Sea of Crises (19 page)

When he’d been training as a backup for Apollo-Soyuz, Cartwright had been encouraged to study the biographies of the men currently serving in the Soviet space program. He’d even met a couple of them when they’d toured the Johnson Space Center. He did not recognize this man.

The Russian was big, several inches taller than Cartwright, which was something in itself, and he had broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He was standing where he’d been for the past several minutes, his feet planted a few inches apart, arms folded, an unreadable expression on his face. He stared at Cartwright through unblinking eyes set below a pair of bushy eyebrows. He’d said little since Cartwright had entered.

Earlier, while still in the air lock, Cartwright had depressurized his suit and removed his helmet. He’d then allowed the Russian to assist him in shedding his large backpack. Though the cosmonaut, through gestures, had suggested he leave the equipment in the chamber, Cartwright declined to do so. Instead he carried both pieces with him as he followed the man into the interior of the structure. When they cleared the air lock, the Russian latched the door, flipped a switch, and, as the dial above the hatch confirmed, allowed the atmosphere in the chamber to return to a vacuum.

The man then adopted his stance and said simply, “We wait for comrades.”

Cartwright nodded and spoke into the microphone mounted to the communications carrier assembly in his cap. “I’m now inside the structure. The atmosphere is safe. There’s one other person in here. He seems to expect us all to gather inside.”

Gale’s voice crackled in his earpiece. “Affirmative. The other is gesturing for me to enter. Actually, he’s signaling we should enter together.”

“Well,” Cartwright said, after a moment, “we came all this way. I guess it would seem rude if we didn’t.

“Alamogordo,” he added, “do you concur?”

There was the inevitable delay, as the signal was relayed from Cartwright’s communicator, through the link on the rover sitting just outside, to the lunar module, perhaps a mile away, then beamed a quarter of a million miles to earth.

After a few seconds, the reply came. “It’s your call, Commander.”

Once again, Cartwright had to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

The clank of the hatchway door drew his attention. As he watched, it swung slowly inward, and Gale, minus helmet and backpack, stepped into the structure. Then a man wearing coveralls similar to those worn by the other Russian ducked through the opening, straightened and put out a hand. Displaying the same toothy grin he’d given when Cartwright had seen him outside the structure, he said, in surprisingly good English, “Commander, it is great pleasure to meet you.”

Cartwright shook the man’s hand, again struck by his youthful appearance. Perhaps, it occurred to him, it was because the Russian wore his sandy hair in a style much longer than the military cut of all the other astronauts - and cosmonauts - that Cartwright knew. Some of it fell casually across his forehead. The unlined face and ingenuous expression seemed completely out of place.

As if reading his mind, the man said, “You are wondering what I am doing here, yes?” Then he chuckled, nodded toward his companion, and added. “You are wondering what we are both doing here. Not that you are surprised to find us. You knew exactly where you were going.”

Again, he chuckled. “Those arrogant bureaucrats back in Star City. They think they can, what is this expression, pull wool over American eyes? I said they are crazy to think they can keep this secret. And for what reason? We are at peace with United States. We are cooperating. We have Apollo-Soyuz.

“But,” he shook his head sadly, “is big problem with Soviet society. Always secrets.”

There was a burst of Russian from the other cosmonaut. Though Cartwright had studied the basics of the language, he did not recognize the phrase. The tone, however, he knew well. Shut up and get on with it. He considered the bearded man. Clearly, he was the one in charge.

“Da,” the younger man said as Cartwright returned his attention to him. “Allow me to make introductions. I am Alexander Ivanovich Kruchinkin, Cosmonaut-Engineer. My comrade is Colonel Boris Vasiliyevich Petrov.”

Petrov. Cartwright knew the name. A celebrated test pilot, Petrov, he recalled, was a veteran of two Soyuz missions. Twice decorated as a Hero of the Soviet Union and a recipient of the Order of Lenin, the man had been one of the most senior members of the Soviet cosmonaut ranks -
had been
being the operative phrase, because, as far as Cartwright knew, Boris Petrov had died a year and a half earlier in a training accident.

