Eagle Station

Nine

The enormous neoclassical General Staff building curved around the vast expanse of Palace Square. Two wings, one on the west and one on the east, were joined by a huge triumphal arch commemorating Imperial Russia’s victory over Napoleon. The Winter Palace, once home to the tsars, loomed directly across the square in regal splendor.

Until last year, one wing of the building had been occupied by the headquarters of Russia’s Western Military District. Now, with much of the Kremlin reduced to blackened rubble, its offices were filled by a number of senior government officials and their staffs. What was supposed to have been a temporary emergency relocation to the old imperial capital showed signs of becoming permanent — at least for the ministers and their closest aides. They found the grandeur and luxury of St. Petersburg’s palaces far more appealing than Moscow’s official government buildings, many of them uncomfortable concrete relics of the Stalinist era.

Marshal Mikhail Leonov was an exception to this new rule. By staying in Moscow, he had become the de facto face of authority for the hundreds of thousands of bureaucrats, military officers, and intelligence officials who carried out the real work of government. That was not an accident. Because the other ministers were reluctant to subject themselves to another all-powerful autocrat like Gennadiy Gryzlov, they’d delayed elections for a new president yet again. But what they seemed not to understand, Leonov thought coldly, was that the Russian people instinctively craved strong leadership. And the eyes of the people were already turning toward him.

But even he found it useful to conduct certain meetings — those with his new Chinese allies, in particular — amid St. Petersburg’s imperial pomp and magnificence. The abandoned Kremlin, with its surviving damaged buildings covered in scaffolding, was a stark reminder of weakness and defeat. It was better by far, Leonov knew, to give President Li Jun’s representatives an impression of strength and stability.

With that in mind, he had chosen to hold this conference in an ornate chamber that dwarfed the small number of participants — Leonov himself, his aides, and a handful of senior Chinese generals and staff officers. The room’s high ceilings and walls were covered by elaborate molding and gold leaf. Intricate geometric designs were repeated across its parquet flooring. Nineteenth-century murals depicted Russian military triumphs against the French, the Turks, and savage Asiatic tribesmen. A round conference table and chairs occupied the middle of the enormous room — with a portable, flat-panel LED screen as the sole concession to modernity.

Right now, selected footage from several different U.S. and European news programs flickered across the screen. The American president’s recent declaration that his nation planned to establish a permanent mining colony on the moon within five years had generated a firestorm of commentary. Roughly half of the commentary condemned the idea as lunacy, a sordid bid to funnel tax dollars to favored private contractors. The other half hailed it as a long-overdue bid to rekindle America’s pioneering spirit, a bold move that could lead to the formation of a true space-faring civilization.

When the clips ended and the lights came up, Leonov turned toward General Chen Haifeng, the commander of China’s Strategic Support Force. Early on during his previous visit to Beijing, he’d realized that the balding, middle-aged military officer was one of Li Jun’s most trusted and forward-looking subordinates. The other members of the Chinese delegation were essentially window dressing. Chen was the man he needed to convince. His control over China’s military space, cyberwar, electronic warfare, and psy ops units would put him front and center in any future conflict with the United States or its allies.

“Comments, Comrade General?” Leonov asked politely.

Chen shrugged his shoulders. “As always, I am amused by the ability of so many Western journalists and politicians to speak for so long and so vehemently, while saying so little of any real value.” He smiled thinly. “In my country, we conduct our public business with more decorum.”

Left unspoken was the fact that Chinese reporters who failed to toe the approved Party line tended to disappear or turn up dead. The same went for any government officials foolish enough to disagree with policies approved by their superiors.

“There is certainly strong American political opposition to Farrell’s plans,” Leonov noted carefully. It was important to draw this other man out, to learn his honest opinions. Chinese negotiators had a well-deserved reputation for masking their true intentions behind a façade of meaningless politeness. They were masters at the diplomatic art of delay. But the American president’s sudden decision to radically accelerate his nation’s space efforts meant neither Russia nor China could afford the luxury of watching events unfold.

He had Li Jun’s promise of an alliance with Russia. Now it was time to find out how much that alliance really meant to the People’s Republic.

Chen waved a dismissive hand at the now-dark LED screen. “Mere noise, signifying nothing.” He shrugged again. “Our political analysts are sure that President Farrell controls more than enough votes in the U.S. Congress to win approval for his lunar mining enterprise.”

Leonov nodded. “My experts say the same.” Farrell had cleverly structured his proposal so that his government’s initial outlays would be relatively minor. Larger costs would come only if the Americans actually succeeded in establishing a working mine on the moon’s surface. It was a far cry from earlier grandiose plans submitted by NASA for various manned missions to the moon and Mars, all with price tags in the hundreds of billions of dollars.

“What really matters,” Chen continued, “is whether or not the proposed American program is technically and economically feasible.”

“And?” Leonov prompted.

