“I’ll make some fresh coffee.”
Ignoring the chatter, Svetlana was looking at the strange battered roughness of the Moon’s surface falling away below them. As they accelerated towards the sunset, the shadows got longer, exaggerating the jagged peaks and smooth craters beneath her. I’m like a fly over a skull, she thought, trying to imprint the image into her memory. She twisted and looked up at Earth, the improbable blue orb suspended as if by magic in the blackness.
Her spaceflight was ending. She’d launched expecting to be on Almaz for months, yet now she’d be back in three days. A sudden pang of loss for her crewmate, Andrei, rushed through her. To command that spaceflight had been his life’s dream.
She glanced at Chad, his eyes focused on the engine parameters and navigation instruments.
One thing at a time. First, they needed to get docked.
53
Moscow
Father Ilarion was troubled. His expectations for speaking with and honoring his brother, Yuri, had been so high, yet the day had been so strange. They’d gotten back to their quarters very late, and as he wearily rose for Matins, he had much to think on. And pray over.
Alexander was quieter than normal when he brought him breakfast. Ilarion asked if they would speak with Yuri again, and the interpreter said he didn’t know, but that they needed to spend a few more days in Moscow, depending on how the space mission went.
“But why, Sascha?”
Alexander looked at the cleric. His kind face was creased with uncertainty, his discomfort with the disruption of his normal life evident in the deep cleft between his eyebrows. He decided the best course was to reassure.
“We have traveled so far to be here, Father. Director Chelomei thinks your presence could be very important for Yuri if he experiences any troubles during the remainder of the flight. He has requested that we stay for the sake of the mission.”
Ilarion’s face cleared. If he could help, he had purpose. Meanwhile, he could keep Yuri and his crewmates’ success foremost in his prayers. He nodded slowly as he picked up the dry toast.
Bowing slightly, Alexander excused himself and stepped into the corridor, closing the door. There he stood up straight and took a deep breath. Chelomei had made it plain that he still needed the lever of threat against the cleric to get the American astronaut to do what was required.
He decided he needed to talk to his handler at Lubyanka to update him on the importance of his influence on what was happening on the Moon, and for the American’s return. This was his chance to be recognized by the KGB for his work. His longtime loyalty and cleverness.
Alexander liked Father Ilarion. He hoped nothing bad would happen to him here. But this was his chance.
“Okay, Michael, I’m stopped, a hundred feet away. You’re cleared to give Pursuit a spin.”
“Copy, Chad, in work.”
Michael had watched as Bulldog approached, a metallic insect rising from the surface of the Moon. He moved Pursuit’s hand controller to the side, gently rolling the ship like it was on a slow-motion barbecue spit. That would give Chad a chance to inspect the exterior for any micrometeorite damage before they fired the engine and headed across open space back towards Earth.
Svetlana watched Pursuit turn in front of them: the pointed, wide cone of the capsule at the front, the squatty silver cylinder of the main body, and the fat brown curve of the engine’s exhaust nozzle at the rear. Strannaya reeba. What a strange fish.
“Looks clean as a whistle, Michael. Just hold her there, and I’ll come in and dock.”
“Good to hear.” Michael nulled rates and re-engaged the autopilot to hold attitude. “You’re cleared in.”
Chad smiled as he began moving Bulldog’s controls. There was no one anywhere doing what he was doing now—docking his spaceship in orbit around the Moon. He pushed forward, closing the gap between the two vehicles.
Svetlana watched, appreciating the astronaut’s ability, deeply dis-liking the man. She evaluated as he corrected the small misalignments, predicting his inputs, comparing them to what she would do.
On the outside of Bulldog, above her head, there was a cone-shaped indentation. Sticking out of Pursuit was an extended probe on a tripod; Chad was staring at a visual target to align the two. She heard Mikhail on the radio and recognized the words for numbers.
“Twenty-five feet, Chad.”
“Copy.”
“Twenty feet, rates look good.”
“Agreed.”
Pursuit grew in the LM’s window like a flower blossoming as they neared.
“Ten feet, good alignment.”