Executive Intent

FIVE

11 TH STRATEGIC DEFENSE F ORCES O ERATIONS CENTER, HAINAN ISLAND, CHINA

A SHORT TIME LATER

General Hua Zhilun picked up the phone himself. “Operations.”

“Are your forces ready, General?” Minister of National Defense Zung asked.

“Yes, sir, we are ready.”

“Status of the target?”

“The launch window is open for another eighty-seven minutes, sir,” Hua replied. “No change in orbital path.”

“Operation Shan-dian is under way,” Zung said. “Based on radio traffic, we believe the convoy has been discovered, but the attacks are already under way. You are authorized to proceed with Operation Zu-qiu. Good hunting, General.”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” Hua responded. He hung up the phone, then put on a headset and keyed a button at his console: “All stations, this is Yi, authorization received, operation will commence immediately, repeat, authorization received, commence operation.”

Eight hundred miles west of Hainan Island in the nation of Myanmar, also known as Burma, a petroleum-gas storage tank located outside a refinery near the city of Taunggyi suddenly exploded, creating a massive fireball that ignited several other tanks and pipes and eventually became so hot that some trees in the nearby hardwood forest began to sway from waves of heat washing across them. Pipes containing pressurized petroleum gas with open check valves continued to feed fuel to the inferno.

At the very same time, three miles away, a rocket shot from an upraised launch tube, flew on a cushion of compressed gas for a dozen yards, then ignited its solid-fuel motor and streaked into the sky, heading almost straight up. Compared to the hot glow of the petroleum-gas fire, the DF-21’s motor exhaust plume was a tiny dot, and because the rocket continued to climb straight up, it did not create a very long streak in the sky when viewed from above. The first stage burned out within three minutes, and the second stage accelerated the rocket to ten times the speed of sound. A protective nose cap prevented any heat damage to the sensitive seeker in the nose as it rose through the atmosphere.

At Mach 10 and an altitude of 150 miles, the second stage burned out and the payload section began its hypersonic unpowered cruise, following its inertial guidance commands with refinements provided by datalinked steering commands from a Chinese radar site in Myanmar. The payload section continued its climb to 400 miles altitude.

Soon, the chase would be on.

ARMSTRONG S PACE STATION

THAT SAME MOMENT

“Nuts to that, General Greene,” Kai said half aloud after he broke the connection to AFRICOM. “Seeker…?”

“A warning has gone out to Space Command and U.S. Strategic Command with all the pics, sir,” Seeker said, “and a general alert has gone out via secure instant message to all major commands’ ops centers on our list, including AFRICOM. The alert reports detection of a convoy of Chinese ships apparently bound for Mogadishu, Somalia, escorted by four Chinese warships, detected by TacSat-3 but not backed up by any other electronic or visual data.”

“Good enough for now,” Kai said. “How’s our sensor coverage of the area around that convoy?”

“Stand by, sir.” Seeker entered numerous requests into her console; then: “Averages only eleven minutes per hour, sir. High of eighteen minutes. Look angles are no better than nominal.”

“That’s better than anyone else, but still pretty poor,” Kai said. “Weapon-status report?”

“Stand by.” A few moments later: “Self-defense interceptors on all garages and Armstrong are all reporting green except for Kingfisher-Eight, which is reporting a launcher continuity failure,” Seeker said. “ABM interceptors are reporting in the green except for Eight and Four, whose ABMs were downloaded for routine maintenance. All Mjollnirs are reporting in the green on Kingfishers Two, Four, Six, and Ten, still down on Eight until we can restore continuity. That’ll take an EVA.”

“I want Eight back up and running right away,” Kai said. “Boomer…”

“My Stud can be ready to go in one hour once I swap out the payload, General,” Boomer said.

“Seeker…?”

“I’m getting it now, sir,” Seeker said, again typing furiously on her console. This took a bit longer than the other calculations, but soon: “If we can position in thirty minutes, we can rendezvous with the fuel load already on the Black Stallion. It’ll take three orbits in the transfer to catch up with Kingfisher-Eight. If we miss it, it’ll take another twenty hours to get into position from Armstrong.”

“Boomer…?”

“We can leave the payload in the bay, suit up, and do an EVA from the Stud’s cockpit,” Boomer said. “As long as the tech can fit his tools in the cockpit, we can do it. He might have to strap them on his lap.”

“Get on it. I’ll have a tech meet you in the locker room.”

“On the way.” Boomer detached himself from his anchor position and propelled himself toward the spaceplane service module.

“Seeker…”

“Already got Lieutenant McCallum on his way to spaceplane servicing, sir.” A moment later: “Sir, SBIRS reports a large thermal event in south-central Myanmar.”

“Any tracking data yet?”

“None, sir. Signature is still very hot and not moving. Could be a ground fire.”

“Any launch sites nearby?”

“The only known ones are considerably farther south: a Chinese antiship site at Henzada and Mergui, and a suspected Chinese antisatellite site under construction north of Rangoon.”

“They could have built a new site and we haven’t spotted it,” Kai said. “Let’s report it to STRATCOM and SPACECOM, keep an eye on it ourselves, and start surveillance of that area for any signs of new construction.” He thought for a moment. A little voice in his head reminded him that he did not believe in coincidences-but Myanmar and Somalia…? “Are we going to pass over that area soon, Seeker?”

“Negative, sir, not for another…” She entered commands into the computer, then: “…fourteen hours.”

Kai nodded, but something was still nagging at him. “Still no track data on that event?”

“None, sir. Still large and stationary. Looks like an industrial fire-it’s just as hot as it was when it was first detected.”

“Did SBIRS-Low pick anything up?”

“No SBIRS-Low spacecraft are in range.”

“How about our sensors?”

“The closest one is Eight, and it’s shut down. Six will be in range in four hours.”

“Let’s get some good images of that area when Six flies by,” Kai said. The little voice in his head was still bugging him, but preparing to launch the Black Stallion spaceplane, get his fleet of satellites as fully operational as possible, and be prepared to participate in whatever response the United States was going to make to the unexpected Chinese move in Somalia occupied his mind for the time being.

