Siege of Lightning

CHAPTER FOURTEEN GAME PLAN

Hunter stepped up to the array of microphones. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, the mission was going as planned. He cleared his throat and began to read the short statement on the status of Lightning.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen of the press. First of all, I would like to say on behalf of NASA that we appreciate your patience while waiting here these last two hours. We apologize. The Lightning crew will be awakening from their rest period in another three hours, at which time we’ll be able to provide you with live coverage of the interior of the orbiter. I would like to state at this point that Lightning will be joined shortly by Atlantis for an emergency drill. NASA’s current plan — assuming Congress approves our budget — is to have all modules of Freedom ferried into space and fully operational before the end of the decade. This means far more frequent shuttle flights than ever before, which also means we must be better prepared and trained to handle emergencies in outer space if one should occur. Ladies and gentlemen of the press, the Lightning-Atlantis joint mission is to prove that we can indeed send an orbiter up in space at a moment’s notice for whatever reason. We at NASA decided that a simulated emergency would be best. That’s the end of my statement. I will take questions now.”

Almost instantly three reporters raised their hands.

“Yes, the lady in the back?”

“Mr. Hunter, Ellen Nunez, AP. Why the secrecy? Why wait until now to tell us this?”

Hunter slowly shook his head and smiled thinly. “We are conducting a training mission in emergency procedures, Ms. Nunez. It would hardly be effective if there were advance warnings. Therefore it was essential that it remain secret until the very last minute.”

“So, this is a drill then?” she asked.

“That’s correct, and in the process, the astronauts in Lightning will check out the orbiter for commercial use.”

“Is Atlantis carrying any commercial or military payloads?”

“Atlantis is still carrying its scheduled payload.”

Hunter inhaled deeply and forced his face to remain relaxed as he scanned the room and noticed several hands up in the air. He had lied to the world, and could only hope it would not come back to haunt him someday.

The hum of the air-conditioning unit disturbed Ortiz as he sat next to Zimmer in the brightly lit briefing room. Siegel kept checking his watch every minute or so as he continued to pace back and forth in the front of the room. The entire platoon had been waiting for the CIA officials to arrive for the past hour, but still saw no sign of them. Outside the brick building, each man’s gear sat neatly packed in a row next to the entrance. They were ready, Ortiz felt. Day or night, he truly believed Mambo could handle anything.

“They’re pretty late, hermano,” he whispered to Zimmer, who had his eyes closed. The Bronx native opened his eyes, turned his head, and shrugged.

“Figures,” he responded. “The grunts are always th’ ones that gotta wait.”

Ortiz rubbed his hand over his short-cropped black hair and felt a scar he’d gotten during a fight many years ago. Hair had never grown back on that particular spot of his skull. He thought of it as a constant reminder of his past.

Siegel’s short barracks briefing an hour ago had been vague. All he knew was that they would be heading south of there, that it would involve jungle warfare, and that the operation would last up to twenty-four hours. Nothing else. No idea on what they were going after, no information on the size of the opposition’s force, or on their weapons. Was it a rescue mission? Had a guerrilla group kidnapped someone the CIA deemed important enough to go in and rescue? Or was it an assassination mission of some sort?

Ortiz shook his head. Too many questions. He checked his watch. The CIA guys were really late.

Suddenly the door in the back of the room flew open. Several heads turned. Ortiz spotted the base’s commanding officer, General Jack Olson, followed by two men and a woman. All three wore civilian clothes; Ortiz had never seen them before.

“Ten-hut!” Siegel called out.

The entire platoon jumped to attention.

“At ease, men,” Olson said as he walked ahead of the three civilians, who Ortiz suspected were the CIA officials. One of the two men was much older than the other. The older one was a large-framed man with thin, brownish hair. The second was a bit shorter and thinner but muscular. The woman seemed to be her late thirties, but very attractive.

“All right people, sit down and listen up,” Olson began. “The following information is highly classified. Lieutenant Siegel’s platoon has been selected for a very critical mission of great national interest. I want all to provide your platoon leader with your fullest support and listen carefully to what Mr. Thomas Pruett has to say. He is Head of Clandestine Services, CIA. The gentleman to his left is Mr. Cameron Stone. He is the CIA field officer that uncovered the criminal activity that will be the subject of this briefing. Next to him is Mrs. Marie Guilloux. She has visited the target area and might help answer some of your questions. I want to remind all of you that you belong to the 7th Special Forces Detachment Delta, and thus all of the information you are about to hear is confidential. With that, I’ll turn it over to you, sir.” Olson stepped to the side. Pruett and Stone took a few large black-and-white photographs from a briefcase and began pinning them to the corkboard while Marie looked on.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Pruett began. “I’ll be brief since we don’t have much time. I’ll go over the basics of the operation here, and then I’ll cover all the details and be more than happy to answer questions when we’re in the air.”

