Starfire

NINE

President Phoenix replaced the phone on its cradle. “That went swimmingly,” he murmured wearily. He was heading north to Portland, Oregon, for his next day of campaign stops. “You guys hear all that?” he asked into his video teleconference camera. All three participants in the video teleconference — Vice President Ann Page, National Security Adviser William Glenbrook, and Secretary of Defense Frederick Hayes — responded in the affirmative. “I screwed the pooch. I should’ve called you guys up and asked your opinion before I authorized the Cal Poly students to use the nuclear generator. Thanks to Barbeau, Russia thinks I just fired a death ray. I don’t feel as if I have any choice here, guys, but to detach that Skybolt module. Thoughts?”

“I would’ve advised going ahead with using the MHD generator test if you had asked me beforehand, Mr. President,” Ann said. “All we did was allow the Cal Poly students to demonstrate their technology — we didn’t fire a space weapon. Starfire is not a space weapon, no matter how much Barbeau and Gryzlov say it is.”

“The question now is: Do we think Gryzlov will dare attack if we fly a spaceplane over Russia?” the president asked.

“He’s taking steps to try to convince us that’s exactly what he’d do,” Glenbrook said. “Launching that Elektron spaceplane into an intersecting orbit with the space station? That was a deliberate action.”

“They were miles apart,” Hayes said. “There was no danger of collision.”

“But a miscalculation of just a few seconds and things could have been far worse,” Ann said. “Bill is right: it was a deliberate and dangerous action.”

“You mentioned something else that happened before that flyby episode, didn’t you, Fred?” the president asked. “What was it?”

“Before the Russian spaceplane flew past Armstrong Space Station, we observed it fly very close to a malfunctioning Russian satellite,” Hayes said. “While we watched, we noticed the satellite suddenly breaking apart.”

“The spaceplane attacked it? With what?”

“The preliminary data on the event was from radar images, and they did not spot any projectiles such as the Scimitar hypervelocity missiles they have used before,” Hayes said. “We’ve asked the Air Force to look back through images from the Space-Based Infrared Satellite system taken during the incident to see if they can detect a laser.”

“A laser?” the president exclaimed. “A satellite-killing laser on a spaceplane?”

“Very possible, sir,” Hayes said. “We’ve had plans for small satellite-killing lasers for a long time, as have the Russians — it’s possible they’ve mounted one in the cargo bay of an Elektron spaceplane.”

“We could sure use something like that now,” Ann said.

“We opted for the Kingfisher attack satellites, ma’am, because they could carry antisatellite, antiballistic-missile, and ground-attack weapons, whereas the laser satellites couldn’t attack targets on Earth,” Hayes said.

“Are we in agreement that the Russians at least appear to be ready, willing, and able to attack our spacecraft?” the president asked. His question was met with silence and a lot of somber faces. “I tend to agree, guys: Gryzlov is angry, and he’s psychotic, and with that Starfire test he’s seen his opportunity to push the issue of space weapons — and he could very easily have world opinion with him. He could attack one of our spaceplanes and argue that he was provoked into doing so.” He looked at the stunned faces on the videoconference screen. “Anyone think that Gryzlov is going to negotiate any of this?”

“He’s already told the world what he’s going to do,” Glenbrook said. “He’s invoked the safety of his entire nation — he’s even told his citizens to take shelter when the station flies overhead! Anything less than Skybolt becoming a meteorite would not be acceptable. He’d look weak if he started negotiating.”

“What are my military options? Fred?”

“We haven’t exhausted all our options, Mr. President,” Secretary of Defense Hayes said resolutely. “Not by a long shot. The free-electron laser aboard Armstrong Space Station and the Kingfisher weapon garages are the best options to take out the Elektron launch sites, MiG-31D bases, and S-500S antisatellite missile launchers, sir. If we deploy the entire Kingfisher constellation, we can hold every Russian antispacecraft site and spaceport at risk twenty-four/seven. The Russians have deployed the S-500 air defense weapon at their launch sites, but they can’t touch a Thor’s Hammer precision-guided projectile coming in from space at ten thousand miles an hour — and of course Skybolt flies at the speed of light. If it gets into position and lets loose, it can’t be stopped.”

The president thought about that for several moments — it was obvious he wasn’t comfortable with using the space-based weapons. “Other options, Fred?” he finally asked.

“The S-500 changes the game, sir,” Hayes said. “The only other nonnuclear options are attacks by our six remaining B-2 stealth bombers, and cruise missiles launched from our few B-1 and B-52 bombers, plus ship-launched nonnuclear cruise missiles. To attack the Russian and Chinese spaceports, it means overflying Russian and Chinese territory — our nonnuclear cruise missiles have a range of only seven hundred miles, which means we could hit a few of those S-500 sites but not the spaceports. The S-500 is capable against both stealth and subsonic low-flying cruise missiles, highly capable against B-1 bombers, and deadly to a B-52.”

“What would the chances be for the cruise missiles and stealth bombers, General?” Vice President Page asked.

“No better than fifty-fifty, ma’am,” Hayes said. “The S-500 is that good. Our air-launched cruise missiles have twice the range of the S-500, but the S-500 is mobile and can be moved and set up quickly, so the chance of an inertially guided cruise missile targeting just a set of geographic coordinates at the battery’s last known position and getting one is not very good. The extended-range version of the Joint Air-Launched Standoff cruise missile has an imaging infrared sensor, so it would be more capable against mobile and pop-up targets, but it’s subsonic and the S-500 would be very capable against it. The twelve refurbished B-1 bombers we obtained are good, but we don’t have experienced crews yet. B-52s would have zero chance. They would have to get past the Russian’s primary air defense system, the S-400, and then take on the S-500s protecting the spaceports and launch sites.” He turned to the president. “The space weapons are our best option, sir. We shouldn’t deactivate the Skybolt module — in fact, my recommendation is to activate Skybolt and the Kingfisher satellites already in orbit, send up spaceplanes, and have them place the garages that are in storage back into their orbits to complete the constellation.”

It was obvious the president didn’t like that recommendation. “I don’t want the Russians taking potshots at our spaceplanes, Fred,” he said after a long moment of consideration.

“They could still do that if we detached the Skybolt module, sir, and then we would’ve given up a major weapon system that could help fight off an attack on the station or the weapon garages.”

The president nodded. “How long will it take to deploy the Kingfisher garages back into orbit?”

“Several weeks, sir,” Hayes said after consulting some notes on his tablet computer. “The garages are being stored on Armstrong. They would have to load the modules aboard a spaceplane, then either wait for the proper moment or fly into what is called a transfer orbit to get into the proper position to insert the module into its orbit.”

“And the Russians will be observing this activity the whole time, I suppose?”

“Undoubtedly, sir,” Hayes replied. “They can see as well as anyone what orbits need to be occupied in order to complete the coverage — all they have to do is monitor those orbits. In the meantime, they can place S-500s and MiG-31Ds in the right places to take shots at the garages whenever they please, and of course they can do that now with Armstrong — in fact, we believe they have as many as six S-500s and MiG-31Ds with antisatellite weapons targeted against Armstrong right now in its current orbit. If we move the station’s orbit, they simply move the antisatellite weapons wherever necessary.”

“So Armstrong is vulnerable to attack?” the president asked.

“The Hydra COIL defensive laser is operational, and the Kingfishers currently in orbit and the Skybolt laser can be activated fairly quickly,” Hayes replied. “Each Kingfisher garage carries three antisatellite weapons as well as three land-attack projectiles. I believe the station can defend itself very well once all systems are back online.” He spread his hands. “After the two-day deadline, the Russians would see that we have not disconnected Skybolt, and that’s when we see if they make good on their threat.”

“Gryzlov has already gone on international television — if he backs down, he loses face in the eyes of the whole world,” National Security Adviser Glenbrook said. “He could do a minimal attack to try to look serious…”

“Gryzlov doesn’t strike me as a guy who would do something halfway,” Ann said. “I don’t think he’s concerned about losing face — the guy is just plain maniacal. I think if he decides to go, he’ll go all-out.”

“What would we lose if we lost Armstrong, Fred?”

“Fourteen personnel, including the two college students,” Hayes said. “A multibillion-dollar investment. Several different weapons and sensors with advanced capabilities. We’d still have control of the weapon garages from U.S. Space Command headquarters, however.”

