Eagle Station

“Let us hope your confidence is justified, Colonel,” Li said dryly. “I would hate to see so many of my nation’s precious resources wasted — especially after the sacrifice of China’s bravest and most experienced taikonaut.”

From the sour look on Marshal Leonov’s face, Lavrentyev knew the Chinese leader’s thinly veiled gibe had struck home. Both nations had already committed huge sums of money and precious equipment to their attempt to gain control over Earth’s moon — and over the space-faring future it represented. Clearly, the near disaster three weeks ago had strained the alliance between Moscow and Beijing, at least to a degree. That was especially true now that Russia’s boasts about its “invincible” weapon had proved somewhat… hollow.

“As it happens, the Americans also appear supremely confident in their new weapon, whatever it may be,” Li continued. “Isn’t that right, Marshal?”

Leonov shrugged. “It seems so.” He turned his attention back to Lavrentyev. “We’ve observed a burst of renewed extravehicular activity near Eagle Station. Sky Masters space construction robots have gone back to work on the Orion crew vehicle and service module docked there.”

Li nodded coldly. “The conclusion seems obvious: the Americans expect to destroy your base and so they are again preparing for their own manned flight to the moon.”

The White House, Washington, D.C.

That Same Time

President John Dalton Farrell stared down at the glossy printouts Patrick McLanahan had just placed on his Oval Office desk. Taken by the S-29B’s long-range cameras during its first pass around the far side of the moon, the enlarged, computer-enhanced photographs showed the Sino-Russian base in amazing detail. Working together, Sky Masters, Scion, and Space Force technical intelligence analysts had spent weeks poring over the images — doing their best to identify every single structure and piece of equipment.

With a worried look on his face, Farrell pulled out one of the photographs. It showed three oddly humanlike shapes standing motionless on the lunar surface near the enemy’s habitat module. An inflated tunnel with three separate branches connected them to one of the habitat’s air locks. He glanced up. “Are those goddamned things what I think they are?”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick said quietly. “The Russians have deployed moon-rated versions of their own robotic war machines, their Kiberneticheskiye Voyennyye Mashiny, at that base.”

“Do Brad and the others know about this?”

“They do,” Patrick told him. “Our analysts spotted those KVMs several days ago. I briefed the crew myself during one of their final mission planning sessions.”

Farrell frowned. “Several days ago? So why am I only finding out about this now, General McLanahan?” His face hardened. “When it’s far too late for me to call this mission off — even if I wanted to?”

“Because the team asked me to keep this information tightly restricted, sir,” Patrick replied. He didn’t sound particularly apologetic. “They didn’t want to risk an abort, even in these circumstances.”

“Jesus Christ,” Farrell muttered. “I think your son and daughter-in-law and that crazy Brit Vasey are gutsy enough to charge hell itself with a bucket of ice water.”

“Probably so,” the older McLanahan agreed somberly. For just a moment, the lines carved on his face by age, pain, and stress deepened, revealing his own fears for those he loved more dearly than life itself.

Farrell sighed. “Give it to me straight, Patrick. Do our people have any realistic hope of pulling this off and coming home alive?”

“I honestly don’t know,” the other man admitted. “But I guess that’s something we’ll find out for sure in just a little under three days from now.”

Forty-Five

Aboard Lunar Wolf One, Approaching the Moon

Forty-Eight Hours Later

Brad McLanahan floated across the Xeus lander’s small cabin and grabbed on to the back of his crew seat. Nadia looked up at him. She was already strapped in to the next seat over. Her dark hair billowed around her head like a halo.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Seems to be,” Brad allowed. “But I thought I heard a kind of funny noise coming from one of the atmospheric pressure control valves.”

Peter Vasey leaned around from his position at the end of the row of three crew seats. “Like a metallic rattling sound?”

“Yeah,” Brad said. “Why?”

Vasey shrugged tiredly. “Because that’s the same bloody noise I heard about ten hours ago, while you and Nadia were catnapping.” He smiled. “I just banged on the side a few times until it stopped.”

“Ah, you know my methods, Watson,” Brad said dryly.