When Boomer arrived at the spaceplane servicing module, Air Force spacecraft technician First Lieutenant Jeffrey McCallum was already there. He was donning a Compact Moonsuit-style space suit, specially designed for working during space walks with added micrometeorite and radiation protection but compact enough to allow him to squeeze into the Black Stallion’s rather tight cockpit. He was already on an oxygen mask, prebreathing pure oxygen to begin flushing nitrogen out of his system in preparation for working in space-although the entire space station was set on a lower atmospheric pressure to help purge nitrogen from the system, for safety’s sake all astronauts preparing to do an EVA were required to prebreathe oxygen before suiting up.

“How you doing there, McCallum?” Boomer asked. McCallum gave him a thumbs-up and a muffled “Good, Boomer” as he continued to suit up.

Since Boomer wasn’t planning to do a space walk, his suit was of totally different design. While prebreathing oxygen, he donned a suit of thick elastic material, resembling a full-body leotard, with wires leading to a small control device. The material covered his entire body except for his head. When he nodded to the tech that he was ready, the tech flipped a switch. Fine computer-controlled elastomeric filaments in the suit contracted, compressing the material. Boomer let out a little grunt as the material pulled skintight.

Boomer’s suit, called an Electronic Elastomeric Activity Suit, or EEAS (which most wearers say resembles the sound they make when the filaments tighten up), was a simple but very effective alternative to a heavy, bulky pressurized space suit. Humans can actually survive in the vacuum of space, because the skin and vascular system is already pressure-tight-as long as the human has oxygen at the right pressure, no space suit is really needed. But in a vacuum, human tissue expands because the absence of air pressure causes gases in the tissues to painfully expand, like a balloon in an airliner. So a way was needed to keep pressure on the body to prevent the tissues from expanding.

Most space suits, like McCallum’s, used a compressor to pressurize the breathing oxygen inside the suit to keep pressure on the entire body. A skintight rubber suit would work, but it was almost impossible to don such a suit in zero-g, and any folds in the suit would cause muscle deformation. So the EEAS was developed to allow the suit to be easily donned and then re-formed so it became skintight. The electronic control system would keep pressure on the entire body even when moving but allow the limbs to move as necessary. For spaceplane pilots, the EEAS was a great alternative to bulky pressurized suits because it was easier to move around in, easier to manipulate controls, and didn’t require a tech to help strap the pilot into the cockpit.

With the EEAS on and tight, Boomer put on a special flight suit that had a locking collar for his helmet, and continued prebreathing pure oxygen. The space-suit technician then helped him into the standard flight vest, which contained pouches for survival equipment such as portable lights, carbon-dioxide scrubbers, location beacons, backup batteries, a knife, and a suit-repair kit, along with a control panel on his left wrist that showed oxygen saturation, carbon-dioxide levels, suit power, backup battery level, and EEAS control status. “How do you hear, Jeff?” he spoke into the intercom.

“Loud and clear, Boomer,” came the reply. “Good flying with you again.”

“Same here.” Boomer was amazed at how young these new guys were-McCallum looked as if he was twelve going on nine years old. “They brief you on what’s happening?”

“I was prepared to go out to Eight later on this week to fix the continuity problem. I don’t know why it’s been pushed up.”

“We might need it soonest.” He took a moment to explain the Chinese convoy headed for Somalia. “They explain the toolbox issue?”

“If I can’t do it with a soft-pack, it’s got more serious problems than I suspect,” McCallum said. A “soft-pack” was a standard EVA toolbag, with an assortment of zero-g wrenches, screwdrivers, testers, and other commonly used tools suited for working in space, plus room for replacement circuit boards, fuses, circuit breakers, software keys, and other system-specific necessities. “But I’ve got a bunch of circuit boards and components to fix fifty percent of the problems. Anything else will require a cargo run.”

“Very good,” Boomer said. “I’ll plan on staying with the Stud, but if you need me I can hop on over. Just say the word.”

“I should be okay,” McCallum said, “and I’d feel better if you stayed near the plane anyway.”

“I hear that.” They continued to go over details about the flight while they finished dressing, and then made their way to the air lock to board the spaceplane.

The S-9 Black Stallion, nicknamed the “Stud,” was the smaller of America ’s two models of single-stage-to-orbit spaceplanes. It was never designed for extravehicular activities or even docking with a space station, so there was no way (unless a passenger module and transfer tunnel were loaded in the cargo bay-this Stud was still loaded with cargo) to get from the station to the ship when it was docked except by spacewalking to the two separate tandem cockpit hatches and clambering inside.

Boomer stepped over to the air-lock inner hatch, but the docking technician stopped him. “My watch says five more minutes for prebreathing, minimum, sir.”

“My clock says I’m good to go.”

“Give it five more minutes, sir.”

“Time’s a-wastin’, Chuck,” Boomer said. “ China is stirring up the shit Earthside, and we need that garage back online.” He could see the technician hesitate. “It’s just a couple minutes shy, Chuck, and you know there’s always a safety factor built into the calculations. Let’s go.” Reluctantly, the technician nodded and floated aside.

While McCallum waited outside-safety dictated only one crewmember could use the air lock at a time, although it could fit two-Boomer entered the air lock. While it was depressurizing, the technician extended a fabric tunnel from the air lock to the spaceplane, which was docked outside on the station’s docking beam. When the air lock was ready, Boomer undogged the outer hatch, stepped into the transfer tunnel, and closed and locked the hatch behind him. “Outer air-lock door closed, ready to equalize,” he reported.

“Roger. Air lock pressurizing,” the technician reported.

“I wish we didn’t have to use the tunnel,” Boomer radioed. “I’ve made the jump to the spaceplane lots of times.”

“Not everyone is a lean mean space-faring fool like you, Boomer,” McCallum radioed back. “Besides, I don’t want to go out and retrieve you in case you missed.”

Boomer used handholds to effortlessly pull himself the twenty feet from the air lock to the Black Stallion’s cockpit. At the end of the transfer tunnel on the side of the Stud, he could see Earth spinning below him, and he resisted the urge to sightsee-he didn’t have the time to waste. “C’mon over, Jeff,” Boomer said. “I’ll have the aft cockpit ready by the time you get here.”

“On the way, Boomer,” McCallum said.

