Svetlana, looking ahead to the sunrise glowing on the Moon’s far horizon, felt a bump on her arm. The astronaut had taken his gloves off and was removing his helmet. He gestured for her to do the same. Now that undocking was done, it made sense. They could enjoy the unencumbered comfort for a while, then put them back on for landing. She watched how Chad stowed his gloves inside the helmet behind himself, bungeed to the floor, and did the same.
She stole a quick glance at his face, then stared for a moment longer when she realized he was completely focused on the instruments. He could have been any of the boys she had grown up with—the same round face, high cheekbones, deep-set eyes. Where did your family come from, American? She couldn’t recall his family name.
Chad turned suddenly, holding her gaze. He looked pointedly at the NASA comm cap on her head and Luke’s US flag on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, toots,” he said. “I won’t forget who and what you are.” She frowned, not understanding the words but not liking the tone.
Chad gave a short, derisive chuckle. “You just sit back and enjoy the ride. Watch how the best in the world do it.”
He considered slipping a Russian word in to unsettle her further, but decided against it. Cards are best kept close to the chest, he reminded himself. And he might still need the extra leverage he gained by secretly knowing what the Russians were saying.
In Mission Control, Kaz was watching the timer count down to when Pursuit and Bulldog would pop out from behind the Moon. He glanced at the flight plan: they just had the tracking update and systems checks during this pass. When Bulldog went back behind the Moon, it would fire its engine to start descent. He read the expected time: touchdown at 11:17 a.m. Central. Lunchtime in Washington, 8:17 p.m. in Moscow. The Soviets would have to stay up late to talk to their cosmonaut on the surface.
It was time. “Apollo 18, Houston here, you should be seeing your home planet again now. How do you hear us?”
Michael answered first. “Pursuit has you loud and clear, Kaz. Happy to report we had a good undock.”
“Bulldog has you five by five, Houston.” Five out of five for strength of signal, and also for clarity of voice, Chad’s standard military assessment of radio communications.
“We have you both the same. You’ll be over the landing site in sixteen minutes if you want to have a good look, and Bulldog, we’re ready to read you your DOI data.” DOI was Descent Orbit Insertion—the engine burn that would lower Bulldog from 60 miles above the surface down to 6, setting up for the final descent.
Chad unclipped his checklist from the instrument panel and grabbed the pencil that floated with it, tethered by a string.
“Bulldog’s ready to copy.”
Kaz carefully read the long sequence of numbers specifying time of engine firing, vehicle orientation, plus abort information. The guidance engineers in Mission Control listened critically to Chad’s response, and quickly responded when he finished. “FLIGHT, CONTROL, good readback.”
Gene Kranz raised his thumb at Kaz.
“Good readback, Bulldog. We’d like to do a comm check with the cosmonaut, when you’re ready.”
Chad glanced at her. “She’s listening.”
Kaz nodded to the interpreter and began. “Senior Lieutenant Gromova, this is Houston, how do you read?”
Svetlana’s head came up as she heard the Russian in her headset. Chad showed her the switch to throw on her control panel.
“Slishu vam yasna,” she responded.
Kaz nodded at the translation. “Svetlana, we hear you clearly as well. We have the interpreter standing by at all times if you have questions. And once you’re out on the surface, we’ll be patching you through to Moscow for an official call of congratulations.”
She listened to the interpreter. “Ponyala,” she answered. “Understood.” She’d been a pilot her entire adult life and didn’t like chattiness on the radio. Or in normal conversation, for that matter.
Chad had been looking at her as she spoke. “What an ugly language,” he said, shaking his head.
She squinted, uncertain what he disapproved of. “Shto?”
He snorted and turned away. Out his window he was starting to see the familiar landmarks leading up to the landing site they’d trained for. There was a grid painted on the layers of the tempered glass so he could visually cross-check with what the computer was telling him. He lined up his head with the references and watched the craters roll past at nearly a mile per second.
“Houston, Bulldog, I’m seeing the reference craters on the horizon. Looks a lot like the sim.”