Eagle Station

Forty

“Radar contact at twelve o’clock. Range is eight miles and closing,” the S-29B’s computer reported. “Contact is the combined JP-8/BOHM fuel tank stack.”

Colonel Scott Miller peered ahead though the canopy. At this distance, the fuel tank stack was just a tiny sunlit dot. That would change pretty fast, though. He glanced at Major Hannah Craig. “What’s our closure rate?”

She had her head down, intent at her various navigation displays. “A little over seventy feet per second, Dusty.”

He nodded. Although they were each slowing down as Earth’s gravitational pull continually tugged on them, both the fuel stack and their spaceplane were still headed toward the moon at relatively high speed. What mattered now was how much faster their spaceplane was moving than the object they were chasing. Running the math, their speed differential was just around fifty miles per hour, which meant they’d overtake the fuel stack in roughly ten minutes.

Slowly, they crept up on the fuel stack. As they drew closer, it took on added shape and definition. Through their zoomed-in forward cameras, it was clearly visible as a pair of cylindrical fuel tanks slotted together inside an open metal framework. The twin flexible refueling booms were plainly visible — latched alongside their corresponding tanks.

“Uh-oh,” Craig muttered.

“Something wrong?”

“Take a closer look,” she told him. “That fuel stack is rotating. Not very fast, but it’s definitely spinning around its long axis.”

Suddenly, Miller saw what she meant. They were close enough now to see that the whole assembly was rotating as it flew onward through space. That was a big problem. Even if they matched velocities with the fuel stack, refueling would be impossible unless they also matched its precise rotation. Otherwise, either of those twin refueling booms would only wind up ripping out of their spaceplane’s slipway and fuel receptacle as the stack spun away from them. And if that happened while they were transferring highly combustible borohydrogen metaoxide, the whole damned thing could blow up. “Well… shit,” he grumbled.

Craig nodded. “It must have happened when the Falcon Heavy second stage jettisoned. If one of the latches hung for just a millisecond too long, it’d impart that kind of rotation.”

“I can probably match the spin by using our thrusters,” Miller thought out loud. Doing so meant putting the S-29 into a very tight orbit around the slowly rotating fuel stack assembly. Accomplishing that without causing a collision between the two spacecraft would require multiple short thruster bursts, precise piloting, and some luck.

“Yeah, but establishing that kind of orbit and then holding it long enough to refuel will cost us a chunk of our hydrazine reserves,” she warned, running a quick computer projection of the maneuver. “Looks like somewhere around ten or fifteen percent.”

Miller frowned. Ten or fifteen percent thruster fuel consumption didn’t sound like much… except that they would need practically every available drop of their hydrazine for evasive maneuvering during their planned reconnaissance passes over the Sino-Russian base. “Well, that tears it,” he said quietly. He shook his head. “I guess we’re going to have to abort this refueling rendezvous after all.”

And without enough main engine fuel to make a lunar orbit insertion burn, they’d only get one fast pass across the far side of the moon before using its gravity to sling them back to Earth.

“Maybe not,” Craig said abruptly. Her fingers flew across her multifunction displays. Radio signals crossed the steadily narrowing gap between their S-29 and the fuel stack. New menus blossomed on her screens. She now had remote control over the twin refueling booms.

“You have a plan?” Miller asked.

“Yep.”

Trusting that his copilot knew what she was doing, he swung the spaceplane around so that its five main rocket motors were pointing back against their direction of travel. He inched the throttles forward slightly, igniting a quick, low-powered burn to shed fifty miles per hour of relative speed. Their thrusters could have done the same job, but, tactically speaking, right now hydrazine was more precious than JP-8 and BOHM.

“Contact now at nine o’clock. Zero relative velocity,” the S-29’s computer intoned. “Range fifty yards.”

Looking out the left side of the cockpit, Miller saw the fuel stack’s two refueling booms unlatch. They unfolded, extending outward into space in opposite directions. Suddenly, puffs of gas showed that the tiny thrusters on each boom end were firing almost continuously… working to counteract the fuel stack’s spin. Almost imperceptibly, the rate of rotation slowed… and then… stopped.

With a sigh of relief, Craig lifted her fingertips off her multifunction displays. She turned toward Miller with shining eyes. “Ready to proceed with refueling, Dusty.”

He shook his head in admiration. “That was nice work, Major. And damned quick thinking.”