After attaching his safety line, Boomer used a lever inside a protective door on the outside of the fuselage to motor open the front cockpit canopy, reached inside, then used a switch underneath the left front cockpit sill to motor open the rear cockpit. He then went back and arranged seat straps and umbilicals. By the time he finished arranging the aft cockpit, McCallum was at the end of the transfer tunnel. “Okay, Jeff, nice and easy, just like we practiced,” Boomer said as he attached McCallum’s safety line to himself, then plugged his oxygen and communications lines into the Stud’s rear cockpit.

“There is just no graceful way to do this, Boomer,” McCallum complained.

“Just do it slowly and deliberately and you’ll minimize bumps and rebounds,” Boomer said.

The easiest way to get inside the cockpit and seated was the “jackknife” method. As McCallum floated above the cockpit, Boomer steered his boots inside the cockpit. As McCallum eased inside, he jackknifed his body to squeeze between the upper instrument panel and open canopy. This always resulted in bumps as the space suit hit off one surface, against another, then back and forth until the astronaut was able to dampen the bouncing out. Boomer steered his feet and legs inside the legs wells under the instrument panel until McCallum finally landed on his behind in the seat. “Not too bad that time-only one concussion,” McCallum said.

“I had to do all the work, and you kneed me in the head twice,” Boomer said. He stowed McCallum’s soft-pack in the small storage container behind the seat, then corralled the seat straps floating around the cockpit and buckled him in.

“Fifteen minutes, Boomer,” Kai radioed. “How’s it going?”

“Plenty of time, boss,” Boomer said. “ Mission specialist secured. I’m strapping in now.” Actually it was going to be real close to get detached in time, but Boomer reminded himself not to hurry. He checked McCallum’s umbilicals to be sure everything was stowed and secure. “Okay, Jeff, give me a systems check and a thumbs-up when you’re ready.” McCallum made sure everything was attached properly, did an oxygen, communications, and pressurization test, and gave Boomer a thumbs-up. “Okay, I’m moving into the forward cockpit now.”

Thankfully, with the EEAS space suit it was far easier to get in, almost like a terrestrial fighter jet, and in moments he was strapped in and ready. “Spacecraft commander strapped in and ready to push,” he reported.

“Boomer, I don’t think we can make it,” Kai said. “I don’t want to rush this. C’mon back in. We’ll off-load the cargo bay and wait for the next transfer orbit-entry opportunity.”

“I’m ready to go, General,” Boomer said. “Power’s coming on.” He activated the ship’s battery, linked the spaceplane with the mission data computer on the space station, and started the data transfer and connection with the procedural computers that would prepare the spaceplane for launch. “Countdown’s under way, three minutes to go. We’ll make it.”

“Let’s not waste the fuel, Boomer. Bring it on in.”

“I can do this, General,” Boomer argued. He heard no response, which he took to mean approval, so he continued his departure checklists. At exactly three minutes, with less than two minutes to go, he radioed, “Checklists complete, data transfer complete and entered. Retract the transfer tunnel, Armstrong, Stud One is ready. Clear the canopy, Jeff.” As he watched the transfer tunnel retract back toward the station’s docking beam, he motored both cockpit canopies closed. “Ready to undock, Armstrong…”

“We’re showing canopies not latched, Stud One,” the docking module technician reported. “Check the aft canopy.”

“Jeff?”

“I’m clear back here,” he said. “No foreign objects in the way.”

“Clear the canopy,” Boomer said. “I’ll try to reclose it.” He motored the canopy open a few inches, then motored it closed once more.

“Still not showing latched, Stud One.”

“Disregard it,” Boomer said. “It’s probably just a bad contact. We’re going to open it again in a couple hours when we reach Kingfisher-Eight anyway.”

“Bag it, Boomer,” Kai said. “Let’s get it looked at while we off-load the cargo.”

“General, I’ll check it when I rendezvous with Kingfisher-Eight and Jeff is doing his EVA. We’ll be cool. It’s probably something simple. Request detaching the fuel lines and permission to push.”

“Boomer, if you have to do an emergency reentry, and the canopy’s not locked, you’ll both be crispy critters.”

“Then we just won’t do an emergency reentry, General-at least, not with us inside,” Boomer said. “We’ll wait outside for you to pick us up.”

“It’s not funny, Noble.” There was a brief pause; then, “Retract fuel lines, permission to push granted,” he said finally. Boomer released the locks connecting the spaceplane to the docking beam and touched the thrusters, pushing the Black Stallion away from the station.

Following the computer’s guidance, Boomer steered the spaceplane to the new orbital inclination, then activated the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System engines to accelerate into the transfer orbit. The Hohmann transfer orbit was a new elliptical orbit that touched both of the circular orbits of Armstrong Space Station and the Kingfisher-8 weapon garage. In order to minimize fuel burn and save time, the timing had to be perfect so the garage would be nearby when the second burn was over-that was the reason why the spaceplane had to either be on its way on time or wait almost another day for the right moment.

The first burn lasted two minutes and pushed the spaceplane into a higher three-hundred-mile orbit. Forty-five minutes later, Boomer turned the spaceplane again to the proper heading and fired the engines again to enter Kingfisher-8’s orbit. “Transfer complete, and Kingfisher-Eight is in sight,” Boomer reported. As planned, the weapon garage was dead ahead and less than three miles away. He patted the top of his instrument panel. “Good show, Stud. How are you doing back there, Jeff?”

“In the green, Boomer,” McCallum replied.

It took just a few minutes to close the distance with Kingfisher-8, and soon they were orbiting within a few yards. The Kingfisher garages were cylindrical devices about the size of a Chevrolet Suburban. They had radar, electro-optical, and infrared sensor domes that allowed them to look in all directions; datalink antennas that connected them to Armstrong Space Station, to ground stations, and to other satellites and weapon garages; solar panels for power; and thrusters to point it in any direction. The business end revealed the six Trinity interceptors and Mjollnir attack reentry devices snug in their launch tubes, pointing Earthward.

“Station check, Jeff.”

“Roger.” A few moments later: “Station check complete, Boomer, clear to open the canopy.”

“Coming open.” Boomer motored both canopies open. “Here we are, Jeff,” he said. “I’m unstrapping to help the Maytag repairman out.” He unbuckled himself, made sure his tether and umbilicals were secure, then floated free of the Black Stallion spaceplane. Using handholds, he maneuvered himself to the aft cockpit, unstrapped McCallum, double-checked his tether and umbilicals, helped him out of the spaceplane, then retrieved his soft-pack and clipped it onto his space suit. “Have fun out there, honey,” he said. “I’ll be waiting.”

