In Moscow, everyone was quiet at their consoles. Chelomei looked around, glowering. There’d been no time for confirmation that the cannon had fired, and the next communications ship was still 40 minutes away, over the South Pacific.
Questions tore at him. Had he made the right call? The Americans had been the aggressor! It had been they who had deliberately intercepted his ship, and they had put an astronaut outside carrying bolt cutters, irrefutable proof of destructive intent.
Chelomei clenched his jaw. All he’d done was react defensively, a course of action that had been cleared in advance. He’d been right to decide to arm Almaz. He’d known just what a valuable asset it was, and that it might come under attack. Events had now proven him correct.
He glanced at the timer on the front screen: 38 minutes until they could recontact Almaz and its crew. A little over half an hour to organize his thoughts, preparing for the inevitable avalanche of questions.
He began preparing his answers. The United States of America had attacked the Soviet Union in space. It was a purposeful, dangerous new escalation of the Cold War. Only his forethought had allowed them to be ready, and to respond. He nodded to himself. He was in the right and had acted as a soldier should.
Let them ask questions.
But first he had to talk to the crew to find out the result of his orders. Then everyone would be able to see how Almaz, how he, had helped change the course of Soviet history in space.
“What’s going on?” Michael yelled. Almaz had spun faster than he could keep up and was now starting to roll. He’d pulsed his thrusters to keep clear, and was eyeing the countdown clock to the TLI burn that would take them towards the Moon.
“Bastards fired a gun at us!” Chad hissed, then choked as he suppressed another wave of nausea.
“They what?” Michael hurriedly rescanned his gauges. “I don’t think they hit anything vital. All temps and pressures look normal.” He rechecked the timer. “We have to get that hatch closed. Luke, are you in?”
“Almost,” Chad grunted.
Michael focused on the small DSKY screen, double-checking the numbers as he maneuvered to the right orientation for the Trans-Lunar burn. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chad pull Luke into the center of the capsule and then reach past him to close the hatch.
“No time for cabin repress now, guys,” Michael warned. “As soon as you get the hatch secured, hang on. We’re almost at burn time. Chad, I need your eyes on the gauges with me.”
Chad exhaled heavily as he worked to crank the hatch handle. “How soon do we get comms back?”
Michael awkwardly peeled his flight plan checklist off the Velcro, his glove still inflated against the vacuum in the cabin. “We’ll pick up South Africa one minute into the burn. Unlikely they’ll hear us, though.”
Chad grunted an acknowledgment and eased himself across into the right-hand seat.
Michael’s eyes flicked from instrument to instrument like a hawk watching potential prey. “Ignition in forty-five seconds. Attitude looks good, temps and pressures normal.”
Chad was doing the same on the other side of the cockpit. “I see good attitude, 180, 312, 0,” he said, sounding hoarse but much more in control. “I confirm a burn of 10,359.6 feet per second, duration 5:51.” He paused. “Ullage settling.”
“TIG in ten seconds.” Michael glanced to his right. Luke was floating by the window, where he could see out. “Luke, hang tight,” he called and locked his gaze back onto the gauges.
“Three, two, one, here we go!”
The single J-2 rocket engine burst back into life, to push them this time all the way up to escape velocity—fast enough to leave Earth orbit and coast to the Moon.
“Steer, baby, steer,” Michael muttered. Pushed back into his seat, he could feel the guidance system adjusting the motor’s exhaust direction, counteracting the fuel sloshing in the tanks.
“Tank pressures look good,” Chad said. “No comms yet.” Sunlight was flaring in the window as they approached sunset over the Central African coast.
Michael glanced back at Luke. “Good riddance to Almaz! Can you see it in the rear-view mirror?”
Luke, pressed by the acceleration into the rear wall of Pursuit, didn’t answer.
“Luke, what went on out there? It sounded like a frickin’ rodeo!”
Still no answer.
Both Chad and Michael twisted their suits to look at Luke. Michael reached to grab one of his feet and tried to pull him forward with one hand, against the push of the engines. “His suit feels soft!” he exclaimed in alarm.