Dark Side of the Moon Page 7

  “Bottom line, we’ve got teams all over the country maturing the design of the vehicle to make sure, as best we can, that it’ll function as intended and designed.”

  The van slowed and DeSantos took a moment to glance outside. The number of armed personnel in the area had increased exponentially: they were in a busier—or more sensitive—part of the base.

  “Hercules was built in stages at different locations,” Eisenbach said, “including NASA’s vehicle assembly building. The stages were then transported by ocean barge to Vandenberg. An advantage of Vandy is that it’s located right on the coast. Perfect for a covert mission. But it also creates logistical issues because the launch trajectory will be north-south instead of east-west, which you’ll need for a lunar parking orbit.”

  “And the fix was?” Uzi asked.

  Eisenbach laughed. “I wouldn’t understand the details if they tried to explain them to me. All I needed to know was that the computer will make a major course correction to line things up.”

  “When do all the stages get put together?” DeSantos asked.

  “Already done. Hercules was erected vertically into its final launch configuration several weeks ago. It’s gone through rounds of checkouts of all subsystems, including propulsion, guidance, navigation and control, and structures.”

  The transport pulled up to the front of a nondescript building that had a large “U” painted on the side. They filed in and were met by a dark-complected man in combat fatigues. “Klaus,” he said, giving Eisenbach a shoulder hug. “Good to see you again.”

  “Delivering the rest of our crew. Hector DeSantos and Aaron Uziel.”

  “Bansi Kirmani.” He shook their hands. “I’m going to be your instructor and drill sergeant. I’ll be assisting the flight director once you four lift off, so you won’t be rid of me once you climb on board that rocket. Even though you may want to be.”

  Eisenbach laughed—with a hint of nervous energy.

  “Ex-military?” DeSantos asked.

  “Captain,” Kirmani said. “Naval intelligence. Assistant flight director on the last two shuttle missions. And I already know about you two.” He started walking down a long corridor. “We’re on a very tight schedule, so let’s get to it. The two astronauts who’ll be flying this mission are doing some training in the EVA simulator. We had been working on it at the Sonny Carter training facility at Johnson,” he said, referring to the Neutral Buoyancy Lab in Houston. “But I’m sure you heard about what happened.”

  “We did,” Uzi said. “Sorry for your loss.”

  Kirmani stopped at a door and pushed through it. “Because of the explosion we’ve had to turn back the clock several decades. This is how we trained for Apollo. But it worked for them, so it’ll work for all of you.”

  A crane-like apparatus was attached to a handle on the two astronauts’ pressure suits, suspending them slightly as they walked—more like hopped—in a large circle.

  “Simulates one-sixth gravity. You’ll be suiting up and doing this too. It’s one of those things you can’t just read about—you have to do it to get the hang of it.”

  Five minutes later, the two astronauts were being unhooked from the apparatus. They were helped off with their gloves and then their helmets were unlatched and removed.

  DeSantos and Uzi walked over, taking in the machinery as they neared. “Interesting contraption,” DeSantos said.

  “Not as good as the NBL,” the black-haired man said, “but it’s not bad for what it is.”

  “Neutral buoyancy isn’t the same as weightlessness, but it’s the next best thing to being in zero-G.”

  “This is Digger Carson and Gavin Stroud,” Kirmani said as the two men approached. “Stroud was with SEAL Team 10. You hear of Operation Silver Fox?”

  “That was you?” DeSantos asked.

  Stroud, a shade over five-ten and sporting the beginnings of crow’s feet, nodded. “Yes sir.”

  “What was Silver Fox?” Uzi asked.

  “Afghanistan,” DeSantos said. “Outside Asadabad, 2005. Two members of the team were killed in an ambush.” He gestured at Stroud. “You saved your buddy’s life, hid him out in the mountains until SOAR(A) could get to you.”

  “Pretty cool, what you did,” Uzi said.