“Armstrong is a pretty powerful presence, sir — it’s like an aircraft carrier sitting off someone’s coast,” Glenbrook added. “If we lost it, that could paint a very ominous picture around the world. We wouldn’t be totally defeated, but definitely taken down a few notches.”

Ann could see the absolute agony in the president’s face as he struggled with the decision. “Sir, the main thing we’d lose is the high ground,” she said. “Gryzlov wants it, and he’s hoping we’ll just hand it over to him. I believe Armstrong has the weaponry to fight off a Russian attack. I don’t want to knuckle under to Gryzlov’s bullying. Starfire is not a space weapon and it doesn’t threaten Russia. Gryzlov can’t dictate what we do with our forces. What’s he going to demand next — we do away with all of our nuclear subs and aircraft carriers because they might threaten Russia? My suggestion: Tell the bastard to go pound sand.”

“Shit,” Phoenix muttered. This was the moment he had feared all of his presidential life: the future of the republic, dependent on the words he might utter moments from now. Yes or no, go or no go, attack or not attack. If he ordered his forces to stand down, they might survive to fight another day. If he ordered his forces to escalate and prepare to fight, that’s probably exactly what they’d have to do very soon.

“I hate to knuckle under to Gryzlov, guys,” he said after a long moment’s consideration, “but I feel I have no choice. I want the Skybolt laser deactivated and the module detached from Armstrong Space Station.” Glenbrook and Hayes looked relieved; Ann looked dejected. “What are we left with on the station after Skybolt is deactivated, Ann?”

“The Skybolt laser module has a few targeting sensors and lasers that will be off-line when the module is detached,” Ann replied, “but station will still have the Hydra short-range laser, the Trinity modules that are stored on station’s truss, and the weapon garages of the Kingfisher constellation already in orbit.”

“All defensive weapons?”

“The Trinity modules each contain three land-attack reentry vehicles and three antisatellite vehicles,” Ann said. “Those could be considered offensive weapons. Sir, I wish you’d reconsider your decision,” she added. “We can’t deactivate every military system Gryzlov wants.”

“Unfortunately, I made the decision to allow a military weapon system to be used for that college experiment,” the president said. “A lot of people are making up stories, expressing outrage and horror, and threatening war, but the fact remains that I decided to turn a college experiment into a weapon. I have to live with the consequences. Shut it down and detach it, Fred.”

“Yes, sir,” Secretary of Defense Hayes said.

“Mr. President, I would like to go to station to help deactivate Skybolt,” Vice President Page said.

“What?” Phoenix’s eyes bugged out in absolute shock. “That request is denied, Miss Vice President! That station is already in Russia’s crosshairs, and it could come under attack at any moment!”

“Sir, no one knows more about that module than I do. I spent three years designing it and two years building it. I know every circuit and rivet, because I personally drew them by hand on a real drawing board and did everything but operate the soldering iron and riveter myself.” The president didn’t look convinced one bit. “One more ride in space for the old lady. If John Glenn can do it, I sure as hell can. What do you say, sir?”

The president hesitated, studying Ann’s smiling face carefully. “I’d rather have you close to the White House or out campaigning for our reelection, Ann,” he said, “but I know Skybolt is your baby.” He shook his head woefully, then nodded. “I might be crazy for doing this, but your request is approved. The first president, first Secret Service agent, first teenagers, first paraplegic, and now the first vice president in space, all in one year. My head is spinning. God help us.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ann said.

“I’ll head back to Washington right away,” the president said. “I’ll plan on going on television to explain that Starfire was not a space weapon and that the United States will deactivate and detach the laser module right away.”

“Very good, sir,” Ann said. “I’ll see you from station. Wish me luck.” And the video teleconference was terminated.

“We’re all going to need some luck,” the president said half aloud, then reached for the phone to call Air Force One’s flight crew. In moments, the president’s plane was heading east toward Washington.

Next, the president called Moscow. “What did you decide, Phoenix?” Gryzlov asked through the interpreter without any pleasantries or preamble.

“The United States agrees to undock the Skybolt module from Armstrong Space Station,” Phoenix said, “and at an appropriate time deorbit it and allow it to reenter the atmosphere. Any parts that survive reentry will splash down in the ocean.”

“Then Russia agrees not to restrict its airspace above twenty kilometers,” Gryzlov said, “to all spacecraft… except your S-series spaceplanes and your Kingfisher weapon garages.”

“We need those spaceplanes, Mr. President,” Phoenix said.

“They represent as much a danger to Russia as your Skybolt laser, Phoenix,” Gryzlov said. “Maybe even a greater danger. No, sir. The United States flew in space for decades without a spaceplane, and you now have several commercial operators who can service the space stations and do other tasks. The commercial spacecraft are permitted to overfly Russia, as long as they report their mission details before they launch. But after ten days’ time from today’s date, we will consider any overflight by the spaceplanes or the weapon garages to be a hostile act and will respond accordingly. Do we have an agreement, Phoenix?”

“No, you do not, sir,” Phoenix said. “The spaceplanes allow us access to Earth orbit and to our in-orbit assets. They are not military weapons. We will agree to keep informing you of future launches and their flight paths, and we will keep the spaceplanes from overflying Russia in the atmosphere if possible, but we insist on access to space for all our vehicles, including the spaceplanes. Are we agreed, Mr. President?”

After a long pause, Gryzlov said, “We will be watching your military space station for signs that the laser module has been deactivated and detached. Then we will speak again.” And the call was terminated.

Phoenix pressed the button for the communications officer. “Yes, Mr. President?” she answered immediately.

“I want to speak with the national security team back at the White House again,” he said. A few moments later, the vice president, national security adviser, and secretary of defense appeared again on the video teleconference screen. “I made a deal with the devil, guys,” he said. “I want the Skybolt module detached from Armstrong Space Station as soon as possible. Ann, get up there as quickly as you can.”

“Is he insane?” Brad exclaimed. “Gryzlov wants us to detach Skybolt and deorbit it? And now he’s going to restrict all the airspace over Russia out to three hundred miles up? That’s craziness!”

“Guys, I am so sorry about this,” Kim Jung-bae said over the satellite videoconference feed from the White Sands Missile Test Range. “I never said it was a space weapon — that was Dr. Nukaga’s conclusion. I’m sorry I told him we used the MHD generator, but all I did was admit to him that my power transfer relays did not work, and he asked me what power source we did use. I am so sorry, guys. I had no idea this would blow up like this.”

“It’s not your fault, Jerry,” Brad said. “I think Dr. Nukaga thought it was a weapon from day one. But he supported the project because of you, and then when Cal Poly won that big grant and we went international, he was fully on board.” Jerry still looked ashen and dejected, as if he had just lost his best friends in the world by getting caught stealing from them. “The question is: What do we do now?”

“That one’s easy, Brad; as soon as we can, we’re going to bring a spaceplane up and get you and Casey off station,” Armstrong Space Station’s director Kai Raydon said. He was seated at the command position, and every other combat position was manned as well — including the Skybolt station, even though the Starfire microwave generator was still installed. “After that, I want to get this station ready for war, not only on the ground but imminently in space.”

“Can any orbiting body completely avoid overflying Russia?” Casey Huggins asked.

“Any orbit less than about thirty-five degrees inclination will not overfly Russia,” Valerie Lukas said. “We can still look pretty deeply into Russia, although we miss most of their farthest north regions, depending on the altitude. In contrast, if we put up the same restriction, Russian spacecraft would be limited to no more than about twenty-five degrees. But except for geosynchronous orbits or for ocean surveillance, equatorial orbits are mostly useless because so little of Earth’s population lives on the equator.”

“But that’s not the point, Valerie,” Kai said. “There are thousands of spacecraft that overfly Russia every day — Gryzlov can’t simply tell everyone that they have to move them. It’s all bluster. Even if he had enough weapons to attack satellites that overflew Russia, he knows he could spark a world war if he even attempted to shoot down a foreign satellite. Gryzlov is making wild accusations, and using his trumped-up scenarios to try to institute an emergency edict and circumvent international law.” His serious expression turned even darker. “Casey, how long would it take to get your microwave generator off Skybolt?”

“Less than two days, sir,” Casey replied, “with at least one spacewalk.”

“Plus another two days, maybe three, to plug in the free-electron laser, with at least one spacewalk,” Valerie Lukas added. “Plus a day or so to test it. We could sure use some technical assistance and more hands to help.”

