Eagle Station

Forty-Three

From his workstation in the improvised Sky Masters control center, Brad McLanahan listened closely to the radioed transmissions between Colonel Miller and Major Craig and Space Force headquarters out at Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado. Despite the two hundred and fifty thousand miles between them, there was remarkably little electromagnetic interference. Fortunately, the sun was in a quiet phase.

“Yes, sir, we are down to about forty-five percent of our hydrazine,” he heard Miller tell General Kelleher. “But since we’re going to come in low this time, we won’t need to run the evasion program until just before we pop up to make our attack run. So we should have a decent margin. The same goes for our main engine fuel reserves.”

As the Space Force pilot continued outlining their attack plan, pictures of the Sino-Russian base taken by the S-29’s sensors during its first pass scrolled across the control center’s wall screens. Through its communications array, the spaceplane’s powerful computers were automatically transferring vast amounts of data back to Earth.

“Very well, Colonel,” Kelleher said. “You and Major Craig have a green light to proceed.”

Brad smiled dryly. He understood the general’s desire to put his seal of approval on the Shadow crew’s upcoming attack. But that didn’t alter the fact that Kelleher’s permission was completely redundant. If Dusty Miller and Hannah Craig had planned to head home right after their first pass against the Sino-Russian base, they would have made a transearth injection burn to boost out of lunar orbit while they were still around on the far side of the moon. Since they hadn’t done that, they were already committed to a second pass — no matter what anyone on back on Earth said or thought about the idea.

“Understood, sir,” Miller radioed. “We’ll recontact you before loss of signal. Bravo One out.”

Slowly, Brad sat back. His eyes were hooded.

“What do you think?” Nadia asked carefully.

“It’s a solid concept,” Brad said. “In fact, it’s exactly what I’d do if I were the one flying that bird…” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

“But?” she prompted.

He sighed. “It’s just that, with those two satellites hovering overhead at the Lagrange point, the Russians and Chinese can see exactly what our guys are doing, along every part of their orbit.”

“And the enemy always gets a vote,” Nadia realized.

Brad nodded somberly. “Always.”

In silence, Colonel Tian Fan studied the tracking information supplied by Russia’s Kondor-L radar satellite. It confirmed that the American spaceplane had altered its orbit. The S-29 was coming around the moon much lower this time, less than twenty thousand meters above the surface. At that altitude, its weapons laser would already be in range by the time their own plasma rail gun could spot them and open fire.

Briefly, he closed his eyes. It didn’t help. He couldn’t shake the image of that black-winged spacecraft as it streaked toward Korolev Base at close to six thousand kilometers per hour — coming on like the avenging angel of death so feared by some primitive believers. Resolutely, he forced himself to be calm. Death was simply an end, not a beginning.

Tian opened his eyes again and looked over at Kirill Lavrentyev. “These Americans are not fools,” he said quietly. “Their next attack stands every chance of success.”

Grimly, the Russian nodded. His broad face was pale beneath its gray-black streaks of moondust. The failure of his country’s most advanced weapon in its first serious combat on the lunar surface was humiliating.

“Then we must adopt the tactics I have devised,” Tian said flatly. Using both hands, he donned his EVA helmet and locked it into place on his space suit’s neck ring. “We have no alternatives left.”

In answer, Lavrentyev clasped Tian’s gloved hand. “I wish it were not so, my friend.” Then he stepped back and saluted briskly. Silently, Captain Yanin and Major Liu stood up from their own stations and saluted, too.

With a tight smile, Tian returned their salutes. Then he closed his visor, turned awkwardly, and pushed through the curtain separating the command center from the rest of the habitat module. A narrow corridor led to the nearest air lock. He clambered inside and dogged the hatch shut. Then he activated a vacuum pump. It whirred silently, pulling all the oxygen out of the air lock.

Minutes later, he was out on the lunar surface. “Tian to Korolev Base,” he radioed. “Status check.”

“Korolev here,” Liu replied. “No observed change in the S-29’s altitude or orbital inclination. Estimated time to hostile engagement is now twenty minutes.”

