Sea of Crises (22 page)

After he’d pulled himself together following Gale’s attack, Cartwright had set about performing a series of tasks. First, he’d recharged the oxygen and water tanks in the astronauts’ two backpacks. Then he’d tackled the difficult process of suiting up the unconscious Gale. When he was done with that, he’d awkwardly climbed into his own backpack. The exercise had taken almost an hour and had served to underscore his unwillingness to believe that the decision to tranquilize him at the Soviet base made any sense. Even given the fact that, in the Soviet enclosure, Gale would have had more room to maneuver the equipment than Cartwright had in the cramped module, it would still have been a major distraction. For that reason alone, he didn’t buy Gale’s story.

But it begged the question: Why would Gale have shot him and then lied to him? Cartwright thought he knew the answer. The only way to be sure, though, was to return to the Soviet base.

After he’d pressurized both of their suits, Cartwright had again dumped the atmosphere in the module, this time in a more conventional and controlled manner. Then, with difficulty, he maneuvered himself and the unconscious Gale out of the forward hatch and down the ladder to the moon’s surface. He had considered leaving Gale in the module, tethered to his hammock. He liked the symmetry the gesture would have represented. But he’d given it some thought and decided not to do it.

He didn’t know how long Gale would be out. He figured that the tranquilizer must be fairly long-acting, because, though he couldn’t say how long Gale had lingered at the Soviet base or how long it had taken for the drug to wear off after the astronauts had arrived back at the module, he knew there had been at least enough time while he was unconscious for the man named Arthur Spelling to have made it from Alamogordo to Houston. He hoped whatever that amount of time was, it would allow him to make it to and from the Soviet base before Gale came around.

Still, he couldn’t be sure Gale wouldn’t awaken while he was gone, and, though he felt confident he could tie Gale up sufficiently to keep him immobilized after coming to, in the back of his mind Cartwright couldn’t shake the notion that there was something unstoppable about the man. The last thing Cartwright wanted to have to do on his return was stick his head into the module not knowing whether Gale might be standing just inside the hatch with a heavy tool ready to bash in his helmet, bringing a quick and painful death.

So he had decided to truss up Gale outside the module, where the man would be in full sight when Cartwright returned. As further protection, Cartwright had taken the pistol with him. If, by some miracle, Gale did manage to slip his bindings, Cartwright would be aware of it and at least have that advantage.

He used the same tethers Gale had employed, the ones that had held the two astronauts in place when they were manning their crew stations during descent to the moon’s surface. He’d tied the restraints around Gale’s midsection and ankles, using knots he remembered from his second and first class summer cruises at the Academy, and he’d left the man lying by the forward leg of the lunar module.

Ahead of him now, the sets of tracks he’d been following curved around the side of a gently sloping hillock, and, as he crested the short rise, the Soviet base came into view. At first glance, it looked the same. The exterior door to the air lock was closed, and the vessel that Kruchinkin had called
Rodinia
sat nearby on four stubby legs. When he looked more carefully, however, he noticed something very different. On the side of the capsule, in place of the first “C” in the initials “CCCP,” was a jagged hole, about a meter across at its widest point. Then he realized that, below the vessel, there were items that had not previously been there. As he closed the distance, those items revealed themselves to be irregularly shaped pieces of metal that appeared to be embedded in the ground. Cartwright knew immediately what had happened.

Gale had obviously planted an explosive charge in the Soviet space ship. The blast must have been directed mostly downward, through the rocket’s engine, destroying the thing. But the explosion had also ripped a hole in the side of the vessel.

Lying on the ground in front of the capsule were the bodies of two suited cosmonauts.

He brought the rover to a stop in front of the enclosure and climbed out. As he bounded over, he realized that what he’d seen weren’t bodies at all, but a pair of empty space suits.

