Dark Side of the Moon Read online

  “What’s it called?” Norris said. “This new element.”

  Eisenbach cocked his head. “Like everything in science, there are naming conventions and protocols. The name’s unofficial since, to the rest of the scientific world, this element doesn’t exist. But because it could be a great deal more powerful—and dangerous—than anything we’ve discovered on Earth, we’ve named it caesarium after Rome’s emperors for the potential dominance it can provide a country that has it.”

  “You mentioned dominance,” Norris said. “Can you be a little more specific?”

  “It increases the yield of a nuclear explosion by almost a factor of ten. There are lots of variables with nuclear weapons—the two biggest being how large the warhead is and the height at which it’s detonated. But if you’re looking to cause maximum mayhem and civilian and economic devastation, anything that improves the explosion’s strength and radius by such a magnitude is a major concern.”

  “It gives new meaning to the term weapon of mass destruction,” McNamara added.

  Eisenbach flicked a speck of dust off his uniform. “It could take out an entire major metropolitan city in the United States with a single nuclear-tipped ballistic missile, the kind Iran and North Korea have been testing. And if they launch multiple warheads and we’re able to neutralize all but one or two—which is likely to be the case—major American cities will cease to exist. And they’ll remain uninhabitable for decades.”

  Knox folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “They hit DC? The seat of our government—as well as the strategic planning nerve center of our armed forces—will be gone. Think about that.”

  They did.

  Welding had a wife and three young children; Norris, ten-year-old twins. Knox knew this factored into their calculus as the seconds of silence passed.

  “So what’s our mission?” Welding finally asked.

  “We have some HUMINT,” Ford said, referring to human intelligence—spy work. “China is training for a Moon shot. From what we can ascertain—and some of this is unconfirmed—they’re planning to send up a robotic lander and rover to collect rock samples.”

  Norris sat forward in his seat. “Are they looking to bring back caesarium?”

  “We don’t know. Not yet. We’re working to find out. But we have to assume they are. Even if they’re not, they may find it. We can’t take that chance.”

  “So that’s why we’re going up?” Welding said. “I don’t see how—”

  “For now,” Knox said, “that’s all you need to know. Once we have more information, we’ll lay down a specific mission plan and explain in more detail what your objectives are.”

  Norris held out both hands, palms up. “I can’t believe no one’s ever thought of this being a problem. Isn’t there some sort of agreement that prevents the mining of another planet?”

  “They have and there is,” Eisenbach said. “The Outer Space Treaty was adopted in 1967. It basically says that the exploration and use of outer space—including the Moon—is for the benefit of all countries. It’s the province of all mankind. If China’s not planning to share their samples with everyone, their mission would be a clear violation of that treaty. That’s the US position. Of course, if they do bring caesarium back, we wouldn’t want them to share it with anyone. Except us.”

  “So it’s a no-win scenario. Once they have it—”

  “That’s not all,” Ford said. “The Republic of China ratified the treaty before the United Nations General Assembly’s vote to transfer China’s UN seat to the People’s Republic of China in 1971. The People’s Republic of China described the defunct Republic of China’s treaty ratification as illegal, but the US considers China to be bound by its former government’s obligations. So far, China’s agreed to adhere to the treaty’s requirements.”

  “There’s also the Moon Treaty,” Knox said.

  “Which no space-faring country ever signed,” Eisenbach said. “Its purpose was to prevent the militarization and resource mining of the Moon without sharing all findings with the international community, through the UN. Like the sea floor treaty.”

  “And then there’s the SPACE Act of 2015,” Eisenbach said, “which muddied the water because it gave US citizens the right to commercially explore and exploit space resources, including water and minerals. The only thing excluded was biological life. It specifically states that America is not asserting sovereignty or jurisdiction over any celestial body. But some have argued that the US recognizing ownership of space resources is an act of sovereignty that violates the Outer Space Treaty.”

  “So nothing’s really clear,” Ford said. “It also hasn’t been tested—although it sure looks like that’s on the verge of changing.”

