Starfire

TEN

From about a mile away, all Boomer and Ernesto could see was a dense cloud of white gas, as if a cumulus cloud had broken free of Earth’s atmosphere and decided to float around in Earth’s orbit. “Still can’t see anything, Armstrong,” Boomer reported. “Just a very large cloud of frozen fuel, oxidizer, and debris.”

“Copy,” Kai replied. “Get as close as you can, but mind the fuel and oxidizer — don’t get close enough to ignite it. Even one spark of static electricity in that mess could set it off.”

“Roger.”

It took several minutes to close the gap, but the cloud still obscured the scene. “I’m about fifty yards away,” Boomer said. “This is about as close as I dare get. I can’t make anything out. Ernesto, you see anything in there?”

“Negative,” Ernesto said. “It’s a pretty dense— Wait! I see it! I see the Midnight! It looks like the right wing and part of the tail have been torn off, but the fuselage and cockpit look intact!”

“Thank God,” Boomer said. “I’m going over there to take a look.” He unstrapped and went back to the airlock. For a long-exposure spacewalk, in addition to wearing the EEAS for more protection against micrometeors and debris and for better temperature control, Boomer put on a lightweight unpressurized space suit resembling coveralls, then donned a large backpacklike device called a Primary Life Support System, or PLSS, and plugged his EEAS and environmental umbilicals into it. The backpack contained oxygen, power, carbon-dioxide scrubbers, environmental controls, communications gear, and a device called a “SAFER,” or Simplified Aid For EVA Rescue, which was a smaller version of the Manned Maneuvering Unit device, which allowed tethered and untethered astronauts to move unassisted in space. SAFER was only supposed to be used in an emergency, in order to return an untethered astronaut to the spacecraft — well, this was definitely an emergency. “How do you hear, Ernesto?” he radioed.

“Loud and clear, Boomer.”

“Cockpit hatch is secure,” Boomer said after checking the readouts. “Depressurizing the airlock now.” A few minutes later: “Opening cargo-bay hatch.” He unlocked and opened the hatch and stepped inside the cargo bay, secured himself with a tether, then closed and sealed the hatch behind him.

The cargo bay was still mostly full, because they were carrying all of the supplies for the International Space Station and still had some untransferred supplies for Armstrong. Boomer brought out a one-hundred-yard length of cargo strap used for transferring items to a space station, made sure the end of the strap was secure to the spaceplane, attached the strap to a clip on his backpack harness, and unhooked himself from the cargo-bay tether. “Leaving cargo bay,” he reported, then maneuvered himself up and out of the cargo bay and headed for the Midnight spaceplane, the cargo strap unreeling itself behind him.

A few minutes later he entered the fuel-oxidizer cloud — thankfully the jets on SAFER used inert gases for propulsion, so there was no danger of creating an explosion — and he could clearly see the spaceplane. The damage looked worse from up close, but the fuselage and cockpit looked intact. “I’m about twenty yards from Midnight,” Boomer reported. “I’m going in.” Using tiny puffs from SAFER, he moved in toward Midnight’s cockpit…

… and through the cockpit canopy windows, he saw Jessica Faulkner and Vice President Ann Page, still seated, upright, and strapped in, heads bowed as if napping in an airliner seat, but not moving. “I see Gonzo and the vice president,” Boomer said. “They’re strapped in and upright. I can’t see if their eyes are open.” He took out a flashlight and tapped gently on the Midnight’s cockpit canopies — no response. “Their suits look undamaged, and I can see LEDs on their suits’ status panels — hot damn, they might be—”

And just then, Vice President Ann Page raised her head, then her right hand, as if waving. “The vice president is alive!” Boomer said. “I think she’s waving at me!” He realized it could just be the motion of the spacecraft, but he had to cling to any drop of hope he possibly could. “Gonzo’s still not moving, but the vice president is conscious! Power is out. The airlock hatch and cockpit look secure — no sign of damage or decompression. We’ve got to get them back to station.”

He floated above Midnight to look at the cargo bay. “The right side of the fuselage at the wing attach point looks badly damaged.” He maneuvered himself around to the right side of the cargo bay. “Shit,” he murmured a few moments later. “Looks like the passenger module was breached. Stand by. I’ll see if I can check the passengers.”

Aboard Armstrong Space Station, Brad McLanahan held his breath. He knew Sondra was on that spaceplane and had switched to the passenger module to allow the vice president to ride in the cockpit.

“Brad,” Jodie radioed from Cal Poly — no one on the Project Starfire team had left their station since Stacy Anne Barbeau’s explosive accusations. “I heard everything. Wasn’t… wasn’t your friend Sondra…?”

“Yes,” Brad said.

“Prayers,” Jodie breathed.

Boomer was able to look through the breach in the hull and passenger module. “There’s not enough room for me to get into the module,” he said. He shined his flashlight at Sondra and the Secret Service agent. “They are unconscious, but I see indicator lights on their suits’ status panel, and their visors are down and appear locked. We—”

And at that moment, as Boomer swept his flashlight’s beam across her helmet visor, Sondra raised her head. Her eyes were open and wide with fear. “Holy shit, Sondra’s alive!” Boomer shouted. “The Secret Service agent is not moving, but as far as I can tell, her suit is intact! We might have four survivors here!”

