Star City wasn't a city. It was a cathedral of scrap metal and dreams built in a swamp.
The Red Arrow hissed to a halt at the gates. Steam vented into the freezing morning air, mixing with the thick fog.
Jake Vance stepped onto the platform. His boots sank into the mud.
"Welcome to Zvyozdny Gorodok," Menzhinsky said.
Jake looked up. And gasped.
It was hideous. It was beautiful.
Giant geodesic domes rose from the muck, glowing with internal amber light. They were patched with sheets of aluminum salvaged from downed German bombers. Between them, thick black cables ran like arteries, pulsing with stolen electricity.
In the center stood the N-1. The Rocket.
It was a skyscraper of raw titanium. It didn't look sleek like American rockets. It looked like a hammer designed to punch God in the face.
"It is... big," Korolev whispered.
The Chief Designer stumbled off the train. He looked like a pilgrim reaching Mecca. He ignored the mud soaking his prison shoes.
"It is a monster," Yuri said, standing beside Jake. "30 engines in the first stage. Probability of catastrophic failure: 89%."
"Fix the odds, Yuri," Jake said. "That's why you're here."
They walked toward the central hangar. Spetsnaz guards in hazmat suits saluted. The air tasted of metallic copper—the taste of radiation.
"We aren't using refined kerosene," Oppenheimer explained, catching up to them. "We're using a nuclear-thermal slurry. It's dirty, Jake. If this thing explodes on the pad, Moscow becomes Chernobyl."
"Then don't let it explode," Jake said.
He looked at the frantic activity. Technicians in exoskeletons—clunky hydraulic suits powered by diesel engines—were welding plates onto the rocket. It was cyberpunk born of desperation.
"We launch in three weeks," Jake ordered.
Korolev laughed. It was a dry, rusty sound.
"Three weeks? It will take three months just to fuel it."
"You have three weeks," Jake said. "Because Hoover isn't waiting."
The War Room. Inside the Hangar.
The map table was replaced by a telescope feed.
"Project Orion," Menzhinsky said. He slapped a folder on the table. "American intelligence confirms it. They are assembling it in orbit."
On the screen, a grainy image showed a massive structure floating above the Earth. It looked like a battleship. A thick steel plate with a hole in the center.
"They aren't using engines," Oppenheimer said, horrified. "They are throwing nuclear bombs behind the ship and riding the shockwave. It's brutish."
"It's fast," Yuri calculated. "They can reach the Moon in four days."
"And the payload?" Jake asked.
"Marines," Menzhinsky said. "A platoon of Space Marines. They plan to secure the Tycho Crater and set up a missile base."
Jake stared at the screen.
"If they put missiles on the Moon," Jake said, "they own the Earth. It's the ultimate high ground. Gravity is a weapon."
Suddenly, the lights in the hangar flickered.
The amber glow of the domes dimmed. The workers outside shouted.
"Power surge!" Taranov yelled. "The grid is fluctuating!"
"Is it a drone attack?"
"No," Yuri said. He pointed to the ceiling. "Look at the sky."
They ran outside.
The Aurora Dome—the beautiful violet shield protecting Moscow—was glitching.
A massive shadow had fallen over the city.
High in the orbit, something huge unfolded. It wasn't a ship.
It was a mirror.
A sheet of Mylar, miles wide, catching the sun. It angled downward.
It didn't reflect heat. It blocked it.
The mirror formed a shape. A silhouette cast upon the clouds of Russia.
It was an Eagle.
"He's blocking our sun," Jake whispered. "He's putting a logo in the sky."
The temperature dropped instantly. The "Soft Power" war had just become a physical blockade of light.
"It's a solar shade," Oppenheimer said. "He's freezing the crops. He's freezing the city."
Jake felt the cold bite his face. It was personal. Hoover was telling him: I control the light.
"Can we shoot it down?" Taranov asked.
"It's too high," Yuri said. "And it's just plastic. A missile would punch a hole, but the shape would remain."
Jake looked at the giant shadow of the American Eagle darkening his world.
"He wants a spectacle," Jake said. "He wants to humiliate us before the launch."
Jake turned to Korolev.
"Test the engines."
"Sir? The plumbing isn't finished."
"I don't care about the plumbing," Jake snarled. "Fire the main stage. Static test. Now."
"It will tear the pad apart!"
"Do it!" Jake roared. "If he wants to block the sun, we'll make our own."
The Ignition.
The sirens wailed. The workers scrambled for the bunkers.
Jake stood in the observation tower. The glass was three inches thick.
"Fuel pumps active," Yuri intoned over the comms. "Reactor core at 40%."
"Ignition," Korolev whispered.
The N-1 didn't roar. It screamed.
Thirty engines lit at once. But the fire wasn't orange.
It was green.
