Eagle Station

Thirty-Seven

Two hundred and fifty miles above the cloud-dappled peaks and snow-choked mountain valleys of the Rockies, two large black spaceplanes flew in tandem — circling the world together at more than seventeen thousand miles per hour. One was a Space Force S-29B Shadow now configured for a voyage to the moon. It was piloted by Colonel Scott “Dusty” Miller and Major Hannah “Rocky” Craig. The second was an unarmed civilian S-29A refueling tanker with two Scion pilots, Peter “Constable” Vasey and Liz Gallagher, at its controls.

Aboard Shadow Bravo One, Hannah Craig peered up through the forward cockpit windows. The other spaceplane hung just a few yards above the top of their fuselage — sharply outlined against a deep black sky strewn with the hard, bright pinpoints of uncounted thousands of stars. Relative to them, the S-29A was flying upside down and backward. A long, flexible boom extended from one of the two silver-colored fuel tanks inside its open cargo bay. The end of the boom was now seated firmly inside the S-29B’s refueling receptacle.

“How’s it look from your angle?” Miller asked from the left-hand pilot’s seat.

“Real solid,” she replied. She radioed the other spaceplane, “I confirm contact, Shadow Alpha Three.”

“Roger that,” Gallagher replied. “Commencing JP transfer now.”

Aboard the tanker, pumps whirred. Inert helium gas was used to “push” JP-8 jet fuel into the S-29B Shadow’s tanks in zero-G conditions — replenishing the stores consumed during its rocket-powered climb into orbit. Earlier in this evolution, the S-29A tanker had refilled their separate oxidizer reserves with highly explosive borohydrogen metaoxide, or BOHM. BOHM was essentially refined hydrogen peroxide and, when mixed with ordinary jet fuel, it enabled combustion inside their five LRDRS engines outside the atmosphere.

Minutes passed as the two spacecraft swung southeastward high over the lush Mississippi River valley, the cloud-covered Appalachians, and then out across the Atlantic. Ahead through their cockpit windows, Miller and Craig saw a patch of lighter-colored green-blue shallows appear, surrounded on all sides by the dark ultramarine waters of the deeper ocean. They were coming up on Bermuda.

“JP-8 transfer complete,” Liz Gallagher reported from the tanker. “Detaching the boom now.”

With a gentle CL–CLUNK, the boom’s nozzle slid back out of their fuel port slipway. Tiny thrusters attached to the end puffed in microsecond bursts as the long boom slowly retracted back into the S-29A tanker’s cargo bay and latched along one end.

Miller flipped a switch to close the slipway doors above and behind their cockpit. His hands settled on the controls for spaceplane’s hydrazine reaction thrusters. “Separating now, Shadow Alpha Three,” he radioed.

Peter Vasey’s English-accented voice replied through his headset. “Copy that, Bravo One. We’re on the move, too. Good luck. And give my regards to those bastards on the far side of the moon, will you?”

“Thanks, Constable. We’ll do our best,” Miller promised with a quick grin. He activated the controls. His hands made small, precise movements to fire thrusters positioned at different points along the spaceplane’s nose, fuselage, wings, and tail. Brief flashes of light against the darkness of space showed that Vasey was using his own thrusters. Slowly, carefully, their two spacecraft edged away from each other, separating both vertically and horizontally.

Now several miles away, and with its job done, the S-29A tanker lit its main engines. Decelerating fast, the other spaceplane dropped out of orbit — heading for the atmosphere as Vasey and Gallagher began the powered reentry maneuver that would eventually bring them back to Battle Mountain.

Miller keyed his mike. “Peterson Mission Control, this is Shadow Bravo One. We’re gassed up and ready to go. What’s the status on that Falcon Heavy?”

“The Falcon Heavy is go for launch, Dusty,” Major Tony Kim radioed. Kim was one of the Space Force pilots tapped to act as CAPCOM, their intermediary with the mission controllers working this lunar flight from the ground. “T-minus thirty seconds and counting.”

Miller glanced across the spaceplane’s crowded cockpit. “Wanna see this?”

“Oh, yeah,” Hannah Craig said simply. She checked one of her flight control menus. “You came in way under our thruster-use budget while refueling, so we’ve got plenty of hydrazine to spare.”

More quick bursts from their thrusters spun the S-29 end-over-end so that they were facing back toward the distant east coast of the United States. The SpaceX launch site at Cape Canaveral was already invisible over the curve of the earth. Through their headsets, they heard Kim echoing the countdown. “T-minus six. Side booster ignition. Four… three… two… ignition… and lift off!”

Seconds later, they saw a wavering spark of light rising steadily through the lower atmosphere. Even from nearly fifteen hundred miles away, it was the brightest object in sight, outshining even the stars above them. Their own rapid flight carried them too far around the earth to spot the Falcon Heavy’s self-landing side boosters when they detached, but they did see the trail of fire from its main engine reappear above the horizon as the rocket climbed higher — accelerating toward orbital speed. Moments later, that bright light winked out.

“MECO. And first-stage separation!” Kim reported. Almost immediately, a new, dimmer point of light appeared, now just above the sharp blue band that marked the division between the earth’s atmosphere and space. “Second-stage start-up. Payload fairing separation confirmed. Everything’s looking good. The Falcon’s on its way, Dusty.”

“Copy that,” Miller replied. Quick tweaks on his thruster controls flipped the S-29 back around so that its nose was pointed along their current orbital path. Satisfied that they were back in the groove, he turned to his copilot. “Looks like this mission is a go!”