“Excellent!” Kai radioed. He and the rest of the crew had been watching Boomer’s progress on video and audio streamed back from cameras mounted on Boomer’s PLSS. “Get back here on the double. We’ll widen the breach to get into the passenger module, and then we can recover the passengers and then gain access to the cockpit through the airlock.”

“Roger.” Boomer made his way to the front of the Midnight spaceplane, found a Reaction Control System nozzle on the nose, and hooked the cargo strap securely inside it. He then hooked a ring on his backpack harness to the strap and propelled himself back to the S-29 Shadow spaceplane, zip-lining down the strap. In minutes he was through the Shadow’s airlock, set the PLSS in its cradle to recharge and refill, and made his way back into the Shadow’s cockpit.

“Nice job, comandante,” Ernesto said after Boomer had strapped in. They exchanged a fist bump. “Do you think we can get them out and transfer them to station, boss?”

“Not sure,” Boomer said, taking a few moments to let his breathing and heartbeat start to return to normal. “The passenger module is definitely breached, but the cockpit looked intact. I saw LEDs on their suits, but I couldn’t tell if they were warning lights or what. We might be able to get messages to the vice president on how to open the airlock or cockpit canopies, and then we hope they can survive the transfer. Let’s get back to station.”

It took them a half hour of careful maneuvering to tow the crippled S-19 Midnight spaceplane back to Armstrong Space Station. Crewmembers were already standing by with more cargo straps and cutters, and the remote manipulator arms were extended as far as they could to do whatever was necessary. Boomer docked the S-29 with the station.

“Good job, Boomer,” Kai radioed as he studied the images of the stricken S-19 Midnight and the crewmembers working on gaining access to the passenger module. “I’ve ordered the S-29 refueled and as much cargo as possible unloaded. We can use one of the airlocks as a hyperbaric chamber. I’m going to have you and your MC stay with the spaceplane. We’ve got about three hours before we arrive at the next DB, so if you need to get out and use the ‘wicks,’ do it now.” Ernesto waved a hand, signaling that’s what he wanted. The “wicks,” or WCS, was the Waste Containment System, or space toilet, on Armstrong Space Station.

“Roger,” Boomer said. “Which duck blind are we coming up on?”

“The worst one,” Kai said. “Delta Bravo-One. Downtown. Right up the middle.” Boomer was very familiar with which ones they were: Moscow and St. Petersburg. They had overlapping kill circles from multiple antisatellite sites that extended coverage from the Barents Sea to the Gulf of Azov. “With the Russian Orbital Section detached and not having our own maneuvering module, we can’t reposition station for a less dangerous orbit.”

“Ernesto is clearing off to use the ‘wicks,’ ” Boomer announced as Ernesto began unstrapping. “I want to supervise the refueling. I need someone in the seat to watch for faults.”

“We’re running low on spaceplane crewmembers, Boomer,” Kai said. He turned to station manager Trevor Shale. “Trev, want to suit up and—”

“Send Brad McLanahan,” Boomer said. “He’s not busy. Hell, he’s practically a spaceplane pilot already.”

Brad had been silent ever since the S-19 Midnight had been hit by the Russian ASAT, watching out a window at the workers surrounding the Midnight and hoping to catch a glimpse of Sondra, but he brightened when he heard his name. “You bet I will!” he said excitedly on intercom.

“Report to the airlock — someone will help you into an ACES,” Kai said. “You’ll have to be fully suited up and on oxygen. There’s no time to get you into an LCVG.” The LCVG, or Liquid Cooling and Ventilation Garment, was a formfitting suit with water tubes running through it that absorbed heat from the body. “Trev, help Brad get to the airlock.” Trevor led Brad to the hatch leading to the storage and processing module. Because he would not be wearing an LCVG, it was relatively quick and simple to don an ACES suit, gloves, and boots, and in just a few minutes Brad was on his way to the tunnel connecting the S-29 Shadow spaceplane to the station.

On the way into the docked spaceplane, Brad passed Ernesto Hermosillo heading to the Galaxy module. “Hey, good news about Sondra, man,” Ernesto said, giving Brad a fist bump. “I hope she’ll be all right. We’ll know soon, amigo.”

“Gracias, Ernesto,” Brad said.

A technician helped Brad through the docking tunnel, and Brad made his way through the airlock and into the cockpit. Boomer handed him his umbilicals. “Hello, Brad,” Boomer said on intercom. “Everything that can be done for Sondra and the others is being done. My guess is that she and the Secret Service agent will have to spend the night in an airlock pressurized with pure oxygen. They might be out for a while, but if they made it through the attack with their suits intact, they should pull out of it.”

“Thanks, Boomer,” Brad said.

“Thanks for doing this, Brad,” Boomer said. “This is nothing but a simple babysitting job, but the regs — which I myself wrote — say that one person has to be behind the controls of an S-29 during space refueling, wearing a space suit and on oxygen. The Black Stallion and Midnight spaceplanes require both crewmembers because they’re not as automated as the Shadow. I want to supervise the refueling and maybe hit the head, and Ernesto is heading to the ‘wicks’ now, so that’s why you’re here.