Chen looked pained. “Unfortunately, our analysis suggests that it is. Certainly, there are serious scientific and engineering challenges involved. But none of those challenges are insurmountable.” His mouth tightened. “In fact, my country’s space scientists and engineers have been working very hard on plans for similar lunar mining operations.”

“As has Roscosmos,” Leonov acknowledged, referring to the government megacorporation that ran Russia’s civilian space program. “But we will not be in a position to build such an enterprise, at a cost we can bear, for many years to come, perhaps not until the mid-2030s.”

Frowning, Chen nodded his understanding. At the moment, Russia and the People’s Republic could almost match the United States in the automated mining technology needed for a lunar helium-3 mine. But America’s current lead in reusable rocket technology put it years ahead in achieving affordable access to space.

The Energia-5VR heavy-lift rockets Russia had built to put its Mars One space station into orbit were remarkably powerful, able to carry close to one hundred tons of payload. But they were expendable rockets, which made every Energia launch incredibly expensive. Just getting into space consumed roughly 96 percent of every rocket’s mass. True, with a crash engineering and rocket production program, Marshal Leonov’s country might be able to land robotic mining equipment on the moon within several years — but only at an enormous cost that could easily bankrupt Russia’s already strained economy.

If anything, the People’s Republic of China was even further behind. While many components of its planned robotic and manned lunar missions were well along in development, putting the necessary heavy payloads into orbit affordably was a major stumbling block. Beijing’s aerospace engineers were working on a reusable rocket of their own, the Long March 8. They were also designing a massive, Saturn V — class launcher, the Long March 9. But neither rocket could possibly be ready to fly much before 2030.

Boiled down to the essentials, neither Moscow nor Beijing could possibly match President Farrell’s ambitious timeline. Much as it galled Chen to admit it, this new civilian space race was probably already lost.

“Your conclusions are irrefutable,” Leonov said, after listening to the Chinese general work through his reasoning.

If anything, Chen’s expression grew even more dour. “Then our two nations face a most serious threat.”

“Agreed,” Leonov said. “Allowing the Americans to forge an insurmountable edge in space and fusion power — related technologies would be an enormous strategic error.”

Chen scowled. “But if this race is already lost?”

“Then we must change the terms of the contest,” Leonov said coolly. “If we cannot yet match the Americans in the civilian space arena, then we must deny them any chance of exploiting the moon’s valuable resources.”

Chen raised an eyebrow. “And how do you propose to achieve such an end?”

“As I told your president,” Leonov answered him patiently. “By combining our resources. And by being willing to take risks the Americans would never dare dream of.” He glanced toward one of his aides and nodded slightly.

The younger officer tapped a control on his laptop. Instantly the large LED display lit up, revealing the first page of a document headed Operatsiya Nebesnyy Grom, or Operation Heaven’s Thunder.

Speaking carefully, Leonov walked through the framework of his intricate, highly complex plan. Computer-generated graphics accompanied each stage of every proposed mission — illustrating how he believed Russian and Chinese space and weapons technologies could be fused into a greater whole.

When he finished, Chen bowed his head slightly in admiration. “A brilliant concept, Comrade Marshal.” His fingers drummed quietly on the table for a few moments, while he considered what he had just been shown. At last he nodded decisively. “I will recommend its approval to President Li Jun.”

Leonov smiled. “Thank you, Comrade General.”

“But absolute secrecy remains essential,” Chen warned. “With surprise, what you propose is possible. But if the Americans discover what we are doing too soon, the consequences for both our nations could be severe.” He shrugged. “I hope you will forgive me for pointing out that a great many of your most precious secrets seem to have leaked to the West in recent years.”

“True enough,” Leonov agreed coldly. Thorough study of Gennadiy Gryzlov’s past failures had turned up significant evidence that American spies — probably working for Scion — had repeatedly penetrated even the tightest Russian security. “Which is why I plan a series of special measures designed to distract our enemies while we prepare.”

He nodded again to his aide.

New images appeared on the large flat-panel screen. Drawn from radar and visual observations made by ground- and space-based Russian telescopes and surveillance satellites over the past several weeks, they showed some of the new U.S. Space Force S-29 spaceplanes making repeated passes — at varying altitudes and orbital inclinations — against Eagle Station.

Chen watched them in silence. When the screen went black again, he looked back at the Russian. “So? We’ve captured much of the same data with our own satellites.”

“And what is your evaluation of this activity?” Leonov asked.

Chen shrugged. “It seems obvious. What we see are war games. The American space station is practicing its defense against attacks by hostile spacecraft.”

“Exactly,” Leonov said with a thin smile. “And in doing so, the Americans reveal to us what they fear most.”

For a brief moment, Chen could not hide his confusion. “So?”

Leonov’s smile widened as he explained. “Remember what your own great countryman, the formidable strategist Sun Tzu, wrote: ‘Engage people with what they expect; it is what they are able to discern and confirms their projections. It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment — that which they cannot anticipate.’” His gaze grew colder. “We will let the Americans chase after a chimera, while we, in turn, will hunt them.”