He had no more time to waste, Tian realized. Turning away from the habitat module that had been his home for weeks, he bounded fast toward the waiting Chang’e-13 lander. Even in his heavy EVA suit, ascending its short ladder was easy in the moon’s one-sixth gravity.

Once inside the lander’s tight confines, he closed the hatch. Quick key presses brought its control systems to life and started the flow of stored oxygen to pressurize the cabin. Lights flickered on across Chang’e-13’s multifunction displays. Environmental system indicators turned green.

Satisfied, Tian unlatched his helmet visor and stripped off his bulky gloves. For this task, he wanted to be able to feel the flight controls with his own hands. He strapped himself in position.

“Korolev Base, this is Chang’e-Thirteen,” he radioed. “Ready to depart.”

“Fly well, Chang’e-Thirteen,” Liu replied.

Swiftly, Tian checked the rows of status lights on his displays. Everything was ready. He entered a code into the flight program computer. An acknowledgment flashed onto his screen: manual control enabled. automated launch sequence activated.

Tian put his hands back on the two controllers at his command pilot’s station, waiting for the rocket motor’s ignition. Seconds later, explosive bolts detonated and the engine lit. Cut free from its four-legged lower half, Chang’e-13’s ascent stage climbed into the black, starlit sky.

Not far above the surface, he reduced the ascent engine’s thrust and triggered a succession of attitude control thrusters. Obeying his command inputs, the lander pitched over ninety degrees. Soundlessly, Chang’e-13 flew out over the crater rim and down along Engel’gardt’s long, eastern slope — slanting east-southeast at high speed across a desolate plain pockmarked by smaller hollows.

“We’re crossing the northwestern rim of Vavilov crater,” Craig reported. “That puts us four hundred and fifteen miles out from the primary target. We’ll be in range of the enemy’s plasma rail gun in less than two minutes.”

With the S-29 rolled upside down again, Miller looked “up” through the cockpit canopy at the relatively sharp edges of the crater they were flying over. It was new, by the standards of the moon — probably no more than a few hundred million years old. Much of the ring-walled, four-mile-deep depression overlaid the remains of an older, far more eroded crater dating back billions of years. Solid black, impenetrable shadows stretched westward across Vavilov’s terraced floor. “Weapons status?” he asked.

“All systems are green,” she assured him. “Our attack program is ready to run.” Once they popped up into view of the Sino-Russian base, a single command would set their orchestrated attack in motion — with the S-29B’s two-megawatt laser destroying targets according to a preselected sequence, starting with the plasma gun and its fire control radars and ending with the enemy’s habitat module. The gas dynamic laser had enough fuel to fire up to twenty five-second bursts, more than enough to reduce the enemy base to ruins.

“Solid copy on that,” Miller said in satisfaction. He kept his eyes riveted on his HUD. They were closing in on their chosen attack position at more than a mile per second. The moment they reached it, he planned to fire the spaceplane’s thrusters and “pop” them up several thousand feet — just high enough to bring them over the visual horizon of the Russian plasma gun. “Stand by.”

Deep within the dark shadows cast by the crater’s steep west wall, a small spacecraft, Chang’e-13, hovered motionless. It was almost invisible to the naked eye. Tiny reaction control thrusters flared around its boxy fuselage — holding it aloft against the pull of the moon’s gravity.

Inside the lunar lander’s cramped cabin, Tian watched his thruster fuel readouts closely. The numbers were decreasing fast. His mouth tightened. The Chang’e’s fuel reserves wouldn’t last much longer. At most, he would be able to maintain this position only for another minute or so.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.

Drawn by the insistent alarm, his eyes flicked to Chang’e-13’s lidar system display. He’d set its low-powered navigation lasers to continuous pulse — but instead of scanning the rough crater floor six thousand meters below, they were aimed at the sky above him. And now, those reflected laser pulses painted the blurred image of a winged vehicle, the American S-29B, as it flew past high overhead.

Tian reacted instantly. His right hand stabbed at a touch-screen display, activating the lander’s hastily modified docking and rendezvous program. Using the control in his left hand, he rotated the spacecraft — tilting it to aim at the fast-moving enemy spaceplane. With a muted whummp, Chang’e-13’s ascent rocket motor reignited at full power. Now guided by the navigation lasers locked on the S-29, the Chinese lunar lander streaked higher, accelerating rapidly.

