Siege of Lightning

CHAPTER NINETEEN NEW FACES

For Michael Kessler, the world seemed out of focus. The harder he squinted and blinked to clear his sight, the blurrier things got. He gave up and exhaled as he noticed a figure looking over him. Kessler tried to move but he couldn’t. He was somehow immobilized.

“Astronaut Kessler? Mikhail Kessler? Can you hear me, yes?”

Mikhail? What struck Kessler the most was not the questions, but the deep female voice and heavy Slavic accent. It almost sounded as if the woman was trying to fake it.

“Mikhail Kessler? I’m holding your hand. If you can hear me squeeze it tight.”

Kessler squeezed her hand.

“Good, Mikhail, very good. Now listen carefully. You are aboard Space Station Mir. Your government asked our government for help. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Another squeeze.

“Good. Your friend, Captain Jones, is in critical condition. It appears that he suffered internal injuries from the accident with your version of the space bicycle. We must get him to Earth as soon as possible.”

Slowly, her face came into focus. A light olive-skinned woman with short black hair and brown eyes wearing a bright-orange jumpsuit. She smiled.

“Who…”

“My name is Valentina Tereshkova. I am the flight engineer for the mission, and lucky for you I also speak English.”

“How long have I — we been here?”

“We rescued you over six hours ago. You had depleted the oxygen supply of your space vehicle.”

“Lightning… where is the orbiter?”

“About thirty meters below us. You know, you are lucky we found you when we did. A little longer and you and your friend would have died.”

Kessler scanned the compartment. It was spacious as far as spacecraft were concerned. Definitely much larger than Lightning’s mid-deck compartment.

“CJ, you said he’s in—”

“CJ? Are you referring to Captain Jones?”

Kessler smiled thinly. “Yes.”

“Yes, we have him temporarily stabilized, but he has suffered serious internal injuries. He must undergo surgery immediately.”

Kessler shifted his gaze to the Velcro straps that held him down on a horizontal sleeping station, very similar to the ones aboard Lightning. Tereshkova nodded and unstrapped him. He slowly moved his limbs and rolled his neck a few times. “Hmm… much better.”

Another person entered the compartment, a large-framed man with pronounced high cheekbones and square jaw. He floated next to Tereshkova and stared at Kessler.

“This is Commander Nikolai Aleksandrovich Strakelov. He speaks very little English.”

Kessler extended his hand. Strakelov smiled and shook it vigorously.

“I need to get in contact with Houston Control, Valentina. There must be a way to get CJ back to Earth fast.”

“We have news that the orbiter Atlantis will be launched in twenty-four hours.”

Kessler shook his head. “Twenty-four hours? Plus another eight or so to catch up with us? In your opinion, can CJ last that long?”

Tereshkova frowned, turned to Strakelov, and spoke in Russian for a few moments. She stopped and Strakelov also frowned and slowly shook his head. Kessler understood. Jones didn’t have much time to live. If he was to save his friend’s life he had to act fast. There had to be a way to get him down more quickly. He looked at Tereshkova.

“I assume you came up in the Soyuz spacecraft?”

“Yes, Mikhail, but if you are thinking what I’m thinking, I suggest you think again. We had a problem during lift-off. Several of our heat shields flared open. Most fell off. The rest are still hanging onto the spacecraft. A supply ship is due here in a month with the new heat shields. Besides, Captain Jones is in a very delicate condition. He has already suffered enough inside the rescue ball. Nikolai Aleksandrovich thinks he has several broken ribs. If we move him more than necessary, he could puncture a lung. Inside the Soyuz space is very cramped and he might not endure the trip.”

Kessler closed his eyes and inhaled. How? How could he get Jones back down in time to save him? He was in what appeared to be a no-win situation. Lightning was stranded until Atlantis delivered the thermal blankets he’d requested to patch up the sections of exposed aluminum. Atlantis would also empower Lightning enough to close the payload bay doors and get the oxygen to a safe level for long enough to reach Edwards Air Force Base in California safely. But with Atlantis over thirty hours away, Kessler decided that was not an immediate option. The Soyuz spacecraft was in no better shape, also missing heat shields… heat shields? Oh, Jesus!

He bolted up from the sleeping station. “You said there are some heat shields hanging off the Soyuz spacecraft?”

Tereshkova narrowed her eyes. “Well, yes, Mikhail. Why do you ask?”

Kessler smiled. He’d found a way. It was a long shot but he had to try. His friend’s life depended on that.

The four-thousand kilogram Intelsat 9-F2/Athena communications satellite had maintained the same orbit since its launch five years earlier. The malfunction of the second stage of the Athena rocket booster had left the twelve-by-four-meter satellite, originally intended for a geosynchronous orbit 25,000 miles over Earth, stranded in low Earth orbit. The original recovery plan by Athena had been to wait for the correct window in space and use the satellite’s still functional third-stage boosters to reach a rendezvous with an American orbiter and haul it back to Earth. But with the Challenger disaster, the salvage mission had been delayed by almost ten years. In the meantime, Athena had committed to keeping the huge two-hundred-million-dollar satellite from re-entering Earth by simply firing the booster once a month to maintain a safe orbit.

