Dark Side of the Moon Page 5

  “Is Nadine still alive?”

  Jackson twisted his mouth. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “Because you keep your victims alive for five days before killing them. This is day five.”

  “Oh, I read about this case. The Virginia Strangler, right?”

  “Right.” Vail sat on the edge of the mattress. “Now personally, I respect the Strangler because he’s, well, he’s famous. And really good at what he does. He’s been killing for three years and the cops haven’t been able to find him.”

  Jackson smiled. “I know. Pretty sweet, eh?”

  “I bet they’re going to make a movie about him someday. And you know, when they do that, the media always wants to do interviews with the real offender. Because to get away with it so long, he’s gotta be much smarter than other killers.”

  “I’m sure he’d enjoy the attention.”

  “So hypothetically, Bobby, where do you think the Strangler would be keeping the women before he kills them?”

  “Wow. Who knows? I mean, the Strangler knows. But how on Earth would you find out where he’s got this Nadine woman without finding the Strangler?”

  I’d like to strangle you, you pissant—

  There was a commotion outside the house. Muffled shouting. Vail glanced at Bledsoe, who was peering out the bedroom window.

  Wait, I know that voice.

  “Can’t see anything.” Bledsoe pulled his handgun.

  “You can put that away,” Vail said, raising a hand. “I know who it is.” And I hope he’s not here for me. “Friend of mine. He’s not a threat.”

  “Stand down,” a deep male voice shouted from the other room.

  The door burst open and Troy Rodman was standing there, clad in a black tactical uniform.

  “What the hell do you thi—”

  “Your services are needed.” His expression was cold, icy. And his imposing stature made Vail think of an offensive lineman on a football team who had not eaten in days: he possessed a hard expression and slightly bent hands, dangling at his sides as if ready to rip someone’s head off for looking at him the wrong way.

  “I’m in the middle of a case,” Vail said. “An interview.” Her eyes flicked over to Bobby Ray Jackson.

  “An interview.” Rodman laughed. “Why don’t you people just call it what it is—an interrogation?”

  This isn’t happening. “Seriously. You need to get out of here. Now.”

  “My orders are to not leave without you.”

  “And I’m not leaving until this scumbag tells me what I need to know.”

  Rodman stepped forward, all 280 pounds of him. “Does this scumbag have a name?”

  “Bobby Ray Jackson. Serial killer who kidnapped a young woman.”

  “Accused serial killer,” Jackson said. “I’ve admitted nothing.”

  “And he’s not telling you where this woman is?” Rodman asked.

  “Look,” Vail said, “I know you’re trying to be helpful, but—”

  “Just answer the question.”

  Vail folded her arms across her chest. “Correct. We think she’s still alive—but not for long.”

  Rodman stepped back and closed the door—as best he could, given the poor treatment it had received from Bledsoe’s shoe. He then walked over to Jackson, who weighed about 165 pounds fully clothed. Rodman stood in front of him and looked down on the man’s greasy hair. “You need to answer Agent Vail’s question so she can leave.”

  Jackson laughed. “I don’t know who you think I am, but I’ve got rights.”

  “Answer the damn question.”

  “Already answered it. I have no idea what she’s talking about.”

  Rodman turned to Vail. “You’re sure this is your guy? And that he’s holding the woman you’re looking for?”

  “Yes. No question whatsoever.”

  Rodman puckered his lips and nodded slowly. Then, with the swiftness of a tiger, he struck the man in the throat with the knife edge of his hand.

  Jackson’s eyes bulged. He gasped for breath and his chair tipped backward onto the dusty wood floor.

  Vail grabbed Rodman’s arm. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Bledsoe rushed to Rodman’s side as the big man shrugged Vail aside and then kicked the chair out of the way.

  He knelt atop the squirming Jackson, who was still trying to suck air into his lungs. “I don’t have time to fuck around,” Rodman said calmly. “I have my orders to take Agent Vail with me. So you’re going to cooperate. Right now. Tell her where you’re keeping that woman.”