“Trevor, get Alice together with the Starfire people and start to work getting the microwave generator uninstalled,” Kai said. The station manager, Trevor Shale, turned to his communications panel and started making intercom calls. “I’ll call U.S. Space Command and start getting some help and permissions to reinstall the free-electron laser and get it ready to go.”

“Do you really think Gryzlov would attack the station, sir?” Brad asked.

“You heard him, Brad; the guy thinks we’re going to start razing towns, villages, and the countryside with death rays,” Kai replied. “He’s given us an ultimatum of just ten days, and anyone that overflies Russia will be subject to what he calls ‘neutralization,’ whatever that means. Those are some pretty serious threats. I want this station fully operational just in case he’s serious.”

Kai heard the incoming-call alert tone and hit a button on his command console. “Just getting ready to call you, General,” he said after the encryption channels locked in.

“I take it you’ve heard Gryzlov’s remarks, Kai,” General George Sandstein, commander of Air Force Space Command, said.

“Pretty outrageous, General,” Kai said, “but I’m believing every word. I want to reactivate the free-electron laser and start rebuilding the Kingfisher constellation right away.”

“Unfortunately, the order from the White House is to deactivate Skybolt and detach the module from the station, Kai,” Sandstein said.

“Say again, General?”

“That’s the order from the president himself,” Sandstein said. “We’re launching an S-19 and an S-29 as soon as possible to get the students off the station and bring up some extra personnel — including Skybolt’s designer.”

The entire command module occupants gasped in surprise. “They’re sending up the vice president?”

“You heard me right, Kai,” Sandstein said. “It sounds a little loco, but she’s an experienced astronaut, and there’s no one who knows Skybolt better. Sorry about Skybolt, Kai, but the president wants to defuse the situation before things get out of hand. Everything else in the green?”

“The Hydra laser is operational,” Kai said, shaking his head in disbelief. “We are also able to use the Kingfisher modules on the central truss for station self-defense.”

“Excellent,” Sandstein said. “Good luck up there. We’ll be watching. Hopefully everyone will stay nice and cool, and this will all blow over soon.”

“Thanks for coming in so quickly, guys,” Boomer said as he strode into the crew briefing room. Seated around the room were the six spaceplane student pilots and four instructor spacecraft commanders, along with mission support and maintenance technicians. “This might sound like some cheezy World War Two novel, but I’m sure you heard Gryzlov’s nonsense, and I think we are inching toward war with the Russians. The president has canceled the rest of his campaign and is on his way back to Washington to make an address about the Starfire thing. He has ordered the deactivation of the Skybolt laser and detaching it from Armstrong.”

Everyone in the briefing room looked horrified. “This is bullshit!” Sondra Eddington exclaimed. “Gryzlov spouts off, makes all kinds of outrageous claims, and threatens us, and we kowtow to him? Why don’t we tell him to bugger off instead?”

“I agree with you, Sondra, but we’ve got our orders, and time is of the essence,” Boomer said. “We’ve been tasked to bring up supplies and technicians to help detach the Skybolt module, and we’ll also be flying more supplies to the ISS as well. I think we’ll be doing a lot of flying in the next couple weeks.” He looked over the spaceplane crewmembers before him. “John, Ernesto, and Sondra, you have a year of training or more and are checked out as mission commanders in at least two of the spaceplanes, so you’re going to go operational and fly as mission commanders before graduation.” All three of them wore excited smiles and gave each other high-fives, and the others looked dejected. “Don, Mary, and Kev, you guys might not get much spaceplane time for a few weeks, but you can keep up your studying and double up on the simulator and MiG-25 time. Kev, you’re closest to the one-year cutoff and you’re checked out as MC in the S-9 and S-19, so you may be called upon if this thing drags on.

“Now, Russian president Gryzlov threatened to attack any spaceplanes overflying Russia after ten days,” Boomer reminded them all. “I think the guy is doing nothing but chest-thumping, but we just don’t know for sure. So if you think there might be too much danger — even more than we normally have in store on every flight — you don’t have to fly. No one will criticize you at all if you decide to bug out. We’re not in the military: we’re contractors, and although we put our butts on the line every time we step into those flying machines, we’re not expected to work in a combat zone. We take enough risks already to not have to fly with missiles or lasers being fired at us, right? You don’t have to tell me now — tell me in my office, in private, and we’ll redo the schedule.”

“I’ll tell you right now, Boomer: I’m flying,” Ernesto Hermosillo, one of the senior student pilots, said. “Gryzlov can besar mi culo peludo.” The others in the briefing room all clapped and said they would go as well.

“Thank you, all of you,” Boomer said. “But I know you haven’t spoken about this with your families, and it has to be a family decision. After you talk with your families, if you want to cancel, just tell me. Like I said, no one will think less of you.

“We have one S-29 and one S-19 on the line, and two more 19s ready to go in a few days, so here are the assignments,” Boomer went on. “Gonzo and Sondra in the S-19, and myself and culo peludo Ernesto in the S-29. Because I anticipate doing some spacewalks when we arrive, I’ll be prebreathing.” He handed out the other assignments, always pairing up an experienced spaceplane commander with a student mission commander. “Get your physicals, we’ll all be in EEAS or ACES suits, and will probably stay in them for several days. Ernesto, we’ll brief right after we suit up during my prebreathe. Questions?” Boomer fielded several questions and shared a little nervous banter with his crews. “Okay, guys, the countdown has started for the first two birds. Let’s pay attention, work smart, work as a team, and everyone comes home. Let’s go.”

Sondra stayed behind after the others left, a little flash of anger in her eyes. “Why am I flying with Gonzo?” she asked. “Why can’t I fly with you?”

“You’re not checked out as MC in the S-29, Sondra,” Boomer said. “Ernesto is. Besides, I’m giving you and Gonzo the stop in Washington. You’ll get to meet the vice president and take her up to Armstrong.”

Instead of being surprised or happy about flying the vice president, Sondra was still angry. “I’m just a couple months from finishing the S-29 mission commander course,” she said petulantly. “I’m a better MC now in any of the spaceplanes than Ernesto will ever be.”

Boomer’s eyes rolled in surprise. “Whoa, whoa, Sondra. We don’t talk smack about fellow pilots, even in private. We’re a team.”

“You know it’s true,” Sondra said. “Besides, the damn thing practically flies itself — it doesn’t even need an MC. You did it because you’re pissed because we’re not sleeping together anymore.”

“I did it because you’re not checked out as an MC in the S-29, Sondra, simple as that,” Boomer said. “Besides, I made the decision not to sleep with you. Brad and I were working closer and closer together on Starfire, and I didn’t think it was right.”

“But it was okay when I started training here, wasn’t it?” Sondra spat. “You knew I was seeing him back then.”

“Sondra, I’m not changing the schedule,” Boomer said. “Fly with Gonzo or don’t fly.” He looked at his watch, then at her. “The countdown has started. Are you going or not?” In reply, she gave him an angry scowl, spun on a heel, and stormed out.

Boomer ran an exasperated hand across his face, confused and conflicted about what to do in this situation. But he resolved to put this personal matter out of his mind and concentrate on the task at hand.

Every crewmember was required to get a physical exam before flight, so that was Boomer’s first stop. Afterward, he stopped at Mission Planning to check on the flight schedule, which was being set up and verified by computer and then loaded into the spaceplane’s computers. His own S-29 Shadow spaceplane was being loaded with much-needed supplies for Armstrong and the ISS, so he would arrive first. Gonzo’s S-19 Midnight spaceplane had the passenger module on board in the cargo bay. She would take off, arrive at Joint Base Andrews near Washington just a couple hours later, pick up the vice president and her Secret Service detail, and fly her to Armstrong about four hours after he arrived at Armstrong.

Next stop was life support. While Hermosillo needed help to get into his Advanced Crew Escape Suit, suiting up was relatively easy for Boomer. The EEAS, or Electronic Elastomeric Activity Suit, was like a heavy union suit, made of silvery radiation-proof carbon-fiber threads that covered every part of the body from the top of the neck to the bottoms of the feet. After putting on electronically controlled insulated underwear, which would control his body temperature during a spacewalk, Boomer slipped into the EEAS, then into boots and gloves, locking in the connectors for each, plugged his suit into a test console, then put on his prebreathing mask.

