Prometheus and the Dragon (Atlas and the Winds Book 2) (10 page)

“What is
that?”
General Wan asked, walking up behind her to look at the image.

“A ship?” she said, sounding uncertain. “It does not look practical.”

“Where did it come from?” he asked.

“It appeared on radar several minutes ago. It is very low, and passing almost directly overhead,” she said. “Where it came from is unknown, but if it is from Earth, I am sure there will be some record of its point of origin.”

“Do we have any of the SAM launchers operational?” he asked.

“Operational, but unable to link into the radar tracking network yet,” the radar tech said.

“So we have no way to respond if it makes an aggressive move?” he said.

“We can shoot blind and hope it picks up the target without having a lock,” the tech said.

“Find out who they are. Give them a warning that they are in violation of Chinese Sovereign Territory, and they will be fired upon if they return for a second orbit.”

“Yes General,” she said, wondering if he understood that any message they transmitted would also be received by the Americans.

***

Lunagrad Base, Boscovich Crater, Luna:

Yuri Romanov felt better, he’d had a decent meal and a good night’s sleep for the first time in months. They’d even sent vodka, not great vodka of course, but it was plenty potent. So he slept well, like the dead.

The radio woke him, shocking and loud. “Lunagrad Base,” the voice blared, echoing in the room and his skull simultaneously.

“Da,” he said, sitting up and slapping the switch on his com. He cleared the glue from his throat with a bearlike growl and tried again. “Lunagrad Base. Proceed.”

“Commander Romanov?” the voice echoed again, without the usual propagation delay. Whoever it was had to be right on top of them.

“Da, this is Romanov,” he said, sitting up and walking into the small control room. “Who is this?”

“Colonel Pieter Sergenko. We are on direct approach to lunar surface. Twenty-seven minutes from landing.”

“You are?” he said, scratching his head and blinking to clear his vision. “You have your own lander?”

“Negative, Commander,” he said. Yuri leaned toward the window looking out at where their transfer ship sat, un-fueled. They’d not yet gotten the He3 processing plant operational.

“Then how do you intend to land?” he asked.

“Our capsule has been equipped with landing cushions,” he said. “We will, however, need you to retrieve us as we have no steering capability.”

“You intend to bounce down like cargo?” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Da, Commander, this will be first for manned vehicle,” he said. “We will jettison Service Module and remaining fuel so it crashes short of landing zone. A small retropack will slow us to landing speed.”

“I question your sanity, Colonel,” Yuri said.

“As do I,” he said. “But if all goes well, we will see you in twenty-six minutes.”

“We will be out there to retrieve you,” Yuri said, “or your bodies.”

“Your confidence is somewhat less than ours,” the Colonel said. “My only worry is we might miss landing zone and take excessive time to recover. Second crew module is four hours behind us. It would be unfortunate for you to be involved in our retrieval when second ship arrives at same location.”

“Da, that would be bad,” Romanov said. “Good luck Colonel,” he added as an afterthought, shaking he head before he clicked into the intercom to wake the rest of his crew. They had to get suited and outside immediately. He glanced around the inside of the Control room, wishing he had time for cleaning before they got here.

Eighteen minutes later, he was standing on the surface watching the horizon for the first ship. It was approaching from the northwest and coming in low after slightly less than a single orbit. Their Medic and the Chief Engineer were bringing one of the rovers around when he caught a flash of light. A large spark flashed, the Service Module, tumbling as it separated to drop toward the surface just above the ridge. The capsule itself continued on an almost straight line, barely descending from his perspective, as the rockets slowed it.

“It appears to be coming directly at us,” Yuri said, pointing so the others could see where he was looking.

“Da,” Gregor Petroski said, holding up a digital scope and looking at the display. The radar range finder showed the engineer the velocity of the ship on the bottom of the screen. “It should begin to fall soon, forward velocity is decelerating through 120 meters per second. Range is four kilometers.”

“Can you determine altitude?” the Commander asked.

“Not accurately,” Petroski said, lowering the scope and eyeballing the angle. “I would estimate it at under one kilometer.” He lifted the scope up again. “Range 1.5 kilometers, forward velocity, fifty meters per second. It has begun downward deflection.”

Yuri stared up into the sky. He could clearly see the capsule, dropping but still high above them, and not showing any sign of angular motion. It was still coming almost straight at them. “I think they are calling it very close,” he said.

“Perhaps too close,” the medic added. His voice carried the uncertainty the Commander was feeling. Almost a desire to run, a lot like an ant would feel facing a basketball looming overhead.

“I am unable to determine downward velocity, but it is closing at twenty-five meters per second.” The engineer’s voice sounded calm. “Range, 750 meters.” The retro pack sputtered and coughed, flashed twice, and then died. A split second later the airbags inflated, turning the capsule into a slightly oblong giant soccer ball.

“Range 300 meters, terminal velocity at end of retrofire was twelve meters per second,” he said, still sounding calm. Yuri glanced at them, taking his eyes off the ball for an instant. He could see the medic was considering running for cover, wobbling on his feet.

He looked back at the approaching capsule and almost jumped out of the way himself. It hit the ground and ricocheted high into the air, a large portion of its velocity turned into spin as it hurtled toward them. Its second impact came down on one of its lopsided ends, sending it lurching to the left and directly over their heads. Its third bounce threw the capsule into a gentle bounding roll. It finally came to a stop less than twenty meters from the main habitat.