“The Shadow is highly automated, so it will tell you verbally and on this screen what’s going on,” Boomer continued, pointing at the large multifunction display in the middle of the instrument panel. Checklist items appeared in yellow, then several sublines of computer actions, with a yellow line turning green, and finally the end result, with a little yellow button on the touch-screen display asking if the computer could continue. “If something does happen, it’ll notify you and wait for an acknowledgment, which you do by pressing the soft key that appears. Most of the time it’ll just fix the problem itself, notify you that it’s fixed, and wait for an acknowledgment. If it can’t fix it itself, it’ll let you know. Just tell me if that happens and I’ll get the techs working on it. Like I said, you’re babysitting, except the ‘baby’ is smarter and bigger than you. Any questions?”

“Nope.”

“Good. I’ll be able to hear the computer if it announces anything. I won’t be far away. Just call if—”

And at that moment they heard, “Armstrong, this is Midnight One, how do you hear?”

“Gonzo?” Kai shouted. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” Gonzo said. Her voice was hoarse and labored, as if she were trying to talk with a large weight on her chest. “If you can hear me, report in. Miss Vice President?”

“I… I can hear you… Gonzo.” The vice president responded with the same low, hoarse voice and slow cadence. “I… I can’t breathe very well.”

“Help is coming, ma’am,” Gonzo said. “Agent Clarkson.” No response. “Agent Clarkson?” Still no word. “Sondra?”

“Loud… and… and clear,” Sondra replied weakly. Brad took a deep breath, the first in many tense moments. “I’ll… I’ll try to check on Clarkson.”

“We have power to the Midnight,” Trevor reported. “We’ll check the spacecraft’s hull status, then figure out if we can do a pressurized tunnel transfer or we’ll have to spacewalk them. Their breathing suggests their space suits might not be receiving oxygen from the spaceplane, so we’ll have to hurry to see if we can—”

“Command, Surveillance, I detect multiple rocket launches!” Christine Rayhill shouted on all-stations intercom. “One launch from Plesetsk, one from Baikonur! Computing launch track now… stand by… now detecting a second launch from Baikonur, repeat, two launches from… now detecting a rocket launch from Xichang, Command, that’s four rockets lifting… now detecting a fifth rocket, this one from Wenchang spaceport on Hainan Island. That’s five rockets launching! No prenotifications of any launches.”

“Combat stations, crew,” Kai ordered on intercom. “All hands, man your combat stations.”

Aboard the Shadow spaceplane, Boomer zoomed through the airlock faster than Brad had ever seen anyone move in space, maneuvered himself into the pilot’s seat with incredible dexterity for someone who was in free fall, fastened his umbilicals, and started to strap in. “What do I do, Boomer?” Brad asked. “Do I get out and let Ernesto—”

“It’s too late,” Boomer said. “The outer airlock hatches are automatically sealed when we go into combat stations, in preparation for us detaching from station. They’ll terminate fueling and unloading cargo, and as soon as they do, we’ll be under way.”

“You mean, back into orbit?”

“Yep,” Boomer said, hurriedly getting strapped in and responding to notices by the computer. “We’re going flying, as fast as we can. There’s a paper checklist Velcro’d to the bulkhead by your right knee. Strap it on to your thigh. Follow along with the computer as it goes through each item. When it tells you to acknowledge, and you agree that it followed the steps correctly, go ahead and touch the button on the screen. If it goes out of order or you get an error message, tell me. It’ll adjust how fast it goes through each section depending on how fast you acknowledge each action, but it also knows we’re at combat stations, so it’ll try to go quickly. Check you umbilicals and oxygen and strap yourself down as tightly as you can — this may be a hairy ride.”

“It does not appear to be a ballistic-missile flight path,” surveillance officer Christine Rayhill reported, studying her two computer monitors. “First two missiles staging now… they look like they’re going orbital, Command, repeat, orbital flight paths.”

“Russian spaceplanes,” Valerie guessed. “A salvo of five nearly simultaneous launches.”

“What’s the status of Starfire?” Kai asked.

“Still working on it,” Henry Lathrop reported. “I don’t know how long it will be yet.”

“As quick as you can, Henry,” Kai said. “Valerie, status of the Kingfishers and Hydra?”

“Kingfisher-9 is minus two Mjollnir projectiles, and three Trinity modules on station have expended a total of six antisatellite projectiles,” Valerie reported. “All other modules on station are ready. Six of the ten Trinity modules in orbit are ready. Hydra is ready, approximately thirty bursts remaining.”

A few minutes later: “Command, the first two rockets appear to have released an orbital payload, believed to be spaceplanes,” Christine reported. “Their orbits are not coincident with ours.”

“They might have payload-assist modules that will boost them into a transfer orbit,” Trevor Shale said. A payload-assist module was an extra booster stage fastened to the topmost payload section that could boost that payload into a different orbit at the right time without having to expend its own fuel. “We should expect those spaceplanes to move to intercept orbits within one to ten hours.”

Kai Raydon looked around the command module and noticed that Brad wasn’t in his usual position, attached to a bulkhead in the command module. “McLanahan, what’s your location?” he asked on intercom.

“Mission commander’s seat on Shadow,” Boomer replied.

“Say again?”

“He was warming the MC’s seat while Ernesto had to take a ‘wicks’ break, and now that we’re at combat stations, he’s pinned to it,” Boomer said. “So far he seems to have a pretty good handle on things.”

“Override the airlock lockouts,” Kai said. “Get your MC back in there.”