  Jackson coughed violently once, twice, three times. Rodman grabbed the man’s throat. And squeezed.

  “Hey!” Bledsoe lifted his pistol. “Let him go.”

  Jesus Christ. Is this really happening? “Bledsoe, lower the weapon.” She whispered in his ear: “Block the door, make sure no one comes in.” He started to object but she gave him a hard look and he complied, albeit with a frown. Vail then turned back to Rodman and softened her voice. “Please. You can’t … you can’t just barge in here and do this. He’s right. He’s got rights. You know that. There are rules.”

  But unlike the FBI, OPSIG followed no rules. It was all about the successful completion of the mission. And Rodman was an OPSIG operator.

  “I’m not law enforcement,” Rodman said, his large leg pinning down the thighs of Jackson, who had stopped choking—but the man’s face was red, wet with perspiration. “Answer me. Where’s the woman? Or I’m gonna close my fist and crush your goddamn windpipe. I’ve done it. More than once.”

  “Leithtown,” Jackson squeaked, followed by a cough as Rodman released his hold.

  “Where in Leithtown?”

  “Ranch house … 4502 Setter Lane.”

  Bledsoe rushed out of the room. The information had not been obtained legally, so their case against Jackson would not be able to include Nadine’s testimony—but weighed against the young woman’s life, Vail knew he was not likely to complain too loudly.

  Rodman pushed himself up and adjusted his shirt. “Vail, you’re with me.” He marched out, not waiting for her—but knowing she would be following close behind.

  6

  Gulfstream V Jet

  West Virginia Airspace

  General Klaus Eisenbach handed DeSantos and Uzi a glass topped up with orange liquid, then settled himself in the tan glove leather seat.

  “I’m a former NASA flight engineer. Before that I flew F-16s in the Air Force, the First Gulf War. I remember watching Apollo 11 land on the Moon—which is why I ended up at NASA. Needless to say, I’m thoroughly familiar with your dossiers.”

  The ice cubes clinked as Uzi took a sip and made a face. “This is orange juice.”

  “No more alcohol, processed sugar, refined carbohydrates, fried or fatty foods. Your diets will be tightly controlled from here on out, your health monitored on an ongoing basis. Your weight will be watched as well.”

  “There’s no substitute for efficiency,” Uzi said as he glanced around the Gulfstream’s interior.

  “Efficiency is the name of this mission. With one exception, all seven Moon missions were successful, thanks to the engineers who designed the rockets, the engines, the computers, and the spacecraft—as well as the hours of testing and training to ensure we did everything possible to bring our people home safely. We tried to anticipate every contingency. We didn’t always succeed—shit happened—but when things went wrong, we had systems in place to deal with them. So, efficiency? Yes. We want to carry out our mission and get you home safely.”

  “Point taken.”

  “The typical astronaut course,” Eisenbach said, “involves astronomy, aerodynamics, rocket propulsion, communications, medical testing, meteorology, physics of the upper atmosphere, navigation, flight mechanics, and geology. We’d like at least a month to
prep you for the mission. We don’t even have two weeks. But you’re not going to be piloting or navigating the spacecraft, and you’re already highly trained in some of those skills, so we’ve got a strong foundation to work from. For the most part, you’ll be glorified passengers until you get to the lunar surface.”

  “I think we can handle that,” DeSantos said.

  Eisenbach reached across the table and gathered up two Surface tablets. He handed one to Uzi and the other to DeSantos. “These contain your study materials, including schematics, photos, and video tutorials. The hard drives are encrypted. That’s the password on the Post-it. Memorize it, then give it back to me.”

  They both looked at it a moment, then passed the notes to Eisenbach.

  “Your backgrounds and skill sets are similar yet different, so we’ve assembled the course material to fit your individual strengths. Additional content will be pushed to the devices when you’re at the base.”