  “But if China’s getting ready to launch a Moon shot,” Norris said, “and if they’re going there to bring back caesarium, the bell’s been rung. No way to unring it. Regardless of whatever treaties exist.”

  “That’s pretty much it in a nutshell,” Knox said. “Which is one reason why you’ve been training for this mission.”

  “The other reasons?” Welding asked.

  “Reasons two, three, four, and five,” McNamara said with a steely stare, “are … because those are your orders.”

  “We’ll give you more as soon as we’re able to.” Ford folded his hands in front of him. “That’s all we’ve got for you, gentlemen. The possibility exists that we’ll be launching sooner rather than later. We just wanted you to be mentally prepared. The rocket was moved to the launch pad several weeks ago and is being prepped. Just in case.”

  “Questions?” Knox asked.

  “Just one,” Norris said with a shrug. “How will us going to the Moon stop China from launching their mission?”

  “That’ll be addressed at the appropriate time,” Eisenbach said. “Anything else?”

  A moment later, McNamara rose from his chair. “Dismissed.”

  FORD CAME UP BEHIND the men as they entered the suit room to prepare for the afternoon dive.

  “Sir,” Norris said. “Something we can help you find?”

  “No, no. I just—I think you two are the best of the best and we owe you a better explanation of what’s going on than just the standard need-to-know bullshit.”

  “Appreciate that,” Welding said.

  “For what it’s worth, I was in favor of telling you more, but there’s considerable … debate about how to move forward. So even if we laid out the approach, things could change. If China forces our hand, I personally don’t think there’s a choice, but for the moment, it’s classified. I know that’s not what you want to hear.”

  “I always butted heads with my CO,” Welding said with a chuckle. “I wanted all the info we had so I could be thinking about it, working it through. Just how my brain works. Getting piecemeal info, it’s inefficient. For me, at least. I can be a creative part of the solution, not just a lethal tool who can execute a mission plan.”

  Ford laughed. “Then you should’ve stayed in the SEALs and worked your way up to—”

  That was the last any of them heard as a powerful explosion rocked the room and the cinder block walls tumbled down on top of them.

  2

  Nasa

  Johnson Space Center

  Mission Control

  Houston, Texas

  4:49 am

  The mission control specialist leaned forward and studied his screen. “Hey Sam, check this out.”

  Sam blinked his eyes clear and reseated his headset. His oversize coffee mug was empty and he had been caught napping at his station. He glanced at Jamie, who was hunched over his keyboard a few seats to his left in the expansive high-tech monitoring center. Thankfully, Jamie was focused on his station instrumentation. “Whaddya got?”

  Jamie made eye contact with Sam. “I’m putting it on the main screen right now.”

 
An aerial view of what appeared to be a massive rocket filled the wall-size display, an intense magnesium-bright flame trailing beneath it.

  “Where’s this coming from?” Jamie asked as he studied the trajectory.

  “China, Sichuan province. From what I remember, they’ve got a launch center there, so that makes sense.”

  “Switching satellites to get us a better look,” Jamie said. He pushed a button and a three-quarter angle came up alongside the other view.

  “Heavy lift vehicle of some kind,” Sam said. “Four liquid boosters mounted to the first stage.” He watched the image another few seconds as the startlingly white flame below the rocket turned orange. “I’d say something on the order of …” He scrawled a stylus across his monitor, finished his calculations, and brought his gaze back up to the screen. “Holy shit.”

  “That’s one big mother,” Jamie said.

  “Big isn’t the word. If I’m right, that thing is 6 million pounds. About 7 million pounds of thrust. Almost as big as the Saturn V.” Saturn V, the powerful multistage rocket that sent the Apollo astronauts to the Moon, was one of the largest ever to successfully fly.

  “Even if you’ve missed the mark by 20 percent …” Jamie’s voice trailed off.

  “If I had to guess, it’s bigger than their Long March 3B/E.”

  “But China doesn’t have a rocket bigger than the 3B/E.”

