Mitchell set the phone down, looked over at Jackson and said, “Well, I guess we had best get back to work. Hopefully, Jen comes up with something; if not, we may have a chance to solve an eighty-year-old mystery as well as find a missing Soviet space probe.”
“Lucky us,” replied Jackson.
“In order to speed things up, I suggest that you gentlemen work the GPR while I tag along with my laptop and check the findings as you make them,” said Maria.
“What’s the life of your laptop battery?” asked Mitchell.
“Six hours, max,” replied Maria.
“Okay then, for now we’ll work in four-hour shifts to allow sufficient time to recharge Maria’s computer battery. I’ll push the sled for the first couple of hours. Nate and Eric mark the debris we find with these,” said Mitchell as he dug into a box and pulled out a handful of bright pink flags.
“I quit the army for this?” moaned Jackson. Mitchell knew that it was all an act; Jackson just loved busting his chops around new people.
“Here, have fun,” said Mitchell, handing the flags to Jackson.
Maria walked back over to the sled, turned the GPR on, and walked beside Mitchell while he gently pushed the lightweight toboggan along the path they had selected earlier. Behind them, Jackson and McMasters traded quips about how their lives had turned out since leaving the military.
Four hours later, with close to one hundred flags spread out behind them, Mitchell decided that they’d done enough for one day.
It was already getting dark. Fog soon crept up over the cliffs, blanketing the island. It was going to be a cold and damp night.
During supper, Jen called Mitchell back and said that she could only find references to two missing aircraft. The first was a Dornier Do J flying boat reported missing in November, 1923. The second was a British Royal Navy non-rigid airship that vanished without a trace in 1932. A shiver ran up his spine. Mitchell couldn’t imagine being marooned on such a bleak and cold world. It would have been an awfully sad and lonely way to perish. He thanked Jen for the information and then stepped outside of their tent to a switch on their portable, gas-powered generator. A second later, the camp’s lights lit up like a bright beacon on a desolate dark sea of ice.
11
Vasily Muratov stared down at the open file on his desk. He pursed his lips and reread the one-page memorandum, line by line, digesting every word. As the former head of the Federal Security Service, the successor to the dreaded KGB, Muratov had once been privy to the many secrets that Russia didn’t want the world to know. Most of his time in the FSS had been spent cracking down on organized crime, which, like so many bad weeds, had begun to flourish the instant the Communist state fell. However, what he saw before him was a secret from the past, one that until today had been kept locked away in the darkened vaults of an old KGB warehouse.
In his mid-fifties, Muratov was a handsome man, with cognac-brown eyes and a warm smile. He wore five-thousand-dollar suits flown in from Paris, and shoes handmade in Italy. An astute politician, he was one step from becoming the President of the Russian Federation. He had been personally selected by the current president to fill the position of Prime Minister, an administrative role in which he oversaw the administration of the Russian government in accordance with the wishes of the president. The last thing Muratov needed was a scandal occurring on his watch; not with the next presidential election looming around the corner.
In the corner of the room, a clock chimed.
Standing patiently in front of Muratov was the man who had delivered the bad news. Pavel Zharov was Muratov’s chief of staff and loyal friend from his days in the FSS. A thin man with a nervous disposition, Zharov was known for his loyalty to his boss, and his analytical mind, which bordered on genius.
“Are you absolutely positive about this information?” Muratov asked Zharov, praying that a horrible mistake had been made.
“Sir, I personally went to the head of Directorate X and demanded to see his notes before I came to you with this information,” said Zharov. Directorate X was part of the FSS, responsible for the gathering of scientific and technical intelligence, internal and external, to the Russian Federation.
“And?”
“Sir, the evidence is irrefutable. Luna 15 did not burn up in the atmosphere as had been officially reported to the Central Committee of the old Soviet Union in 1969. Instead, it landed on Bouvet Island in the South Atlantic.”
“Pavel, we both know that in the intelligence community nothing is irrefutable. How can Directorate X be sure of their findings?”
Zharov cleared his throat. “Sir, a poor choice of words perhaps; the facts are as follows. When Luna 15 was on its return flight back to Earth, carrying a small amount of soil from the Moon’s surface, a decision was made at the highest levels to terminate the mission. The return vehicle was hastily reprogrammed to burn up on reentry. However, the calculations were off and the probe survived. It was last tracked by one of our radar installations in Cuba, coming down in the South Atlantic somewhere around Bouvet Island.”
“Interesting. However, not still definitive. Pavel, as a betting man, you should know that the chances of a probe landing on an island in the South Atlantic would be astronomical. Why do you believe that it is there?”
“One of our men at the embassy in Buenos Aires recently learned of an expedition to the island financed by David Houston.”
Muratov thought about the name for a second and then said, “I’ve read about him. He’s an American multi-billionaire who made a fortune from his company’s oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico and now has a burgeoning interest in space exploration and mining.”
“Correct, sir. One of his company’s rockets recently delivered supplies to the ISS.”
“It could all be coincidence. The man probably has more money than brains. He could be looking for oil in the South Atlantic.”
“Sir, our man said that the ship sailed with absolutely no oil exploration equipment on it. In fact, it only had four passengers on board.”
Muratov sat back in his green leather high-backed chair and locked his eyes on Zharov. His voice became somber. “Is he positive that it sailed with only four passengers?”
“Yes sir, he is adamant that only four people boarded the ship before it sailed. He even managed to take a picture of one of the men. He has been identified as Ryan Mitchell. The man is a former American soldier who is currently employed by a private security company that operates worldwide,” explained Zharov as he handed over a picture of Mitchell chatting with the ship’s captain. “Sir, you should also know that a couple of years ago, Houston bought the rights to Luna 15 from our government. It’s his to do with as he pleases. As far as our bureaucrats and the world are concerned, Luna 15 is still on the Moon.”
“Now that is interesting,” said Muratov as leaned forward and placed his hands together on his desk. “If Houston is looking for the probe, the question is, why? The American Apollo missions brought back kilograms of rock and dirt from the Moon’s surface. What is so special about Luna 15’s sample?”
“Sir, the files do not say. All I could find were some photocopied pages. The original file was marked Red Banner — Chairman’s Eyes Only.”
Muratov’s eyes widened. His heart began to race. “My God, Pavel, what could be so secret that only Leonid Brezhnev himself could read the file?”
Zharov shrugged his shoulders. “Sir, I have no idea. Whatever they wanted to keep a state secret in 1969 is about to fall into the hands of an American who, according to his file, is very ambitious and is not afraid to speak openly about his disdain for this country.”