He walked over to the board and pointed at the first photograph. “In exactly six hours and twenty minutes, a rocket containing what is supposed to be a commercial satellite will be launched from this facility located in the city of Kourou, French Guiana.” He circled the small city with his index finger. “Our intelligence data tells us that the actual purpose of that rocket is not to deploy a satellite in space, but to deploy a drone, a satellite lookalike, that is intended to collide with the space shuttle Lightning.”

Ortiz was stunned. He could hardly believe something like this was actually happening. Before anyone could say anything, Pruett continued.

“A C-145 StarLifter is scheduled to depart this base in ten minutes, gentlemen. It will take you to French Guiana, where you will parachute down in the jungle, destroy the rocket before it is launched, and quickly retreat to a rendezvous point, where a helicopter from the U.S.S. Blue Ridge, currently sailing near the Venezuelan coast, will be waiting for you. We’ll cover mission specifics on the way over. We’re short on time.”

Olson walked back to the front of the room. “Men, this is a covert operation, and as such, we cannot force you to go along. The mission poses certain dangers, since you might run into some degree of opposition. How much? We have not been able to determine that exactly as of just yet — perhaps Mrs. Guilloux might be able to give you some details on the way — but there will be some resistance at the launch site for sure. I’m telling it to you like it is, men. Most of you have heard of me. I’m not going to stand here and blow sunshine up your ass, but I will say that you’re one of the Armed Force’s elite fighting units. This is what you have been trained for, but given the circumstances, if any of you wants out, you can simply walk to your barracks instead of to the plane. There will be no dishonor in it.

“Lieutenant Siegel tells me that all your paperwork has already been filed. Your selected beneficiaries will receive the proceeds from a CIA life insurance policy equal to your military policy, in case some of you don’t make it back. For those of you who do choose to go, you will be temporarily removed from the Armed Forces’ records until you get back. As far as the outside world is concerned you do not exist. As far as the U.S. Government is concerned you do not exist. Any questions?” He paused. “All right. Carry on, Lieutenant.”

“All right, people!” Siegel said. “You heard the general! Everyone outside. Those of you who are coming along line up behind your gear. The rest back to the barracks. Fall out!”

Ortiz and the others got up and headed outside. As he reached for his Ray-Ban Wayfarers he noticed that every single member of Mambo stood at attention behind his packed gear. Ortiz’s chest swelled and he raised his chin. He was Mambo, the best of the 7th U.S. Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta. He snapped to attention next to Zimmer as Siegel and Olson came outside followed by the civilians. Olson looked at Siegel and then eyed the troops.

“Make us proud. Good luck.”

“Thank you, sir,” responded Siegel as he did an about-face and scanned the platoon. “Let’s move it. Fall out! Everyone grab your gear and get in that truck. Move it!”

Ortiz followed the line of soldiers walking across the tarmac to a waiting truck. Things were happening too fast. He felt carried away by the emotion of the moment, by the possibility of combat. He’d always heard that when the call came, there was hardly any time to react, hardly any time to think. Trained instincts, honed to a fine edge by Mambo, took over. He now understood the reason behind the exhaustive drills, the constant hell he and his fellow soldiers were exposed to daily in the inhospitable jungles of Panama. It had prepared him for this moment, for what his country now needed him to do. Ortiz smiled. He felt ready, capable, qualified to do the job, but the smile quickly vanished from his face. Although his instincts told him he was prepared, his logical side told him to beware of overconfidence, not to underestimate the enemy. Ortiz had learned two important lessons in the barrio. First, never underestimate the enemy. Always expect the unexpected. Second, do the unexpected, surprise the enemy, avoid predictability. Anyone who consistently followed his credo increased his or her chances of survival tenfold.

Ortiz jumped last into the back of the truck, pulling the tailgate up behind him. The truck started and headed down to the ramp. The trip took less than a minute. Ortiz didn’t even have time to get comfortable.

“Fall out!” Siegel screamed as he came around the back.