“Kiss kiss,” McCallum said. He grasped his Handheld Maneuverability Unit maneuvering gun, aimed it properly, and hit the trigger. Small spurts of nitrogen gas easily propelled him across to the Kingfisher-8 weapon garage. “Armstrong, verify Eight’s radars are standby, nose is cold.”

“Kingfisher-Eight’s radar is in standby, nose is cold, power is off; however, be advised, continuity is not being monitored,” Seeker radioed from Armstrong. “Clear to approach, advise extreme caution, sir.”

“Roger that. Moving in.”

Boomer checked that McCallum’s umbilicals were free and clear, then returned to his seat in the Black Stallion-his suit didn’t provide the same radiation or micrometeorite protection as McCallum’s did, so it was safer for him to use the spacecraft for protection as much as possible. Once inside, he motored the aft cockpit canopy up and down a few times, and each time it registered closed and locked. “Looks like the canopy fault has cleared,” he reported.

“We’ll check it over carefully before we do the next reentry,” Raydon said.

About fifteen minutes later, McCallum radioed, “I’ve found the bad circuit boards. Should be another twenty minutes and I’ll be done.”

“Holler if you need any help, Jeff,” Boomer said.

“Wouldn’t you feel kinda naked, coming out here in just your leotards?”

“Nah. Besides, I’m sure the family jewels are pretty much cooked already. Luckily when I started flying in space, I decided to freeze a bunch of the swimmers for safekeeping, just in case the ol’ magazine starts spitting out nothing but blanks.”

“Really? You did that?”

“Haven’t you?”

“Don’t listen to him, Jeff-that’s an urban myth,” Seeker said. “Boomer might be firing blanks for other reasons.”

Ten minutes before impact, the payload section of the DF-21 rocket opened and ejected a single kill vehicle, a rectangular device no larger than a refrigerator, covered in thruster nozzles aimed in all directions. The nose section had a radar guidance sensor, slaved to the position of the Kingfisher-8 satellite ahead. As the Kingfisher weapon garage rose above Earth’s horizon, the kill vehicle’s radar locked onto it and began making its own intercept corrections.

“Okay, Armstrong, I’ve replaced boards T-7 and RF-15 in the continuity control module,” McCallum reported several minutes later. “I’m pretty sure that should do it. If it doesn’t, I’ll need to replace the entire module. We’ll need to bring one up. I’m heading back to the Stud.” During his space walk, Kingfisher-8 and the S-9 had drifted closer to each other-the two spacecraft were in their own orbits and would eventually proceed on their own paths unless corrected-so it didn’t take as long as before for McCallum to fly himself back.

Boomer exited the spaceplane, made sure the tethers and umbilicals were properly stowed, connected McCallum back to the Stud, stowed the soft-pack, got him back into his seat, and strapped him in. “How many space walks does that make for you, Jeff?” he asked.

“Three on this deployment and eleven overall,” he replied. “You?”

“I stopped keeping count a long time ago, bud,” Boomer said. “It’s gotta be several dozen.”

“Unbelievable! I never would have thought that spacewalking and going into orbit would be so commonplace.”

“A lot of otherwise smart folks still don’t believe it.”

“To tell the truth, spacewalking made me nervous as hell at first,” McCallum admitted. “I can’t shake the feeling of falling.”

“I got the same way at first-like standing on a tall bridge looking down,” Boomer said. “You get over it. Now I just enjoy the view.” Boomer climbed back into the Black Stallion, reconnected his air and communications lines, and strapped in. He maneuvered the spaceplane about a hundred yards away from Kingfisher-8. “We’re clear, Armstrong,” he radioed. “Clear to power it back up.”

“I want you farther away, Boomer,” Kai radioed. “The continuity circuits control weapon arming and safing. If it’s still malfunctioning, you could get a Trinity in the face. Prepare to head to the transfer orbit.”

“Interface with the transfer orbit won’t be for another three hours, General,” Seeker said.

“Okay. Move out to at least a mile, Boomer.”

“Roger,” Boomer replied. On intercom he said, “I think the boss is getting more and more cautious these days. He’s starting to sound like the guys in NASA.”

“Better safe than sorry,” McCallum said. “The guy didn’t get to be a one-star by taking too many chances.”

“He’s the boss. Good job out there, Jeff. Did you do an inventory of the soft-pack?”

“Yes. It’s all there.”

“Think it’ll work?”

“I’m ninety percent sure.”

“Excellent. Okay, here we go. We’ll move away, let them test it, then it’s three hours to wait until we can do the transfer orbit, so you can relax.” Boomer used the thrusters to move away from Kingfisher-8. They lost sight of it quickly against the spectacular backdrop of Earth and stars. “We show you one mile and clear, Stud One,” Seeker reported.

“I’ve lost sight of it, but I’ve still got its transponder,” Boomer said, referring to the coded radio beacon used for identification and positioning.

“Roger. We’re powering up Eight. Stand by.”

“Roger.” On intercom, Boomer said, “I used to keep a logbook of all my flights and space walks, Jeff, and I’m sorry I didn’t keep it going-it would’ve been something to show the grandkids. Make sure you write down all these flights and missions, or maybe do a journal or something so you don’t-”

And at that instant there was a tremendous flash of light off in the distance. Boomer felt several intense blows on the Black Stallion, and then everything went dark.

ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

THAT SAME TIME

“What the hell just happened?” Kai Raydon thundered. He had almost propelled himself off his seat in surprise when the alarms activated, and he had to grasp a handhold and reapply his Velcro sneakers to stay in place. “Where’s the spaceplane? What happened, Seeker…?”

“I’ve lost datalink contact with both Stud One and Kingfisher-Eight!” Seeker replied. “Attempting to get direct sensor contact now. They should be within Thule radar contact in three minutes.”

“I want the status of all Black Stallions, Midnights, Orions, and Crew Rescue Vehicles now,” Kai ordered. “Anyone who can get a maneuvering spacecraft we can use as a rescue or tow vehicle into that orbit, I want to know about them. Communications, contact Space Command, tell them we may have had an accident, and ask them to tag any new orbital objects and send their orbital data to us so we can coordinate a rescue or recovery. Any other garages in the area?”