  Sam swallowed. “Obviously they do.”

  “We need to report this.”

  “Agreed.”

  Jamie got up from his terminal and walked briskly to the back of the large mission control center. He knocked on the glass window of his superior’s office, assistant chief of operations, Zenzō Aoki. Aoki looked up from his desk and waved Jamie in.

  He stepped inside, his hands now clammy. Jamie had been assigned to ops only three months ago, but he had worked at NASA for fourteen years. When he requested the transfer, his colleagues told him he was crazy because the work tended to be tedious in between launches. He was about to make them eat their words.

  “Sir, we’ve got something you need to see. Main screen.” Jamie cocked his head toward the front of the room.

  Aoki craned his neck, then gave up and walked over to the windowed wall behind Jamie. Together they watched the rocket continue its ascent.

  “Who?” Aoki said. “Where?”

  “Chinese. Sichuan province.”

  Aoki crinkled his brow as he processed that. “Mass?”

  “Six million pounds.”

  Aoki’s left eye twitched.

  “It’s bigger than the Long March 3B/E. They were rumored to be developing something called Chang Zheng 5, but I didn’t know they built it, let alone tested it.”

  Aoki’s gaze was fixed on the screen. “Yeah.”

  “And a vehicle that large would be sitting on the pad for days, if not weeks. How could our satellites have missed something that big?”

  “Unless China hid it,” Aoki said under his breath. “Okay, Jamie. I’ll take it from here. Go back to your station. Keep monitoring it until further notice. And get me a trajectory.”

  “Yes sir.”

  As Jamie put his hand on the doorknob to leave, he turned back and saw Aoki lift the red telephone handset.

  “This is Assistant Chief Aoki.” He looked up and locked gazes with Jamie’s reflection off the window. “Get me the Pentagon.”

  3

  Naval Air Station Patuxent River

  Chesapeake Bay

  St. Mary’s County, Maryland

  7:59 am

  Hector DeSantos, senior operative for OPSIG, the Operations Support Intelligence Group, steadied himself in the front seat of the F/A-18 Super Hornet’s cockpit. The sky was generally overcast with patches of thick cloud cover mixed with an occasional glimpse of a baby blue ceiling, morning rays of sun slicing through the cottony puffs. However, with the fighter jet effortlessly piercing the air at a leisurely .69 Mach—6.9 miles per minute—grayness appeared to dominate.

  Although DeSantos only caught glimpses of it, below him sat a picturesque landscape, parts of it yellow from the young sun as it rose in the east and cast a glow over the forest of broccoli-like treetops and the flowing Patuxent River.

  Strapped into “the pit” behind DeSantos, supervisory special agent Aaron Uziel, head of the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force and occasional OPSIG Team Black member, looked up through the cockpit canopy. “This is the best part of the job.”

  “Flying an F-18?”

  “Hell yeah. I mean, I know this is training, but are we the luckiest guys in the world, or what?”

  DeSantos looked at his surroundings, then brought his gaze down to the forward instruments. “Can’t argue, Boychick,” DeSantos said, using his nickname for Uzi—Yiddish for buddy. “Right now, I’m on cloud nine. And ten.” He craned his neck and watched the passing clumps of cotton. “And eleven.”

  “I think we should do this more often,” Uzi said.

  DeSantos laughed. “I had to pull strings to get us this sortie. Enjoy it while you can.”

  After doing an afterburner takeoff from Pax River, a large military proving grounds that housed a US Navy test pilot school, they rotated, sucked up the landing gear, and started a 10 degree nose-high climb, then turned left to 180 degrees. They leveled off in the “soup,” or clouds, at 3,000 feet.

  After making contact with Washington Center, they were cleared for an unrestricted climb and given permission to operate from 14,000 feet “mean sea level” up to a flight level of 36,000 feet.

  “Awesome!” Uzi said. “Just awesome.”

  DeSantos lit the afterburner and pulled his nose up 20 degrees, then popped out of the altostratus clouds at 9,000 feet. “Woohoo!” He looked around, creamy blue above and a sheet of gray to cerulean cotton below stretching miles into the distance.

