Svetlana held out her helmet. Chad took it and guided it over Luke’s head, nestling it into its seal. There was an obvious over-center latch sticking out the side, and he lifted and clicked it into place, tugging and twisting on the helmet to check it was secure.
He looked up at her. “Gloves?” He flexed his fingers to demonstrate. She retrieved them from under the seat, and he slid them onto Luke’s limp hands and locked the mechanism.
Michael had been trying to figure out how the air seal at the front of the suit worked. “I see that we need to pinch this internal body balloon closed, but what holds it?”
“Vapross?” Svetlana asked.
“Yeah, how do you Russians do this?”
She floated across and quickly gathered the loose rubber into successive folds with one hand, squeezing excess air from the suit with the other. Two rubber ties floated free, and with practiced motions she tightly wound them around the folds, tucking the bulbous end of each tie into a matching eyelet. She tucked the double-sealed balloon end inside the fabric of the suit, next to Luke’s body.
Michael nodded, impressed. “Simple design.” He pulled the outer fabric covering closed and began crisscrossing the laces tightly all the way up the torso.
Chad was looking at the umbilical connections, poking with his finger. “Let’s hope these one-way valves keep Luke airtight.”
Svetlana had chosen her moment. While the commander had been down the tunnel and Mikhail had his back turned, she’d grabbed the weapon from her bundled suit and tucked it flush against the backpack. She’d strapped it into place, muffled inside the thermal insulation cloth to avoid the clink of metal on metal. As she replaced the pack under the seat, she double-checked that the weapon was concealed.
Lucha sinitsa ve rookak chem zhuravel ve nyeba. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but a bird in hand was definitely better than one in the sky.
She assumed they were lying to her about talking to someone in Moscow. If that happened, fine, but why would they allow it? Capitalist Americans, with a cosmonaut as a captive prize on their ship? They were going to make a spectacle of her, exploit the opportunity and use her as a bargaining chip. Better to be ready.
Better to be armed.
Michael guided Luke’s body up the tunnel to stow it in the LM, and in the sudden lull, Chad noticed he was hungry. And thirsty. The nausea had passed, and his body was telling him it was time to eat.
He leaned back and rummaged in the food locker, looking for packages that were marked for him with an identifying small red Velcro square. He found a brownie in a vacuum-sealed pouch, and the utensils container with scissors. As he was cutting the plastic open, he saw Svetlana watching him.
He realized it must have been a while since she’d eaten. “Hungry?” He held out the brownie.
She nodded. He handed her the package and found himself another. They chewed in silence.
He dug through the packets again and came out with a long, clear bag with grainy powder inside. He grabbed the water dispenser, a pistol-like contraption mounted on a hose, turned the red butterfly valve and carefully injected water into the bag through an opening in the bottom. He shook the bag to dissolve the powder and cautiously unrolled the drinking tube, biting its end closed between sips.
He filled a second one, read the label and floated it to her. “Pineapple grapefruit drink—you’ll love it.”
She’d been observing, and unrolled the tube and drank.
“Here, you can fend for yourself.” Chad found one of Luke’s food packages and held it out to her, pointing at the color-coded Velcro patch and then at her. “You—blue. Me—red.” He jerked a thumb towards the LM. “Michael, white. Ironic, eh? You get it?”
She nodded as she took the package, rubbing the blue Velcro with her thumb. “Svetlana ‘bloo.’ Spasiba.” She pronounced the English word like it had a new taste in her mouth.
“Yeah, whatever.”
She used her fingers to squeeze the last of the juice up the drinking tube, and then rolled the empty package tightly together with the brownie packet. “Kuda?” she asked.
“In there.” Chad pointed at a covered opening in the starboard wall. She jammed the empty plastic in and down, compacting the volume, and then held her hand out for his.
“Sure, toots. You clean up.” He floated her his empties. She stuffed them away and then looked squarely at him.
“Tooalyet?” She pointed at her midsection and made a brushing-away motion with her fingers.
“Toilet? Right, you’ll be needing that by now.” He thought a moment. NASA had provided a condom-like adapter for the men to piss into, filling a urine bag. For shitting they had an open-mouthed plastic bag with a sticky seal that held it in place against their naked rear ends. Toilet paper and wet wipes were in attached bags.