Eagle Station

Thirty-Four

Long before he took the oath of office, President John Dalton Farrell had known there would be days and maybe even weeks and months that would make him want to tear his hair out, set it on fire, and then go looking for a fight — just to ease some of the tension. It was the nature of the job, where all of the nation’s troubles seemed to land on one man or woman’s shoulders, and too many people outside the government expected whoever sat in the Oval Office to work miracles. Put that together with too many people inside the government who spent their time explaining why nothing could ever be done to solve any problem, and you had a recipe for sheer gut-busting, artery-popping frustration.

Being president would try the patience of a saint, and saints were in short supply in politics. And you sure as hell ain’t one of them, J.D., he admitted to himself. Which left him wrestling right now with the urge to haul off and slug someone — Russia’s marshal Mikhail Leonov or China’s president Li Jun, for choice.

With that in mind, Farrell looked down the long table to a relative newcomer, General Richard Kelleher. Given the nature of this sudden crisis, it had been an easy call to include the Space Force chief of staff in this White House meeting with his national security advisers. “Let me get this straight, General. Right now, the Russians and Chinese have four separate payloads intended for the moon in Earth orbit.”

Kelleher nodded. “That’s correct, Mr. President. All of them launched within the past hour.”

“Li Jun and Leonov are busy sons of bitches, I’ll grant ’em that,” Farrell growled. “Okay, what are my options here? Can we use Eagle Station’s plasma rail gun or our armed spaceplanes to turn any of those rockets into floating scrap? Because I’d surely like to send Beijing and Moscow the only kind of cease-and-desist message they’ll understand before this day gets much older.”

At that, Secretary of State Andrew Taliaferro and several others exchanged worried looks.

“You have a problem with that, Andy?” Farrell asked.

To his credit, Taliaferro didn’t waffle. “Yes, sir,” he said firmly. “Without clear evidence that our satellites were actually destroyed by the Russians and the Chinese, most of the rest of the world would see U.S. military action against their spacecraft as unprovoked aggression.” He turned to Kelleher. “And as I understand it, General, we don’t have that kind of evidence. Nor are we likely to get it.”

The Space Force chief of staff nodded reluctantly. “That’s true. Short of somehow retrieving pieces of wreckage from AEHF-7 and the Topaz-M for forensic examination — which is essentially impossible — we can’t prove what killed them. Space is a dangerous place… and accidents do happen, especially to complex spacecraft. And plenty of countries out there will be looking for reasons to avoid confronting Beijing and Moscow over this issue.”

Looking out at them from one of the wall screens, Nadia Rozek-McLanahan spoke up. She and Brad were participating in this emergency national security meeting via a secure link to Eagle Station, currently orbiting high over the Indian Ocean. “The physics of this situation already make any attack impossible. By the time we come around the curve of the earth into view of those Russian and Chinese spacecraft, they’ll have begun their translunar injection burns and be well outside our plasma rail gun’s effective range. The same thing goes for the S-29s, which have a much shorter-ranged laser weapon.”

Farrell allowed himself a wry smile. “Y’all are starting to piss me off with these inconvenient facts.” He sighed. “Trouble is, I can’t afford to replace you with a bunch of sycophants, even if I wanted to. Look where that got poor old Stacy Anne in the end: up shit creek without even a canoe, let alone a paddle.”

His predecessor, President Barbeau, had been infamous for packing the ranks of her senior advisers and cabinet officials with nonentities, tame “yes-men” and “yes-women” who never bucked her decisions or challenged her assumptions. In the end, left entirely to her own whims and preconceived ideas, she’d run the United States into grave danger, damaged its standing in the world, and, ultimately, wrecked her own hopes of winning a second term in office.

“Speaking truth to power is our duty,” Nadia said seriously. Her chin lifted slightly to emphasize the point. Even this tiny motion, in zero-G, caused a lock of her thick, dark hair to float across her face. Impatiently, she brushed it aside. Then she smiled. “Admittedly, doing so is much safer from here. The rest of your advisers trapped down there on Earth with you will just have to take their chances.”

