He turned and threw some panel switches, and suddenly she could hear him breathing again.
“Houston, Bulldog, we’re back inside, hooked up to the ship.” He stared at her. “Not sure what happened with my suit comms, but we got everything done outside and are putting things away in here now. Both of us in good shape, ready for the rest period before we head up to dock with Pursuit.”
Kaz nodded and then summarized, waiting as each sentence got translated. “The team here congratulates the two of you and thanks you for your teamwork during your historic moonwalk. The plan now is for a well-deserved eight hours sleep, with liftoff to redock tomorrow at 11:54 Houston time. Major Gromova, we have an interpreter here at all times, so call if you have any questions.”
Svetlana looked at the watch on her suit, adding the nine hours for Moscow. “Ponyala, spaciba bolshoi.” Copy, thanks very much.
She was planning ahead as she watched the astronaut taking off his helmet, ticking off the key items in her mind. Find the rock he’d taken from Lunokhod. Get launched, dock, fire the engine to head home and make it through re-entry. And somehow get herself and the rock back to Russia.
Transit time back to Earth would be three days—lots of opportunity to sort out a plan.
For now, though, she was locked inside this small place with a man she couldn’t trust. A man she’d fired her gun at twice, and who’d latched the door with her outside.
First step was to survive this night, on the surface of the Moon.
51
Bulldog
“Help me,” Chad said. He pointed at the buckles on the backpack straps. He’d wedged himself into the aft of the cabin, the weight of the backpack supported on the engine cover.
She looked at the attachments, reached in and popped them free. He stepped clear, flipped the backpack around and peeled back the thermal covering to survey the damage the bullet had caused.
A small neat hole had been punched on the left side where the round had entered the oxygen tank. On the opposing side, the metal had torn outwards with the escaping pressure, leaving an oval opening and sharp edges. Broken bits of plastic fell from the shattered circuit board and battery casing, tumbling slowly to the floor of the LM.
He raised his gaze to meet Svetlana’s, shaking his head slightly.
“Bad girl.”
He stuffed the backpack down beside the engine mount and turned to release the clips on hers, stowing it as well. He moved to the front of the cabin and connected black tubing to a connector on his suit. He had a condom-like cuff on his penis, and his urine had been collecting in a bag inside the suit all day. He turned a valve, and it was sucked out by partial vacuum into a LM storage tank.
He knew Svetlana was wearing a diaper under her suit. He looked at her as his urine transferred. “You can just keep pissing yourself,” he said.
She replied rapidly in her native tongue. “I know you speak Russian. Why are you prattling on to me in English? It’s stupid!”
He made an exaggerated face of not understanding. “Russia didn’t get you to the Moon, toots. America did.” He pointed to himself. “I did.”
Svetlana exhaled loudly, watching as he turned to organize the stowage. He handed her a food packet and squirted water into his mouth from the dispensing gun. She realized she was hungry and stood chewing on the dried food as he unpacked the hammocks, bumping her out of the way, clipping them into place for the night.
The sample container where she’d stowed the bags of rocks and dust had been empty when she’d started; the Lunokhod rock hadn’t been in it. There was a second hard-sided case on the aft shelf; it must be in there. She decided to just ask.
“Where did you stow the rock that Russia asked for?”
He ignored her.
“I know they have your brother in Moscow. And the Americans don’t know about him, or the rock. Or that you speak Russian. Or that Moscow is talking to us secretly.”
He kept his back to her.
“Stop!” she commanded in English, loudly. He turned and looked at her, his eyebrows exaggeratedly up. She continued in Russian. “You need me to keep your secrets. To get that rock to Russia, where it belongs.” She suddenly realized the leverage she had, and the extra danger it put her in.
He nodded and replied, in English, “That puts you in a tough spot, doesn’t it, sweet cheeks. You need me to get you home, and I’m the only one who actually has the whole picture.”
A small smile curled the corners of his lips as he leaned his face towards hers and said one word, distinctly, in Russian. “Ostorozhna.”