“There’s no time, General,” Boomer said. “By the time Ernesto gets his ACES back on, we’ll be bye-bye. No worries. Brad’s doing good. Looks to me like he has already started mission-commander training.”

Kai shook his head — too many things that were out of his control were happening, he thought ruefully. “How long before you detach, Boomer?”

“Cargo-bay doors coming closed now, General,” Boomer said. “Maybe two minutes. Will advise.”

“Command, rockets three and four going orbital as well,” Christine reported about a minute later. “Russian payloads one and two established in orbit. No further activity from any ground sites.” That changed just moments later: “Command, detecting numerous high-performance aircraft departing Chkalovsky Air Base near Moscow. Two, maybe three aircraft airborne.”

“Antisatellite launch aircraft,” Trevor said. “They’re putting on the full-court press.”

“Radio all to Space Command, Trev,” Kai said. “I don’t know for sure who the target is, but I’ll damned well bet it’s us. Christine, I’m assuming their objective is to reach our altitude and a matching orbit to intercept us. I want orbital predictions on all those Russian spaceplanes — I need to know exactly when they will launch themselves into transfer orbits.”

“Yes, sir,” Christine replied. “Computing now.” A few minutes later: “Command, Surveillance, assuming they want to jump to our orbital angle and altitude, I expect spacecraft Sierra-Three will reach a Hohmann-transfer-orbit jump-off point in twenty-three minutes, reaching our altitude and orbital plane seven minutes later. Sierra-One will do the same in forty-eight minutes. Still working on the other three spacecraft, but they could all be in our orbit in less than four hours. I’ll compute where they’ll be relative to us when they enter our orbit.”

“Four hours: that’s about the time we pass over Delta-Bravo One,” Valerie pointed out, referring to the orbital display on the main monitor. “They timed this to perfection: they’ll have five spacecraft, presumably armed, in our orbit when we pass over the antisatellite missile sites in Moscow and St. Petersburg.”

“Trevor, I want to move station as high as we can, as fast as we can,” Kai said. “Change our trajectory as much as possible, but I want to increase altitude as much as possible — maybe we can get out of the S-500S’s envelope. Use every drop of fuel we have left, but get us up and out of the danger zone.”

“Got it,” Trevor responded, then bent to work on his workstation.

President Kenneth Phoenix entered the White House Situation Room at a fast walk, waving the others in the room to their seats. His face was gray and haggard, and he had a day’s growth of beard, the result of staying awake and at his desk awaiting news of his vice president, chief adviser, and friend. “Someone talk to me,” he ordered.

“The Russians have launched what are believed to be five Elektron spaceplanes into orbit,” National Security Adviser William Glenbrook said. In the Situation Room with him was Secretary of State James Morrison, Secretary of Defense Frederick Hayes, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Timothy Spelling, and director of the Central Intelligence Agency Thomas Torrey, plus some assistants standing by near telephones. The large monitor at the front of the room was split into several screens, with one showing the image of the commander of U.S. Strategic Command, Admiral Joseph Eberhart, and commander of the U.S. Space Command, Air Force General George Sandstein, joining the meeting via video teleconference. “They have also launched fighter jets believed to be carrying antisatellite missiles, similar to the one that hit the vice president’s spaceplane.”

“Get Gryzlov on the phone right now,” Phoenix ordered. “What else?”

“We should know within minutes if the spaceplanes are going to be a threat to Armstrong Space Station,” Glenbrook went on. “The personnel aboard Armstrong can predict when the spaceplanes need to adjust their orbital track to match the station’s, or if they will go into an orbit that will intercept the station.”

“Gryzlov on the line, sir,” the communications officer announced a few minutes later.

Phoenix snapped up the receiver. “What in hell do you think you’re doing, Gryzlov?” he snapped.

“It does not feel so good to have so many unidentified armed enemy spacecraft overhead, does it, Phoenix?” the interpreter said. “I am sure your orbital mechanics technicians will inform you very soon, but I will tell you now myself to save you the trouble: your military space station will intersect with all of our spaceplanes and antisatellite weapons in approximately three hours, at which time I will order my space forces to shoot down your military space station.”

“What?”

“You have three hours to evacuate the station and save your men’s lives,” Gryzlov said. “I simply will not allow that monstrosity to fly over Russia again while its weapons are active — as we have just seen in China, the space station and the weapons it controls are a great threat to Russia.”

“Evacuate the space station?” Phoenix retorted. “There are fourteen men and women aboard! How am I supposed to do that in three hours?”

“That is not my concern, Phoenix,” Gryzlov said. “You have your spaceplanes and commercial-passenger-rated unmanned spacecraft, and I am told that the station has emergency lifeboats that can keep personnel alive long enough so they can be retrieved and brought back to Earth or transferred to the International Space Station. But it is not my concern, Phoenix. I want assurances that the space weapons have been deactivated, and the best way I can think of to do that is to destroy the space station.”

“Armstrong Space Station is a U.S. possession and military installation,” Phoenix said. “Attacking it will be like attacking any other American military base or aircraft carrier. That is an act of war.”

“Then so be it — go ahead and declare it, Phoenix,” Gryzlov said. “I assure you, Russia and its allies are ready for war with America. I consider the fact that America has been flying weapons over Russian territory now for years to be an act of war — now finally something will be done about it. I am doing nothing more than protecting Russia from a rampaging American military machine that tried to disguise itself as a college-student experiment. Well, I was fooled. I will be fooled no longer.”