“Negative, sir, not for another four hours,” Seeker replied after a short search.

“As soon as Thule reports something, I want-”

“Sir, terrestrial radar contact from Kingfisher-Five,” one of the other sensor technicians interjected. “A flight of heavy aircraft, westbound, five hundred miles east of the Chinese convoy. Radar reports at least five formations, speed five hundred knots, altitude thirty-four thousand feet.”

“Identification?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“General, Midnight One is completing phase maintenance in Palmdale, but they report they can have it buttoned up and ready to launch in four hours,” Seeker said. “They’ll miss the next launch window unless they can launch in two hours.”

“Tell them to hurry, but I don’t want another accident,” Kai said. “Follow the book, but follow it quickly. Anyone else?”

“Still checking on Stud Two and Three. Four is deep in depot maintenance and won’t be available for four weeks.”

“Anyone else on a launchpad somewhere?”

“Still checking, sir.”

“I want a continuously updated status board of all manned or unmanned Orbital Maneuvering Vehicles on my monitors as soon as this incident is over,” Kai said. “I want to know every moment of every day where they are and what they’re doing.”

“Yes, sir…sir, Stud Two is loading up at Elliott Air Force Base. Weather is marginal, but they may be able to launch within the hour, and they can be in the launch window to rendezvous at the approximate orbital position of Stud One.”

“If they can get a passenger module installed in time, tell them to do it, but if the weather allows, I want them airborne with whatever they have,” Kai said. “Any visual ID on those bogeys?”

“Negative, sir. Now reporting six formations, with one of the formations containing four aircraft in trail formation.”

“Report them to Central Command and Combined Task Force-Horn of Africa -I’ve got a bad feeling about them,” Kai said. “What about Stud Two?”

“They don’t have a passenger module available, but they’re dropping their payload as fast as they can to make room in the cargo bay,” Seeker said. “ Battle Mountain can launch a tanker in twenty minutes. That’s the only one available so far.”

“It’ll have to do. Let me know when the planners have a rendezvous schedule set up.”

“Yes, sir…our sensors are out of range of that formation of planes, but the CTF-HOA AWACS plane should pick them up in an hour or so.”

“I hope those guys are ready. How’s the weather at Dreamland?”

“Reporting marginal VFR, light snow showers, forecast to remain the same for the next-”

Just then they heard, “Armstrong, this is Stud One.”

Kai’s eyes bulged as his finger jabbed the “TRANSMIT” button: “Stud One, this is Armstrong. What’s your status?”

Hunter Noble’s voice was low and strained. “No lights on in the cockpit, leopards are out, no power, no cockpit instruments, and I can’t raise McCallum,” he said. “I think Kingfisher-Eight blew up.”

“Are you hurt, Noble?”

“I don’t know,” Boomer replied, sounding as if he was drowsy. “I think I’m okay. My head must’ve cushioned the impact.”

“Sounds like he’s got a concussion, sir,” Seeker said.

“Then we’re going to have to keep him awake until Stud Two can get to him,” Kai said. On the radio he said, “We’ve got Stud Two and a tanker getting ready to launch within the hour, Boomer. If nothing vital got hit, you have enough air for a while. Hang on. We’re sending everything we have up there to get you.”

“I can’t get to Jeff,” Boomer said. “My canopy won’t open.”

“You stay in your seat and stay strapped in, Boomer, and this time it’s a damned order,” Kai said. “Save your strength and your air-you’re going to need every bit of both to assist rescuers. We’re going to bring Stud Two up and transfer you and McCallum to their cargo bay and then back here. You think of anything to help that process and let us know-otherwise, stay put.”

“Yes, sir,” Boomer said. A few moments later, he added, “I screwed up, didn’t I, General?”

“You did your job, Boomer. Your job is to fly the spaceplane, and you did it.” He took a deep breath, then said, “I pulled the umbilicals and authorized you to push. After Jeff was done, I should’ve had you return to the station, or at least go into another transfer orbit-if Jeff’s fix didn’t work, you would’ve had to come back anyway. There was no reason to power up Eight with you guys just a mile away. It’s my fault and my responsibility, Boomer, got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now let’s stop thinking about the accident and start thinking about survival and rescue,” Kai said resolutely, as much to himself as to Hunter Noble. “You’ve got at least a couple hours before Stud Two can get to you. What we’re going to do is start evaluating your condition, and then the condition of your ship, because we need to pass as much information to Stud Two as we can before he launches. You’ve got battery-powered lights on your helmet and suit, so let’s get them on and take a look around.”

“Roger,” Boomer said. He felt as if he was underwater, perhaps in the big NASA EVA training tank in Houston -everything was moving in slow motion. But he touched the control on the side of his helmet on the first try, which illuminated two LED lamps on either side of his helmet.

“I’ve got a hole in my forward windscreen on the upper right side,” Boomer radioed. “That’s probably jammed the canopy closed. We’ll probably need the ‘Jaws of Life’ to pry us out of here.” He turned to his right and felt a stab of pain run through his neck. “Wrenched my neck, but I can move it.” He let the LED light play outside the Black Stallion. “I see a white cloud surrounding the ship, so I’m probably leaking something. Not sure if it’s jet fuel or oxidizer-might be both.” He then noticed the Earth-it was traveling overhead from left to right. “Looks like we’re slowly spinning, x-axis, counterclockwise, not real fast, maybe two revs a minute-just enough to be annoying.”

“Good info, Boomer,” Kai said. “Keep it coming.”

“Roger.” His fingers began finding their way across the forward and side instrument panels-he was familiar enough with the cockpit layout that he didn’t need lights to find them. “I’m shutting off any switches that are still on, but I’ll leave the battery switch on for now so we can communicate.” After he made sure all switches were off, he continued his scan. “Looks like whatever came through the windscreen exited through the left side of the canopy-probably missed me by just inches.”

“Lucky at cards, lucky with flying debris.”

“Unlucky at love, right?”

“We haven’t finished writing that chapter yet, have we?” Kai asked.

“No, we haven’t, sir. What’s going on with the Chinese?”