Jubilantly, Craig nodded. Her fingers danced across her multifunction displays, pulling up navigation and flight control displays. She set a series of automated checklists in motion. If necessary, they could have completed several more orbits before conducting the next maneuver. But with the definite success of that Falcon Heavy launch there was no further reason to delay. “Translunar injection insertion burn in five minutes.”

Those minutes passed in a blur of activity as they double-checked the S-29B’s computers at every step.

“Stellar navigation systems are go,” Craig announced. That was vital. Once they left Earth orbit, there would be no GPS to guide them. Like the earlier Apollo astronauts, they would have to rely entirely on triangulation using the relative bearings of prominent stars to determine their current position. “Position cross-checks complete. TLI trajectory confirmed.”

“Communication and encryption systems look good.”

“Our targeting laser radar system is operational. All indicators from the weapons laser itself are green.”

“Life support systems are go.”

“LPDRS engine readouts are nominal. Ready for relight.”

At last, Miller sat back. “Peterson Mission Control, this is Shadow Bravo One. We are go for TLI. Repeat, we are go for TLI.”

“Roger that, Bravo One,” Tony Kim replied. “Stand by for a final go/no go on that translunar injection burn.”

Impatiently, Miller and Craig waited while the mission controllers along with General Kelleher back on Earth conducted a last-minute poll to decide whether or not to approve their planned flight to the moon. For both of them, the seconds seemed to tick by with agonizing slowness. At last, Kim came back on the circuit. “Shadow Bravo One, this is Peterson Mission Control. We confirm that you are go for translunar injection.”

“Understood, Peterson,” Miller acknowledged. He glanced at his head-up display, checking their computer-driven countdown clock. “Thirty seconds to TLI.” He tapped their thrusters again, pitching the S-29’s nose up to align the spaceplane for its upcoming burn.

His eyes flicked toward Hannah Craig. “You ready for this, Major?”

In answer, she laughed. “I suppose it’s too late to hit the john?”

Miller grinned back. “Afraid so. You’ll just have to hold it—” The indicators on his HUD flashed green. Cued by the flight computer, he shoved their engine throttles all the way forward.

With a muffled whummp, the S-29’s five big rocket motors fired.

Immediately, G-forces slammed Miller and Craig back against their seats. “For… just… a few… more minutes,” he grunted, forcing the words out against the sudden intense acceleration.

Those minutes dragged on and on. Steadily, the spaceplane’s speed increased. “Nineteen thousand miles per hour,” Miller said tersely. They were now pulling around five-G’s. He nudged the sidestick controller slightly to follow the steering directions sent to his head-up display. In response, all five LPDRS engine nozzles swiveled a degree, minutely changing their direction of thrust. “Nineteen thousand five hundred… miles per hour. Still accelerating.”

Beside him, Hannah Craig strained to read the engine status readings on one of her MFDs. They were starting to blur out as the blood drained out of her brain and pooled in her lower body. “Temperatures and pressures… still look good,” she reported.

Nearly ten minutes after their TLI burn started, Miller saw the readouts on his HUD shift. “Ten seconds to engine cutoff… four… three… two… one.” He pulled all the way back on the throttles. “Shutdown.”

The engines cut out. And as quickly as it had come, the powerful acceleration that had slammed them back against their seats disappeared. Now back in zero-G, they floated forward against the safety harnesses holding them in place. Through the cockpit canopy, stars blazed across the black depths of space. The earth was somewhere out of sight behind them, receding fast. The moon, still far, far away, hung out in space off to the side of their spacecraft.

Miller let go of the throttles and controller and locked them out. He tapped at his own displays, checking their numbers. “That was a good burn. We’re outward bound at a scooch over twenty-one thousand miles per hour,” he said in satisfaction.

“Well, nuts. I guess we’re not gonna break the record,” his copilot said with a wry smile. On their way back from the moon in May 1969, the crew of Apollo 10 had captured the all-time speed record for any manned flight, hitting 24,791 miles per hour.

“Afraid not,” Miller agreed. He turned more serious. “How’re we doing on fuel?”

Craig pulled up the readings from sensors inside their tanks. “Our JP-8 and BOHM are down to eight percent, a little better than we’d hoped. Thruster hydrazine looks very good, with ninety-five percent remaining.”

“Outstanding,” Miller told her. He keyed his mike. “Peterson Mission Control, this is Shadow Bravo One. Our TLI was good. Our fuel status is nominal. We’ve got enough gas to make our rendezvous burn when needed.”

“Copy that, Bravo One,” Kim responded from Earth. “We confirm your good burn. You should intercept that Falcon fuel load in approximately ten hours.”

Several hundred miles ahead of the S-29B Shadow, the Falcon Heavy’s spent second stage detached from its payload — two connected BOHM and JP-8 fuel tanks coupled to a pair of remote-controlled booms identical to those developed for the S-29A tanker spaceplane. Thrusters studded around the Falcon booster fired. Slowly, it drifted away, deflected onto a trajectory that would impact the moon’s near side in several days. The twin JP-8 and BOHM fuel tanks flew onward, gradually being overtaken by the slightly faster spaceplane coming up from behind.

Three hours later, aboard the Space Force Shadow, Dusty Miller and Hannah Craig finished an array of final post-TLI navigation, life support, and other systems checks. Then, obeying their mission plan, they dimmed the spaceplane’s cockpit lights and settled back to try to sleep while still strapped into their seats. The next several hours were set aside as a mandatory crew rest period. Both of them knew they would need to be fully alert when the time came to make the first-ever deep-space refueling attempt.