Eagle Station

He patted one of the big machines affectionately. “But an astronaut riding inside one of these guys will have superhuman strength, dexterity, and speed. One Cybernetic Lunar Activity Device could handle tasks that would otherwise require a whole bunch of specially designed and extremely expensive construction robots. And with additional life support and backup batteries and fuel cells, you could operate for up to forty-eight hours outside a spacecraft or a lunar base shelter.”

She nodded her understanding. Early on, it had become clear that CID pilots could go for long periods without needing sleep while neurally connected to their machines. Bad things happened to any human who pushed that too far — psychosis and other mental disorders, among them — but it gave them a useful edge in certain conditions. “You said you first designed these CLADs for construction work,” she said slowly. “And now?”

Richter’s expression turned somber. “Now, we’re refitting them for war, Major.”

Forty

Shadow Bravo One, in Cislunar Space

That Same Time

“Radar contact at twelve o’clock. Range is eight miles and closing,” the S-29B’s computer reported. “Contact is the combined JP-8/BOHM fuel tank stack.”

Colonel Scott Miller peered ahead though the canopy. At this distance, the fuel tank stack was just a tiny sunlit dot. That would change pretty fast, though. He glanced at Major Hannah Craig. “What’s our closure rate?”

She had her head down, intent at her various navigation displays. “A little over seventy feet per second, Dusty.”

He nodded. Although they were each slowing down as Earth’s gravitational pull continually tugged on them, both the fuel stack and their spaceplane were still headed toward the moon at relatively high speed. What mattered now was how much faster their spaceplane was moving than the object they were chasing. Running the math, their speed differential was just around fifty miles per hour, which meant they’d overtake the fuel stack in roughly ten minutes.

Slowly, they crept up on the fuel stack. As they drew closer, it took on added shape and definition. Through their zoomed-in forward cameras, it was clearly visible as a pair of cylindrical fuel tanks slotted together inside an open metal framework. The twin flexible refueling booms were plainly visible — latched alongside their corresponding tanks.

“Uh-oh,” Craig muttered.

“Something wrong?”

“Take a closer look,” she told him. “That fuel stack is rotating. Not very fast, but it’s definitely spinning around its long axis.”

Suddenly, Miller saw what she meant. They were close enough now to see that the whole assembly was rotating as it flew onward through space. That was a big problem. Even if they matched velocities with the fuel stack, refueling would be impossible unless they also matched its precise rotation. Otherwise, either of those twin refueling booms would only wind up ripping out of their spaceplane’s slipway and fuel receptacle as the stack spun away from them. And if that happened while they were transferring highly combustible borohydrogen metaoxide, the whole damned thing could blow up. “Well… shit,” he grumbled.

Craig nodded. “It must have happened when the Falcon Heavy second stage jettisoned. If one of the latches hung for just a millisecond too long, it’d impart that kind of rotation.”

“I can probably match the spin by using our thrusters,” Miller thought out loud. Doing so meant putting the S-29 into a very tight orbit around the slowly rotating fuel stack assembly. Accomplishing that without causing a collision between the two spacecraft would require multiple short thruster bursts, precise piloting, and some luck.

“Yeah, but establishing that kind of orbit and then holding it long enough to refuel will cost us a chunk of our hydrazine reserves,” she warned, running a quick computer projection of the maneuver. “Looks like somewhere around ten or fifteen percent.”

Miller frowned. Ten or fifteen percent thruster fuel consumption didn’t sound like much… except that they would need practically every available drop of their hydrazine for evasive maneuvering during their planned reconnaissance passes over the Sino-Russian base. “Well, that tears it,” he said quietly. He shook his head. “I guess we’re going to have to abort this refueling rendezvous after all.”

And without enough main engine fuel to make a lunar orbit insertion burn, they’d only get one fast pass across the far side of the moon before using its gravity to sling them back to Earth.

“Maybe not,” Craig said abruptly. Her fingers flew across her multifunction displays. Radio signals crossed the steadily narrowing gap between their S-29 and the fuel stack. New menus blossomed on her screens. She now had remote control over the twin refueling booms.

“You have a plan?” Miller asked.

“Yep.”