“They’re still heading for Mogadishu, and now we’re tracking a large formation of high-subsonic aircraft heading that way, too.”

“Looks like someone’s going to get clobbered down there.”

“One crisis at a time, Boomer. Check your oxygen lines and fittings.”

“Roger.” He let his fingers travel along the oxygen lines. He felt some pain when moving his right shoulder, but it wasn’t as bad as his neck. “Can’t feel any breaks in the oh-two line.”

“Roger that. Stud Two is taxiing for takeoff, Boomer. The tanker is airborne. They’ll be with you in about two and a half to three hours. Intermediate orbit, transfer orbit, rendezvous.”

“Not bad. Lucky again.”

“How’s your suit?”

“Stand by.” Boomer raised his left arm, then winced as he reached up with his right hand to turn on the suit control panel. “EEAS is on ship’s power,” he said. “ Battery status is one hundred percent and still being charged with ship’s power. Everything else looks like it’s in-”

Just then, he noticed a flicker of light off his right side-a reflection in the white cloud of gas surrounding the ship. “Hey, I see a light off to the right,” he radioed. Through the stabs of pain, he craned his neck as far as he could over his right shoulder to see what it was. “Can’t see any…wait, there it is again. It comes and goes. It’s reflecting off the vapor cloud around the Stud.”

“Still no cockpit indications?”

“No. I’d have to reset the master switch. Think I ought to give that a try?”

“I don’t know, Boomer. If you have a fuel-or oxidizer-tank breach, powering up the ship could set something off.”

“Something might already be getting ready to set off, General,” Boomer said. “I can reset the master switch, check for any sign of trouble, and then shut it off again real quick.”

“And if that starts a fire? What then?”

“Only one option,” Boomer said. He didn’t say what it was-that would’ve been too horrible to think about.

“If you think the risk is worth it, Boomer, do it,” Kai said. “Your help won’t arrive for a few hours.”

He saw the flicker of light again-that decided it. Something was going on back there. “I’m resetting the master switch…now.” He felt for the switch, clicked it down from the center “OFF” position, then up to “ON.” The cockpit lights turned on immediately…

…and brighter than all of them were the two red-colored illuminated handles on the eyebrow panel marked FIRE NO. 3 and FIRE NO. 4.

Boomer’s reaction was immediate. He pulled both illuminated handles and waited a few seconds…but the lights didn’t go out. He spoke as calmly as he could, “Fire in leopards three and four, evacuating!” He then immediately shut off the master and battery switches, cutting off communications. His right hand went immediately to a selector switch under the right forward instrument panel and verified it was in the “BOTH” position, then opened a red-colored guard next to it and flipped the switch inside up…

…which blew off McCallum’s cockpit canopy using cannons of nitrogen gas, followed two seconds later by Boomer’s canopy.

He quickly unstrapped and floated free of his seat. He pulled the headrest off his seat, which was a small survival kit, and clipped it onto his flight suit, then retrieved his HMU and clipped it on his suit as well. Unreeling his umbilical lines behind him, he pulled himself to the aft cockpit, unfastened McCallum’s seat straps, and pulled him free of the ship as carefully but as quickly as he could.

Now that he was above the Black Stallion, he could see what was going on: Debris from Kingfisher-8 had hit the two right engines and right wing, creating clouds of leaking fuel. Something inside one of the engines was creating a spark when the oxidizer made an electric arc ignite, but when the oxidizer dissipated, the spark went away. They were extremely lucky that one of those sparks hadn’t encountered a cloud of leaking jet fuel and exploded. Chemical explosions in space were extremely rare, but with this much oxidizer floating around, it was certainly possible.

Making sure his umbilicals and tether were connected, he grabbed McCallum’s survival kit and HMU, fastened them to his flight suit, then grasped McCallum as tightly as he could and kicked himself away from the Black Stallion. The umbilicals were several yards long, and Boomer thought he would go out to their full length, stay connected to the ship’s oxygen as long as possible, use the hand jets to stay clear of the stricken ship as it continued its lazy spinning, and detach as soon as he saw any sign of…

…and at that moment he saw a bright flash of light that obscured half the ship, and a massive tongue of flame curled around underneath the right wing inside the cloud of oxidizer and jet fuel for a fraction of a second before disappearing. Boomer didn’t hesitate-he unlocked and released the umbilicals from his and McCallum’s suits; then, with a momentary hesitation, unclipped the safety tethers. He then used the hand maneuvering jet to propel them away from the Black Stallion.

He and McCallum were now part of the thousands of pieces of space debris orbiting Earth.

Boomer used his HMU to push them away from the ship, discarded it when it was empty, then used McCallum’s HMU to push out farther and to stabilize them both until it was almost exhausted, then reattached it back to his flight suit. He and McCallum were perhaps a quarter mile away from the Stud and slowly drifting farther-that was the best he could do. They were probably safe from all but the “golden BB” piece of space debris. The Black Stallion continued to flash and flare as fuel caught fire for the briefest of moments-it looked like a shiny speckled trout washed up on shore, sparkling brightly in the sun even while it was dying.

Next order of business was to make sure the suits were plugged in, turned on, and functioning. The suits had valves to close off the umbilical lines once disconnected, so Boomer and McCallum had a good supply of breathing air. Each suit had a backup battery to power lights and a short-range single-frequency radio, and he turned that on as well. Both suits had carbon-dioxide scrubbers that should keep CO₂ levels at survivable levels for several hours-a simple pull of a tab activated the first of two canisters in each suit. That gave Boomer a chance to look at McCallum’s suit control panel, and he was pleased to see his pulse light blinking-weak, but it was a pulse-and good oxygen-saturation levels.

“Thank God,” he said aloud. “Hang in there, Jeff. If we’re still alive, we’ve still got work to do.”

Boomer thought of waiting to activate the distress beacon until Stud Two was on its way to this orbit, but just in case the CO₂ scrubbers didn’t work and he was rendered unconscious, he decided to activate his beacon and use Jeff’s as a backup. Another quick pull of a tab, and the beacon was on. It was meant for use after ejection when on the ground, but supposedly it would work just as well in space. He made sure his Electronic Elastomeric Activity Suit was on battery power-that was one thing McCallum didn’t have to worry about; Jeff’s suit was fully inflated. The survival kits had emergency oxygen bottles that would refresh the air in the suits for a few hours after the CO₂ scrubbers were saturated-rescue was imperative after that.