“Have you thought about what will happen if the station doesn’t completely disintegrate on reentry, Gryzlov? How many people on the ground will be killed by falling debris and the core of the MHD generator?”

“Of course I have considered that, Phoenix,” Gryzlov said. “The station will be struck over western Russia. We predict it will crash harmlessly in western China, Siberia, or the North Atlantic. And if it does not crash until it reaches North America, it would probably crash in western Canada or the western United States, all sparsely populated. This is fitting, no? Since all nations are responsible for their own spacecraft no matter how they reenter, your monstrosity might be returned right to your doorstep.

“Three hours, Phoenix,” Gryzlov went on. “I suggest you tell your astronauts to hurry. And one more thing, Phoenix: If we detect any space-based weapons launched at any targets in Russia, we will consider that a commencement of a state of war between our two nations. You started this fight when you fired that directed-energy weapon — the price you will pay is the loss of that space station. Do not compound the misery you and your people will suffer by touching off a thermonuclear war.” And the connection was terminated.

“Damn that bastard!” Phoenix shouted, throwing the phone back on its cradle. “Fred, put us at DEFCON Three. I want to know all possible spots in the U.S. where that station could come down.”

“Yes, sir,” the defense secretary responded, and his aide picked up his phone. DEFCON, or Defense Readiness Condition, was a graduated system for increasing the readiness of the U.S. military forces for nuclear war. Since the American Holocaust and the release of a nuclear depth charge in the South China Sea by the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Navy, the U.S. had been at DEFCON Four, one step up from peacetime; DEFCON One was the most dangerous level, meaning nuclear war was imminent. “Do you want to order evacuations over the possible impact areas, sir?”

The president hesitated, but only for a moment: “I’m going to go on national TV and radio and explain the situation,” he said. “I’m going to lay it out for the American people, tell them the odds of station hitting North America, tell them we’re doing all we can to stop it from happening, and let them decide if they want to evacuate or not. How long would it take for it to reenter, Fred?”

“About fifteen minutes, sir,” Hayes said. “Normal ICBM flight time from launch to impact is around thirty minutes, so half of that would be about right.”

“With less than four hours to evacuate, I think most Americans would stay put,” National Security Adviser Glenbrook said.

“I just hope we don’t create a panic,” the president said, “but a few incidents or injuries in a panic would be better than having Americans killed by falling debris and we didn’t tell them it was coming.” He turned to Admiral Eberhart. “Admiral, what does Gryzlov have in western Russia that could bring the space station down?”

“Primarily the antisatellite air-launched missiles and the S-500S antiaircraft missile, sir,” Eberhart replied. “Both Moscow and St. Petersburg have deployed one battery of the S-500S. Each battery has six launchers; each launcher has four missiles plus four reloads that can be inserted within an hour. There are two bases near Moscow and St. Petersburg that fly the MiG-31D, each with about twenty interceptors.”

“And it can hit the space station?”

“The station is at the missile’s maximum altitude, if what we know about the S-500S is true,” Eberhart said. “The station is well within the air-launched antisatellite missile’s maximum range.”

“Can we move the space station to a higher orbit?”

“That is being done right now, sir,” Eberhart said. “The station’s director, Kai Raydon, ordered the station to the highest altitude it can attain before it runs low on fuel. They are also trying to alter its orbit to avoid overflying Moscow and St. Petersburg, but that might take too long.”

“What else do we have to stop those missiles from being launched?” the president asked.

“In western Russia: not much, sir,” Hayes responded. “We have one guided-cruise-missile submarine in the Baltic Sea that can launch against the antisatellite air bases in St. Petersburg, and that’s it. We can destroy the base easily, but it’s only one base, and our sub would be dog meat for Russian antisub patrols afterward — the Russians definitely control the Baltic Sea. The value of the loss of the sub would be twice that of the Russian base.”

“Plus we run the risk of starting a nuclear exchange if those cruise missiles are detected,” Glenbrook added. “We’re lucky that attack from space didn’t do the same.”

“So we have no options?” the president asked. “The space station is history?”

“We have one option, sir: attack the air bases and antisatellite missile sites from space,” Glenbrook said. “The station has defensive weapons, but it can also attack ground targets, as we saw at that missile site in China. They may not get all the sites, but they might get enough of them to save themselves.”

“And start World War Three?” Secretary of State James Morrison retorted, his eyes wide with fear. “You heard Gryzlov, Bill — the guy just threatened the president of the United States with nuclear war! Anyone here think the guy is not crazy enough to do it? I’d be surprised if he wasn’t heading for an underground command bunker right now. Sir, I suggest we get those students and all nonessential crewmembers off the military space station immediately and let the rest of the crew fight off any incoming missiles as best they can. If the station looks like it will be overwhelmed, the rest of the crew should evacuate.”

“I disagree, sir,” Secretary of Defense Hayes said. “To answer your question, Jim: I think Gryzlov is delusional and paranoid, but I don’t think he’s crazy enough to launch a nuclear war, even if we knocked out all his antisatellite bases from space. Gryzlov is young and has a long and comfortable life ahead of him. His father was killed by an American counterattack — that’s got to be weighing on him. I think he cares more about political survival and maintaining his wealth than starting a nuclear war. Besides, his strategic nuclear forces are no better than ours.”

