The USS Orion didn't stay in Siberia.
It took ten of the largest heavy-lift helicopters in the Soviet arsenal—chained together like a team of flying oxen—to drag the massive spacecraft out of the tundra.
They brought it to Moscow.
They didn't land it at the airport. They lowered it directly into Red Square.
It sat there, a black scar against the cobblestones, dwarfing St. Basil's Cathedral. The stolen American battleship was battered, scorched, and absolutely magnificent.
Under the violet light of the Aurora Dome, technicians swarmed over its hull like ants on a dead beetle. They were stripping the American flags off and welding red stars in their place.
Jake Vance watched from the Kremlin wall. He felt a surge of grim satisfaction.
"It's a trophy," Menzhinsky said, shivering in the cold. "But can we fly it?"
"Korolev says yes," Jake replied. "The reactor is intact. The engines are solid."
"And the crew?"
"Glenn and his men are guests of the state," Jake said. "We put them in the Ritz. Taranov is teaching them how to drink vodka."
"They are hostages."
"They are leverage," Jake corrected. "Hoover won't nuke his own heroes."
A siren wailed. Not an air raid. A shift change.
Below, the massive hangar doors of the GUM department store—now converted into a factory—slid open. Workers poured out.
They didn't look miserable today. They looked up at the spaceship. They pointed. They smiled.
"You see that?" Jake asked. "That's pride. We stole the future, and now they own a piece of it."
"Pride doesn't fill bellies, Jake."
"No," Jake admitted. "But it keeps them from eating each other."
He turned away from the view.
"We have the ship. Now we need the pilot."
"Glenn won't fly for us."
"I don't need Glenn," Jake said. "I have someone better."
The Gulag. Sector 9.
This wasn't a prison for criminals. It was a prison for ideas.
Deep underground, beneath the Lubyanka, the air was recycled and stale. The cells were clean, stark white, and soundproof.
Jake walked down the corridor. His boots echoed on the metal floor.
He stopped at Cell 101.
"Open it," Jake ordered.
The guard keyed the lock. The heavy door hissed open.
Inside, a woman sat at a small desk. She was writing equations on the wall with a piece of charcoal.
She was young. Sharp features. Eyes that burned with a manic intensity.
"Valentina Tereshkova," Jake said.
She didn't turn around. She finished her equation.
"The delta-v is wrong," she muttered. "If you use nuclear pulse, the radiation shielding needs to be lead, not steel. Or the crew cooks."
"We fixed the shielding," Jake said.
She turned. Her uniform was grey, like everyone else's. But she wore it like armor.
"Comrade Stalin," she said. Her voice was flat, unafraid. "Have you come to execute me for doing math?"
"I came to give you a job."
"I was a textile worker," she said. "I stitched parachutes. Then I started asking why the parachutes failed. That's why I'm here. 'Sabotage of morale.'"
"You were right," Jake said. "The parachutes were flawed. You fixed them in your head."
He threw a flight suit on her bed. It was American. Stolen from the Orion. It had a NASA patch on the shoulder.
"Put it on."
She touched the fabric. It was Nomex. Fireproof.
"Whose is this?"
"John Glenn's," Jake said. "It's a little big. We'll tailor it."
"Where am I going?"
"To the Moon," Jake said.
She laughed. "In what? A tractor?"
"In a battleship," Jake said. "Parked in Red Square."
He saw the hunger in her eyes. Not for food. For the sky.
"Why me?" she asked.
"Because the Americans send soldiers," Jake said. "They send men who follow orders. I need someone who asks questions. Someone who can fix a reactor with a wrench while pulling 4 Gs."
She looked at the equations on the wall. Then at the flight suit.
"If I die?"
"Then you die closer to the stars than anyone else in history."
She picked up the suit.
"I'll need a screwdriver," she said.
Washington D.C. The Situation Room.
The mood was funereal.
Hoover wasn't there. He was "indisposed"—sedated in the residence, murmuring about his mother.
Vice President Truman sat at the head of the table. He looked tired.
"We lost the ship," Truman said. "We lost the crew. And now we're losing the narrative."
On the main screen, a live feed from Moscow showed the Orion. Soviet welders were finishing the giant red star on the hull. It was being broadcast globally.
"They're mocking us," General MacArthur growled. "We should strike. A tactical nuke on Red Square. Vaporize the ship before they can use it."
"And kill Glenn?" Truman asked. " The public would hang us."
"We have to do something," MacArthur insisted. "If they launch that thing, they claim the Moon. They claim the high ground forever."
"We have a backup," a voice said from the corner.
Dr. Wernher von Braun stepped forward. He looked older, more haggard. The stress of the failed Orion project weighed on him.
"Project Icarus," von Braun said.
"The Sun Gun?" Truman asked. "I thought that was theoretical."
"The mirror is already in orbit," von Braun said. "The Eagle Shade. We used it to freeze their crops. But if we focus it..."
He tapped a command on the console.
On the screen, the schematic of the giant orbital mirror changed. Instead of a flat shade, it curved. It became a parabolic lens.
"We can focus the sun's rays," von Braun explained. "Like a magnifying glass on an ant."
"To burn Moscow?"
"No," von Braun said. "To burn the ship. If we focus the beam on the Orion's fuel tanks... the liquid hydrogen boils. The pressure spikes. The ship explodes on the pad."