After making sure there were no deep folds or crinkles and that his testicles and penis were arranged properly, he plugged the suit into a test console and hit a button. The suit instantly constricted tightly around every square inch of his body that came into contact with it, making him involuntarily grunt aloud — the source of the suit’s nickname and pseudonym for EEAS, “EAHGHSS!” But moving about and especially spacewalking would be much easier for him than it would be for someone in an oxygen-inflated ACES, because the suit would automatically readjust around his body to maintain pressure on the skin without creating any binding or causing changes in pressure. The human body’s vascular system was already pressure-sealed, but in a vacuum or at a lower-atmospheric pressure, the skin would bulge outward if it were not constrained; the ACES did it with oxygen pressure, while the EEAS did it with mechanical pressure.

“I always think I’d like to try one of those things,” Ernesto said on intercom, smiling and shaking his head while he watched Boomer preflight his suit, “and then I watch you hit the test switch, and it looks like you get kicked in the nuts every time, so I change my mind.”

Boomer shut off the test switch to relax the suit. “Takes a little getting used to,” he admitted.

They finished getting suited up, then sat in comfortable chairs while they received a crew briefing by the chief mission planning officer, Alice Wainwright, via video teleconference. The route of flight got Boomer’s attention right away. “Uh, Alice? Given the reason we’re doing all this, is this really the route of flight we should be taking?” he asked over the intercom.

“The computers don’t know about politics or Gryzlov, Boomer — all they know is desired final position, bearing, velocity, gravity, orbital mechanics, thrust, position of station, and all that good stuff,” Alice said. “Station needs the equipment as soon as possible.”

There was a process called the “accident chain,” Boomer knew: a series of minor and seemingly unrelated incidents that combine to cause an accident — or in this case, an encounter with a Russian antisatellite weapon. One of the more common incidents was “get the mission done — it’s important; disregard safety and common sense and just get it done.” That’s what was happening right now — link number one in the accident chain had just appeared. “It can’t wait one more day or even a few hours?” Boomer asked.

“I mapped out all of the launch windows and flight paths, Boomer,” Alice said. “All of the others fly over populated areas, and people have complained about the sonic booms.” Link number two. “Since the Russians disconnected the ROS from the International Space Station, both Canada and Mexico and a bunch of other countries are expressing deep reservations about allowing spaceplanes to fly over their territory until above the Kármán level. It’s this flight or nothing for two days.”

That alarm bell was going off in his head as link number three joined the others, but he knew Armstrong and the ISS needed the supplies, and those left on the ISS needed them badly — or was he now forging his own links in the accident chain? “Are we going to notify the Russians of our missions?” he asked.

“That’s standard procedure,” Alice said. “Apparently Space Command thinks Gryzlov is bluffing. We’re going to keep on normal protocols.”

The fourth link in the accident chain had just been forged, Boomer thought — this was not looking good. He turned to Ernesto. “¿Qué te parece, amigo? What do you think, buddy?”

“Vamos, comandante,” Ernesto said. “Let’s go, Commander. Gryzlov doesn’t have the cojones.” Was that yet another link? Boomer wondered.

“Any other questions, Boomer?” Alice asked a little impatiently. “You step in ten minutes, and I still have to brief Gonzo and Sondra.”

The fifth link in the accident chain had just been connected, but Boomer didn’t recognize it. He was the spacecraft commander — it was his final decision… but he didn’t. He thought about it for a moment, then nodded to Ernesto. “No questions, Alice,” he said on intercom. “We press.” Ten minutes later Boomer picked up his portable air-conditioning and oxygen pack, and he and Ernesto headed out to the crew van that would take them to the flight line.

The S-29 Shadow was the third and largest model of the spaceplanes, with five “leopards” engines instead of four, and a fifteen-thousand-pound payload. With the preflight already accomplished by the techs, Boomer and Ernesto entered the spaceplane through the open cockpit canopies, connected their umbilicals to the ship, and strapped in. The Shadow was even more automated than its sisters, and it was just a matter of checking the computer’s progress as it handled the preflight checklists, acknowledging each checklist complete, then awaiting their start-engines, taxi, and takeoff times.

At the preprogrammed time the engines automatically came alive, the after-engine-start checklists were run, the taxi lane was cleared, and precisely at the taxi time, the throttles automatically came up and the Shadow began to taxi itself to the main runway at Battle Mountain for takeoff. “I’ll never get used to the plane just taxiing by itself,” Ernesto said. “Kinda creepy.”

“I know what you mean,” Boomer said. “I’ve asked several times to be allowed to fly it myself, without the automation, but Richter always turns me down, with a stern warning not to try it. After there’s more than one of these, I’ll ask again. Kaddiri and Richter don’t want their newest and brightest daughter defiled by someone like me. They do enough defiling to each other, corregir?” Ernesto gave Boomer a fist bump and nodded agreement.

The two astronauts literally just sat there for the rest of the voyage, chitchatting, monitoring checklists and acknowledging completions and starts, and watching the Shadow do its thing: it flew itself to the refueling anchor, this time over northern Minnesota; refueled itself with another computer-controlled tanker aircraft; turned to the orbital insertion point over Colorado, turned northeast, and hit the throttles at the appropriate time. They watched all the readouts and acknowledged the checklist executions and completions, but in the end they were just babysitters.

But now, as they headed into orbit, they stopped chatting and were on guard, because their track would take them across northwestern Russia…

… just three hundred miles northwest of Plesetsk Cosmodrome, and practically right over the Russian Red Banner Northern Fleet naval headquarters at Severomorsk.

“Talk about twisting the tiger’s tail, comandante,” Ernesto commented. “Or, in this case, the bear’s tail.”

“You got that right, amigo,” Boomer said. “You got that right.”

“Sir, an American spaceplane has just been detected overflying Plesetsk Cosmodrome!” Minister of Defense Gregor Sokolov shouted into the phone when Gryzlov picked it up.

“What in hell did you say?” Gryzlov grunted into the bedroom phone. Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva, lying naked beside Gryzlov, was instantly awake, and she rose out of bed and hurried to get dressed — she didn’t know what the call was about, but anyone daring to call President Gennadiy Gryzlov in the middle of the night had to have a damned serious reason for doing so, and she knew she would be called into his office immediately afterward.

“I said, the Americans have launched a spaceplane into orbit — and it came within a few hundred kilometers from Plesetsk Cosmodrome!” Sokolov repeated. “It directly overflew the Red Banner Northern Fleet headquarters in Severomorsk. It is definitely going into orbit, and is on course to intercept Armstrong Space Station within the hour.”

“Vyyebat’!” Gryzlov swore. “How dare those sons of bitches do that after I just issued my orders? Are they fucking ignoring me? Were we notified of any spaceplane flights?”

“We are checking with the air attaché’s office in Washington, sir,” Sokolov said. “No response from them yet.”

“Those bastards!” Gryzlov shouted. “Phoenix is going to pay for this! Summon the entire security council to my office immediately!”

Twenty minutes later Gryzlov strode into his office, his longish dark hair streaming behind his neck in his hurry. Only Tarzarov and Sokolov had arrived. “Well, Sokolov?” he shouted.

“The American Space Command reported to the air attaché in Washington that one S-29 Shadow and one S-19 Midnight spaceplane will be sent into orbit within the next six hours,” the defense minister reported, handing the president some charts and radar plots. “The S-29 will go to Armstrong, drop off supplies and pick up passengers, go into a transfer orbit, transition to the International Space Station to drop off supplies and pick up personnel, then return the next day. The S-19 will fly to Joint Base Andrews near Washington, pick up passengers, then fly to Armstrong. They also announced that they will send several manned and unmanned commercial cargo modules to both stations over the next seventy-two hours.”

“Two spaceplanes?” Gryzlov thundered. “They are launching two spaceplanes? And one is already in orbit, not within six hours? That is unacceptable! And their flight paths?”

“Any flight path that travels to either space station will overfly Russia, sir,” Sokolov said.

“That is unacceptable!” Gryzlov shouted again. “I ordered spaceplanes to not overfly Russia! Is there any evidence that they are working to detach the Skybolt module from the military space station?”

“No, sir,” Sokolov said. “We scan the station when it passes near a space surveillance site, about every four to six hours, and we have not noticed any external change in the station.”

“It has not been that long since you made your speech or spoken to President Phoenix, sir,” Chief of Staff Tarzarov said. “Maybe the purpose of these flights is to do as you ordered. And, sir, you said you would give the Americans two—”

“Stop making excuses for the Americans, Tarzarov,” Gryzlov said. “I will not be disregarded like this! I will not be made a patsy, like that tottering fool Phoenix!” He looked at the radar plots of the spaceplane’s flight path. “This looks to me like a trial attack run on our cosmodrome! That is not acceptable!”

