“Father Ilarion, I have unusual news.” Alexander, the diocese interpreter, spoke quietly, knowing it was the best way to get the hieromonk’s attention in the morning, after prayers and liturgy.
Ilarion was finishing his light breakfast, tapping the last crumbs of his toast off the small plate into his teacup, careful to waste nothing. “Good news, Sascha?” He looked up at the younger man curiously. “What is it?”
“The accomplishments of your brother have come to the attention of the Church in Moscow. One of my fellow interpreters there was working with the American Embassy church members, and he called me to let you know. They think it does you and your family great honor, and have been speaking with officials at the Soviet space program.”
Ilarion’s eyes widened.
“It seems the Church wants you to come to Moscow, and has obtained permission for you to go to Mission Control, where you will be able to talk directly with your brother while he’s on the Moon. It’s a rare honor indeed and will be a wonderful surprise for him.”
Father Ilarion looked stunned by the prospect of a trip to Moscow and a chance to talk to his brother in space. He stroked his beard as he considered it, his eyes blinking rapidly behind his thick lenses.
“They say there is an Interflug flight from Sch?nefeld Airport direct to Moscow Sheremetyevo every day,” Alexander urged. “The space program will cover all costs and accommodation.”
The monk’s face clouded. “But surely my brother won’t want surprises to interrupt what he’s doing. He’ll be too busy.”
Alexander nodded. His KGB handler had anticipated this, and provided some suggestions.
“They say that they often have family members speak directly with cosmonauts, who can be lonely so far from home. Contact with family is good for morale, for their mental calmness.” He added a specific suggested phrase. “Your brother would be the most distant member of the flock you’ve ever had the chance to give solace to.”
Father Ilarion turned his head away, eyes unfocused, trying to imagine what his brother was seeing. He nodded slowly. “You’re right, Sascha. Earth must be very small for him now.”
He turned back to Alexander with his brows furrowed. “But his Russian is rusty, and I have no English. I’m also not a traveler. Would you be coming with me?”
Alexander felt a rush of victory, but managed to keep his face calm, his expression helpful. “Yes, Father, the officials at Mission Control recognized the difficulty and asked that an interpreter accompany you. I’d be honored to help.”
35
Mission Control, Houston
In the end, the Moscow-Houston communication had been surprisingly simple to set up.
Kaz stood at the CAPCOM console with the State Department translator next to him. The doctors confirmed that despite the staggered sleep schedule, the crew had gotten a reasonable night’s rest. At least the astronauts had; the cosmonaut wasn’t wired for heartbeat.
They had a mid-course correction coming up soon—a quick engine firing to change the ship’s direction very slightly, based on careful tracking of Pursuit’s path. It saved fuel to do it early—to steer exactly towards perfectly entering orbit around the Moon.
“Pursuit, Houston, I have the burn numbers when you’re ready.”
“Roger, Kaz, I’m ready to copy.” Michael had the flight plan floating in front of him, his pencil poised to write in the blank table.
“Okay, Michael, it’ll be posigrade 10.5 fps, burn duration 0:02, perilune will be 53.1 . . .” Kaz went through the values carefully, the Mission Control specialists listening attentively to make sure he made no errors. When he finished, Michael read them back, verbatim.
“That all sounds good, Michael.” A pause. “Is Chad listening?”
Michael glanced across at Chad, in the opposite seat. Svetlana was floating at a window, alternately looking at the Earth and the Moon.
“He’s not on headset, but can be. What’s up?”
Kaz answered carefully. “After the burn, we’re going to patch Moscow through by phone to talk with the cosmonaut. We’ll have sentence-by-sentence translation, to make sure it’s all kosher, but wanted to give you a heads-up to think about it.”
Michael passed the message to Chad, who frowned and donned his headset.
“Kaz, Chad here. I need this conversation to be controlled. Who’s going to cut it off if we don’t like how it’s going?”
Kaz looked back at Gene, behind the Flight Director console. He and Gene had discussed just this.