Vanderhoff finished reading the report from the young technician and smiled. It was his last chance. The Intelsat 9-F2’s boosters had just been fired for thirty seconds, but not to push the satellite to a higher and safer orbit as in the dozens of times before. The rockets were only fired after the young technician, via radio link, used the satellite’s small vernier thruster to turn the long satellite around. This caused the thrust to slow the satellite and force it to a lower orbit forty-five miles below. Vanderhoff checked his watch. There was still a chance to succeed. Even with the failure to launch his Athena rocket, Vanderhoff could still pull it off. It was risky but doable.

The phone rang. He picked it up on the first ring.

“Yes?”

“Hello, Monsieur Vanderhoff.”

“General Chardon, how is your team doing?”

“That’s what I’m calling about. The team reported one casualty.”

“Well, that’s always expected.”

“I agree, but a good commander is always trying to minimize casualties. I’m sending more men to make sure everyone in the team has someone else to cover his back. The soldier who was killed was alone.”

“Understood, General. Call me when your men have news.”

Cameron noticed the twelve soldiers standing at the other side of the large clearing. They appeared to be waiting for something or someone to come and pick them up.

He shrugged and turned back toward their landing zone four hundred feet away. He had selected the spot. Easy to defend. Two sides were muddy swamps. Mambo would be able to spot anyone coming from nearly half a mile away. The other two sides were shielded by the thick jungle, making it easier for Mambo to retreat and hide if it ever came to that. The clearing itself was only about sixty feet square, just barely large enough to accommodate the Stallion rescue helicopter already on its way from Blue Ridge.

Cameron reached a spot two hundred feet from the clearing, and smiled when he spotted Zimmer and another soldier setting up trip wires.

“How’s it going?”

“Just a second,” Zimmer responded as he tied a nylon line to a hand grenade, removed the safety pin, and carefully wedged the pear-shaped object between a low branch and the trunk of a tree. He then ran the line at knee level from the tree to another tree twenty feet away. He tied the line to the tree and checked the tension. Satisfied, he shifted his gaze to Cameron. “What do you think?”

Cameron was impressed. “Not bad, Tommy. Couldn’t have done it better myself.”

“This is the sixth trip wire we’ve deployed. I think another six or seven more and there ain’t nobody coming near this place without us knowing about it.”

Cameron nodded. “Sure looks that way. Say, where’s Tito?”

“Back there, ‘bout a hundred feet.”

Cameron continued walking for another minute before slowing down.

“Tito?”

No response. He walked a little farther.

“Tito? Are you—”

“Don’t take another step or you’ll be sorry, man.”

“What the hell…”

“Up here.”

Cameron shifted his gaze up, and was startled to see three weapons aimed in his direction. One was Ortiz’s Colt Commando. The other two were the M-16s of two of Ortiz’s men, both of whom had smiles on their faces. All three lay flat on their bellies over thick branches twenty feet above him.

“Stay still, Cameron. I mean it, man.” Ortiz slung the Colt, crawled back toward the trunk, and climbed down.

“What’s going on? Why the warning?”

“See this?” Ortiz kneeled down and carefully brushed the leaves away, revealing a nylon rope. “Yeah, what about it?”

“Let me show you were it goes.” He walked to the other side of the thick tree and pointed to a large rock suspended thirty feet in the air. “One end of the rope’s connected to a net we laid out in that area over there.” He pointed to the spot Cameron had been about to walk through. “The other end’s connected to that rock. Anyone who steps into it will wind up tangled up in the net and lifted thirty feet in the air. Figure it can handle up to two soldiers at once.”

“I guess they teach you guys better stuff than in my days.”

“Oh, you in the military?”

“Used to be. Four tours in ‘Nam, three of them with the Special Forces. The CIA recruited me a few years after the war and sent me on a prolonged vacation to Mexico.”

Ortiz smiled. “Hablas Español?”

“Lo hablo major que tu, cabron.”

Ortiz grinned. “I doubt that. Need anything?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. There’s one thing you can do for us all. Let’s go get something out of my backpack.”

Ortiz didn’t like Cameron’s tone of voice, but went along with it anyway. “All right. Show me.”

Five minutes later, Cameron glanced at Ortiz as they walked toward one edge of the clearing carrying machetes. The young Hispanic sergeant was very talented in the art of war. At least talented enough to have survived this long.

According to Cameron’s estimates, the clearing would be just barely large enough to fit the Stallion. He was simply going to buy them a few more feet of clearing by chopping down the branches that extended over the edge of the jungle.