“Shall I get President Phoenix on the phone for you, sir?” Tarzarov asked. “This must be explained.”

“No need, Mr. Tarzarov,” Daria Titeneva said as she walked quickly into the president’s office, after waiting a discreet length of time after leaving Gryzlov’s bedroom. She held up a folder. “Text of an address Phoenix gave on American television just a short time ago. He again denies that it was a space-based directed-energy weapon and that the civilian airplane was downed by the weapon; no mention of deactivating the Skybolt laser; and he says that no nation has the right to restrict any movement of any aircraft or spacecraft above the Kármán line, which is the altitude above which aerodynamic lift cannot be—”

“I know what the hell the Kármán line is, Daria — I trained as a cosmonaut, remember?” Gryzlov interrupted acidly. He nodded, then turned back to his desk and looked out the windows. He was suddenly acting remarkably calm, they all noticed — they had expected him to continue the rant that started this meeting. “So. This is unexpected. Kenneth Phoenix has somehow grown a spine in recent days, despite his surprising agreement to detach the Skybolt module. We have much to discuss, my friends. Let us move to the conference room. Coffee and tea?”

Inside a large aircraft hangar, Jessica “Gonzo” Faulkner and Sondra Eddington stood at the base of the boarding stairs of the S-19 Midnight spaceplane as the limousine pulled up. Gonzo was wearing her EEAS space suit, while Sondra had an orange ACES suit. Neither was wearing a helmet. On either side of them were two plainclothed Secret Service agents, who had already inspected the interior and exterior of the S-19 spaceplane they were standing beside — they freely admitted they didn’t know what in hell to look for, but their job was to inspect any area the vice president might occupy, so they did it. The spaceplane was parked on a secure section of the aircraft parking ramp at Joint Base Andrews, formerly Andrews Air Force Base, the main military airport used by high-ranking members of the U.S. government when they travelrd on military aircraft. The ramp was surrounded by several layers of security, both on the ground and overhead.

A Secret Service agent opened the limousine’s doors, and out stepped two persons, both wearing orange ACES space suits: a female Secret Service agent, and the vice president of the United States, Ann Page. Ann came over to Gonzo and extended a gloved hand. “Colonel Faulkner?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gonzo said, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’ll be your spacecraft commander today. This is Sondra Eddington, our mission commander.” Sondra and the vice president shook hands as well. “Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you. I’m looking forward to this,” Ann said, her eyes glistening with excitement. “This is Special Agent Robin Clarkson, my Secret Service detail.” Clarkson shook hands with the pilots. She looked a little nervous, Gonzo thought, but not nearly as much as poor Special Agent Charlie Spellman did when he flew with the president. Ann stood and admired the S-19 Midnight with a big smile on her face. “My first time in an S-19 Midnight. I’ve got a few flights in an S-9 Black Stallion, but that was in the very early days.”

“I don’t think you’ll find many differences at all, ma’am,” Gonzo said. “The passenger module is very comfortable, but I assumed you’d want to be in the cockpit for this flight.”

“Hell yes,” Ann said. “I hope you don’t mind, Miss Eddington. I never turn down an opportunity to ride in the cockpit.”

“Of course not, ma’am,” Sondra said, but it was rather obvious that she did mind. I never turn it down either, she thought, but I guess I just don’t matter around this place anymore.

“Shall we go?” Ann asked excitedly. “I can’t wait to see station again.”

“We have plenty of time, ma’am,” Gonzo said. “No hurry at all. Our launch window opens in about an hour.”

“Very good, Colonel Faulkner,” Ann said.

“Gonzo, please. I don’t respond to rank anymore.”

“Gonzo it is.” She looked at the EEAS space suit. “I love this suit,” she said. “It accentuates your figure very well, a lot better than this old thing. You like it?”

“When it’s activated it’s a bit of a kick in the pants,” Gonzo admitted, “but it makes moving around and working so much better.”

They made their way up the stairs to the airlock entry hatch atop the Midnight spaceplane, then down a ladder and aft to the passenger module, and Gonzo helped Clarkson and Sondra strap in and don their helmets, then briefed them on normal and emergency procedures. “I know the drill, Gonzo,” Sondra said, sounding perturbed when Gonzo tried to help her attach her umbilicals.

“I gotta go through the routine with everybody, Sondra — you know that,” Gonzo said in a low voice, giving the young woman a warning stare and looking to see if Clarkson was noticing any of this. “Play nice, okay?” To Clarkson she said, “For safety reasons, we’ll be wearing helmets and gloves, but you can keep your visors open. If necessary, all you need to do is close them, and you’ll be secure. Sondra will help you. Have a nice flight.” Clarkson nodded but said nothing.

After technicians made sure everything in the passenger module was secure and ready, they helped Ann Page into the Midnight’s right front seat and strapped her in, connected her up, and helped her with her helmet. “I can’t wait, I can’t wait,” she said excitedly when the intercom was activated. “I miss traveling in space so much. With you guys it probably seems so routine, but back in the shuttle and early spaceplane days, it seemed every flight was a test flight. The media always reported it as ‘just another shuttle launch,’ but we were so clueless. You have no idea.”

“Oh, I do, ma’am,” Gonzo said. “I know the guy who designed our ‘leopards’ engines, and he can be a real flake-ozoid sometimes. Our lives are in that guy’s hands on every flight.”

“Please call me Ann on this flight, Gonzo,” Ann said. “I want to feel like a crewmember and not a passenger who’s allowed to ride shotgun.”

“Okay, Ann.”

“Hunter ‘Boomer’ Noble,” Ann said. “I remember I was the cat’s pajamas in aerospace engineering until he came along. His reputation blew past mine like a freakin’ hurricane.”

“The students working on the Starfire project will blow past Boomer soon, I guarantee it,” Gonzo said, “and their school, Cal Poly, isn’t even the best engineering school in the country. I think we’ll see some amazing advances very soon.”

The two continued chatting until it was time for taxi and takeoff. Gonzo found that the vice president was very familiar with the spaceplane’s checklists and switch positions, and she performed very well as a mission commander. “I’m impressed, Ann,” she said. “You know as much about Midnight as a student MC.”

“I helped design the S-9 spaceplanes and trained to fly them, although most times I was just a passenger,” Ann said. “I guess it’s like riding a bicycle: once you do it, you never forget.”

Takeoff, repositioning to the air refueling track, and the acceleration using the scramjets were normal. Because their takeoff time was several hours different from the S-29s, the flight paths of the two spaceplanes were several thousand miles apart — as the S-19 Midnight ascended on scramjets, they overflew India, China, and the Russian Far East.

“I love it, I love it, I love it,” the vice president intoned as they started their steep ascent. There was absolutely no hint of the G-forces in her voice, just a big smile on her face. “This is the only way to fly!”

“Garpun flight, this is Uchitel, your order is solnechnyy svet, repeat, solnechnyy svet,” the senior controller radioed. “Sunshine, sunshine. Proceed as planned.”

“Harpoon flight leader acknowledges,” the pilot of the lead formation of two MiG-31D Foxhound fighters radioed in reply. “Break. Harpoon Two, did you copy?”

“Da, vozhd’,” the second MiG-31’s pilot responded. “Two is ready.”

The lead pilot completed his before-release checklists, turned to center the flight-director bars in his heads-up display, gradually fed in power until he was in afterburner zone, waited for airspeed to build up past Mach 1, then pulled up into a steep climb and continued feeding in power until he was in zone-five afterburner. Now climbing at ten thousand feet a minute, he punched through fifty thousand feet. The airspeed had hit Mach 1.5, but now it was in a gradual decline as the pilot traded airspeed for altitude, but that was not a concern for him: keeping the flight-director bars, which depicted his necessary course and climb angle as broadcast from the headquarters tracking station, was his main job.

“Datalink has downloaded final targeting data,” the weapon-systems officer behind the pilot reported. “Data transmission to Osa commencing. Ten seconds to go.”

At sixty thousand feet the pilot received his first low-fuel warning — the two huge Soloviev D30-F6 engines in full zone-five afterburner were gulping fifty thousand pounds of fuel an hour, yet it carried only thirty thousand pounds total — airspeed had decreased to just three hundred knots, and climb rate was down to three thousand feet per minute. “Data transmission complete, five seconds to launch,” the weapon-systems officer said. The pilot was relieved — in ten seconds, if they didn’t pull out of this climb, they were going to stall and drop out of the sky like a rock. “Three… two… one… missile away.”

