An exhausted-looking Mark Watson entered his office with a small stack of papers in hand.
“Gary, we’ve looked at the entire database and nothing was changed,” he said, looking over the papers. “They only copied data. We don’t see any sign of tampering.”
“Good.”
“The FBI’s been mostly quiet about what they know, but Helen’s hacker is certain the data went to China. I’m glad he’s on our side.”
Gary Childers was not easily fazed, but the breach in his security certainly came very close to doing so.
“This really pisses me off. I convinced NASA and the DoD to let us have the scramjet designs. We improved them and found a way for the whole thing to work from takeoff through getting Dreamscape into orbit. And now the Chinese steal the plans—making us look like rank amateurs and giving the people who wear stars on their sleeves in the Pentagon an excuse to not share technology with us or anyone else in the future.
“I just hope the press doesn’t get the story. The last thing I want to do is damage control. We’re about to make history and, by the way, money.” He was definitely not in one of his better moods.
“Understood. So far, the only people who know about the breach are us, the FBI, and, of course, the Chinese.”
With that, Childers looked up from his desk and, with his head slightly tilted, gave Watson what he thought of as an “evil eye.” Without saying another word, he let the engineer know that now wasn’t the time and he didn’t want to discuss it any further. Watson slunk from his office, leaving Childers alone with his paperwork.
Five thousand miles away, in Beijing, China, a room of highly decorated military leaders sat in a room watching news coverage of the pending launch of the Altair from the surface of the Moon using flat-screen monitors nearly identical to those being used in Texas—made by a Chinese manufacturer, of course. In fact, it was the same Chinese manufacturer as the one that made the monitors at the Johnson Space Center.
The senior official in the room, to whom all others present expressed extreme deference, watched the screen without reaction. He turned to the man on his left and spoke so that all could hear.
“The president is anxious to see us launch on schedule. Are your people going to be ready? He is not happy that the Americans may beat us to the Moon, and I am not optimistic after reviewing the latest test reports.”
“Yes, sir.” General Xiang Li, the chief designer of China’s lunar program, nodded. Xiang, an MIT-educated engineer with multiple technical degrees, was responsible for China’s impressive buildup toward their own lunar mission. It seemed to him that his entire life was a movie script, with him playing the role of the great hero, destined to lead his country to the Moon. And by placing a Chinese flag there he could show the world that China had a place on the world stage as a great power. And—that the Moon was theirs.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, sir. We will be ready for launch as scheduled. I’ve personally reviewed the test reports, and the engineering team has a plan to fix the problem with the landing system. When our taikonauts are ready to land on the Moon, they will have a one hundred percent functional system to do so.” Though his words were bold, his heart was not in what he was saying. The test reports were actually not good, and there was not a consensus that the planned technological fix would even work. But the schedule had to be kept, lest Xiang lose his reputation and his job and, likely, his life.
“Very well,” was the simple reply from his boss, who then turned his head and focused intently on the television screen as the countdown clock resumed counting down from twenty minutes. As that clock ticked, the American test flight would be in its final phase, leaving them nothing to do except the real mission with a crew. And all in the room knew that China had to get there first.
The resumption of the countdown clock was met in mission control with muted approval. The time for celebration would be after a successful liftoff, not before. Not one second before.
Unlike the conference room, mission control was filled with engineers who monitored their data not simply because they could, but because they had to. The success of the robotic dress rehearsal depended upon them and their ability to think on their feet. The system was designed to be mostly autonomous, but everyone knew that if something were to go wrong, it would be quick-thinking people who would make the difference. And they could not forget that there was about a second-and-a-half delay between the Earth and the Moon due to the speed of light and data-relay loops, so they had to be extra careful, cautious, and expedient.
Menendez, Chow, and Leonard stood near the back wall, not wanting to get in anyone’s way. After all, they were last-minute observers and not part of the team currently on shift.
Stetson was sitting on console just behind and to the left of the Green Team flight director. Stetson was flight director when Blue Team was on shift. This time the Green Team was on console and Stetson was in the room as an observer. Not being in the flight director’s chair was tough on Stetson, but he knew he couldn’t be in it twenty-four hours a day nor for every critical mission event. This was a team effort. But it was still tough for him to not be in charge.
The Green Team flight director spoke up at T-minus fifteen minutes.
“Okay, folks. We’re fifteen minutes away from getting this bird off the surface and back into space. The last time we did this was 1972—before some of you were born. Let’s show Commander Stetson and his team that we know how to give them a good ride, because the next time it’ll be them on the screen, sweating real sweat and looking to us to get them home.” With that, the entirety of the room looked at Stetson, Chow, Leonard, and Menendez along the back wall. He concluded, “Now, damn. Let’s fly this thing!”
Stetson couldn’t help but grin at his team. Chow and Leonard accepted the attention by smiling, but Menendez only nodded curtly.
The countdown was flawless. As the clock reached zero, the camera inside the Altair began to shake—slowly at first, and then with greater intensity. The external cameras also started to move, but with much less apparent jitter than their interior counterparts due to the stiffness of their mounting hardware.
Slowly, the lunar surface began to move away from the rising ascent stage. The base of the lander was now clearly visible on the view screen, battered but basically as good as the day it was manufactured. A few pieces of insulation were torn open and blasted by the rocket exhaust, but otherwise there was no obvious damage being caused by the ascent stage as it rose into the perpetually dark lunar sky. The lifeless and gray lunar surface began to dominate the camera’s view as the Altair gained altitude and its shadow began to move laterally across the surface, diminishing in size.
Instead of the cheering that many might expect to hear with a successful liftoff, the team in mission control was dead silent, holding their collective breath. As it became apparent that the vehicle was not going to be stranded on the surface, nor was it about to crash, people began to breathe again—and a few did begin to clap their hands.
When the stage reached an altitude of ten miles, all of the screens abruptly went blank and numerous red lights simultaneously appeared at the workstations throughout the room.