Eagle Station

She glanced toward the Chinese technicians controlling the video feeds. Obediently, they switched both screens to a new view, this one showing the joined Federation command module, support module, and space tug sliding away from the spent Energia third stage. “And here is Russia’s own Federation 2 spacecraft, also on its way to lunar orbit. Once the Chang’e lander has assembled itself and appears stable, ground controllers on Earth will signal the Federation to match orbits and dock.” She shrugged. “If this were a manned mission, that is when our cosmonauts and their Chinese taikonaut comrades would transfer to the lander… and begin their preparations to descend to the moon.”

Titeneva saw a young woman, a reporter for one of the American cable news networks, shoot to her feet — evidently unable or unwilling to wait any longer to ask a question. “Yes, Ms. Meadows?”

“But there aren’t any cosmonauts or taikonauts aboard that spacecraft?”

“No, there are not, Ms. Meadows,” Titeneva said firmly.

“Well, why not?” the young journalist demanded. “I mean, if you’re committing so many resources to send these spaceships all the way to the moon… why not just go ahead and land?”

Titeneva’s polite smile broadened. “Because we are not in a race, Ms. Meadows. Space flight is inherently dangerous, and our top priority is the safe return of any crews we do eventually send to the lunar surface.” She adopted a more serious tone. “Pilgrim 1 is first and foremost a test flight — both of these brand-new spacecraft and of their ability to autonomously rendezvous and dock. As it stands, this multi-vehicle mission is already one of the most complicated space flights ever attempted. But I can tell you this: whatever happens, the experience we gain over these next several days will pave the way for future manned Sino-Russian expeditions to the moon.”

With that, she signaled the men still waiting behind her to come forward. She turned back to the increasingly restless gaggle of journalists. “I’m certain that you all have many questions.” She indicated her Chinese counterpart. “However, I’m equally sure that neither Minister Peng nor I is qualified to answer those questions. Now, if you’re really more interested in the finer details of our most recent agricultural commerce talks, both of us would be glad to address those issues…” She let her voice trail off as the whole room broke into laughter.

With a chuckle of her own, Titeneva shrugged. “No? Then we will gladly yield the floor to Administrator Shan of China’s National Space Administration and Director Polikarpov of Roscosmos. After all, this space mission is, as the Americans say, their baby.”

Together, she and Peng left the room to a smattering of applause. Behind them, the two civilian space chiefs were already answering the first shouted questions. Inwardly, Daria Titeneva relaxed. She had carried out Marshal Leonov’s instructions with consummate skill. Now the task of deception fell on other shoulders.

She knew that Polikarpov and Shan had been painstakingly briefed on what to say. No one listening to them would ever suspect that neither of their civilian agencies had any real role in the so-called Pilgrim 1 mission. For the time being, the knowledge that all three spacecraft now speeding to the moon were entirely controlled by Leonov and General Chen Haifeng, the commander of China’s military space operations, would remain a tightly held secret.

Twenty-Five

Sky Masters Aerospace Inc., Battle Mountain, Nevada

Seventy-Two Hours Later

Brad McLanahan glanced over his shoulder when his father and Kevin Martindale entered the secure conference room he’d commandeered for his special analysis team — which he realized was sort of a grandiose term for a group that really only consisted of him, Nadia, and Hunter Noble. Still, it was better than adopting Boomer’s tongue-in-cheek suggestion that they call themselves the Triad of Genius Analysts, or TOGA for short. “Hey, Dad! Hey, Mr. Martindale. It’s nice to see you guys in person for a change, instead of just on camera.”

By air, Scion’s Utah headquarters was only three hundred miles from Battle Mountain — less than an hour’s flight time for one of Scion’s Gulfstream executive jets. He’d been hoping his father would take advantage of that. They hadn’t seen much of each other lately. Between the joy of actually being married to Nadia and the day-in and day-out hard work needed to train new Space Force crews to fly and fight Sky Masters — built spaceplanes, whole weeks and months seemed to have slid past in a blur.

“Glad to be here, too, son,” Patrick McLanahan said warmly. “With things heating up, we thought it was best to—”