He glanced over at the man, trying to keep the confusion and consternation that he was feeling from manifesting itself on his face. He realized he’d likely not succeeded when the older Russian grunted.

“Not dead,” the man said, simply.

Cartwright studied him, but could not decipher his expression. After a moment, he again turned to the younger Russian. This man’s face he had no trouble reading. The younger cosmonaut seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. His grin widened.

“Ah,” he said, nodding, “you know about this accident. Is like Mark Twain, yes? ‘Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.’” He said this last statement as if reciting from a text. Then he started to laugh, but it was short lived, as he caught himself and looked sideways at his older colleague.

“I apologize,” the younger cosmonaut said. “We have been here now three months. Is long time in small space. And,” he added, “is very small space.”

He waved a hand around the interior of the structure. “This we have completed only five days ago. While we build, we live in capsule.” He gave Cartwright an impish look. “Capsule is very small space.”

Petrov cleared his throat loudly.

Adopting a more serious look, the Russian named Kruchinkin continued. “This enclosure is constructed from materials contained in probe that landed before our launch. Landing place of probe is three hundred meters from here.” The man waved a hand in a direction that Cartwright realized was the opposite from which he and Gale had come in the rover. “Of course, we bring additional components in vessel you see outside.

“This vessel, we call her
Rodinia
. In English, this means,” he paused, apparently searching, then said, “Motherland.” He shrugged. “We launched from Salyut space station. You know about Salyut, of course?”

Cartwright nodded.

“
Rodinia
is loaded with cargo and filled with fuel at Salyut space station. Very little fuel is required to send her to moon, because there is almost no gravity to overcome. Three days from now, we return to Salyut, where replacement crew is standing by in Soyuz capsule launched yesterday.” He threw a quick glance at his bearded companion that looked almost hopeful.

Petrov said nothing.

Something about the exchange struck Cartwright. Were they not sure about that? If so, why not? He noticed for the first time that neither cosmonaut seemed to be carrying any form of transmitter or receiver. Had the Soviets experienced a communications problem?

“From Salyut,” Kruchinkin continued, “we return home, while replacement crew continues work here. This becomes first permanent space station on moon. Is very exciting. Big step in space exploration, do you agree?”

Cartwright wasn’t sure what to say. To avoid an awkward silence, he observed, “Your English is very good.”

The young man smiled. “Thank you. For two years I lived in America while I earn masters degree in aerospace engineering. At Georgia Tech University.” Another puckish grin. “Go Yellow Jackets.” Despite the tension, Cartwright found himself liking the man.

“My specialty,” the cosmonaut explained, “is materials science.” Again, he waved a hand around the enclosure. “Many elements in this structure are result of my work.” He looked down, suddenly, and seemed almost embarrassed. “And work of many colleagues, of course.”

He paused, while looking down, then pointed to his feet. “This floor you see. Is one piece, constructed much like, what do you call it, balloon, yes?” He looked back up at Cartwright. “But very flat. She is rolled up and stored for transit. When we have exterior of structure in place, we roll her out. We inject special polymer resin under high pressure. This resin remains in liquid form several hours, and floor is leveled by moon’s gravity.” He stomped a booted foot on the surface. “When dry, she is very solid, will hold much weight.”

The floor did look pretty sturdy and level to Cartwright.

“You see,” Kruchinkin said, “many times, simple solution is best solution.”

The question that had earlier occurred to Cartwright again came to mind. “Why all the secrecy? Why hide this from the world?”

The young cosmonaut shrugged and looked at his companion. Though Cartwright was sure Petrov had understood, he remained silent, continuing to stare with those unblinking eyes. Finally, the senior cosmonaut took a deep breath. “You come. You see. Now, you go.”

It wasn’t, Cartwright reflected, particularly gracious. He considered his response. He and Gale hadn’t exactly been invited, and they had no particular standing. Not sure what the powers-that-be back in Houston might have intended for them to do here, though, he figured that, whatever there was to see, they’d seen it, and he decided there was no point in making an issue of it. He turned around and faced Gale. “I guess that’s it.”