  “Loyalty to country and team.” Stroud shrugged. “I served with honor, placed the welfare and security of others before my own. And I never quit.”

  “The SEAL creed,” DeSantos said.

  “You know it.”

  “Don’t let that serious facade fool you,” Kirmani said. “We call him Cowboy.”

  “Cowboy?” Uzi asked with more than a hint of skepticism.

  “In BUD/s training. Had an asshole as a CO,” Stroud said, referring to a commanding officer. “Didn’t like the way I wore my hat, said I looked like a cowboy. Nickname stuck.”

  Uzi looked at Stroud’s blond-haired companion. “He telling the truth?”

  “About this he is.”

  “Aaron Uziel,” he said as he shook the other man’s hand. “Obvious nickname: Uzi. After the machine gun.”

  “Because you shoot your mouth off?”

  DeSantos chuckled. “Because he shoots his mouth off about all sorts of shit and most of it isn’t very accurate.”

  They laughed.

  “I’m Digger Carson.”

  Uzi nodded at him. “What’s your story? How’d you get the nickname Digger?”

  “Pops worked for thirty-one years as a Caterpillar machinist. Loved those machines. And what do they do?”

  “Dig,” Uzi said. “A lot.”

  “Exactly. He also loved digging as a kid, so he named his first son Digger.”

  “So Digger’s not a nickname?”

  “Nope. And you shoulda seen what they did to me for it in the SEALs.”

  “Former SEAL, too?” DeSantos asked.

  “DEVGRU,” he said, using the acronym for the Naval Special Warfare Development Group.

  DeSantos raised his brow. “The storied Team 6.” He did some quick math. “When’d you leave?”

  “Last mission was May 2, 2011.”

  “Six did the bin Laden kill on that date.”

  “Sharp memory,” Carson said.

  “You were on that op? Neptune Spear?”

  Carson nodded. “And no, I got nothing to say about it.”

  “Because?”

  “Because it’s not about us, it’s about the country. The Team—long live the Brotherhood. And obviously the mission.” He shook his head. “Those guys who wrote books. Not what we’re about. I was disappointed in them. Good men. My brothers. But they shouldn’t a done that. You know?”

  “I do.” DeSantos looked at Carson a long moment. “You’re okay, Digger.”

  “I know.”

  They all laughed again.

  “Obviously you two have already met Ridgid.”

  “Who?” DeSantos asked.

  “That’d be me,” Kirmani said.

  “Should we ask how you got that name?”

  “Not what you think.”

  “Bullshit,” Carson said. “It’s exactly what you think. He’s a rigid son of a bitch. And he fancies himself a drill sergeant. So we named him after the Ridgid line of drills and power tools.”

  “Ridgid was opposed to this mission and how it came about,” Stroud said. “But I think he’s come around.”

  DeSantos cocked his head. “I sense there’s more to that story, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? We have our orders and we’re all sworn to carry them out.”

  Kirmani nodded slowly. “That’s not just the company line. You two don’t cut it, if you can’t carry out those orders—in my estimation and my estimation alone—this mission will not happen.” He paused, let his gaze linger on their faces. “Got it?”

  DeSanto
s did not reply. He was caught off guard at the sudden shift of tone from good-hearted banter to serious threat. “Ridgid” suddenly made sense.

  “Got it,” Uzi said, filling the awkward silence.

  “Good. We’ve spent enough time on introductions. You can talk more during dinner. Cowboy, Digger, get out of your suits. DeSantos, Uzi, you two are with me.”

  They gave a nod to Carson and Stroud and followed Kirmani down the brightly lit tan-tiled corridor to a room off to the right.

  Kirmani shoved the door open and gestured inside, where the décor featured gray industrial carpet, two metal-framed beds, and a wood dresser on each side. A single closet stretched the length of the far wall.