“General Spelling?”

“Under DEFCON Three, we put all of our few remaining bombers and our nuclear-capable fighters on nuclear alert and send as many ballistic-missile and cruise-missile submarines as possible on patrol,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff said, referring to a tablet computer. “It would take one to three days to put our bombers on alert, three to seven days for the fighters, and one to three weeks to get available subs under way. Secretary Hayes is correct about the numbers, sir: American and Russian forces are roughly equal in strength. We have more surface ships and ballistic-missile submarines; they have more aircraft and land-based ballistic missiles.”

“After Gryzlov’s threat, we’d have to assume they’re placing their nuclear forces on a greater readiness level as we speak,” Hayes added. “Maybe even greater than ours.”

The president was silent for several long moments, looking into the faces of his advisers. Finally: “I want to talk directly with General Raydon,” he said.

A few moments later, after the secure video teleconference link was established: “General Raydon here, Mr. President.”

“First of all: status of the vice president and the spaceplane crew.”

“We were working to get inside the passenger module, but I canceled the spacewalks when those Elektrons launched,” Kai replied. “Still no response from any of them.”

“How much oxygen do they have?”

“Several more hours if their space suits or the spaceplane’s environmental systems weren’t damaged. We’ve examined the readouts on their suits and we think they are still receiving oxygen from the ship and not just from their own suits. If that turns out not to be the case, they haven’t much longer.”

The president nodded grimly. “Here’s the situation, General: Gennadiy Gryzlov says flat out he wants to shoot down Silver Tower,” he said. “He told me about the kill box and how he’s going to position those spaceplanes in the same area as the antisatellite weapons around Moscow and St. Petersburg. My question is: Can you survive an attack on the space station?”

“Yes, sir, we can,” Kai said immediately, “but not for long. We have sixteen engagements of antisatellite weapons and approximately thirty engagements with the Hydra COIL laser. We also have sixteen engagements on our weapon garages in orbit, but the odds are very long that they’ll be in a position to defend station. After those are expended, we’d have to rely on refueling and rearming.”

“And then Gryzlov could take potshots at our resupply spaceplanes and commercial cargo spacecraft,” the president pointed out.

“Which is why I recommend we attack any antisatellite sites we can with our Mjollnir missiles,” Kai said. “Our nine remaining weapon garages are within range of an ASAT site every twenty to thirty minutes. We have thirteen land-attack engagements with the orbiting weapon garages, plus fifteen from the stored-weapon garages on station. That would put a pretty big dent in Gryzlov’s antisatellite forces.”

“Gryzlov has threatened nuclear war if we attack any of his bases in Russia.”

Kai’s expression turned first surprised, then serious, and finally angry. “Mr. President, the question is considerably above my pay grade,” he said, “but if anyone threatens the United States with nuclear war, I say we work to hand him his head on a platter.”

The president looked at the expressions of his advisers once more — they ranged from outright fear, to determination, to blankness and bewilderment. He had the distinct impression that all of them were glad they didn’t have to make the decision. “Secretary Hayes,” the president said moments later, “put us at DEFCON Two.”

“Yes, sir,” the secretary of defense responded, reaching for the phone.

“General Raydon, I am authorizing you to attack and destroy any Russian antisatellite installations that present a risk to Armstrong Space Station,” the president said grimly. “You will also use any weapons available to defend station from attack. Keep us advised.”

“Yes, sir,” Kai replied. On the stationwide intercom he said, “All personnel, this is the director, we have been authorized by the president of the United States to attack any Russian bases that are a threat to us, and to use all weapons at our disposal to defend station. That is exactly what I intend to do. I want Casey Huggins on oxygen and into an ACES, and I want Life Support to teach her how to use a lifeboat.”

“General, I’m almost done connecting up Starfire again,” Casey responded. “An hour, maybe less. If I stop, you may not have it ready in time.”

Kai thought about it for a moment; then: “All right, keep at it, Casey,” he said. “But I want you on oxygen now, and as soon as you’re done, I’m putting you in a space suit.”

“I can’t work with the oxygen mask on, sir,” Casey insisted. “When I’m done I’ll get suited up.”

Kai knew this was not good, but he really did want Starfire activated again. “Okay, Casey,” he said. “As fast as you can.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s our next duck blind?” Kai asked.

“Chinese S-500S site on Hainan Island,” Christine Rayhill announced. “In range of Kingfisher-Two in five minutes. Yelizovo Air Base, MiG-31D base, an S-500S site at Yelizovo, and an S-500S site at Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiy Naval Base will be in range shortly thereafter, also for Kingfisher-Two.”

“One Trinity against each of the S-500s and one against the air base, Valerie,” Kai said.

“Yes, sir,” Valerie said. “Combat, designate ground targets for—”

“Command, Surveillance, first Elektron spaceplane Poppa-One looks like it’s altering course,” Christine said. “It’s accelerating… looks like a transfer-orbit maneuver, sir. Looks like it’ll be the opposite direction from ours and offset slightly — can’t tell the altitude yet. I expect Poppa-Two to accelerate into a transfer orbit in a few minutes. Elektron spaceplane Poppa-Three should jump in fifteen minutes. Can’t tell yet on Four and Five.”

“Boomer, do you have enough fuel to transfer to the ISS, dock, then return to us?” Kai asked.

