“No space suit, no deal.”
The five pulled automatic weapons. “The deal’s changed,” said Ivan. “Put the money on the ground and step away.”
Serge pointed at them. “Hey! You’re not really with the Russian space program!”
Bullets began flying.
“I’m hit!” Lenny yelled, going down and gripping his leg. Serge grabbed him by the armpits and pulled him to cover. Bullets pinged off the missile they were slouched behind in the Rocket Garden at Kennedy Space Center.
“Stop it! Stop shooting!” yelled Serge. He ran out from behind the rocket and threw himself across the front of the Titan, spreading his arms wide, a human shield. “I’m begging you! This is our history!”
Ivan grinned. He turned and fired at a Juno II.
“No!” screamed Serge.
Then an Atlas-Agena got it right between the tail fins.
“Please!” yelled Serge. “Anything!”
Ivan walked over to the next rocket and pressed the muzzle of his gun against the first stage.
“Hand over the briefcase or the Mercury-Redstone gets it!”
Serge felt down in the zippered leg compartment of his royal blue jumpsuit. He wrapped his fingers around the antique grenade, his ace in the hole. He looked up at the rockets. They were bound to take shrapnel. Too risky. He removed his hand from the pocket.
“Okay! Okay!” said Serge. “Just don’t shoot!”
He took the briefcase by the handle and twirled himself in a circle three times like a discus thrower and let the briefcase sail. The moonlight caught the metal finish as it tumbled through the air. It landed a few feet in front of the Russians. Vladimir ran up, flipped the latches and raised the lid. He looked over his shoulder at Ivan. “It’s all here.”
“Good,” said Ivan, looking up at Serge and breaking into a smile. “Now you die!”
The foot pursuit was slower than a three-legged race, Serge helping Lenny limp along, the Russians hobbling after them on bandaged feet. Serge and Lenny took off across the visitor concourse. The Russians fanned out to form a net and flush them into the courtyard. They encircled the pavilion and cased the IMAX theaters, Gift Gantry and Nebula Café. But they were no match for Serge, who knew the grounds of the space center like a womb. Soon it was quiet again; the Russians stood bunched together on the lawn, in front of a giant viewing window at the welcome center, scratching their heads with their guns.
There was a tremendous crash. A shower of broken glass sprayed the Russians, who ducked and shielded their faces as a moon buggy flew through the shattered window, sailed over their heads, and began bounding away. The Russians started shooting, but the vehicle had already made it to the edge of the Merritt Island Wildlife Sanctuary and disappeared into the swamp grass. The Russians ran for their Mercedes.
The moon buggy may have been a tourist attraction replica, but it was fully functional, with the same big moon tires and moon suspension — about the only vehicle around that could handle the spongy bog terrain of the sanctuary. The Mercedes’s back wheels spun into the muck before it had gone twenty feet.
Two EMTs loaded an empty stretcher and closed the back doors of an ambulance parked in front of an emergency room in Titusville.
A moon buggy pulled up.
“Can you give Major Nelson here a hand?” said Serge, getting Lenny out of the rover. “He usually sees Dr. Bellows.”
The EMTs helped Lenny through the automatic glass doors. One of them came back out as Serge started up the moon buggy. “Hey! Wait a minute!”
“Big problem at the Cape,” said Serge, waving and pulling away. “They need me.”
The Moon Hut restaurant, “Where the Moon People Dine,” is a Cape Canaveral institution.
Built in the Sputnik era, the small-town diner sits near the ocean at the bend in A1A where the road swings west from Cocoa Beach toward the Kennedy Space Center. It opens before dawn every morning, when NASA workers and civilian contractors jam the place. The neon sign out front depicts a thatched hut sitting on the Sea of Tranquillity. The diner has two themes. Space flight and country arts and crafts. The traditional American menu has an unexplained number of Greek dishes. Everyone eats at the Moon Hut. Astronauts, politicians, movie stars.
A waitress led five big men and a briefcase over to a table.
Ivan took a seat next to a blastoff photo. Dmitri sat down under a spinning loom.
“Be right back with your water.” The waitress left.
Ivan peeked over the top of a laminated menu, then ducked back down. “That’s Annette Bening.”
“Where?” asked Dmitri, turning around.
Ivan smacked him with his menu. “Don’t look!”
“Why not?”
“Everyone looks!”
“What’s she doing here?”
“Getting coffee to go.”
“If that’s Annette, where’s Warren?”
“Must be in the car with the kids. They’ve settled down, you know.”
The five men were peeking over the tops of their menus when the waitress returned.
“Is it too early for the flaming Greek cheese?” asked Ivan.
She shook her head no.
“Flaming Greek cheese. Five,” said Ivan. “And five coffees.”
She collected the menus.
“Excuse me,” Ivan whispered. “Is that Annette Bening?” He tilted his head slyly toward the register.
“I don’t know,” said the waitress. She turned to the front counter. “Hey, Annette!”
The woman at the register looked around.
“That’s her,” said the waitress.
Coffee arrived, then cheese. A phone rang. Ivan flipped it open.
“Good morning, Mr. Grande…. Yes, I have good news…. That’s right, we’ve got the you-know-what.…We’re at the Moon Hut…. No, the Moon Hut…. No, you get breakfast here…. Because it’s America…. Excuse me a minute, they’re setting the cheese on fire…. No, I haven’t been drinking….”
The waitress came to refill coffee. Ivan put a hand over his cup.
“…No, that won’t be a problem, Mr. Grande…. A submarine?… Yes, I’ve seen them…. No problem, ask for Yuri. I’m writing the name down now…. That’s in New York, right?…I understand completely…. We won’t let you down….”
Ivan closed his phone and stood up. “Waitress? We’ll need this to go.”
In the very back of the Moon Hut, in the history room, a waitress prepared to refill a glass of ice water. “That won’t be necessary,” said Serge, standing up and taking out his wallet.
27
It may have been December 30, but nobody told Palm Beach.
The mercury hit eighty by noon. The BBB was using a Krunkleton paperback again as a bar-hopping guide. They nursed ten-dollar drinks in the back of the Breakers.
Paige stared down at an angelfish swimming under her napkin. An orange-and-purple damsel swam the other way through coral. “I’ve heard of bars that had aquariums, but I’ve never been in one where the bar actually is an aquarium.”
“The Kennedys used to jog over there,” said Teresa, looking out the huge windows behind the bar as sea foam rolled in from the Atlantic.
“What a beautiful day,” said Maria.
“Just one more day left until the new year,” said Rebecca, raising her drink. “Here’s to a new year with old friends.”
Glasses clinked.
“What are your resolutions?” asked Maria.
“You know what? I’ve had it with resolutions!” said Rebecca. “No more resolutions!”
“That sounds like a resolution.”
“I have an idea,” said Teresa. “Let’s make antiresolutions.”
“I want to eat something fat at midnight,” said Paige.
“C’mon, let’s think big,” said Teresa.
“Let’s do something crazy,” said Rebecca.
“Yeah,” said Maria. “Really irresponsible.”
Teresa stood and grabbed her purse. “Come on.”