Her cheeks dimpled slightly. “All in a day’s work for an honest-to-God space fighter pilot, sir.”

From that point on, their deep-space refueling operation was almost routine. A couple of quick thruster pulses brought the S-29 close enough for the two refueling booms to make contact with its receptacle. Then, one after the other, guided and controlled by Craig, the booms connected — transferring thousands of pounds of BOHM and jet fuel into their tanks.

When they were finished, another short main engine burn took them on out ahead of the now-empty fuel assembly. With their spaceplane’s tanks topped up, Scott Miller and Hannah Craig now had plenty of gas left for a lunar orbit insertion burn… and their return trip to Earth.

Colonel Tian Fan studied the most recent radar images transmitted from the Russian Kondor-L satellite. They showed the American S-29 spaceplane conducting a deep-space rendezvous with what Earth-based intelligence analysts believed was a collection of fuel tanks launched at almost the same time.

Beside him, Kirill Lavrentyev was looking at the same pictures. “An impressive demonstration,” the Russian cosmonaut commented. His once-crisp flight suit was grimy, streaked with smudges of moondust. No matter how hard they tried to wipe down their space suits and boots in the habitat module’s air locks, every EVA tracked in more and more of the clingy, finely ground dust — which had been repeatedly pulverized by billions of years of meteor and asteroid impacts. A faint, acrid smell like that of burnt gunpowder hung in the air. “I wouldn’t have thought refueling a spacecraft so far from Earth was possible.”

“Our adversaries seem determined to add to their list of firsts,” Tian agreed sourly. “This one makes them even more dangerous. With extra fuel aboard, that spaceplane can go into orbit and conduct multiple passes over this base.”

Lavrentyev shrugged. “It won’t matter. Our plasma rail gun will destroy the S-29 in its first orbit.” Tiredly, he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. It came away covered in sweat and ground-in dirt. His nose wrinkled as he stood up. “Gah. I need a wash.”

Tian nodded sympathetically. Although showers were theoretically possible in the moon’s one-sixth gravity, the need to ration their scarce water meant washing involved either disposable wipes or barely moistened cloths. Neither was a particularly effective means of getting clean.

He watched the burly Russian pass through the curtain-draped door separating the small command center from the rest of the habitat. Then he turned back to the radar images on his computer screen with a thoughtful frown. The taikonaut understood his counterpart’s need to express absolute confidence in Russia’s advanced energy weapon. But it wasn’t a confidence he shared. The evasive maneuvers developed by the Americans during their war games around Eagle Station might give that S-29 spaceplane a good chance to close within striking range before it was destroyed. With that in mind, it would be wise to take his own precautions.

Tian turned toward the command center’s other occupant. Captain Shan Jinai was the officer on duty, tasked with monitoring their communications gear and sensor data from the Kondor radar satellite. “I have some work for you, Captain.”

“Yes, sir?” the younger man said.

“When your shift is finished, I need you to make another EVA,” Tian told him. “I want your Chang’e-Thirteen lander prepped for a possible rapid launch.”

Shan’s eyebrows rose in bewilderment. “But, Colonel, the next Pilgrim mission isn’t scheduled to arrive for three months.” Pilgrim 5 was set to bring two more crewmen to Korolev — replacing Major Liu and Captain Yanin, who would be returning to Earth aboard the Federation spacecraft after spending more than six months on the moon.

“I’m well aware of that, Shan,” Tian said with a touch of iron in his voice. “I have another mission in mind for Chang’e-Thirteen.”

“Yes, sir,” the other man acknowledged hurriedly.

“In the meantime, put me in touch with Beijing Flight Control,” Tian ordered. “I need to speak with General Chen Haifeng as soon as possible.”

Twenty minutes later, he saw the commander of China’s Strategic Support Force appear on his monitor. “What is it, Colonel?” Chen asked.

“I need our best computer experts to make certain modifications to Chang’e-Thirteen’s navigation, rendezvous, and docking programs.”

Now it was Chen’s turn to look puzzled. “What sort of modifications?”

Carefully, Tian explained what he needed and why. When he finished, the general let his breath out in a soft whistle. He nodded slowly. “Very well, I understand. I’ll put our people to work on the coding at once.” His expression was deadly serious. “But I hope you will never need to put your plan into action.”

“So do I,” Tian assured him earnestly.