That sparked a soft ripple of laughter from around the table.

“Well, all right, then,” Farrell said after a short pause. “Is there some way we can stop them from sending any new spacecraft to the moon?”

“By imposing an orbital blockade over their launch sites?” Kelleher asked.

Farrell nodded. “Something along those lines, General. Whatever Moscow and Beijing are doing on the lunar surface, shutting down their ability to reinforce and resupply from Earth could be crucial.”

“You’re right about that,” Patrick McLanahan agreed. “But—”

“Ah, hell,” Farrell grumbled. “It’s impossible, right?”

Patrick shot him a rueful smile. “I’m afraid so. One of our S-29 spaceplanes would only be in effective range of any of those Russian and Chinese launch complexes for about two minutes out of every ninety-eight-minute orbit. Between life-support limitations and the need to cover different orbital tracks, seriously blockading their launch sites would take a force of dozens of armed spacecraft. Building that many spaceplanes would take years.”

“Years we don’t have.”

“That’s about the size of it,” Patrick admitted.

Farrell scowled. “Are y’all telling me we’re just going have to sit tight and do nothing? Because I will be damned if I intend to let those bastards Leonov and Li lock us out of the moon and all its resources.”

“Whatever weapons Moscow and Beijing have deployed to the moon are around on the far side,” Taliaferro pointed out. “So they’re only a threat to spacecraft going into lunar orbit. What if we just skipped that part of any moon mission and sent our rockets straight to the near side — where everything suggests the highest concentrations of helium-3 are anyway?”

Kelleher shook his head. “Direct descent to the lunar surface might work for some unmanned missions, but it’s awfully risky. One small engine misfire or bad burn and you end up with bits and pieces of expensive hardware scattered across several hundred square miles of the moon. And you sure can’t take those kinds of risks with live astronauts. Shooting for lunar orbit first at least gives you the option of a free-return trajectory, where the moon’s gravity slings your ship back toward Earth if anything major goes wrong.”

“Like Apollo 13,” Farrell realized. Kelleher nodded.

“Even if we were willing to take those risks, we’d only wind up being too late,” Patrick said. “All along the way, the Russians and the Chinese have been ahead of us. Once they learn we’re planning to send landers and mining equipment straight to the lunar surface — which isn’t something we can keep secret — there’ll be nothing stopping them from deploying additional weapons to the near side of the moon.”

Farrell grimaced. “What you’re saying is that we either win this fight now, somehow… or we kiss the moon, its resources, and everything they can do for our economy, our technology, and our future, good-bye.”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick agreed solemnly. “That’s the way it lays out.”

A grim silence fell across the Situation Room.

“Excuse me, Mr. President,” Brad said quietly over the link from orbit.

Farrell looked up. “Yes, Major McLanahan?”

“On that score, Nadia and I have been working through some alternatives,” the younger man told him. “And we’ve come up with what we think could be a workable mission plan for an armed reconnaissance of the moon’s far side.”

With a skeptical look on his face, General Kelleher leaned forward. “Using what hardware, exactly?” He snorted. “Reconfiguring that Orion crew vehicle and our other deep-space-capable craft to carry weapons would take years of engineering and flight testing.”

“The Orion’s not going to cut it,” Brad agreed evenly.

Kelleher frowned. “If you’re not going to fly the Orion, what have you got in mind? There’s no other piece of human-rated space hardware in our inventory that’s designed to go beyond Earth orbit, never mind all the way out to the moon and back.”

Brad looked stubborn. “I’d rather not get into specifics just yet, sir.” He focused his gaze on Farrell. “Nadia and I are reasonably confident we can use existing, off-the-shelf hardware and technology for this lunar recon mission, Mr. President. But we’d really like to consult more closely with Sky Masters and Scion weapons and astronautical engineering experts before we get everybody’s hopes up. And we definitely want to run some in-depth computer simulations to test out our rough concept.”

Without hesitating, Farrell nodded. “Then I want your behinds back down here ASAP… so you can start refining this plan of yours.” He looked serious. “Because I know you two well enough to bet big on whatever wild-eyed scheme you’re cooking up.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Nadia said solemnly.