  “You two will be bunking together. We’ll start every morning at 0600. You’ll have fifteen minutes for breakfast, twenty for lunch and dinner. Then there’ll be an evening session starting at 2100 for ninety minutes, at which point you’ll come back here to hit the sack. You’ve been issued clothing and shoes in your sizes.” He turned and led them farther down the hall into the kitchen.

  A balding man with a ladle in his hand was leaning over a pot.

  “Bernie!” Kirmani said. “A minute.”

  Bernie set the utensil down and dragged his fingers across the apron that was once white and now streaked with whatever had been adorning his hands.

  “This is Bernie Anderson. Your cook. He’s under strict orders to follow the diet set forth by the nutrition department. So don’t ask him to make you something that’s not on the menu because you’re not going to get it.”

  “And what diet is that?” DeSantos asked.

  “High protein, low carb. No refined sugars. Whole grains, nuts, fruit. We want you to drop five pounds each.”

  “Does it look like either of us needs to lose five pounds?” DeSantos asked.

  Kirmani shook his head in disapproval. “This has nothing to do with fitness but weight. Your education starts now. Everything that goes on that goddamn spacecraft has mass, and every ounce of that mass gets weighed, recorded, and logged. Know why?”

  “I’m sure we’ll find out.”

  He gave DeSantos a quick frown. “Because the rocket that’s going to be lit underneath your asses has to be able to lift you, your crewmates, all the equipment you’ll have onboard, the rocket itself and crew module, lunar module, and rover. The Hercules II is among the most powerful rockets ever built but there are limits. So the goal is to save ten pounds by putting you two on a nutritious, restricted calorie diet.”

  Kirmani started walking down the hall as Anderson returned to his cooking duties.

  “The two guys you’re replacing, combined, weighed ten pounds less than you two. So one way or another, we have to make up that mass. Rather than dumping equipment, we’ll dump some fat.”

  DeSantos made a mental note not to invite this guy to his annual Christmas party.

  “Your two team members have been training for this mission for a year and a half. They’re more than just competent pilots. They’re the best we’ve got.”

  Kirmani continued down the corridor, Uzi and DeSantos striding to keep up with the man’s rapid pace.

  “I’ll be giving you two a crash course on particular aspects of the mission as a means of support to Cowboy and Digger. But you’ll still need to be intimately familiar with things like putting on and taking off your pressure suits, how to walk in a low gravity environment, how to operate the rover, and so on. General Eisenbach gave you those tablets, correct?”

  “Already had five hours to digest the first lesson,” Uzi said.

  “Good. My assistant and I will quiz you later.”

  “Quiz us?” DeSantos asked. “What is this, high school?”

  Kirmani stopped suddenly and faced him. “I need to be certain you two grasp the concepts behind what you’ll be doing and know how to do it. This is serious business. You screw up, there’s not gonna be a rescue team parachuting in.”

  Uzi cleared his throat. “All due respect, sir, you know who we are. And you know we’re accustomed to operating in situations like that.”

  “This is different. It’s … there’s something about being in space, being on the Moon, where there are no other life forms, where it’ll only be the four of you. Closest human will be a quarter million miles away. Something happens, you’re going to have to figure it out. We’ll be here to help, to offer solutions, but it’s all on your shoulders. You may’ve done that in the mountains of Timbuktu, but there’s always the potential for someone in a Black Hawk to swoop in and drop you a line, some food, extra ammo. Up there, it’s just you. You can’t really relate to what I’m saying. But you will.”

  “How do you know?” DeSantos asked.

  Kirmani resumed his quick pace. “Because I was on shuttle mission ST-128. I did three EVAs—extravehicular activities—space walks. And I’ve spoken with Aldrin and Collins and Cernan and Armstrong. The Moon walkers can tell you what it’s like on the surface. What it’s like hurtling through space with nothing around you but the stars. Knowing there’s a chance you might not make it back alive. We’ll do everything to make sure you do—that’s the most important part of my job.”