Unlike the U.S. version, the Soviet space suit, known as the Krechet, was a one-piece affair with an integrated helmet permanently attached. The suit was entered from a rear hatch, the cover of which contained its life support system. These two suits looked to be intact, but, when Cartwright rolled one over, he saw that the helmet had been crudely caved in with a heavy object. He rotated the second suit and found it similarly damaged. If the fabric had been punctured, there might have been the possibility of patching the tears. But there was no way to repair the helmets. These suits would be of no further use to anyone.

Cartwright straightened and turned toward the enclosure. From this side, he could now see that it, too, had a jagged hole. Apparently, whatever debris had been blown out the side of the vessel had ripped through the structure at its rear corner. Because of the angle at which the debris had struck, this hole was even larger than the one in the capsule. Knowing what he would find, but needing to see it himself, Cartwright stepped over to the side of the structure and peered in.

Sprawled on the floor below him was the large body of Petrov, lying face up, glassy eyes staring toward the heavens. Cartwright leaned in further and turned toward the front of the enclosure, looking for the body of Kruchinkin that he knew would also be lying on the floor. To his surprise, however, he saw nothing.

That made no sense.

Cartwright stepped back and moved to his right, maneuvering around the damaged corner of the structure to get a better angle. He leaned in again and studied the interior. There was, he confirmed, no second body. He did notice, however, that where he’d expected to see the body was a dark stain on the floor. Could have been blood, though it was hard to tell against the dark background. Then he saw that, whatever it was, it had been smeared across the floor to a point just in front of the closed air lock hatch.

Above the dials at the top of the hatchway, a blue light glowed.

Cartwright took in a sharp breath and stood motionless for several seconds, considering the ramifications of what he was seeing.

With a renewed sense of urgency, Cartwright hurried back to the rover. From the tool kit mounted behind the right seat, he withdrew a small rock pick, which he carried to the air lock hatch. With the blunt end of the tool, he tapped three times on the metal door. Then he knelt down and placed his helmet up against the door, listening intently. Nothing. In the vacuum of space, the tapping had made no sound that Cartwright could hear, but he felt certain that, from within the air lock, if it was indeed pressurized, the sound would have been audible. He wondered, though, whether the sound would be transmitted through his own helmet. He tried again, this time with his helmet still against the door, and he could, indeed, hear the sound of metal striking metal. If he could hear tapping generated from this side, he assumed he’d be able to hear it coming from the other side. There was, however, still nothing but silence.

He repeated the process twice more, each time receiving no reply. As he knelt in front of the hatch straining for a response, it dawned on him that, if anyone could actually see him, he’d probably look a little absurd, knocking in vain on the front door of a dwelling on the moon. Nobody’s home, Bob. He shifted his position, the pressure of the suit uncomfortable against his knees. He raised the pick to strike one more time, but, before he could do so, he stiffened. He’d heard a sound.

Three faint taps.

He quickly gave the door another three taps with the pick, and, again, after a few seconds, heard three more in response.

He took a couple of steadying breaths, thinking hard. At the Naval Academy, he’d learned Morse code. As part of survival training, he’d received a series of refresher courses over the years. The code was an international form of communication. That didn’t mean the cosmonaut would be familiar with it, but there was nothing to lose. Using the head of the pick for dash and the handle for dot, he slowly tapped out a message.
Do you understand me
?

There was a long delay. Then he heard a series of replying taps. They made no sense.

He tapped again.
Please repeat
.

Another long pause, then more taps. It took him a moment to process what he was hearing. Then it clicked. The Russian had signaled,
I understand
.

With the pick, Cartwright inquired,
Are you injured
?

The reply was short.
Yes
.

Afraid of the response, Cartwright tapped,
Do you have a pressure suit
?

Again the reply was short.
No
.

Cartwright’s blood went cold. Without a pressure suit, the young cosmonaut couldn’t possibly leave the air lock. He was trapped. Assuming he didn’t die from his injury, he’d live only as long as the oxygen supply to the tiny enclosure held out. Effectively, he was a dead man, waiting in the bleak, cold chamber for his inevitable end. Cartwright knew it, and, he realized, Kruchinkin had to know it as well.