While a smartly uniformed Honor Guard Battalion military band played China’s national anthem, “March of the Volunteers,” President Li Jun descended the stairs from his official aircraft, a Boeing 747-8 wide-body passenger jet. Though he wore a heavy overcoat and scarf against a freezing wind sweeping across the tarmac, he was bareheaded — in part to demonstrate the youthful vigor that helped keep potential political rivals at bay.

At the foot of the stairs, Marshal Mikhail Ivanovich Leonov snapped a quick salute and shook hands with him. “Welcome to the Russian Federation, Comrade President,” he said in a booming voice. He smiled broadly.

Cameras clicked rapidly all around them. Moscow’s entire international press corps had been invited out to witness this beginning of Li’s state visit to the Russian Federation. Officially, he was here to celebrate the ongoing success of their joint “peaceful and scientific” Pilgrim missions to the moon. Unofficially, both leaders wanted the American president and his close advisers to know they were confronted by a solid Sino-Russian military alliance, both on Earth and in space.

Li donned his own answering smile. “Thank you, Comrade Marshal, for your kind greeting. I look forward to our upcoming talks. We have much to congratulate each other on, and a shared fraternal future to discuss.”

As he had expected, that last somewhat vague and even innocuous phrase created a stir among the assembled journalists. Within minutes, he knew, the internet and the world’s airwaves would be full of breathless and uninformed speculation about just what China’s leader might have meant.

A few minutes later, after a rapid inspection of the Russian honor guard — presenting arms at rigid attention in their gray fur caps, overcoats, and polished jackboots — Li followed his Russian host into the back of a long black limousine. Gratefully, he settled back against its heated leather seats. “A useful show,” he commented dryly.

Leonov nodded. “I hope it will make Washington think very carefully about its next moves.”

Both men intended this open demonstration of Russian and Chinese solidarity to help restrain the American president’s otherwise aggressive instincts. The longer Farrell hesitated, the better for Moscow and Beijing. After all, delay worked in their favor — buying time for more supplies and military hardware to reach the moon. And for the cosmonauts and taikonauts at Korolev to further refine their defenses.

“For the moment, I do not think we need worry excessively,” Li said with a shrug. “Our telescopes and space-based sensors all show that the Americans have stopped work on their Orion spacecraft docked at Eagle Station.”

“Ours, too,” Leonov agreed. A trace of a frown crossed his broad Slavic face. “Although we did observe one of their S-19 Midnight passenger spaceplanes departing the station several hours ago — apparently bound for the Sky Masters facility in Nevada.”

“It was probably just returning their space construction crew to Earth,” Li suggested without much concern.

“Perhaps.”

Li glanced sidelong at his Russian counterpart. “You do not agree?”

“I only hesitate to assume the Americans will surrender control over the moon so meekly,” Leonov told him.

“Meekly? Perhaps not,” Li said with a humorless smile. “But for the moment, I see no signs of any imminent American reaction to the destruction of their two satellites. In fact, I consider it especially significant that Washington hasn’t made those losses public. Nor has it even accused us, either openly, or privately through diplomatic back channels, of being responsible.”

“That is… odd,” Leonov said.

Li shook his head. “On the contrary, President Farrell may be wiser than I first believed. Perhaps he is simply unwilling to risk enraging his countrymen by revealing a defeat — especially one he cannot avenge?”

“Let us hope so,” Leonov said somberly. “Though I admit that I can’t see what the Americans can hope to do against us, at least on the moon.”

Now the Chinese leader laughed. “Come, Comrade Marshal, relax. Your strategy is working as planned. That’s a cause for celebration, not sudden misgivings.”

Leonov forced himself to smile in response. In all probability, Li’s confidence was justified. Careful study of America’s space capabilities — even those of its mercenary corporations like Sky Masters and Scion — showed nothing that could threaten the Sino-Russian alliance’s military hold on Earth’s moon. Then why do you feel so uncertain suddenly, Mikhail? he asked himself privately. Was this merely a case of nerves? Or was it something more serious, a premonition of real trouble headed their way?