Ortiz and Zimmer pushed the tailgate down and jumped off, hauling their gear. Ortiz looked over his right shoulder and stared at the blurry shape of the light-gray Lockheed C-141 StarLifter parked a few hundred feet away. The scorching plume of the four large turbofans, combined with the hot air rising off the blistering tarmac, made the StarLifter a wavy mirage in the sun, but Ortiz could still make out the open paratrooper door at the aft end of the cabin. A military police jeep carrying the CIA contingent rushed past them and stopped next to the aircraft.

“All right, let’s go!” Siegel screamed.

Ortiz picked up his gear and followed Zimmer toward the waiting craft.

Cameron got out of the jeep and watched the line of soldiers approaching the StarLifter.

“So, what do you think of Mambo, Cameron?” asked Pruett from the passenger side.

Cameron glanced at his superior, then at Marie sitting in the rear seat, and back at Pruett. “They look young and unseasoned. None of them have experienced real battle before. Not even their commanding officer.”

“General Olson seems to think they’re the best.”

Cameron sighed. “We’ll see.” He continued to stare at the soldiers now climbing inside the aircraft. The sight brought back memories. Funny, he thought.Some things never change. Regardless of how much military technology advances, the real work is still done by the grunts.

Nothing could replace boots on the ground for this type of mission. No fancy helicopters, armored vehicles, or fighter aircraft. The soldier in the field was the one who got the job done, Cameron firmly believed. He had learned that lesson in Vietnam. Sure, Air Force planes came in low and dropped load after load of napalm to clear the way for the advancing troops, but a hill was not assumed captured until the infantry took it.

As the last of the soldiers disappeared behind the opened paratroop door, Cameron felt the old adrenaline rushing through his body — the uncertainly, and the fear of battle — a unique feeling experienced only by those who participated in war. But beneath it lay grief, sadness. Boys would die today.

“Ready, Cameron?”

Cameron shifted his gaze back to Pruett and Marie.

“Yep. Let’s go.”

The three followed the soldiers into the plane.

The ear-piercing sound thundered through the entire vessel. Kessler jumped up and hit his forehead against the ceiling of the horizontal sleeping station. He felt momentarily disoriented. His head stung and his ears still rang, but not from the explosion. Alarms now blared in the flight deck as interior lights flickered off and on.

Now what?

Kessler bolted from the mid-deck up to the flight deck, where after a brief scan he realized the seriousness of their situation. The control panel warning lights indicated that two fuel cells had failed. Lightning had a total of three fuel cells. During peak and average power loads, all three cells came on line; during minimum power loads only two fuel cells were used. A profound sinking feeling rushed through Kessler. Lightning’s fuel cells generated electricity through the electrochemical reaction of liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen. Each fuel cell had its own set of oxygen and hydrogen tanks, and an independent combustion chamber. Coolant flowing through the fuel-cell stack controlled the temperature inside the chamber. As the coolant left the stack, Lightning’s General Purpose Computers measured its temperature. No alarms or warning lights came on as long as the coolant temperature remained between 170 and 240 degrees Fahrenheit. The warning lights told Kessler that the cells somehow had overheated. The explosion that followed had not only destroyed the fuel cells, but had also resulted in the loss of all the oxygen from the tanks that supplied the damaged fuel cells, the same oxygen used by Lightning’s life-support system.

Puzzled that the GPCs hadn’t automatically shut down the overheated cells to prevent an explosion. Kessler quickly switched from the two damaged cells to the third fuel cell, which they’d been holding in standby mode. The lights inside Lightning stabilized. Kessler knew that one fuel cell operating alone could not adequately power the on-board environmental-control and life-support system. The system was composed of three main subsystems: the atmosphere-revitalization subsystem that controlled the crew module’s atmospheric and thermal environment; the food, water, and wastewater subsystem; and the active thermal-control subsystem, which maintained Lightning’s sensitive electronic components within manufacturer-specified temperature limits.

“Houston, Lightning here. We have another problem.”

“Lightning, say again,” Kessler heard Hunter say.

“Ah, we have another problem, Houston. A critical one, I might add. We just lost two fuel cells.”

Silence. Kessler sighed. Houston had put him on hold to prevent him from hearing their reactions. The radio came back on. Hunter’s voice was calm.

“Lightning, Houston. We have just received confirmation from the CIA that the orbiter has been sabotaged.”

“Nice of them to tell us after we’re up here.”

“It looks as if they’ve just figured it out.”

“Any ideas on what else has been sabotaged?”

“Ah, negative, Lightning.All we know is that someone is trying to destroy the orbiter.”