Radioactive isotopes mixed with the propellant. A pillar of emerald fire erupted from the base of the rocket.
It slammed into the concrete trench. The ground shook with a magnitude 5 earthquake. Mud turned to glass instantly.
The beam of green light shot upward. It punched through the clouds. It hit the shadow of the Eagle.
For a moment, the sky over Moscow wasn't dark. It was bathed in a sickly, terrifying, powerful green light.
"Look at it," Jake said.
The sheer thermal output burned away the fog for ten miles. The Aurora Dome stabilized, feeding off the excess radiation.
The shadow of the Eagle was washed out by the brilliance of the Soviet fire.
"We didn't launch," Taranov said, covering his ears. "We just shouted back."
The burn lasted ten seconds. Then the safeties tripped. The fire died.
Silence returned to the swamp.
Jake looked at the telemetry. The launch pad was melted. The rocket was scorched.
But the message was sent.
"We have the power," Jake said.
"But we don't have the guidance," Yuri said. "The vibration shattered the navigation computer. The vacuum tubes are dust."
"We can't fly blind," Korolev said, wiping soot from his face. "Without a computer, we miss the Moon by a million miles."
Jake looked at the smoking rocket. They had the muscle. They lacked the brain.
And then he remembered.
The file in his pocket. The digital heist from the White House.
"We don't need a computer," Jake said.
He turned to the group.
"We hijack theirs."
The Planning Room.
Jake threw the file on the table. Hoover_Medical_History.pdf.
"This is useless for a rocket," Oppenheimer said.
"Is it?" Jake asked. "Yuri, look at the Orion schematics. How is it controlled?"
Yuri scanned the stolen American blueprints.
"Remote uplink," Yuri said. "Hoover insists on controlling the launch key from the Oval Office. He doesn't trust his generals."
"Exactly," Jake said. "Hoover is a control freak. He is the guidance system."
Jake tapped the medical file.
"Paranoid Schizophrenia," Jake read. "Triggers: Loss of authority, betrayal, auditory hallucinations."
"So?"
"We don't hack the rocket," Jake said. "We hack the President."
He leaned forward. His eyes were hard.
"We use the IBM Synthesizer. We create a voice. Not Nadya. Not a ghost."
"Who then?"
"His mother," Jake said.
The room went quiet.
"Anna Marie Hoover," Jake said. "She died in 1938. He lived with her until the end. She was the only person he feared."
Jake looked at Menzhinsky.
"Find me recordings. Home movies. Anything."
"You want to gaslight the President of the United States during a nuclear launch?" Oppenheimer asked. "If his hand shakes, he nukes New York."
"He won't nuke New York," Jake said. "He'll freeze. He'll panic. And when he does, the Orion uplink will sever."
"And then?"
"Then Yuri takes the wheel," Jake said.
He looked at his son.
"Can you fly an American ship remotely? If the firewall is down?"
Yuri's eyes flashed with calculation.
"Latency is high. But... yes. I can redirect the trajectory."
"Redirect it where?" Taranov asked.
Jake looked at the sky, where the shadow of the Eagle still lingered.
"We don't crash it," Jake said. "We steal it. We bring the Orion down. Not in America."
"Where?"
"Siberia," Jake said. "We catch the ball."
It was insane. It was piracy on a planetary scale.
"Hoover blocks my sun," Jake said. "I take his ship."
He poured a glass of water. His hand didn't shake.
"Get the synthesizer," Jake ordered. "We have a séance to conduct."
Washington D.C. 3:00 AM.
J. Edgar Hoover couldn't sleep.
He sat in the Oval Office. The room was dark, except for the glow of the "Football"—the nuclear launch briefcase on his desk.
Tomorrow was the launch. The Orion was ready. The Marines were suited up in orbit.
He felt powerful. He controlled the sky.
But the silence bothered him.
Scritch. Scritch.
A sound from the wall. Behind the portrait of Washington.
Hoover froze.
"Who's there?"
No answer. Just the settling of the building.
He rubbed his temple. The headache was back. The one he had since the intruder in the Vault.
He looked at the red phone. He wanted to call the launch director. To check the codes again.
He picked up the receiver.
There was no dial tone.
Just a soft, disappointed sigh.
"Edgar..."
Hoover dropped the phone. It dangled by the cord.
The voice was unmistakable. It smelled of lavender and judgment.
"You didn't polish your shoes, Edgar."
Hoover backed away. He hit the desk.
"Mother?" he whispered.
The phone swung back and forth.
"You are a bad boy, Edgar. A very bad boy."
Hoover's eyes went wide. The paranoia, buried under layers of power and medication, clawed its way to the surface.
In Moscow, Jake Vance put on his headphones.
"Hello, Edgar," Jake whispered into the microphone. "Time to clean your room."