  Kirmani stopped in front of a room. “Let’s get something clear. I’m not being a hard ass because I enjoy it. I’m trying to prepare you best I can to make sure you complete your mission successfully and make it back to Earth in one piece. Either of you got a problem with that?”

  “No sir,” they said in unison.

  Kirmani checked his watch. “We’re right on time.” He pushed open the door. “Let’s get started.”

  9

  Opsig Situation Room

  The Pentagon

  Vail, Rodman, and an OPSIG analyst were hunched over their laptops when a tall man with blond-highlighted hair entered.

  “Hot Rod, got something for you.”

  Rodman swiveled in his seat. “Karen, you ever meet Lincoln Dykstra?”

  Vail shook her head.

  “Link, this is Karen Vail. Karen, Link. Good guy, hell of a marksman, deadly fighter. Hands, knife, doesn’t matter—just plain lethal. And great with a garrote.”

  “Oh,” Vail said as Dykstra shook her hand. She felt like pulling it away and wiping it on her 5.11s. “That’s just … Wow. Impressive.” Sooner or later, Robby’s gonna start objecting to the company I’m now keeping.

  “Good to meet you,” Dykstra said. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

  “I’m … part-time.”

  Rodman gestured at the piece of paper in Dykstra’s hand. “That for me?”

  “Got something on that explosion at the Neutral Buoyancy Lab. You wanted everything coming through you.”

  “Whaddya got?”

  “Potential hit on the keycard and biometrics used to access the lab. Apparently one of the guys who’d called in sick wasn’t sick at all. He was dead. Killed. Head shot, no sign of a struggle. His access credentials were used to enter the facility the afternoon before the blast. We’ve got cameras showing an unknown male in his thirties carrying a messenger bag. He walked into the area where the locker room is located. Was located.”

  “What do we know about him?” Vail asked.

  Dykstra chuckled. “For one thing, it wasn’t the guy whose credentials were used to enter the lab. We ID’d him from facial recognition—cross-referenced with DMV databases. Name’s Alec Hayder. Other than that, not a whole lot worth discussing. No known connections to terror groups. Hasn’t ventured outside the country. Ever, it seems. No weird online posts. No significant run-ins with law enforcement. Misdemeanor drug arrest as a minor but he paid a fine, did a few hours of community service, and that was that. He’s kept his nose clean as an adult. No phone calls to anyone on a watch list. Doesn’t own a gun—not legally, at least. Really, he’s pretty unremarkable.”

  “Work?”


  “Drives a local delivery truck.”

  “What was he doing in Houston?” Rodman asked.

  Dykstra laughed. “You mean other than planting a bomb that killed a bunch of people? No idea. Nothing seems to indicate he had a reason for being there.”

  “Money trail?” Vail asked.

  “No unusual deposits into his local checking or savings account at Cleveland Bank & Trust. If he was paid for a job in cash and he’s stashed it somewhere, no way for us to know. Doesn’t look to be in debt. His mom rents her house, been there twenty-one years. Never late on payments. We’re looking to see if Hayder’s social comes up in connection with any other financial institution or unusual transactions, but so far we’re only finding the local accounts.”

  Vail scratched her forehead. “So he’s pretty close to a model middle-class citizen. Except that he decided one day to drive to Texas, kill a guy, and set off a bomb that killed several others. That makes no sense.”

  Rodman took the document. “This all we have? A fuzzy screen grab?”

  “We got lucky. A traffic stop for running a red in Ohio. Cop didn’t realize it at the time, but he saw the alert on the FBI’s Most Wanted list tonight when he got back to the station and recognized the guy from his stop earlier in the day.”

  “And?” Vail asked. “He just called the FBI?”

  “He did. We’ve got an ID and address. Mother lives and works a few miles from the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Pretty sure that’s where he was headed. His mother’s place, not the Rock Hall.”

  “Thanks, Link.” Rodman tapped Vail’s shoulder. “We’ll get a late dinner on the run. Let’s go get the bastard.”