There was nothing left to do but float. “Hey, Jeff,” he radioed over to McCallum, hoping he was listening while still unconscious, “I’m surprised that I’m so damned calm. Here we are, adrift orbiting around planet Earth and, if not rescued in time, our lifeless bodies will eventually become meteorites. I’m not scared. In fact, I’m relaxed and kind of enjoying the view. I know help is on the way, and our equipment is actually working as advertised. We’re good for now.”

He kept on talking, telling stories, doing imaginary interviews about this experience with beautiful and adoring news anchors, telling Jeff which landmarks he was able to see on Earth, and even remarking that he thought he saw Armstrong Space Station whiz by. “I waved my arms, but I guess they couldn’t see me,” Boomer deadpanned.

Sometime later, he began wondering if he had made the right decision by abandoning the Black Stallion-but at that instant he noticed a bright flash of light off in the distance. “That blast surely did her in,” he radioed. “You did good protecting us, old girl. Hope to see you when you reenter.”

“Are you talking to me, Boomer?” he heard a voice ask.

“Jeff!” Boomer raised the dark visor on McCallum’s helmet and was relieved beyond words to see his eyes open. “You’re awake! How do you feel?”

“Like my head’s ready to explode,” McCallum said weakly. He looked around. “Where are we?”

“Adrift,” Boomer replied.

“What?”

“Easy, Jeff, easy,” Boomer said. “We abandoned the Stud a little more than an hour ago. Kingfisher-Eight exploded and creamed the ship. I think the Stud just blew.”

“My God,” McCallum breathed. Boomer didn’t need to check his respiration blinker to know McCallum was on the verge of panicking. “Are we going to die out here? Are we going to freeze to death?”

“Relax, bro,” Boomer said. “We’re more likely to overheat. In space, there’s no air to radiate heat away from our bodies, so it all gets trapped inside our suits. Relax. They’re on their way to get us.”

“We have no air?”

“Just what was in our suits when I disconnected us from the ship,” Boomer said. “The survival kits have emergency bottles, and if you need it I can hook you up. But the C-oh-two scrubbers will remove the carbon dioxide for hours.”

“Then what?”

“We’ll be rescued before then, Jeff, don’t worry,” Boomer said, hoping he sounded convincing enough. “The general launched Stud Two after us, and we have a locator beacon going. Another hour or two and we should be headed back to the station.”

“This is insane. We’re going to die out here!” McCallum cried. Just as Boomer heard him beginning to hyperventilate, McCallum reached up to the locking mechanism of his helmet. “I can’t breathe, man, help me get this damned thing off!”

“Jeff, no!” Boomer shouted, pulling McCallum’s hands away from his helmet latches-watching carefully to be sure McCallum didn’t reach for his gear, like a panicked swimmer pulling a lifeguard under. “Jeff, listen to me, listen! We’re going to be okay. We’re safe inside our suits, we’re not going to freeze to death, and we have plenty of air. You’ve got to relax! We’re going to make it!”

“Why did you do this to me, Noble?” McCallum screamed. “Why did you push me out of the ship?”

“It was going to explode. I had to-”

“Things don’t explode in outer space, you idiot!” McCallum shouted. “How can something explode without air? You killed me, you stupid jerk!”

“Relax, McCallum, relax!” Boomer said in as calm a voice as he could muster. “We’re going to be okay-”

“I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!” McCallum gasped. Boomer was having a tough time keeping his hands away from his helmet lock-fortunately, the lock was very hard to remove with gloves on. “Help me, Boomer, help me, I’m dying…!”

“No, you’re not, Jeff, you’re okay, just hang on!” Boomer shouted. “Calm down! We’ve practiced this a hundred times. Stay calm and we’ll wait for rescue together.”

“That’s with a full EMU setup, Boomer, not a simple suit without an air supply!” McCallum shouted. “I’ve got no air! I’ve got to get out of this thing! I can’t breathe!”

“They’re on their way, Jeff, just stay calm and relax! Stop struggling! Breathe steady, man, you’re hyperventilating! Stay-”

McCallum’s hands suddenly left his helmet collar lock and pushed right at Boomer’s helmet, sending him spinning away head over heels…and it was only then that, because he was unconscious until just a few moments ago, he realized that in the emergency evacuation of the Black Stallion he had broken the first and most important rule of extravehicular activities: “Make Before Break,” or always attach a tether to something before releasing it…

…he had never secured McCallum to himself.

“Jeff!” he shouted. “Hold on! I’ll be right back to you!” He fumbled around, finally retrieved the Handheld Maneuvering Unit, and used short spurts of nitrogen to stop his tumbling. It took him several long moments to get his bearings. He remembered Earth was “underneath” him, not above him, so he reoriented himself, then used more short bursts to look around for McCallum.

“Jeff, can you see me? Use your strobe or your helmet lights to help me find you!” He heard heavy, rapid breathing sounds, and he prayed McCallum might pass out from hyperventilating. Just then, he saw him, only ten yards away. His hands were no longer trying to work the helmet lock-it appeared as if he was checking his suit’s monitor on his left wrist. “I see you, Jeff!” he radioed, raising the HMU to start his way over to him. “Hang-”

But then he realized what McCallum was doing…because moments later McCallum had stripped off his left protective outer glove and was now working the ring latch on his left suit glove! “Jeff, stop what you’re doing! Stop! Hold on, Jeff, I’ll be right over!”

“I can’t get my helmet off, Boomer!” McCallum shouted. “It won’t come off! I can’t breathe! If I get this damned glove off, it’ll be easier to take the helmet off!”