Cartwright raised the pick to tap out more, but suddenly had no idea what to say. His hand hung suspended in front of the door. After a long moment, he heard more taps from the inside.

This is Commander Cartwright yes
?

Slowly, he tapped,
Yes
.

He strained to make out the reply. It came after a long delay and was very faint.
Please find parents
.
Give them my love
.

Cartwright hesitated, the pick again suspended a few inches from the door. Finally, he signaled slowly,
I will
. Then, he added,
I am sorry
.

Cartwright continued leaning against the door, not because he expected a reply, but more out of an irrational sense that he couldn’t simply leave. Logically, he knew there was nothing he could do here. And he knew he needed to get back to the module before Gale came to. But he nevertheless found it hard to let go. Finally he sighed, flexed, and was about pull his head away when he heard one last light series of taps.

Thank you
.

He collapsed back against the door. With a heavy heart, he lay a gloved hand against the hatch door. He didn’t tap out the message. Instead, he murmured softly, “Goodbye. And Godspeed.”

#

As the rover bounded over the surface, Cartwright’s head was filled with dark thoughts.

Mason Gale, he knew now, hadn’t been sent here to “assess the situation.” He’d been sent here to kill the cosmonauts and destroy their vessel. It was murder, pure and simple. And Cartwright had been duped into serving as an accessory. Whoever had planned this hadn’t kept him in the dark to maintain secrecy. No, he’d been deceived so he wouldn’t question the whole thing sooner. So he wouldn’t blow the cover of the assassin. Damn, he castigated himself, why didn’t I see through that?

As he had several times after disabling Gale, Cartwright again tried to raise Mission Control on the radio, not sure who he’d get or what he’d say. But, as before, there was nothing but dead air in response. Cartwright wondered whether his calls were being received and just not being responded to. And, if that was the case, he desperately wanted to know who was making that decision. They can’t all be in on it, he told himself. Certainly not Rick Delahousse. Which would explain why, he now knew, Delahousse had suddenly disappeared. Somehow, he’d been cut out of the process. Cartwright fervently hoped his friend was ok.

So, he asked himself, who
was
in on the thing? For one, he knew, Deputy Administrator Huffman, which was mind-boggling. He remembered back to the meeting when he’d been introduced to the man. Were the others at that meeting party to this conspiracy? A U.S. Senator? Wasn’t he the one who’d supposedly procured the funding for Apollo 18? What about Stu Overholdt? Cartwright had known Overholdt for years. That just didn’t seem possible. Same with Steve Dayton.

Dayton.

Given all that had been happening, he’d not focused on his other crewmate, manning the command capsule in orbit above them. With a sudden inspiration, he reached down to the cable-mounted switch attached to the front of his suit, toggling over to Comm 2.

“…
Concord
, come in please.”

The sound shattered the silence and made him jump.

“This is
Lexington
calling
Concord
, come in please. Do you read?”

It was the unmistakable voice of Steve Dayton. He sounded as if he were reciting a litany. Cartwright guessed that Dayton had probably been broadcasting the same thing for hours now. An irrational relief flooded through him.

“Steve, it’s Bob. Can you hear me?”

“Bob,” Dayton replied immediately, clearly startled, “what the hell is going on down there?”

“How long do you have?”

“How long do I…” then he paused, apparently realizing what Cartwright was asking. “About sixty-eight seconds.”

It meant that, in a minute, the orbit of the command module would take it below the horizon and they would lose their ability for “line of sight” communication, which was the only way the men were able to speak on Comm 2. Once that happened, Dayton would be on the far side of the moon and out of touch for about an hour.

“Are you able to contact Houston?” Cartwright asked.

“Negative. I’ve had no contact with anyone since you were a few minutes into your first EVA.”

Cartwright thought about Dayton sitting alone in the command capsule for hours on end, cut off from everything and everyone. It had to have been unnerving. “You’ve tried all emergency bands?” It was really more a statement. He knew Dayton would have done so.