  They turned on the tablets and entered the password.

  “Spaceflight today, like flying a jumbo jet, is automated. There’s very little a pilot needs to do other than monitor his or her equipment—and know what to do if something goes wrong. I’ve scheduled a lot of simulator time so you can get a sense of what it’ll feel like maneuvering in zero-G in the crew module and walking in one-sixth gravity on the lunar surface. You also need to learn how to use your pressure suit and you’ll get some basic training on the operations of the crew module.” He looked from DeSantos to Uzi. “Any questions? No?”

  Eisenbach pressed on. “Redundancy is the mantra at NASA. Backups to backups. So while the plan is for you to just enjoy the ride there, we’d rather you have an idea of what’s going on. Uzi, you’ll huddle with the flight engineers and rocket scientists to get some instruction on the computer systems, rockets, and engines. Given your engineering background at Intel, that material will be a good fit for you.

  “Hector, you’ll work with the pilots to get simulator time flying the crew module and even the lunar descent and ascent vehicles. If we’re ahead of schedule, we’ll do some cross training.”

  “You think we’ll have enough time to get a handle on this stuff?” DeSantos asked.

  Eisenbach lifted his heavy whiskey glass from the table in front of him. “Not even close. But you’ll be familiar with each task. Something comes up, we’ll be able to talk you through it. Only your previous experience and knowledge base make it remotely possible we could pull this off.”

  “If this mission was being planned for years, why bring us in at the last minute?” DeSantos asked. “With all due respect, sir, it doesn’t really add up.”

  Eisenbach swirled his drink, the ice cubes rattling against the sides. DeSantos had a feeling his clear liquid was not water.

  “We had a team of four ready to go,” Eisenbach said. “The two astronauts you’ll be flying with and two SEAL team operators, Welding and Norris, who’d been training for the mission. Five days ago, Welding and Norris were at NASA’s Neutral Buoyancy Lab underwater training facility when an explosion ripped through a part of the facility. We lost our men—and five others. Two of them were our backup team. One was the assistant director of the CIA.”

  DeSantos narrowed his eyes. “What kind of explosion?”

  Eisenbach stared into his glass. “A bomb. And no, we haven’t caught the bastard. FBI’s working on it.” He took a sip. “We launched a selection process to replace our fallen operators, but when they gave me the list of names the SecDef strongly suggested I give the two of you a hard look.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Uzi said.

  “Starting from scratch, and now facing a hard deadline, it made the most sense to insert you two into the team and, well, hope for the best.”

  DeSantos turned to Uzi. “So much for the vote of confidence.”

  “From what I’m told, you two are very good. I heard two of OPSIG’s best. But flattery doesn’t get anyone anywhere. You’re operators and this is a mission. Nothing else matters. I know you’ll give it your all.”

  “During the briefing,” Uzi said, “you mentioned that the plan would prevent a country from getting caesarium.”

  “We believe so, yes.”

  “But let’s say we accomplish our mission and we disable the Chang’e so they can’t bring it back. What’s stopping them from launching another Chang’e six months from now?”

  Eisenbach removed his glasses. “Tomorrow morning we’re launching the OLEC, an unmanned spacecraft carrying three satellite-based laser-emitting cannons. OLEC will reach a lunar orbit in ninety-six hours and release the satellites at strategic intervals. Officially, it’ll be NASA’s long-planned Lunar Atmosphere and Dust Environment Explorer—LADDEE. Its design is roughly the same size and shape so we should be able to get away with that explanation.”

  “Laser-emitting cannons?” DeSantos asked.

  “For the past thirty-five years,” McNamara said, “the DOD and the Army’s Space and Missile Defense Command have been developing directed-energy weapons at the White Sands test range in New Mexico. Lasers. And high-powered microwaves and particle beams. The Navy’s LaWS, or Laser Weapon System, is now operating in the Arabian Gulf and can be deployed for ground, air, and space-based warfare.”

