JW looked at Kaz and raised his eyebrows. Kaz shrugged in agreement. Not serious enough to be alarming, and not enough info to respond in any way.
Gene decided. “Thanks, Doc. Keep watching them closely, especially the cosmonaut. Once they head outside, we need to be ready to order her back in if you don’t like what you see. I don’t want either of them anywhere near the cooling limits of the suit.”
45
Bulldog
Having Luke’s corpse in the way made their moonwalk suit-up awkward. As Chad retrieved the needed items, one by one, talking with Houston, it felt like he had to move the bulky, suited body every time. But at least, in one-sixth gravity, it was light.
Throughout, he was aware of Svetlana watching him, her face intense and wary, right beside him in the tiny space. He occasionally handed her an item and pantomimed what to do with it—which pocket it went into or how it mounted on her suit.
“Obyasni po russki!” she demanded. Explain in Russian!
He ignored her. She could figure it out, and no way was he admitting anything that gave her an advantage. Control is everything.
When he got to tool prep, he paused, considering. She’d seen Luke with the bolt cutters at Almaz, and she knew he’d landed Bulldog next to the Soviet rover on purpose. No doubt she’d already put two and two together, and might do something stupid. He decided to leave the cutters stowed until he figured out a way to get them outside without alerting her.
Chad meticulously checked their outsized backpacks. On the moonwalk all their life support would be contained in them, with no link to the mother ship. When he finished, he got her to assist him with donning his, and then he helped her with hers.
“Houston, we’re putting the PLSSes on, and I’m about to start connecting the plumbing, if you can talk me through the procedures.” He pronounced it “plisses”—the prosaically named Portable Life Support System.
“Will do, Chad. We’re with you on page 2-6. Let’s start with the O2 hoses.” As Kaz read the checklist, Chad confirmed each connection and double-checked function.
The interpreter’s voice came through in Russian. “Svetlana, how do you hear Houston?”
Chad pressed her mic button so she could reply. “I hear you well, how me?”
“Houston hears you well. Let us know if you have questions.”
Hearing the Russian words finally broke Svetlana’s composure. She grabbed Chad’s shoulder and turned him so they were face to face. “This is stupid! Your brother said your name is Yuri! You speak Russian. Why are you pretending you don’t?” Her Russian was rapid fire as she spit out the words.
Chad shrugged out from under her grip and squinted at her in apparent incomprehension. “What are you babbling about, toots?” He pointed to the US flag on her shoulder. “This is an American ship. A-mer-i-can.” He pronounced each syllable. “Speak English!”
She exhaled in frustration. She was certain he’d said some Russian words to her and, more importantly, that he had understood Chelomei and the person Chelomei said was his brother. She took several deep breaths, calming herself, puzzling it out. Chad was ignoring it, but Chelomei must have something on him, and had chosen his moment carefully for leverage and so their interchange would stay a secret. Also, she realized, knowing that Chad spoke Russian might work to her advantage.
I’ll play this game, she resolved. For now.
Chad was holding her helmet up, motioning that it was time to put it on. She guided it into place, the mechanism making a loud click as it locked into the suit’s neck ring. Chad attached the visor assembly to it, and then donned his own. He handed gloves to her, and she put them on.
He moved switches on Bulldog’s control panel and on the suits, and she felt cooling water flowing and heard the steady hiss of continuous communication, listening to the conversation between Chad and Houston in her helmet.
Chad grabbed her arm to check that her gloves were attached properly, and then reached for more switches. She felt air moving in the suit as it pressurized, and cleared her ears. Feels just like our suits.
Kaz’s voice came into their headsets, verifying that the specialists in Houston who had been watching the suit data had verified no leaks. “Chad, both suits look tight at 3.8 psi delta.”
Chad tugged on Svetlana’s sleeve again and pointed to the pressure gauge on her wrist, nodding and holding up three fingers, then eight. “Roger, Kaz, both look steady here.”
“Bulldog, you’ll be glad to know you are GO for depress.” Permission to vent the ship’s oxygen out into the vacuum of space, in final preparation for the moonwalk.