“Stand by. I’ll check,” Boomer replied. A moment later: “Yes, General, I do, but not enough to reenter afterward without refueling. How much fuel and oxidizer is still on station?”

Trevor checked his readouts. “Twenty thousand pounds of JP-8 and ten thousand of ‘bomb.’ ”

“Should be enough, unless I have to do a lot of maneuvering,” Boomer said. “I’d feel better if we could get a resupply mission up—”

“Missile launch detected reported by SBIRS, sir!” Christine shouted on intercom. SBIRS, or the Space-Based Infrared Surveillance, was the U.S. Air Force’s newest infrared satellite system, capable of detecting and tracking missiles and even aircraft by their hot engine or motor exhausts. “Pop-up targets from over Novosibirsk. Two… three launches, definitely on an intercept course, not going ballistic. Intercept in six minutes!”

“Looks like they moved some MiG-31s to central Russia,” Trevor said.

“Designate targets Poppa-Six, — Seven, and — Eight, Combat,” Valerie said.

“We’ve been swept by target-tracking radar… switching to missile-guidance radar… missile launch, S-500S… salvo of four interceptors, seven minutes to intercept!” Christine reported. “Missiles tracking… another salvo of four, second launcher, looks like a… third salvo of S-500s lifting off, looks like a ring of S-500 launchers around Novosibirsk! I count… a fourth salvo, sixteen S-500s inbound from Novosibirsk! That’s nineteen interceptors inbound, crew!”

“That’s more than we ever did exercises against,” Trevor said.

“Status of our defensive weapons, Valerie,” Kai asked.

“All in the green, sir,” Valerie replied. “Sixteen Kingfisher engagements on the keel plus approximately thirty Hydra shots.”

“What’s our altitude, Trev?”

“Two hundred and fifty-seven,” Trevor replied. “Maximum slant range of an S-500S is supposed to be five hundred miles. We’re going to be close.”

“Four minutes on the Wasp interceptors,” Christine said.

“Batteries released on all weapons, Valerie,” Kai said.

“Roger, sir, batteries released, Combat, clear to engage.”

“Roger, clear to—”

“Decoys!” Henry Lathrop shouted. “Warheads on the S-500 missiles splitting into two — no, three, three apiece!”

“Can you discriminate among them, Henry?”

“Not yet — too far away still,” Henry said. “When they get within three hundred miles I’ll get ’em with the infrared sensor first to see if there’s a temperature difference, then with the optronic sensor to see if there’s a visual.”

“Three minutes on the Wasps.”

“Missiles away,” Henry Lathrop announced. “Two Trinities outbound, tracking. Next launches in ten and twenty seconds.” Exactly ten seconds later: “Missiles away. Good track on first salvo — damn, lost control on second Trinity for the second engagement, launching a third salvo on second inbound… fourth salvo on third inbound away, good track… good track on first salvo, intercept looks good… Hydra is ready on all inbounds, good track, stand by… coming up on first intercept… now.”

At that instant all the lights on Armstrong Space Station brightened to more than twice their normal level, then flickered and went dead. Several computer terminals went blank momentarily, but seconds later started an automatic reboot. “What was that?” Kai shouted. The intercom was dead. “What happened?” The crew remained calm, but they were staring at momentarily useless displays and readouts, then at each other — and a few were gauging their distance to the hatch for the lifeboat spheres. “What do you got, Valerie?”

“I think it was an EMP, sir!” Valerie shouted. “I think the warhead on that Wasp interceptor had a nuclear warhead on it!”

“Shit,” Kai cursed. He looked over at all the monitors around him. Thankfully they hadn’t been fried — Armstrong Space Station was heavily shielded against cosmic radiation — but the power spike had reset all their computers. “How long before everything is back up?”

“Most will be back up in ninety seconds,” Trevor shouted across the command module, “but the synthetic-aperture radar might take three minutes or more.”

“Do you still have contact with the Trinities?”

“I got nothing until my computers reboot, sir,” Valerie said. “About a minute. Hopefully that EMP took out the Wasp interceptors as well as all our stuff.”

It was an agonizingly long wait, but soon the command module began coming back to life as computers rebooted and other systems were reset. “One Wasp missile remaining inbound!” Henry shouted when his computer monitor began displaying useful information. “All S-500 missiles still on course, about two minutes to intercept!”

“Nail that Wasp missile, Valerie!” Kai shouted.

“Trinities away!” Valerie said. “Hydra is not online yet — we can’t back up the intercept with the Hydra on this engagement! Trinities will launch against the S-500s in fifteen seconds!”

“Crew, report to Command on damage or injuries,” Trevor said on intercom. “Casey?”

“I just got my test computer back up,” Casey said from the Skybolt module. “Another forty minutes.”

“That’s too much time,” Kai said. “Casey, go on oxygen, put a space suit on, and report to your assigned lifeboat.”

“No! I can do it in time!” Casey shot back. “I’ll hurry. I can do it!”

Kai punched the air in front of himself. “Hurry, Casey,” he said finally.

“Coming up on intercept on the third Wasp,” Henry said. “Trinities away on the S-500 missiles — we’re launching against everything on the screen, including what might be decoys. Wasp intercept in three… two… one…” Again, the lights flared brightly, then most of the lights and displays in the Command module went dark…

… but this time, not all of the computer monitors began rebooting automatically. “The Trinity fire-control computer didn’t reboot,” Henry shouted to the others in the Command module. “I’ve got to do a hard reset.”