Kessler shook his head. “Hell, that’s just fucking great! And in the meantime we just sit up here and wait for something else to blow?”

“We’re running a computer simulation to determine the best course of action. In the meantime the CIA and FBI are going at it full blast. All we can do down here is try to get you guys back home safe. Status of third cell?”

“I just brought it on line but it won’t be enough to handle the entire life-support system. The cell is working at one-hundred-ten-percent capacity. I’m gonna have to unplug something soon to relieve the load. It’s a priority call.”

“Roger, Lightning, we copy. We have two Rockwell engineers with us in the room. Their suggestion is to disconnect the food, water, and wastewater subsystem, and see the effect of that on the loading.”

“Just a moment.” Kessler switched off the automatic life-support system which kept all three subsystem on line, and switched to a manual. That way he could select the subsystem he preferred to maintain operational. “It’s done, Houston. Cell operating at ninety-eight-percent capacity. I’ve also noticed a decrease in the oxygen content in the crew module. I’m afraid that even with the food, water, and wastewater subsystem off there isn’t enough power to maintain a proper oxygen level, and even if there was enough power, remember that we just lost two oxygen tanks. Pretty soon there’s not going to be much oxygen left for the system to circulate.”

“Lightning, our simulation confirms your suspicion. If our data is correct, it shows that you have less than twenty hours before the oxygen content drops to a hazardous level.”

Kessler inhaled deeply and stared at the Earth slowly rotating overhead. Their situation was critical. In twenty hours they would have to suit up and rely on the oxygen inside their space suits. The life-support system backpacks came with a seven-hour supply of oxygen. Kessler estimated they each had used less than an hour’s worth during the EVA. Damn! In less than twenty-six hours they were going to be out of air. They were stuck, marooned, their hopes for an early Earth re-entry dashed. Even though he could route the remaining helium and propellant from the right OMS tanks to the RCS primary jets to slow down the orbiter enough to achieve re-entry, Lightning would incinerate the moment it reached the upper layers of the atmosphere, since the payload bay doors were open and there were at least a dozen thermal tiles missing.

“Roger, Houston. Twenty hours, plus the six-hour supply in the PLSS backpacks.”

“Don’t forget the three rescue balls, Michael. There’s a two-hour supply in each.”

Kessler nodded slightly. Hunter was referring to the personal rescue enclosures, or rescue balls. Since there were only two space suits on board an orbiter flight, in the event of an emergency the rest of the crew — which in Kessler’s case was none — would use the rescue balls. The problem with that, he reflected, was that the balls were zipped shut from the outside by another crew member. With Jones still unconscious, it meant that Kessler had to rely only on suits and Jones on the rescue balls. Even if Jones was awake, he decided, one of them still had to use the suits.

“I’m aware of that, Houston. In any case, it looks like thirty hours max. Any way we can close the payload bay doors with one fuel cell?”

“Stand by, Lightning.”

Kessler kept his eye on the oxygen level. Still within the normal range, but not for long. The only good news in the whole situation, he reflected, was that it was just Jones and him, and not six or seven occupants like so many other shuttle missions. Under those conditions, they would have been lucky to get more than ten hours’ worth of oxygen.

“Ah, negative, Lightning. A minimum of two fuel cells is required.”

“Great. Any news on whether or not I can fill that gaps left by a dozen tiles with the tile repair kit?”

“Bad news on that front also, Lightning.The kit doesn’t have enough epoxy foam to fill all the holes.”

“Well, Houston? Can’t close the payload bay doors and can’t repair the tiles. What’s next?”

“Hang in there, Lightning. We’ll figure a way out of this one. In the meantime, try to keep still and relax to conserve oxygen. It’s preferable that you even sleep. You will consume less oxygen that way. Also, shut off all lights and redundant systems to give the life-support system more juice. Perhaps you can last a few more hours than calculated. We will contact you in five hours.”

“Copy, Houston. Over ‘n’ out.”

Kessler switch off most of the crew compartment’s lights and all payload bay floodlights. Lightning was engulfed by the cold darkness of space. Kessler remained on his flight seat just staring at the Earth. Only his steady breathing disturbed the total silence in the flight deck, and that would cease soon unless NASA got very creative, but how? How can they possibly help us out? Even if they somehow figure out a way to close the payload bay doors, the missing thermal tiles will do us in during re-entry.