  “Never gets old, does it?”

  After they made several maneuvers and “pulled Gs,” they got down to business. Uzi checked beyond line of sight communications gear that OPSIG planned to deploy on future missions.

  “I keyed in a ZAP,” Uzi said, referring to a text message, “and I just got a response from the ops center. The kit is working beautifully.”

  “Roger that. The SecDef will be very happy his $30 million equipment purchase actually works. So far so g—”

  “Caution. Caution.”

  “Bitching Betty,” as fighter pilots called the audio fault system, started blaring in their headsets.

  Red lights lit up on DeSantos’s panel. “Ah, shit.”

  “This our first training exercise?”

  “Not sure.” DeSantos examined his instrumentation and pecked away at the up-front touch screen control display. “Navigation and EGI/GPS system just shit the bed.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wouldn’t joke about that.”

  “Exercise or not, we should play it straight.” Uzi keyed his mic. “Washington Center, this is X-ray Bravo 69. We need to RTB,” he said, using the abbreviation for “return to base.”

  The response came back immediately: “X-Ray Bravo 69, Washington Center, squawk 4322.”

  Uzi did as instructed, identifying them on the air traffic controller’s radar display.

  “X-Ray Bravo 69,” Washington Center continued. “Radar contact turn left direct to HELEM and descend to 16,000. Pax River altimeter is 29.90.”

  DeSantos acknowledged the instructions and entered the altimeter setting, starting a left hand turn and a descent to 16,000 feet. As the aircraft responded with the required G for the turn, DeSantos controlled the airspeed by pulling the throttles back from mil, or military power, to idle.

  As he finished the maneuver, the jet noticeably decelerated.

  “What the hell was that?” Uzi asked.

  DeSantos scanned his instrumentatio
n. “Nothing good, I can tell you that.”

  Another Bitching Betty alarm interrupted their moment of fate-pondering silence.

  “Warning. Warning.”

  DeSantos took a deep breath as his eyes swept the panel. “Left engine just flamed out.”

  They both knew that it was not abnormal for these advanced fighter jets to experience a single simple problem that compounded itself and cascaded into a mass of catastrophic system failures. A fire or flameout, even when controlled quickly, often caused unseen damage: those seconds when it was burning destroyed wiring to a hydraulic or fuel line, resulting in escalating leaks and irreversible damage.

  “Boychick, squawk 7700,” DeSantos said, dividing the cockpit task and referring to the emergency code. “Call Ops. Let ’em know we’re single engine.”

  “Washington Center,” Uzi said, “X-ray Bravo 69 declaring an emergency. We’ve lost an engine.”

  DeSantos knew the center should respond back immediately. But the radio remained silent.

  “I don’t think we’re transmitting,” Uzi said.

  “Great. Any luck with Ops?”

  Before Uzi could answer, Washington Center said, “X-ray Bravo 69, plan on holding at HELEM for five minutes due to weather and traffic.”

  “Center,” Uzi said, “X-ray Bravo 69 declaring an emergency, request immediate vectors to final at Pax River.”

  Nothing. The radios remained silent except for the incoming communications from the center to other aircraft.

  “They’re not receiving us.” After continued radio silence, Uzi said, “Do we hold? Or start the return to base?”

  “X-ray Bravo 69, Center. Descend and maintain 10,000. You have traffic ten miles ahead, left ten o’clock at 16,000.”

  “Center,” Uzi said, “X-ray Bravo. How do you r—”

  “This is Washington Center on Guard. X-Ray Bravo 69, contact me on 133.900,” the controller said, referring to a commonly used East Coast frequency.

  “Flat-out interrupted me,” Uzi said. “We’re definitely radio out. So we can receive but can’t transmit. Our twenty-ton $65 million tactical fighter jet can’t navigate and can’t communicate. Just a guess here, but this isn’t a training exercise to see how we handle a catastrophic failure of multiple systems.”