The MiG-31D made a shallow turn to the left, and both crewmembers were able to watch as the Wasp missile ignited its solid-propellant motor and began its climb into space on a long yellow-and-red column of fire and smoke. The Wasp was a derivative of the 9K720 Iskander short-range theater ballistic missile. It received flight-path data from a ground tracking station, used its inertial guidance system to follow the flight path, then activated an imaging infrared terminal guidance system to home in on its target. Even traveling nearly vertical, it traveled well over a mile per second. Twenty seconds later, the second MiG-31 launched its own Wasp missile…

… on an intercept course for the S-19 Midnight spaceplane that was hurtling through space over Russia to rendezvous with Armstrong Space Station.

“Missile launch detection!” Christine Rayhill, the terrestrial-weapons officer on Armstrong Space Station, shouted. “Two Russian Wasp ASATs launched from Kamchatka!”

Kai Raydon mashed the “all-call” button on his console. “Combat stations!” he shouted, trying to keep his voice under control. “All personnel to combat stations, this is not a drill!” To Valerie Lukas he said, “All defensive systems to auto, Valerie — we’ll have to put it back in MANUAL when the spaceplane approaches. What’s the status of Skybolt?”

“Still deactivated,” Valerie said. “We’ve just started disconnecting Starfire.”

“Connect it back up — we might need it,” Kai said. “Where are the students?”

“I’m right here,” Brad said, attached to a bulkhead beside Valerie’s console. “Casey is in the Skybolt module. What should I do?”

“Keep watch over the monitors and sing out if you see something that looks dangerous,” Kai replied. “Point it out to Sergeant Lukas, or anyone else, if she’s busy. I can always use another set of eyes.”

“Should I get into a space suit?” Brad said on intercom once he’d donned his oxygen mask and activated it.

“It’s too late,” Kai said. “All the modules should have been sealed up by now. Command-module personnel have to rely on damage-control crewmembers to assist.” Kai didn’t want to think about what would eventually happen to all of them in the case of a major hull breach, oxygen or no, but one hundred percent oxygen was the best they had. He hit another intercom button. “Boomer, say your status?”

“We’ll be off in ten minutes, General,” Boomer replied. He and Ernesto Hermosillo had docked with Armstrong Space Station and were supervising the off-loading of supplies from the cargo bay and refueling, and as soon as the alert was sounded they had terminated off-loading and began preparing to undock.

“All defensive weapons except Skybolt are active and on auto,” Valerie reported. “Starfire, can you give me a—”

“It’s the S-19!” Christine Rayhill shouted. “The Wasp is targeting the S-19! Intercept in two minutes! Two missiles inbound!”

“Shit!” Kai swore. He hit a button on his console. “Midnight Two, this is Armstrong, red Wasp, repeat, red Wasp.” On intercom he asked, “What’s their range to station?”

“Beyond Hydra range,” Valerie replied.

“Crank the range up to maximum,” Kai said. The Hydra chlorine-oxygen-iodine laser, which had a maximum range of three hundred miles, had been detuned to sixty miles in compliance with the treaty, but Kai Raydon wasn’t going to pay attention to treaties now. “Get the Kingfishers on station ready to go. They’re released as soon as you have a firing solution.”

“The Midnight is accelerating and climbing,” Henry reported. In orbit, speed meant only one thing: altitude above Earth. Go faster and your altitude increased; slow down and altitude decreased.

“Computing a firing solution now,” Valerie reported. The Kingfisher weapon garages being stored on Armstrong’s central truss had been connected to the combat system and its missiles made available for station defense.

Moments later Henry Lathrop shouted, “Got it! Intercept course set! Six interceptors ready!”

“Combat, batteries released,” Valerie said. “Nail those suckers!”

“Weapons away!” Henry shouted. Two of the weapon garages on the station’s truss released all three of their satellite interceptors. They were simple nonaerodynamic boxes — since they would never fly in Earth’s atmosphere, they could be in any shape — six feet long, with a radar and imaging infrared seeker in front, maneuvering rocket nozzles around the body at both ends, and a large rocket engine in back. The interceptors used steering signals from Armstrong to maneuver until they could lock on to targets with their own sensors. “Good track on all Trinities. Sixty seconds to intercept. I think we’ll be in time, sir. The Midnight is going higher and faster. The inbounds will be within range of Hydra in seventy seconds.”

Kai wasn’t going to relax until both those Russian Wasp missiles were goners. “Trev, contact Space Command, tell them what’s going on,” he ordered. “Tell them I want permission to take out every antisatellite airfield and launch site that we—”

“Pop-up orbiting bogey!” Henry Lathrop shouted. A new icon had appeared on the large tactical display. It was in an orbit offset from Armstrong’s by more than a hundred miles and in a completely different declination, but that was a very near miss in orbital terms. “It came out of nowhere, sir! Designate Oscar one.” It did not seem to be a threat to the station or the S-19 Midnight, but the fact that they had not detected it until it was very close was troubling, very—

“Sir, I’m losing the Trinities!” Henry shouted.

“What?” Kai shouted. “What in hell’s going on?”

“I don’t know, sir!” Lathrop shouted. “Lost contact with one… two… three, sir; three Trinities, negative contact!”

“What is that newcomer?” Valerie shouted. “Can you get a visual on it?”

“All electro-optical trackers are being used on the Trinity intercepts,” Lathrop said. “I’ve got a good radar track but negative visual.” A heartbeat later: “Lost contact with four Trinities. Am I cleared to engage bogey Oscar-one, sir?”

“It’s not a threat to station or the S-19, it’s not at our altitude or orbit, and we don’t have a visual identification,” Kai said. “Negative. Do not engage. Launch more Trinities to get those ASAT missiles, now.”

They could not have timed it better, and Colonel Mikhail Galtin knew it was as much fate and luck as it was design, but it didn’t matter — it was going to work perfectly. After four orbits intersecting Armstrong Space Station’s, but at a lower altitude and offset about sixty kilometers, he had gotten himself in perfect position to arrive at the exact spot to engage the American space station’s defensive missiles. He knew he had only seconds to act… but seconds were an eternity to the Hobnail laser weapon.

As soon as the American antisatellite weapons were launched from Armstrong Space Station, Galtin’s Elektron’s fire-control radar had begun tracking them from a range of one hundred kilometers: six American interceptors — nothing but a steerable rocket engine with a seeker on it, but simple and effective as an antisatellite and antiballistic-missile weapon. That the interceptors were fired from the station itself was interesting: the report that President Joseph Gardner had destroyed all of the Kingfisher constellation’s weapon modules was not quite true. Apparently there were others, attached to the military space station and fully operational.

No matter. The Fates had placed him in perfect position to intercept the interceptors. Galtin marveled at the luck involved, marveled at the boldness and courage of his president, Gennadiy Gryzlov, to order this attack, marveled at the thought of what was going to happen. Russia was about to attack a spaceplane belonging to — arguably — the most powerful nation on Earth. They were attacking a $3 billion spacecraft with American civilians on board. That was ballsy. There was no other term for it: ballsy. To say that the ante had just been raised in the war for control of space was a vast understatement.

Galtin raised the red guarded cover of the weapon arming switch and moved the switch underneath from SAFE to ARM. The attack computer was in control now. In seconds, it would be over. Three spacecraft and six missiles, traveling at tens of thousands of kilometers an hour hundreds of miles above Earth, would intersect at this point in space. It was nothing short of breathtaking. The science, the politics, the sheer courage, and yes, the luck, was all on the side of the Russian Federation right now.

Attack.

As soon as she heard the “red Wasp” warning, Gonzo had fired the main rocket engines. “What is it? What happened?” Ann Page asked. “What’s a ‘red wasp’?”

“Russian antisatellite weapon,” Gonzo replied. “Our only hope is to outrun, outclimb, or outmaneuver it. Everybody, lower visors, lock them down, and make sure your oxygen is on. Sondra, check Agent Clarkson.” Gonzo and Ann began running checklists in preparation for a possible collision.

“Midnight, be advised, we’ve lost contact with four of the interceptors we launched at the Wasp,” Kai radioed. “Two are still tracking. We have an unknown pop-up target above and to your right, about forty miles, doesn’t look like it’s on an intercept course.”

“It’s a Russian spaceplane,” Ann said. “We were briefed that the Russians were using a laser aboard at least one of their Elektrons. It shot down a satellite and is probably attacking the Trinity interceptors.”