“Warning, warning. Low-power laser impacts on the aft fuselage,” the spaceplane’s computer said suddenly. “New warning. Thermal detection at six o’clock low. Range close. Continuous low-power laser impacts.”

Miller’s eyes widened in surprise. “What the hell—?” Instinctively, he fired thrusters and spun the S-29 through a half circle, turning to face the oncoming threat. To his astonishment, he saw the gleaming white shape of another spacecraft climbing toward them out of the shadowed Vavilov crater. Brief, bright puffs of glowing gas appeared around the Chinese lander as it matched their maneuvers.

“Christ, Dusty, that guy’s a kamikaze!” Craig exclaimed.

Gritting his teeth, Miller pitched the spaceplane’s nose up and fired all five main engines, going for a hard, fast rolling climb in a desperate bid to evade their attacker. Only seconds later, the boxy Chang’e ascent stage flashed right past their cockpit, missing them by yards at most. “Zap that son of a bitch!” he ordered.

Face tight behind her helmet visor, Hannah Craig obeyed. Her fingers flew across her weapons control display. The S-29’s laser pod slewed on target and fired — hitting the lightly built Chinese spacecraft just as it swung around to make another pass at them. In a fraction of a second, the powerful, two-megawatt laser slashed through its thin metal skin. Flames jetted into space as the oxygen in its cabin ignited. And then, as its propellant tanks ruptured, the tiny craft ripped apart. In a cloud of frozen nitrogen tetroxide, torn and tattered pieces of debris spiraled downward, caught in the moon’s gravitational pull.

More than six hundred kilometers away, Captain Dmitry Yanin saw the American spaceplane appear on his radar screen. For one brief moment, as it evaded Tian’s doomed Chang’e-13, the S-29’s maneuvers were predictable. A bright red box blinked into existence onto his display. Korolev Base’s X-band fire control radar had locked on. “Target locked!” he snapped. He punched a control. “Firing!”

Half a kilometer outside the habitat module, the Russian plasma rail gun pulsed again — hurling a glowing toroid of superheated dense plasma toward the distant American spaceplane at ten thousand kilometers a second.

Hit squarely, the S-29B Shadow was knocked end-over-end — briefly engulfed by an eerie blue globe of lightning. Dusty Miller and Hannah Craig were slammed against their harnesses by the enormous impact. Searing heat flashed through the cockpit. Control boards, instrument panels, and displays all erupted in dazzling showers of sparks as they short-circuited.

Three of their five main engines cut out. But the other two, both under their right wing, kept burning as the spaceplane spun wildly through space. Lashed by uncontrolled electrical surges cascading through conduits and wiring, random thrusters triggered, sending it further out of control.

Blearily, Miller fought to lean forward against his straps. Hard, sharp jolts threw him from side to side. The cockpit was pitch dark. None of the emergency lights were working. Aw, shit, he thought.

He felt for the side of one of his dead multifunction displays and pushed the buttons set there. With their flight control computers knocked off-line or dead, their only chance was trying for a hard reset.

Nothing happened.

Through the cockpit canopy, he could see the jagged lunar surface coming up fast. Dragged downward by its two misfiring engines, the S-29 whirled around and around like an untethered kite caught in gale-force winds. Stubbornly, he tried resetting the computer again — aware that his copilot was trying the same procedure with her own control panels.

Ahead, Vavilov’s stony rim wall climbed more than four miles from the crater floor. They were plunging straight toward it at high speed. Damn, Miller realized. They were out of time, maneuvering room, and ideas. He sat back, feeling strangely calm. They’d done their best. They’d fought the good fight. And in the last seconds before impact, he felt Hannah Craig’s hand take his in the darkness and hold on tight.

Still flying at more than two thousand miles per hour, the S-29B Shadow slammed into the crater rim in a huge cloud of dust and shattered rock. And then it vanished in a brief, blinding flash of light as thousands of pounds of highly explosive fuel and oxidizer detonated.