Back to the Moon-ARC

By the time the Dreamscape was entering the atmosphere, and while Zeng was watching the event unfold on Fox News while his teammates intercepted telemetry from the Space Excursions facility only a few miles away, the FBI team was moving into place around them. High overhead, an unmanned surveillance drone had confirmed that the Honda was alone on the mesa. Twenty FBI agents in full-body armor were getting into position.

Gary Childers and Caroline O’Conner were waiting on the landing in the VIP viewing area near the end of the runway. Instead of the dozens of reporters that had been present at Dreamscape’s launch, the number of reporters was now well over two hundred. All of them were anxious to get the story from the people who had been to the Moon and found the stranded Chinese taikonauts. In addition to the reporters, there were at least fifteen book agents looking for an opportunity to speak with one or more of the passengers in the hopes of securing their stories for a sure-to-be-bestselling book. It was turning into a great day for commercial space exploration.

Glancing frequently at the overhead status boards, which showed a cartoonlike schematic of the Dreamscape and its reentry trajectory, Childers and O’Conner looked like expectant parents. Their baby, however, was returning from a journey to another world.

By squinting in the bright Nevada sun, it was O’Conner who first spotted the Dreamscape on its flight path back to the spaceport runway. She could not contain her excitement as she literally squealed and began to clap. Childers soon followed, as did all the VIPs and most of the assembled reporters. None had forgotten the Columbia space shuttle tragedy and all were relieved when they saw that Dreamscape had made it through its fiery reentry into the Earth’s atmosphere. The ship was right where it was supposed to be and not a minute too soon or too late.

The Dreamscape grew in apparent size as it neared the runway. Like a glorious and noble bird it soared toward them, and, moments before touchdown, the landing gear sprang from within its body to provide the cushioning required for a soft landing.

“Three, two, one—touchdown!” came an anonymous voice from the PA system in the VIP area. The same voice was used as a voiceover by all the media broadcasting the landing, including the channel being watched in the Honda minivan just a few miles away.

“Three, two, one—touchdown!” said the voice of Space Excursions through the small speaker on the monitor that Zeng was watching intently while his colleagues were collecting telemetry from the Dreamscape as it rolled down the runway.

“Go! Go!” said the FBI team leader in charge of the raid. He spoke into the radio microphone wrapped around his head that allowed him to communicate with all twenty members of the team about to storm the van parked just ahead of them. The leader, Mike Brown, was a veteran of many drug raids and even a few counterterrorism raids. This was his first counterespionage raid, and he was not sure what to expect. His experience taught him that drug runners were the worst, often choosing to fight even when faced with overwhelming odds. The few terrorists he’d engaged hadn’t suspected they were about to be raided, and they had simply rolled over without a fight. The drug runners, on the other hand, always had their guns at their side and seemed to relish using them.

Thanks to the drone flying directly overhead, the team determined that those in the van were alone and there was no sign of any remote-detection devices in the brush alongside the road leading up to it. With luck, the van’s occupants would not have any warning of what was about to happen.

Like horses out of the gate at a racetrack, the highly trained members of the FBI’s Southwestern Division counterterrorism squad moved toward the van from all directions. Each member of the team wore a helmet equipped with the latest communications system as well as the most advanced concussion protection available— should they be near a bomb blast. Head injuries from bombs were among the most difficult to prepare for. They all wore full-body armor, a hard lesson learned during their many drug raids over the years. More than one of this team had been saved from a bullet by their armor. And, of course, they had their guns out and ready for whatever might happen.

Simultaneously, the five SUVs that had carried them moved into position on the road in front and behind the van to block any chance of its escape.

The Dreamscape had been on the runway no more than five seconds when one of Zeng’s team abruptly leapt from his seat near the front window of the van and began shouting in Chinese, “We have been discovered! Erase! Erase!” The man who shouted these words had just seen the FBI team swarm out of the brush, seemingly from nowhere. There was no other warning.

Though they were well trained in what to do in the event of discovery, there was simply not enough time to begin the process of erasing all of the data they were collecting—though Zeng certainly tried. As soon as he heard the shouting and realized what was happening, he moved quickly to the console that would allow him, with just a few keystrokes, to begin erasing everything on the computers in the van. The erasure would be complete, randomly overwriting all the data multiple times in a process similar to that used by the Central Intelligence Agency for getting rid of information they didn’t want exposed.

Zeng’s hands were poised just above the console when the door to the van was thrown open.

Brown shouted, “Raise your hands! Now! This is the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and you are all under arrest!” Within seconds, Mike and three FBI men had entered the van with guns pointed at Zeng’s team.

Zeng paused and looked Brown in the eye, his fingers just inches away from the keys that would delete everything. With his many years as an intelligence officer, he had learned to read people, including Westerners— whom he considered relatively easy to understand. He often told his team, “Westerners wear their intentions on their faces. They cannot help it.” In this case, Zeng could tell that it was Mike Brown’s intention to shoot him if he didn’t immediately comply and raise his arms.

Though he momentarily considered performing his duty and lunging for the key that would erase the data, his instinct for self-preservation won out and he slowly raised his hands above his head. He never took his eyes from Brown’s. Had he sensed a moment’s hesitation, the data would have been erased. There was no such moment.

Within a single minute, the van was secure—not a shot was fired.

The Dreamscape rolled smoothly to the end of the runway and waited for the ground crew to bring the portable stairway that would allow Gesling, Thibodeau, Mbanta, Singer, Wells, and Graves to exit. For another few days, they would be the only American astronauts to venture beyond orbit since 1972.

After determining that the vehicle was safe for the passengers to exit, the door opened and the passengers slowly made their way down the stairs and onto a red carpet, where a jubilant Gary Childers met them. They had been in space for almost a week and were now in the middle of getting used to the tug of the Earth’s gravity. For some it was a welcome relief; for others, it was a reminder that their adventure was truly over.

With handshakes to the exiting men and hugs to the women, Gary Childers was again in his element. Speeches followed, and then the entire group awaited Paul Gesling’s egress from the vehicle. As in the dress rehearsals, Gesling had to take care of his post-flight checklist before he could make his exit.