“Shit,” Gonzo swore. “Armstrong, this is Midnight. Our passenger said that bogey is probably an Elektron and it’s firing a—”

“Gonzo, maneuver!” Kai cut in. “Wasp on your tail! Maneuver!”

Gonzo immediately hit the maneuvering thrusters, throwing the spaceplane into a sharp sideways maneuver, then hit another set of thrusters that moved it “up”—away from Earth. She then began to translate backward, maneuvering to point the nose opposite the direction of flight to present the smallest possible profile to…

… and halfway through the maneuver, the Wasp antisatellite missile struck. It had a small ten-pound fragmentation warhead, which ignited jet fuel and BOHM oxidizer that leaked out of ruptured fuel tanks, creating an explosion that tore through the spacecraft.

“It hit! It hit!” Valerie shouted. “The first Wasp hit the spaceplane!” The command-module crew watched the electro-optical image of the stricken spaceplane in horror as the tremendous explosion filled the screen.

“Second Wasp missile intercepted and destroyed,” Henry Lathrop reported in a quiet voice on intercom. “Scope is clear.”

“Boomer?” Kai radioed.

“I’ll be off in five minutes,” Boomer said.

“Have you been prebreathing?”

“Yes, I have,” Boomer replied. “Not my MC.”

“Trev, find out if anyone on station is suited up and has been prebreathing.”

“Stand by,” Trevor Shale responded. A moment later: “Sorry, Kai. We’ve got three suited up but none were prebreathing.”

“Get them on oxygen right away,” Kai said. On the radio he said, “Looks like you’re the one, Boomer. We don’t see any survivors from here, but go take a look. Be sure to rig for towing.”

“Roger,” Boomer said. A few minutes later: “We’re ready to get under way.” As soon as he was detached from the station, he received vectors to the Midnight spaceplane’s last location and began to make his way toward it — luckily, because the S-19 was approaching Armstrong in preparation for docking, they were all in the same orbit, so it was just a matter of maneuvering laterally over to it rather than launching into a different orbit with a different altitude or direction.

“Valerie, get the Kingfisher constellation activated, and get Starfire online as soon as possible,” Kai said. “It’s time to do some hunting.” He called up U.S. Space Command headquarters from his console. “General, we lost the S-19 spaceplane,” he said when the secure channel was linked. “It had the vice president on board. We’re checking for survivors, but so far it looks like a total loss.”

“My God,” General George Sandstein groaned. “I’ll notify the White House immediately.”

“Request permission to attack the entire fucking Russian space force, General,” Kai said angrily.

“Negative,” Sandstein said. “Don’t do a thing except protect yourself. Do not fire unless fired upon.”

“I’d say we’ve been fired upon, General,” Kai said. “I don’t know if the spaceplane was the target or if station was and the spaceplane got in the way. Either way, we’re under attack.”

“Let me notify the president first and see what his response is, Kai,” Sandstein said. “In the meantime, I’m authorizing you to activate every defensive-weapon system you have and begin putting the Trinity modules you have stored on the station back into orbit. You have a spaceplane with you right now, do you not?”

“Yes, an S-29,” Kai replied. “It’s searching for survivors, and then we need to off-load supplies for here and for the ISS.”

“What other spaceplanes are available?”

“Two S-19s will be available in a few days, and we have two S-9s that can be made ready in a few weeks,” Kai said, checking his spacecraft status readouts. “General, I have ten weapon garages in orbit, which places much of the Russian antispacecraft force in the crosshairs, and they’ll be activated shortly. I began the process of disconnecting the Starfire maser device from Skybolt, but I’m having my crews reconnect it. That should be ready soon. I request permission to lay waste to any Russian antisatellite facility that gets within range.”

“I get the intent of ‘lay waste,’ Kai,” Sandstein said. “I want permission from the White House before you start bombarding Russian targets from space. Your orders are: Protect your station with everything you have, and await further orders. Repeat my last, General Raydon.”

Kai hesitated, and even thought about not replying; instead: “Roger, General,” he said finally. “General Sandstein, this is Station Director Raydon aboard Armstrong. I copied: my orders are to protect the station with everything we have, and await further orders.”

“I’ll be in touch, Kai,” Sandstein said. “This won’t go unavenged. Stand by.” And the connection was broken.

“Shit,” Kai swore. “The vice president of the United States was just maybe blown into space debris, and I’m supposed to just ‘stand by.’ ” He checked his monitors. “Valerie, what is the status of the on-orbit Kingfishers?”

“We have six of the ten online and expect the rest in about an hour,” Valerie Lukas reported.

That was just a fifth of the complete constellation, but it was better than what they had just minutes ago. “Put up the Russian and China-based terrestrial targets within range of our land-attack weapons.”

“Roger.” Moments later a list of targets appeared on the main command-center display as well as a list of available weapons that might be capable of defending against them. The list included targets other than antispacecraft ones: any militarily significant target was on the list, and as the Kingfisher weapon garages or Armstrong Space Station passed beyond range, the target disappeared, only to be replaced by another that had crossed over a weapon’s horizon somewhere else on the globe. With only ten weapon garages plus Armstrong Space Station, the target list was very short, but every few minutes a new potential target popped up, would stay for two to four minutes, then disappear again.

One line on the target list turned from green to yellow. “Xichang Spaceport,” Kai observed. “What’s going on at Xichang?”

“S-500S ‘Autocrat’ Echo-Foxtrot-band search radar from Xichang Spaceport swept us,” Christine reported. “Ever since the Russians set up the S-500S in China, they’ve tracked and sometimes locked us up on radar when we pass overhead. I think it’s just calibration or training — it’s just a long-range scan. Nothing ever happens.”

“ ‘Locked us up,’ eh?” Kai muttered. “Anything beyond just a scan?”

“Once in a while we’ll get a squeak of a 30N6E2 India-Juliet band missile-guidance uplink radar, like they’ve fired a missile at us,” Christine said, “but all signals disappear within seconds, even the search signals, and we don’t detect a motor plume or missile in the air — it’s obvious they don’t want us to think they’re steering an interceptor toward us, using radar or optronics or anything else. It’s all cat-and-mouse crap, sir — they shoot us radar signals to try to frighten us, then go silent. It’s bullshit.”

“Bullshit, huh?” Kai said. “Report if it happens again.”

“Yes, sir,” Christine replied.

Kai was silent for a few moments, thinking hard. “Christine,” he said, “I want some detailed imagery of that S-500S unit. Give me a narrow-beam SBR scan from our big radar. Max resolution.”

Christine Rayhill hesitated for a moment, then commented, “Sir, a spotlight scan could—”

“Do it, Miss Rayhill,” Kai said tonelessly. “Narrow-beam scan, max resolution.”

“Yes, sir,” Christine said.

Things were quiet for about sixty seconds; then: “Sir, detecting S-500S target-tracking radar, appears to be locked on to us,” Christine said. “Azimuth, elevation, and range only — no uplink signals.” It was precisely what she had been concerned about: if the S-500S battery detected that they were being tracked on radar from Armstrong, they might think they were under attack and could retaliate.

“Designate target and send to Combat, Christine,” Kai ordered. “Continue scanning.”

There was a bit of confusion in Christine’s voice: this was certainly no big deal, not worth a target ID badge. “Uh… designate target Golf-one, sir,” she replied after entering commands into the attack computer. “Target locked into attack computer.”

“Command, this is Operations,” Valerie reported. “Verifying that target Golf-one is locked into Combat. Two Hammers ready from Kingfisher-09, one remaining, forty-five seconds until out of engagement envelope.”

“Verified,” Kai said. “Christine, warn me if the target’s designation changes.”

“Wilco, sir,” Christine said. Her palms started to get a bit sweaty: this was starting to look like a prelude to—

Suddenly the signal identification changed from TARGET TRACK to MISSILE TRACK. The shift was instantaneous, and it didn’t stay on the board for more than one or two seconds, but it was long enough for Christine to call out, “Command, I have a missile tr—”

“Combat, Command, batteries released on Golf-one,” Kai ordered. “Repeat, batteries released.”

“Batteries released, Roger,” Valerie said. “Combat, target Golf-one, engage!”