The problem went beyond the fact that Lightning’s underside had several spots where its internal, all-aluminum skin was exposed. Those unprotected spots by themselves would account for some internal damage, but probably not enough to destroy the orbiter. Kessler’s primary concern with the missing tiles was that the exposed aluminum would reach extremely high temperatures during the critical twenty-minute re-entry. The melting heat would propagate across the aluminum skin and cause adjacent tiles to become loose and eventually fall off. The process would degenerate into a massive tile loss and inevitable orbiter burnout.

Kessler rubbed his eyes and sighed. There had to be a way out of this one.

In the Oval Office, the President sat on his leather swivel chair and watched Carlton Stice across his desk working the phone to get all concerned parties on the line. The latest news from Lightning was distressing. The two astronauts literally were going to die from asphyxiation.

The President got up and drove a fist into his palm, startling Stice. Then he grunted and turned to the windows facing the south grounds. There must be something NASA could do. Something, but what?

“I think I have them on the line, sir.” Stice said.

The President signaled him to press the speaker box. He did

“Tom, can you hear me?” the President asked as he sat back down on his chair.

“Hello, Mr. President,” Pruett said, his voice coming through.

“Good. Hold on, Tom.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hunter, are you there?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Tom, can you still hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, gentlemen, we’re talking on a secure line. I want to know everything that’s going on. And when I say everything, God Almighty, I mean everything. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!” was the unanimous response.

“All right. Tom, what’s your situation?”

“We left Howard two hours ago, sir. We expect to reach French Guiana in one more hour. The platoon has been fully briefed and armed.”

“What’s your confidence level as a special ops expert?”

“Well, based on what I’ve learned from General Olson, sir, this team — they call themselves Mambo — is about the best there is. In my opinion they have more than a fifty-percent chance of success.”

“Fifty percent? Why so low? Didn’t you just say they’re the best?”

“Well, Mr. President, considering the short notice and their lack of familiarity with the base they are attacking, I believe that—”

“Don’t we have satellite reconnaissance for that? And also, isn’t that Guilloux woman providing additional intelligence?”

“Ah… yes, sir, and every man has had a chance to fully review the data on the compound as we know it.”

“Then?”

“In the past — on missions that I’ve been involved in, that is— we were always able to build a mock-up of the target and run a week or two of simulated assaults prior to the real thing. That’s the difference, sir. Without that familiarity factor the odds are almost against them.”

“I guess I’ll have to live with those odds since we’re out of time. Hunter?”

“Yes, sir?”

“What’s the orbiter situation?”

“Lightning has less than thirty hours of oxygen left, sir.”

“What’s the plan of action?”

“We’re going full blast on Atlantis, sir, but it’s going to be close.”

“Explain.”

“Atlantis was hoisted to the External Tank and Rocket Booster Assembly just two days ago, sir. It was not scheduled to launch for ten more days. Now we’re trying to get up there in less than twenty-four hours. We’ll do the best we can, but I hesitate to launch prematurely and risk more problems. By that I mean two stranded orbiters instead of one.”

“How is the press being handled on this?”

“We’re keeping them out of it under the pretext that Atlantis will join Lightning for an emergency rescue drill as part of NASA’s overall strategy to get Freedom operational before the end of the century, sir.”

“You think they’re really buying that?”

“I think so, sir. The press conference went relatively well.”

The President rubbed the tips of his fingers against his temples, inhaled deeply, and exhaled. He opened his eyes. “Listen up, Hunter. We’re out of time. The lives of two astronauts are in danger here. I want all of you to do whatever it takes to launch Atlantis as soon as humanly possible, without, I repeat, without compromising the safety of Atlantis and its crew.”

“Believe me when I tell you, Mr. President, we’re doing all we possibly can to launch as soon as possible.”

“I know, Hunter, I know. That will be all for now, gentlemen. Both of you have direct access to my office at any hour of the day. I may be tied up with other matters, but the Defense Secretary will be handling the issue in my absence. Remember that security is of the utmost concern. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Thank you, gentlemen.” The President hung up the phone and faced Stice. “What do you think?”

“Well, sir, you probably already know I’m not very keen on the military operation. It’s much too risky. Too many things can go wrong. What happens if some of our men get caught by the enemy? What should I do? Deny intervention?”

“Give me a call.”

“What if you’re unavailable and I have to make a split second decision, sir?”

“You’re gonna have to rely on your best judgment. Just keep in mind that although this is a covert operation, there are American lives involved.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Good. Now get the Kremlin on the line.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“The Kremlin. I must speak to the President of Russia immediately.”

Stice jumped out of the chair and reached for the phone.