Michael stopped typing to respond. “Copy, Kaz, I’ll get at it after the correction burn.” Boring task, but an important one. Their capsule was going to hit the top of the Earth’s atmosphere going just under 25,000 miles per hour, and had to fly itself through the thickening air, using friction to slow down. The only way to steer was to have the center of mass offset a foot or two so the capsule flew slightly crooked; that gave it a little bit of lift. By rolling the capsule left and right, the autopilot would be able to control where that lift was pointed and how fast they fell, which would determine how much g they pulled and where exactly they would splash down. If the computers failed, there was a backup system to manually roll the ship using just time and g-load. But it was all dependent on knowing where the crew had stowed the added weight of the moonrocks.
After the burn was complete, Michael dug around under the seats, opening lockers one by one. He was being methodical. The flight home was long. There was no sense rushing.
“Okay, Kaz, in locker A2 we’ve got”—he pulled the items out individually—“two sample return boxes and several bags.” He hooked his toes under footloops to brace his body, and swung the first box left and right, estimating the mass by how much it resisted his motion and twisted his upper body. “My guess is the furthest forward-stowed box weighs fifty or sixty pounds.” Not exact, but the best he could do.
The scientists were also interested in the characteristics of what the crew was bringing home. Per their request, Michael unclipped a thick silver tube from its bracket on a side panel, and twisted the upper section to turn it on. It resembled a foot-long flashlight, but in fact was a radiation--survey meter. He held the protruding rounded end close to the sample box and peered closely at the device’s dial.
“Houston, the Geiger counter shows just background radiation levels.” He checked each sample as he went, confirming what he’d been briefed to expect. The Moon’s surface had been absorbing cosmic rays for billions of years, and they’d anticipated that it would have slightly elevated readings compared to Earth.
Svetlana saw that Michael’s hands were full with multiple boxes and the sensor, and floated over.
“Pomotch?” she asked. Can I help? She snagged a bag that was floating free and held it for him to check for radioactivity.
Michael looked up in happy surprise. “Thanks!” Inventory was easier with two.
Feigning disinterest, Chad kept his head tilted towards his checklist while closely watching what they were doing out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t want to highlight where he’d hidden the rock, and was confident that Michael’s inventory would miss it. But he had a plan, just in case.
In Moscow, Chelomei was listening to the transmissions to Houston with rising concern. Their intelligence hadn’t included the fact that the Americans had a portable radiation detector on board. He’d deliberately not told Miller and Gromova that the rock was radioactive when he’d ordered them to retrieve it, knowing they might overreact to having it inside their ship; now there was sudden, grave risk that the third crewmember, Esdale, would discover it and tell Houston.
His options were limited. If he transmitted a warning, Esdale would hear his voice—unacceptable. And even if he did, what could he say?
He pictured the sequence of possible events at splashdown, evaluating the different American actions if they knew it was on board. Slowly, his worry subsided. Their plan was robust enough.
Al Shepard walked down two levels from his management console in the rear of Mission Control and grabbed an empty seat between CAPCOM and SURGEON. He waved Kaz and JW closer.
“You two ready to go to Hawaii tomorrow?”
They nodded. “What time’s the C-141 leave?” JW asked.
“Wheels up at six a.m. I’ll be at Ellington by five thirty.”
“Ouch,” Kaz said.
Al nodded. “Yeah, I hear you. I’m planning to mostly sleep en route, plus we get four extra hours with the time difference. We’ll land at Hickam around ten a.m. local, and then a Navy helo will take us out to the New Orleans.”
“Any surprise passengers coming from DC?” Kaz asked.
“Yeah. The Soviets are insisting they need a rep at splashdown to greet the cosmonaut, so they’re sending an attaché from their consular staff.” Al rolled his eyes. “I promised the Joint Chiefs we’ll take good care of him, but Bob Carius, the skipper of the New Orleans, is gonna be just thrilled to have a spy on board.”