A Kingfisher weapon garage almost four thousand miles away from Armstrong — although Armstrong Space Station was much closer to the target, the missiles needed time and distance to reenter Earth’s atmosphere, so a Kingfisher weapon garage farther away got the tasking — maneuvered itself to a computer-derived course, and two Orbital Maneuvering Vehicles were ejected from the weapon garage thirty seconds apart. The OMVs flipped themselves over until they were flying tail first, and their reentry rockets fired. The burns did not last too long, decelerating the spacecraft by just a few hundred miles an hour, but it was enough to change their trajectory from Earth orbit to the atmosphere, and the OMVs flipped back over so their heat-protective shields were exposed to the onrushing atmosphere.

As the spacecraft entered the upper atmosphere, the glow from friction burning the air changed colors until it became white-hot, and streams of superheated plasma trailed behind each vehicle. Tiny hydraulically controlled vanes and maneuvering thrusters on the tail of the OMV’s body helped the spacecraft make S-turns through the sky, which helped not only to increase the time they had to slow down through the sky but also to confuse any space tracking radars on their intended target. One of the steering vanes on the second OMV malfunctioned, sending it spinning wildly out of control, mostly burning up in the atmosphere, and what was left went crashing into the Siberian wilderness.

At a hundred thousand feet altitude, the protective shrouds around the OMVs broke free, exposing a two-hundred-pound tungsten-carbide projectile with a millimeter-wave radar and imaging-infrared-seeker head in the nose. It followed steering signals from its weapon garage until the radar locked on to its target, then refined its aiming, comparing what it saw with its sensors with the target images stored in memory. It took only a fraction of a second, but the images matched and the warhead locked on to its target — the transporter-erector-launcher vehicle of an S-500S surface-to-air missile system. It struck the target, traveling almost ten thousand miles an hour. The warhead didn’t need an explosive warhead — hitting at that speed was akin to being armed with two thousand pounds of TNT, completely obliterating the launcher and everything else in a five-hundred-foot radius.

“Target Golf-one destroyed, sir,” Christine reported moments later, her voice muted and hoarse — that was the first time she had destroyed anything in her entire life, let alone a fellow human being.

“Good job,” Kai said stonily. “Trev, I want a two-person team to suit up and begin prebreathing, going on six-hour emergency standby duty. The rest of the off-duty crew can stand down from combat stations. Eyes and ears open, everybody — I think we’ll be busy. What’s the status of Starfire? How much longer?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Casey Huggins responded from the Skybolt module. “Maybe an hour, maybe two. I’m sorry, sir, but I just don’t know.”

“As quickly as you can, Miss Huggins,” Kai said. He hit a button on his communications console. “General Sandstein, urgent.”

“Those American bastards struck my spaceport with a missile from space!” Zhou Qiang, president of the People’s Republic of China, thundered through the secure voice teleconference link. “I am going to order an immediate launch of a nuclear ballistic missile against Hawaii! If they kill a hundred Chinese, I am going to kill a million Americans!”

“Calm yourself, Zhou,” Russian president Gennadiy Gryzlov said. “You know as well as I that if you launch an intercontinental ballistic missile, or anything that looks like one, anywhere near the United States or its possessions, they will retaliate with everything they have, against both our nations. They are on a hair trigger now, thanks to your attack on Guam.”

“I do not care!” Zhou snapped. “They will regret the loss of one Chinese a thousand times, I swear it!”

“My commanders on the ground say that your S-500S battery locked on to the space station with missile-guidance radar,” Gryzlov said. “Is that true?”

“Then I suppose you know that the Americans locked on to the S-500 launcher with their microwave weapon?”

“I know they scanned you with a simple synthetic-aperture radar, Zhou, the space-based radar mounted on the station itself,” Gryzlov said. “I have technicians and intelligence men on the ground there, remember? They know exactly what you were scanned with. It was not the directed-energy weapon. They obviously meant to goad you into responding, exactly like your stupid ill-trained men did.”

“So are they now trying to goad us into widening the conflict, to turn it into a nuclear exchange?” Zhou asked. “If so, they are succeeding!”

“Calm yourself, I said, Zhou,” Gryzlov repeated. “We will respond, but we must be patient and plan this out together.”

“This is all because of your foolhardy attack on their spaceplane, is it not?” Zhou asked. “You tell me to be calm, but then you do an insane act like destroy one of their spaceplanes! We tracked those fighters and your antisatellite weapons. Who is the crazy one now? You want to prohibit unauthorized spacecraft from overflying Russia? That is even more crazy! What has gotten inside your head, Gryzlov? You are even more unstable than that idiot Truznyev before you.”

“Do not talk to me about insane acts of war, Zhou!” Gryzlov retorted. “We are lucky we are not at war with the United States after that crazy General Zu attacked Guam!”

“I could say the same about your father’s cruise-missile attack on the United States itself!” Zhou shot back. “Ten thousand, fifteen thousand Americans vaporized? One hundred thousand wounded? Your father was—”

“Tread carefully, I warn you, Zhou,” Gryzlov spat menacingly. “Be careful of your next words if they even remotely concern my father.” There was complete silence on the other end. “Listen to me, Zhou. You know as well as I that the only American nonnuclear weapons that can reach our spaceports and other antisatellite launch sites are either cruise missiles launched from penetrating bombers or weapons launched from their military space station or weapon garages,” Gryzlov went on. “The military space station is the key because it controls all the weapon garages, uses its space-based radar for surveillance and targeting, and has the Skybolt laser, which is impossible to defend against. It must be disabled or destroyed before the Americans employ their weapons.”

“Disabled? Destroyed? How?” Zhou asked.

“We must pick the perfect time when the maximum number of Russia and China’s antisatellite weapons can launch simultaneously,” Gryzlov said. “The station has self-defense weapons, but if we can overwhelm them, we could succeed. My defense minister and chief of the general staff will inform me of when the American space station is in perfect position, and then we must attack at once. The station’s orbit is well known. They changed it recently for the Starfire microwave-laser test, and they may change it again, but we will watch and wait. When the orbit stabilizes, we attack with everything that is in range.

“But I need your commitment, Zhou: when I say attack, we attack with every weapon in range, simultaneously,” Gryzlov went on. “That is the only way we can hope to disable or destroy the military space station so it cannot retaliate against us, because if it does, it can destroy any target on the planet at the speed of light.”

There was a very long silence on the other end of the secure connection; then: “What is it you want, Gryzlov?”

“I need the precise description, capabilities, status, and location of each and every antisatellite weapon system in your arsenal,” Gryzlov said, “including your antisatellite missile submarines. And I need to establish a direct secure connection to each site and submarine so I can launch a coordinated attack against the American military space station.”

“Nĭ tā mā de fēngle?” Zhou shouted in the background. Gryzlov knew enough Chinese expletives to know he’d said “You fucking crazy?” From the interpreter, he instead haltingly heard, “The president strongly objects, sir.”

“Russia has many more antisatellite weapons than China, Zhou — if I sent you a tiny bit of our data, you would be quickly overwhelmed,” Gryzlov said. “Besides, I do not think your military or your space technicians have the capability to coordinate the launch of dozens of interceptors spread out across thousands of miles belonging to two nations against a single spot in space. We are much more experienced in orbital mechanics than China.”

“Why do I not just turn over all the launch codes to all of our nuclear ballistic missiles to you, Gryzlov?” Zhou asked derisively. “Either way, China is dead.”

“Do not be a fool, Zhou,” Gryzlov said. “We have to act, and act quickly, before the Americans can place more weapon garages in orbit and reactivate the Skybolt laser, if that drivel about the college students’ microwave laser replacing the free-electron laser is to be believed. Give me that data — and it had better be accurate and authentic — and I will determine the exact moment when the maximum number of antisatellite weapons is in range to strike at Armstrong… and then we will attack.”

“And then what, Gryzlov? Wait until American nuclear missiles rain down on our capitals?”

“Kenneth Phoenix is a weakling, as are all American politicians,” Gryzlov spat. “He attacked that S-500 site knowing we would retaliate. The minute he fired that microwave laser from the station, he knew the station would become a target. He did both thinking we would not respond. Now I have responded by destroying his spaceplane, and he has a choice: risk intercontinental thermonuclear war over this, or forfeit the military space station for peace. He is predictable, cowardly, and sure to be emotionally crippled. He is nothing. There is no threat to either of our countries except nuclear war if Armstrong Space Station is destroyed, and I do not believe Phoenix or anyone in America has the stomach for any kind of war, let alone a nuclear war.”

Zhou said nothing. Gryzlov waited a few moments, then said, “Decide now, Zhou, damn you! Decide!”