“Should we check to see if our new eggs are scrambled?” Romanov said, as the airbags vented and collapsed into a rumpled pile of empty mylar balloons.

It took ten minutes to cut their way through to the capsule itself, and when they opened the door, Yuri laughed out loud. The five passengers sat strapped in as they had ridden, their faces covered in sweat and their eyes wide in terror. He could tell from their expressions the air in their spacesuits had to be smelling foul. “Welcome to Lunagrad,” he said, wishing for a camera.

***

Space Command, Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado:

“General Marquez, I’m Randolph Markham,” the astronaut said, introducing himself. “Governor Winslow wanted me to express her gratitude for your recent shipment.”

“You are most welcome,” the General said, wondering why they were calling to thank him, but appreciating the discretion the astronaut was showing on an open channel.

“I have been put in charge of utilizing these items in the interim,” he said.

“I understand,” Marquez said, following the meaning of his words, but still wondering about his objective.

“I was wondering if you could give me an idea as to how long this would be my responsibility?” he asked.

“Eight weeks,” the General said. “Best case.” He waited for the message to cover the distance, and watched an expression play across the astronaut’s face he couldn’t be sure of.

After a long pause Markham said, “I am sending you a file that may have a bearing on your decision. Please review it and then see if it might be advantageous to expedite matters.”

“I will do that,” he said, watching the file download. It was a small audio file.

“Thank you General,” he said, signing off.

He played the file on his computer.

“
Attention unidentified craft,”
a woman’s voice said on the recording, she had a very slight Chinese accent.
“You have entered the Sovereign Territory of the Chang Er Prefect of the People’s Republic of China. You are advised to alter your orbit so you do not return to our territory. Failure to comply with this instruction will result in you being fired upon. This is your only warning.”
The message repeated once. There was a time signature that put the recording as within the last hour.

He played the file again before he punched into the Watch Officer’s comlink. “Marty,” he said. “Can you play back lunar telemetry?”

“Sure, General,” the Colonel said. “How far back are you looking?”

He gave the Watch Officer the time from the file, and waited while he accessed the recording. “Got it,” he said, several seconds later. “So what am I looking at?”

“Can you tell me if there’s a ship somewhere near Tycho or Amundsen?” he asked.

“Yes sir, there’s a carrier over Chang Er,” Marty said. “It’s that one that took off from Canada this morning.”

“You mean the monster that looked like a flying cathedral?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” he said. “It was licensed to the Mormon Church.”

“Ok, thanks,” he said, logging off and scratching his head. Chang Er was threatening to shoot down a shipload of missionaries. He almost laughed, and would have, except the real point was China was armed and making threats.

He called up the launch schedule and sighed. There was no wiggle room. None. There might have been, except they’d had to make room for a shipment of parts to repair the number three gun. Things were so tightly scheduled it was going to be almost impossible to get the security detachment up there in the eight weeks he’d already promised.

***

Across the Middle East:

The Damascus Summit had been such a huge failure the world was still talking about it sixteen months later, as the end of the road for Mid-East Peace. In truth, it probably hadn’t been that bad, but there’d been such high hopes for the conference that the lack of any progress at all had seemed to be a step backwards. The abysmal performance of the US as mediator of the Conference had settled the blame for the failure squarely on America, in spite of the fact the real issue was, as it had always been, the Israelis and the Arab States simply hated each other.

Now it seemed the situation had changed. The Russian Republic had more than just an abstract interest in enforcing peace in the region, they needed to
force
peace, even if it meant the threat of war. Two carrier groups steamed into the Mediterranean, while three armored divisions were being trucked through Turkey, south into Iraq, and then on into Syria.

This was no longer about politics or ideology, this was about protecting an economic lifeline. Israel’s continued squabble with Syria and Lebanon was about to end, one way or the other.

***

Chapter Seven:

Prometheus Rises and the Dust Settles

New Hope Colony, Plato:

Susan Winslow stood in the Prometheus Control Room, staring out the window, feeling more than a little apprehensive about the test. Behind her, eight engineers sat at their consoles, and Carter hunched over the targeting control station. “We’ve still got ten minutes before we get first LoS on the drone,” he said. The drone was nothing more than a chunk of iron slag with a rocket motor strapped to it. They’d launched it yesterday morning, and it was orbiting almost 10,000 miles above the lunar surface.

He stood up, stretching and yawning. He’d been on duty for more than twenty hours a day for the last three weeks. Most of his crew had slept on the floor of the Control Room, catnapping when they could and working until they dropped. But they’d managed the impossible task of getting the repairs done to number three and the testing schedule back on track. The original test date was yesterday, and they could have done it, except he’d insisted they all “go into town and get a real night’s sleep.” Of course, Carter hadn’t heeded his own words, and had slept at his seat. It showed on his face, and in his eyes, but Susan doubted that he would have slept more if he’d been in a bed.

“I’d feel a lot better about this if the gas density were closer to normal,” he said, stepping up beside her to look out the window. The sun had just dropped below the horizon and you could almost see a faint haze above the surface. “We’ve got no idea how many tons of regolith they vaporized, but if they ever do another test like that one, the moon’s going to have a real atmosphere.”

“No kidding,” she said. “Did we do another reading this morning?”

“About an hour ago,” he said. “If those towers weren’t as tall as they are, I’d be calling it off. On the surface we’re well over the million-parts per cubic-meter we’d set as the safe limit. Fortunately the blanket is only about forty feet thick. Up there it was 110,000.”