"It will look like an accident," MacArthur realized. "A Soviet failure."
Truman looked at the live feed. The beautiful, stolen ship.
"Do it," Truman said. "Burn it."
Moscow. Red Square.
Valentina stood at the base of the Orion.
It was terrifyingly huge. A skyscraper of death.
"The systems are hybrid," Korolev explained, walking her through the checklist. "American hardware, Soviet software. It's a Frankenstein."
"It's a mule," Valentina corrected. "Stubborn but strong."
She climbed the gantry. Jake followed.
"We launch tonight," Jake said.
"Tonight?" Korolev paled. "We haven't run a full diagnostic."
"We don't have time," Jake said. "Yuri's algorithm predicts an American counter-move. Probability 99%."
"What kind of move?"
Jake looked up at the sky. Through the violet haze of the Aurora Dome, he could see the shadow of the Eagle Mirror. It was shifting. Changing shape.
"They're going to try to break it," Jake said.
Suddenly, the air in the square got hot.
Not the warm glow of the dome. A sharp, searing heat.
"Temperature spike!" Yuri shouted over the comms. "Thermal bloom in the upper atmosphere!"
Jake looked up.
A beam of pure, concentrated sunlight punched through the clouds. It hit the Aurora Dome.
The violet shield sizzled. It buckled.
"They're focusing the mirror!" Oppenheimer yelled. "It's a laser! A solar laser!"
The beam cut through the dome like a knife through silk. It struck the pavement ten meters from the ship.
Cobblestones exploded into molten slag.
"Get inside!" Jake shoved Valentina toward the hatch.
The beam moved. It swept across the square, hunting the ship. It carved a trench of fire through the concrete.
"They're targeting the fuel tanks!" Korolev screamed. "If they hit the hydrogen, we vaporize!"
"Launch!" Jake roared into his radio. "Initiate emergency launch!"
"We aren't fueled!" Taranov yelled from the bunker. "Tanks are at 40%!"
"It's enough to get to orbit!" Jake shouted. "Go! Go!"
Valentina scrambled into the airlock. Jake jumped in after her. He slammed the hatch shut.
"Strap in!"
The ship shook as the solar beam grazed the hull. The outer plating groaned.
"Ignition!" Valentina punched the big red button.
The Orion didn't wait for a countdown.
The nuclear pulse drive fired.
BOOM.
A small nuclear bomb was ejected from the rear of the ship. It detonated fifty feet below them.
The shockwave hit the pusher plate.
The acceleration was brutal. 10 Gs instantly.
Jake was slammed into the wall. His vision went black.
The ship leaped off the ground. It rode a pillar of nuclear fire into the sky.
Orbit.
The shaking stopped.
Jake gasped, sucking in air. He floated off the floor. Zero gravity.
"Status?" he wheezed.
Valentina was already at the controls. She looked calm.
"Orbit achieved," she said. "We outran the beam."
Jake pulled himself to the viewport.
Below them, Moscow was glowing. The Aurora Dome had shattered, but the city was safe. The scorch mark across Red Square was visible from space.
And above them...
The Eagle Mirror loomed. It was huge. A silver monster blocking the sun.
"There it is," Jake said. "The lens."
"It's turning," Valentina said. "It's tracking us. It wants to finish the job."
Jake looked at the weapon controls. The Orion was a battleship, after all.
"Does this thing have guns?"
"Railguns," Valentina said. "But no ammo. The Americans unloaded them before launch."
Jake cursed. They were sitting ducks.
Then he saw the cargo manifest on the screen.
Payload: 50 Tons of Freeze-Dried Ice Cream.
"Ice cream?" Jake asked.
"Morale supplies," Valentina shrugged. "Americans love their treats."
"Can we jettison it?"
"Yes. Why?"
Jake looked at the giant, fragile mirror.
"Physics," Jake said. "Force equals mass times acceleration."
He pointed to the forward cargo bay.
"Open the bay doors. Spin the ship. We're going to shotgun them with dessert."
Valentina grinned. It was a wolf's grin.
"Spinning up," she said.
The Orion rotated. The cargo doors opened.
"Fire!"
Fifty tons of rock-hard, vacuum-frozen strawberry ice cream blocks were ejected at orbital velocity.
They flew like shrapnel.
They hit the Mylar mirror.
RIIIIIIP.
The blocks punched through the delicate silver foil. Thousands of holes appeared in the Eagle. The tension snapped. The mirror shredded itself, tearing apart like wet tissue paper.
The Eagle disintegrated.
Sunlight—real, unfiltered sunlight—flooded the Earth below.
"Target destroyed," Valentina said. "By confectionary barrage."
Jake laughed. He floated in the cabin, watching the glittering debris of the American super-weapon drift away.
"We broke the mirror," Jake said.
He looked at the Moon. It was waiting.
"Set course for Tycho," Jake ordered. "We have a flag to plant."
Valentina punched the coordinates.
"Course set. Estimated time of arrival: three days."
Jake looked back at Earth.
"Hoover is going to be so mad," Jake said. "We just littered his orbit with trash."
"It's not trash," Valentina said, catching a floating packet of freeze-dried Neapolitan.
She tore it open and took a bite.
"It's victory."