“Hold on, Jeff! I’m almost there!” Boomer hit the HMU thruster. If he hit him, he might be able to distract him enough. He had to be perfect, but there was no time to aim…

“I’ll get it,” McCallum said in a high, squeaky, strained voice, almost like a child’s. “If I can take these damned gloves off, I can get it.” The helmet ring latch was really designed to be operated by a helper, although the wearer himself could do it with a little patience and practice, but the glove’s ring latch was designed to be operated inside of an air lock by the wearer, and was therefore easier to operate with space-suit gloves on. Before Boomer could reach him, McCallum had opened the locking mechanism and…

…at that moment Boomer rammed into him. In his EEAS it was easier for Boomer to grasp and hold something, and he grasped at anything he could-McCallum’s head, his space-suit material, anything to keep from rebounding back into space. He had flipped right over McCallum, but he held on. They were both twisting around after the impact, but they were together once more. “I got you, Jeff!” he shouted. “Hold on to me, Jeff, and I’ll get us secured. Hold on, man, we’re gonna make it…”

But just as Boomer began pulling his partner around to face him, McCallum twisted the ring latch another half inch, and with a puff of moisture-laden oxygen, the air began leaking out of his suit.

“No!” Boomer cried out. He fumbled for the left wrist. McCallum made a loud animal-like bark as oxygen forced itself out of his lungs. Boomer reached the ring latch, but he couldn’t force McCallum’s hand away in time before all of the air in the space suit evacuated. Boomer watched as McCallum started gasping for air for a few seconds, his eyes bulging in terror, and then he closed his eyes and mercifully fell asleep from hypoxia.

Boomer managed to snap the ring latch closed. He then retrieved his seat-back survival kit, found the small bottle of emergency oxygen, removed the mask, plugged it into the port on McCallum’s suit, and pulled the activation ring. It was empty almost instantly. Boomer opened McCallum’s survival kit, found the oxygen bottle, and drained it into the suit as fast as he could. No reaction.

Boomer checked the wrist monitor and found less than one-fourth of an atmosphere of oxygen in the suit. McCallum’s pulse and respiration were almost nonexistent. His friend would be dead within a couple minutes after all the oxygen in his brain had bubbled out. It was not a horrible way to die-the body didn’t explode or freeze, the blood didn’t boil-and he was free of the horror of loneliness and certain death that his mind had created.

Now it was Boomer’s turn to feel alone as he grasped his friend tightly, refusing to let him go again. But after a few minutes, his mind returned to the here and now. He used the last of the gas in the HMU to turn them around until they were facing Earth’s horizon, where they could see both Earth and stars. He had survived a disaster and witnessed his friend’s death…but he was alive and well, and he had an unparalleled view of his universe from which not even death itself could distract him.

A thousand things-no, a million things-could kill him at any moment, he knew-micrometeorites, radiation, electrical failure, or just plain fear, which did in his friend and fellow astronaut. But for now, he was just going to fall around planet Earth, enjoy the view, and wait for a ride home.

OFF THE COAST OF MOGADISHU, SOMALIA

AN HOUR LATER

The attack began precisely at six A.M. local time, just as day-shift workers were arriving at their posts, the markets and surrounding streets were jammed with shoppers and commuters, and weary graveyard-shift workers were heading home:

The destroyers and frigates of the People’s Liberation Army Navy began by firing a dozen Hai Ying-4 cruise missiles from fifty miles out. The subsonic cruise missiles took just four minutes to hit their targets around Mogadishu Airport, the Old Port, and the New Port areas, destroying known gang meeting places, arms storage areas, communications centers, power substations, and security checkpoints. At the same time, the first squadron of People’s Liberation Army Air Force Hongzhaji-6 bombers launched thirty-six of their own version of the HY-4 cruise missiles. The missiles had only two-hundred-pound incendiary and high-explosive warheads, but they had better than fifty-foot precision and devastated the south part of the city.

The second and third wave of H-6 bombers roared over the city at two thousand feet above the tallest buildings, dropping one-thousand-pound high-explosive and incendiary gravity bombs on main roads, highways, and intersections, including Maka al-Mukarama Road, the main highway between the capital and the airport. The strikes were organized quickly and not well planned, and several bombs hit apartment buildings, shopping centers, markets, and other businesses, but precision was not a top priority. Every building at the airport was attacked and destroyed except for the fuel storage area-the Chinese hoped it would be taken intact. The piers at both ports were left standing, although the warehouses, dry docks, and other buildings adjacent to the port that might shelter Somali fighters were flattened. Clouds of dense smoke all around the city blotted out the sun, making large parts of the city appear as twilight.

Next, three hundred Chinese marines from the naval vessels landed at Mogadishu Airport by helicopter and crew shuttle boats. Lightly armed four-man patrol squads fanned out along the perimeter of the airport. Their job was not to attack but to call in naval artillery barrages and air strikes. If even one shot was spotted coming from a nearby building, that building was quickly identified, targeted, and completely destroyed by air or naval bombardment. The bomber attacks were timed so that the destroyers and frigates were all within range of their five-inch guns by the time the bombers released all of their weapons and had to withdraw.

The combination of the devastating bombardments and the marines on the perimeter calling in more and more accurate strikes meant that the six unarmed cargo ships could safely move closer to shore, and with the help of commandeered tugboats, they quickly berthed and began to unload cargo and personnel. The original loads of humanitarian supplies and support equipment destined for Tanzania had been partially off-loaded in Karachi, Pakistan, and quickly replaced with warehoused military hardware-rifles, heavy machine guns, mortars, ammunition, communications equipment, protective devices, mines, tactical vehicles, and food and water for a battalion of Chinese soldiers for a week.

By twilight, three thousand People’s Liberation Army troops aboard the six cargo ships had surrounded and reinforced defensive positions at Mogadishu Airport and the New Port districts, and scouts had directed intense naval bombardment of the Old Port district designed to suppress any counterattack attempts. Chinese hunter-killer squads began to fan out into the outskirts of the city north and west of the airport, armed with snipers, wire-guided antivehicle missiles, security troops with automatic rifles, and night-vision equipment. Any locals who congregated in any fashion and for any reason were ruthlessly attacked, even if the purpose was to collect the dead or injured. The area within a mile of the airport boundary became an instant shoot-to-kill zone, and no buildings stood within two miles of the airport.

That evening, several large transport planes began arriving, one every hour on a varying time schedule, taking extreme defensive measures to avoid being targeted by Somali rocket-propelled grenades or shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles. Each plane carried more troops and supplies, some carrying armored vehicles or artillery pieces. The arrivals were timed with more naval artillery barrages to keep Somali heads down until right before the transports arrived on final approach, when they were the most vulnerable.

By daybreak of the second day of the invasion, over four thousand Chinese soldiers were on the ground at Mogadishu Airport.