“How long before they come ‘n’ get us?”

“About an hour,” responded Cameron as he lifted the machete above his head and landed it hard against a two-inch-thick branch. It came off clean. Cameron picked it up and threw it in the jungle. “That’s assuming there’s no more red tape about this rescue mission.”

Ortiz busily worked on a thick branch. “Huh?”

“This rescue mission wasn’t supposed to have happened.”

Ortiz turned around and faced him. “What do you mean?”

Cameron frowned. “Don’t know the entire story, but it seems as if some Washington politician didn’t think it was a good idea to rescue you guys.”

“That’s just fuckin’ great, man. I’d love to get my hands around that hijo de puta’s neck.”

Cameron smiled.

“That wasn’t a joke,cabron.”

Cameron continued to smile. “Listen. Being part of the Special Forces in covert ops does include some risks. This kind of shit used to happen to us all the time in ’Nam. You just get used to it after a while.”

Ortiz frowned. “Well, I always knew about it, man, but I guess it’s different when it actually happens to you, if you know what I mean.”

“I know,” Cameron responded as he reached for another branch. “I know what you mean.”

“Then?”

Cameron gave him a puzzled look. “Then what?”

“Then how did you get here?”

“Tito, you don’t really want to know. It involves — shit, helos!”

The low flopping noise grew louder. It came from the southeast, from the launch complex. Cameron raced into the jungle. Ortiz did the same.

There were four birds in all, approaching at treetop level. One of the helicopters hovered over the clearing for several seconds before rejoining the caravan.

“Mierda! Looks like they’re back.”

“Yep.”

“Think they saw us?”

“Maybe. Either that or they thought about landing on this clearing instead of the larger one on the other side of the woods. Go ahead and hang back here. Keep an eye on them. I’m gonna make a call and find out how long before our ride gets here. We’re running out of time.”

“What about the others?”

“They should be just about finished deploying the trip wires. I’ll go get them after I make the call.”

As Blue Ridge disappeared below the horizon, Crowe applied forward cyclic pressure, increased throttle, and added right rudder to compensate for the additional torque induced by the main rotor. He eyed the airspeed. It was 180 knots, the maximum specified speed for the Stallion. He inched the cyclic forward and added a dash of throttle.

Up to 190 knots.

A little more cyclic.

Two hundred knots and climbing.

He felt a light vibration on the cyclic as the all-aluminum fuselage broke through the air at 205 knots. The French Guiana coast became visible under the bright sun. Crowe lowered the green visor as the cockpit flooded with light.

“Stallion One, Mambo, over.”

Crowe spoke in his voice-activated headset. “Go ahead, Mambo.”

“What’s your ETA, Stallion One?”

Crowe briefly checked the rectangular radar screen below and to his right. It pinpointed Mambo’s position. “About a half hour, perhaps a bit less.”

“Just spotted four helicopters loaded with troops. Things are gonna get pretty hot around here. Every second counts, over.”

“We hear you, Mambo. Be there as fast as we can. Check back in ten minutes. Over.”

“Roger, Stallion. Over an’ out.”

Crowe checked his airspeed one more time. He was already flying faster than he was supposed to at a mere ten feet over the waves. He inched the cyclic forward by another dash and increased the power to ninety-five percent.

He briefly checked the fuel gauges and watched the digital readout, decreasing almost one and a half times faster than normal cruising speed. He was down to 7500 pounds of fuel. Crowe did a quick calculation in his head and decided he had about a little over an hour’s worth of fuel left. Barely enough to get there, pick up the troops, and head out.

He pressed the frequency scan button on the cyclic.

“Blue Ridge, Stallion One, over.”

“Stallion One, go ahead,” Davenport’s rough voice crackled through his headset.

“It’s gonna be close making it back. Request you guys get as close as you can to the coast, over.”

“Ah, negative, Stallion One. We’re too close to Guiana territory.”

“Christ, Skipper! You want us to fucking plunge into the ocean on our way back? We’re gonna be sucking fumes in just over an hour. Over.”

“All right, Stallion One. We’ll get as close as we can. You better do what you can to conserve fuel on your way out. Over.”

“Roger, Blue Ridge. Over an’ out.”

Crowe frowned. There was a good possibility he’d run out of fuel. That in itself did not present an immediate life-threatening problem since the Stallion had the capability of landing at sea, but if the rescue area was going to be as hot as it appeared, he was concerned about being forced to hover around for some time before he could actually go in. And there were a million other things that could go wrong. If there was one thing Vietnam had taught him, it was that plenty of things were bound to go wrong during a mission that could never be anticipated. In order to maximize one’s chances of success, one had to be sure there weren’t any known problems or limitations going in, especially with the rescue craft.

Crowe put those thoughts aside and kept his eyes on the rapidly approaching coastline.