She paused, waiting for the translation, and then thanked him, adding a question. “They used my suit to entomb the dead astronaut, and its PM-9 life-support system is now stowed. Please confirm that I’ll be wearing their spacesuit from now on.”
Chelomei smiled broadly. Clever girl. The PM-9 wasn’t the life--support backpack; it was the model number of the weapon that had been on board the Almaz. She’d found a way to let them know she was secretly armed. He kept his tone matter-of-fact.
“Da, they have told us the sizing will work for you in their suit. And if you haven’t heard yet, they are planning for you to wear it in the lunar lander, and to have the honor of being the first Soviet citizen to step onto the Moon.”
Svetlana had suspected that was the new plan, but this was her first confirmation. She looked at Chad, who nodded, and was surprised at the surge of excitement that suddenly rushed through her. I’m going to walk on the Moon!
Her voice quavered. “That is wonderful, Tovarisch Director! I will do my best to make everyone proud.”
Chelomei played back in his mind what they’d just said; nothing sounded suspicious, and the woman had demonstrated that she was aware of hidden meanings. Time to get Miller’s attention.
“We are certain you will, Sveta. Your brother in Berlin is especially proud of you.”
Chad squinted at her as the interpreter translated. She had a brother in Berlin? That was a strange coincidence. But why had Moscow mentioned that?
Svetlana’s face revealed nothing. “I’m delighted to hear that. Please pass my best to my whole family.”
Enough for now, Chelomei thought. Time for platitudes, plus one last hint.
“We will be in daily contact, Svetlana Yevgenyevna, and look forward to speaking with you. Your ears can look forward to hearing the Russian language so far from home.”
“Spasiba, Tovarisch Director. Until next time.”
Chelomei nodded, satisfied. “Doh sledusheva.” He placed the handset in the cradle, ticking through his mental checklist. All messages sent. Time to move on to the next step.
What the hell had they meant? Chad thought. The conversation had felt fishy, somehow. Do they know about my brother? How could they? He stared hard at Svetlana as he stowed her headset, but she met his gaze impassively.
He thought further. If they do, then they probably know I speak Russian. He continued to stare at her, considering all that had been said.
But she doesn’t know.
He took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose.
Good.
“Hey, Chad, I just noticed something.” Michael’s voice was relaxed, subdued. He’d borne the brunt of the sleep shift so they could continuously monitor the cosmonaut, and he was tired.
“What’s that?” Chad was reviewing LM procedures, penciling in what he was going to do differently to land on the Moon without Luke to help.
“It says here in the flight plan that we just hit exactly halfway. Old Mother Earth and the Moon are both”—he checked the book—“107,229 miles away.” He floated to the window next to Svetlana and twisted to look at one, and then the other. He made hand motions to try to explain the concept to her, defining a length, cutting it in half, and then pointing at the Moon and Earth.
She watched his hands and then looked at his face, quizzically.
“I don’t think she gets it,” Michael said. “What do they teach them in cosmonaut school?”
Chad kept reading, ignoring him.
Michael imitated Chad’s voice. “I don’t know, Michael, my guess is Soviet doctrine, invasion routes, whitewashed history and bad fashion sense. You know, Commie stuff.”
He answered himself. “Thank you, Chad, for that keen insight. I think the Command Module Pilot is getting a little punchy. My turn for some sleep.”
Chad looked up, hearing the last part. “You sleeping in the LM?”
Michael looked at him, bemused. “Yeah, as planned, if you’re okay holding down the fort here.”
Chad glanced at Svetlana and turned back to his page. “Yeah, we’re set.”
Michael gave Houston a heads-up so the doctors could track his rest, and then floated down the tunnel, emerging into the small cabin of the LM. He wrapped himself in the bag and hammock and glanced up in the darkness at Luke.
“I miss you, buddy,” he murmured. “I’m sorry you’ve joined the dead.” What a long strange trip it’s been.
The night shift in TsUP, a minimal skeleton crew of two technicians and an interpreter, were listening carefully and heard Michael’s call to Houston. Director Chelomei had left strict instructions to record all communications from the Apollo craft. He wanted to know who was sleeping, and when.