking at a reflective surface. You could not see your opponent’s face, and facial expressions were an indication of what the individual was thinking.
DeSantos understood. He lifted his and gestured for the Russian to do likewise.
The cosmonaut did as requested. He stepped to his right, moving awkwardly as he made eye contact with each of them. He tapped DeSantos on the chest, then gestured with his head for him to follow. DeSantos—and Uzi—started toward the ladder.
The man held up a hand: STOP. Only DeSantos would be permitted inside for their chat.
“I’ll be back.” DeSantos shuffled toward the Russian lander.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Carson asked.
“It’s the only way we can talk,” DeSantos said. “We go inside their ship, pressurize, and remove our helmets.”
“Just you?” Uzi said. “I don’t like it.”
“It’s a small craft, Boychick. Plus, I don’t think they’re gonna do anything to me. Be a shitty way to introduce yourself.”
“If you’re not out in five minutes, we’re gonna assume there’s a problem.”
“Give me ten,” DeSantos said as the Russian ascended the ladder. DeSantos waited a moment then grabbed hold of the metal rung and pulled himself up, an infinitely easier task than it would’ve been in Earth’s gravity.
The man was waiting for him in the cabin. DeSantos stepped in and pulled the hatch shut. The cosmonaut reached over and yanked down on a handle then spun a medium-size wheel. He pressed a black button on the wall to his left and a dial indicated increasing pressure in millimeters of Mercury.
As the gauge hit 350, the Russian removed his helmet. DeSantos did the same.
UZI AND CARSON WAITED OUTSIDE. Another cosmonaut appeared from behind a hill and joined his comrade. The five men stood there staring at each other, hands on their hips.
“What do you think, Digger? This gonna be trouble?”
“At the moment, not sure. But in ten minutes, I’ll be able to give you a better answer.”
“Smart ass.”
“I HOPE YOU SPEAK ENGLISH,” DeSantos said. “Or this is gonna be a short conversation.” DeSantos did speak some Russian, but felt more comfortable—and in more control—with English.
“I speak English. Good enough. Welcome to the Resurs. Bigger than yours. Nice ship, eh?”
“Yes, very nice ship.” DeSantos gave a glance around—which he had wanted to do anyway. Now he had an excuse to do so without having to hide it. “Since you speak English, you can tell me why you’re here.”
“I am here for same reason you are here.”
DeSantos cocked his head. “I don’t think so, comrade.”
“Do not matter. I am glad you came to me.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, Mr. DeSantos. I have to come look for you. This much more easier.”
DeSantos could not hide the surprise that likely registered on his face. His identity was a fairly well kept secret—not to mention his presence on this mission, which was a tightly guarded fact. “Since you know who I am, who are you?”
“Oleg. And that is Andrei, Boris, and Viktor outside watching over your friends.”
“Oleg, Andrei, Boris, and Viktor. Those your real names?”
“We no have things to hide. I am just cosmonaut who study geology. Rocks.”
“I know what geology is, thanks.” And he knew one other thing: Oleg was no ordinary space explorer.
“Now, Mr. DeSantos. Let us stop dancing, yes?”
DeSantos glanced around the lander’s interior, taking in everything, soaking in the details. “I’m not a very good dancer. At least that’s what my ex-girlfriend used to say.” They may know who he was, but they likely did not know his personal details—and he was not about to disclose anything.
“You no need to play game. We know.”
DeSantos took in the layout, the instrumentation, the number of hammocks they used for sleeping. “Know what?”
“There is no point to deny this. We are here to take our rocks and leave.”
“No offense,” DeSantos said, making eye contact, “b
ut we can’t let you do that.”
“America not own Moon. It belong to everyone.”
“I can’t argue with you, Oleg. I agree. But this isn’t about ownership. It’s about being the police officer at the drug cartel meeting.”
Oleg’s brow scrunched. “I do not understand this.”
“Russian aggression is well-documented. I’ll sum it up in one word: Crimea. Ukraine. Georgia. Okay, well, that was three words. But you get the idea. Your close military and economic relationship with Iran is also well-documented. So we can’t let you have this—this thing you want to take back.”
“Caesarium. Why so hard for you to say?” He smiled, no doubt enjoying the reaction on DeSantos’s face. “I tell you before. We know.”
“We can’t let you have it. It’s as simple as that.”
“Not yours to give or not give.”
“No, but we’re the police.”
Oleg clenched his jaw. “You cry about Russian aggression. What about American aggression? You want to extend your reach over the world. The caesarium will give you that ability. You here to take for yourself.”
“That’s not our mission.”
“I do not believe you.”
“If we wanted to take it for ourselves, we would’ve come and taken it a long time ago. We knew about it back in the 1970s.”
“Maybe you already have it, then.”
“If that were true, something tells me the FSB and SVR would know,” DeSantos said. “We’re only here to make sure no one gets it—not you, not the Chinese, the North Koreans, or the Iranians. And not us.”
Oleg stared at DeSantos a long moment. “You have your orders. I have mine.”
“I figured that’d be your position.” DeSantos shifted the helmet to his hands and prepared to lift it back over his head. “I guess we’re done here.”
“Not so fast, my friend.”
DeSantos tensed—prepared for anything. Was he going to pull out a knife and puncture his suit—a move that would, essentially, make him a prisoner there—or worse, kill him?
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