Gale’s usually grim expression was even more ominous than usual. He was looking past Cartwright at the older Russian. The cosmonauts, it occurred to Cartwright, would have no way of knowing that what they were seeing wasn’t intended as an affront, but merely standard boorish behavior from Mason Gale. Not wanting the situation to degenerate into an international incident, Cartwright raised a hand. “I mean it. That’s it. Let’s suit up. We’re leaving.”

But, instead of turning toward the air lock, Gale took a step in Cartwright’s direction and let loose a torrent of Russian. Cartwright was taken aback, and, for a second, he thought Gale might have lost his mind. Then he realized the outburst was directed back over his shoulder at Petrov. In the sudden stunned silence, he considered his crewmate. After a long moment, he said, “What the hell was that?”

Gale’s eyes did not leave the senior cosmonaut. “I informed him that we know exactly what’s going on.”

“
We
,” Cartwright said, working hard to keep his voice even, “is a lot of people.”

For just a brief instant, Gale took his eyes off Petrov and directed his gaze toward a piece of equipment mounted on a workbench next to Kruchinkin. Returning his eyes to the older Russian, Gale said, “That, Commander, is a weapon.”

“No,” Kruchinkin said, immediately, glancing down at the device by his side. “Is no weapon. Is navigational equipment. To help guide replacement crews.”

Gale shook his head slightly, eye’s still locked on Petrov. “That is the control mechanism for a pulse generator. It does have a navigational function, but not the one they want you to think. Its purpose is to disrupt electronics. Basically, disable vessels that come into lunar orbit. Or, to be more precise, disable our vessels. The actual generator was loaded onto Soyuz 22 a week ago.”

“No,” Kruchinkin repeated, but a tinge of uncertainty had crept into his voice.

Cartwright looked from Kruchinkin to Gale. They were both staring at Petrov. There was a troubled expression on the young cosmonaut’s face, but Gale’s was as implacable as before. Finally, Cartwright turned around and regarded Petrov himself.

The big man’s eyes had gone flat, but his countenance was otherwise unchanged.

From behind him, Gale said, conversationally, “By the way, there was a little problem on the launch pad. Salyut 22 never got off the ground.”

“What?” Kruchinkin gasped.

Petrov’s eyes narrowed. He began to unfold his arms, and, as he brought his hands out, Cartwright realized that the man had been concealing something under his left armpit, something dark and, in the brief moment he had to consider it, metallic-looking.

Then three things happened at once, or, if not exactly concurrently, within such close proximity they registered in Cartwright’s mind at the same instant.

For one, a dark hole appeared in the bushy right eyebrow of the Russian, near the point at which its tip just barely touched the corresponding tip of the other brow. The opening was perfectly symmetrical, perhaps a third of an inch in diameter. And among the flood of simultaneous thoughts that hit Cartwright was the realization that such a hole had absolutely no business being where it was.

For another, Cartwright felt something hot pass by his left cheek, a feeling not so much that it was there, but more that it had been there, gone before he could possibly begin to acknowledge it. If whatever it was made a sound, though, Cartwright would never know, because the third thing that happened overwhelmed everything else.

An extraordinary noise suddenly filled the enclosure, not an explosion, though loud enough to be one. Too sharp for that. More like the immense crack of thunder bursting just overhead in a fierce summer storm, the sound so loud and violent that Cartwright felt it as much as he heard it. There just for an instant, it was replaced immediately by an oddly muffled reverberation.

Petrov, still staring past Cartwright with flat, expressionless eyes, seemed to waver. He’d gotten his large hands out in front of him at shoulder level, but they remained there, suspended just long enough for Cartwright to register the fact that, in the right hand, there was, indeed, a metallic object, a pistol, actually smaller than the fist holding it.

And then the big Russian seemed to fold in on himself, his shoulders slumping, waist bending and knees buckling all at once. He crumpled in a heap, his head lolling back and finally striking the floor with a muted thump, the flat eyes staring upward, unseeing.

Still recoiling from the shock of the noise, it took Cartwright a moment to react. He turned and looked at Gale, whose right arm was extended. Gale also had a weapon in his hand, this one larger than the Russian’s pistol and unlike any Cartwright had ever seen before. It had two barrels, one on top of the other, both positioned well above the hand that was wrapped around the grip.