  DeSantos inched forward in his seat. “Instead of sending us to the Moon, why not just use a laser to shoot down the Chang’e?”

  “Our high-power, deuterium fluoride chemical laser can heat rocket warheads, literally blasting them to bits. The Chang’e isn’t a warhead, but it’d probably detonate if hit by a laser because of the onboard fuel. Problem is, the Chinese would know we did it. No deniability. They’d have to respond. It’d be an act of provocation at best, and really an act of war.”

  Uzi chuckled. “One that Russia would be all too happy to back them over.”

  “And you’re right—it wouldn’t solve anything because they could just launch another Chang’e.”

  “So what’s the laser for?” DeSantos asked.

  Eisenbach refreshed his drink and squeezed in a section of lime. “To prevent future attempts to mine caesarium, we’re deploying an array of optical lasers around the Moon. Anything entering lunar orbit will be destroyed. The US will keep these satellite lasers in orbit until a treaty is signed. All missions to the Moon’s surface will need to be preapproved by a UN body and enforced by UN troops. The mining and recovery of caesarium and any as-yet undiscovered elements or minerals that have the potential to be used in weapons of mass destruction would be prohibited.”

  “Interesting,” Uzi said.

  “Moon shots would need to be submitted for review to the international body. And to keep everyone honest, all spacecraft returning from the Moon will be subject to forensic inspection. Once an agreement and infrastructure are in place, the laser array will be deactivated.”

  “I like it,” DeSantos said. “Incentive to reach an agreement.”

  Eisenbach gestured toward their Surface tablets. “You’ve got five hours to study before we land. It’s all arranged in the order you should be reading this data. My staff has been updating it and expanding on it to reflect what the engineers have been telling us. So some of it might be a bit rough around the edges. Some of it is incomplete. Some of it is still being worked out.”

  DeSantos harrumphed. “Sounds like a lot of our missions. We plan and train, but sometimes we have to ship out without all the i’s dotted.”

  “That’s the bottom line of what we do, isn’t it? We do whatever it takes. Sometimes we mission plan on the fly when things don’t go the way they’ve been drawn up, when the unexpected gets in the way and the fog of war inserts itself—as it always does. SecDef McNamara tells me you’re used to this and that you always find a way to make it work.”

  Uzi snorted. “My wife used to do this thing where she’d add ‘in bed’ to the end of every fortune cookie fortune. ‘You’re
going to have the time of your life today in bed.’”

  Eisenbach furrowed his brow. “Your point?”

  “Maybe we should add ‘in space’ to the assurances you’re giving us for this mission. ‘OPSIG always finds a way to make it work in space.’ Those two simple words change the equation, and risk, dramatically.” He got serious. “I don’t think we can apply the benefit of confidence and experience with prior mission success to this because there are too many unknowns in space. That’s my point.”

  “At West Point,” Eisenbach said, “I had a subcourse instructor on special operations forces who pulled me aside after I made a similar point in class about prior mission success.” He leaned back in the lounger and looked at the ceiling, as if reliving the memory. “Had me take a walk with him. Told me that when the bell rings you have your orders. Your sole focus is to carry out those orders. And if you have doubts, there are two words you should always remember.” He cast his gaze to Uzi. “You know what they are?”

  “Tough shit.”

  “That’s what I want you to remember on this mission. Tough shit. You have a job to do and a dozen reasons to have doubts. Doubts are normal. But they need to be controlled so they don’t interfere with your performance. Because your two other teammates are depending on you to perform without hesitation. With confidence. With intelligence and good judgment. And with unselfish motives.”

  “I got it sir,” Uzi said. “No worries.”

  “We’d be robots if we didn’t have any worries,” Eisenbach said. “We have to channel these fears and rise above them. That’s what good operators do. That’s what good soldiers do. And that’s what you four are going to do. In space.”

  7

  The Pentagon