“Starfire fire control is rebooting,” Christine said. “I have to do a hard reset on Hydra.”

“Command, Engineering, hard reset under way on environmental and station attitude-control computers,” the engineering officer reported. “Switching to backup environmental controls, but I can’t monitor if they came up yet. I’ll get a report in—”

At that moment there was a tremendous shudder throughout the entire station, and the crewmembers could feel a slight adverse spin. “Did we get hit?” Kai asked.

“All readouts still blank,” Trevor said. “Pass the word through the other modules to look out the windows for evidence of damage.” Seconds later they felt another shudder, and the station started a spinning motion in a different direction. “Do we have anything, Valerie? We’re definitely getting hit by something.”

“I should get the Hydra fire control back in a few seconds,” Valerie replied. At that moment most of the module lights and intercom came back.

“… hear me, Armstrong,” they heard on the radio. “This is Shadow, how do you hear me? Over.”

“Loud and clear now, Boomer,” Kai said. “Go ahead.”

“The number seven solar cell and the truss just inboard of number two solar cell were hit,” Boomer said. “Station has started a slight adverse roll. Are your positioning systems working?”

“We’re doing a hard reset,” Trevor said. “We don’t know the status yet.”

“Radar is back up,” Christine reported. “Scope is clear. No contacts. We’re down to three engagements on the Kingfishers on the truss.”

“I got another fault indication on Hydra,” Henry reported. “I’m doing another hard reset.” Kai looked at Trevor and Valerie, and their expressions wordlessly sent the same message: we’re running out of defensive weapons, and we haven’t reached the most deadly part of the orbit.

“Gonzo? How do you hear?”

“Loud and clear, General,” Gonzo replied, her voice sounding almost normal. “We were getting oxygen and data from station, but that’s cut off now.”

“We’ll get it back for you as soon as we can, Gonzo,” Kai said. “Stay strapped in. Those attacks put a slight spin on station, and our attitude-control systems are down right now, but we’ll get them back soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Update on those spaceplanes?”

“First Elektron is in a matching orbit to ours, about a thousand miles away,” Christine reported. “No contact on four and five. Two and three seem to be in the same orbit and the same altitude as ours, but the orbit is different than ours. They’ll make their closest approach to us in about an hour…” She turned to Kai and added, “About five minutes before we overfly DB-One.”

“The Russians timed those spaceplane launches down to the nanosecond,” Valerie exclaimed.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll shoot down their own spaceplanes,” Kai said. On intercom he spoke: “Attention on station. I want all off-duty personnel in space suits. Rehearse the lifeboat evacuation procedures and make sure you’re ready to board the lifeboats as soon as I give the warning. We’re down to just a few engagements with our defensive weapons, and the Hydra still hasn’t come back up. Casey, time’s up. I want you in a space suit right away. Someone in Life Support give her a hand.”

“Thirty minutes to DB-One,” Christine reported.

“Status of the Hydra?” Kai asked.

“Still down,” Henry said. “I’ll do another hard reset. Trinity fire control is back up, but the station’s spin might be a problem launching interceptors.”

“Command, this is Jessop in Life Support,” came a call a few minutes later.

“Go ahead, Larry,” Trevor responded.

“I can’t open the hatch to the Skybolt module. It appears to be locked from inside.”

Kai’s eyes flared in surprise. “Casey, what are you doing?” he thundered on intercom.

“I can fix it!” Casey radioed. “I almost had it before the last brownout! Just a few more minutes!”

“Negative! Get out of that module right now!”

“I can fix it, sir! It’s almost ready! Just a few more—”

“Radar contact, spacecraft,” Christine interjected. “Same altitude, different orbit, range four hundred fifty miles! It will pass by at fifty miles!”

“Status of the Trinities and Hydra?” Kai asked.

“Hydra looks like it’s coming up now,” Henry said. “About ten minutes until ready. Trinities are ready, but with the station spin, they might have to expend extra fuel to steer an intercept—”

“Second radar contact, spacecraft,” Christine reported. “Intersecting orbit, range four hundred eighty miles, passing approximately thirty miles!”

“Launch commit the Trinities, Valerie,” Kai ordered.

“Trinities are ready, showing launch commit,” Valerie said. “The computers should adjust the launch for the station spin.”

“Three hundred miles on first spacecraft.”

“Trinity one away… Trinity two away,” Henry said. A moment later: “Trinities off course… wait, regaining course… back on course, good track… Trinities three and four away… good tr—” And suddenly there was a loud BANG! The station shuddered, and several alarms sounded. “Trinity four hit a solar panel!” Henry shouted. “Trinity five away!”

“Batteries not fully charging,” Alice Hamilton in the Engineering module reported. “Discharge rate is slow, but the other solar panels can’t compensate.”

“Shut down nonessential equipment,” Kai said. “Casey, get out of that module now! I’m going to power it down!”

“Hydra is reporting ready!” Henry said.

“Radar contact spacecraft!” Christine said. “Same orbit, four hundred miles and closing slowly.”

“Lost contact with Trinities one and two!” Henry shouted. “May have been downed with a laser from that Elektron!”

“Two hundred miles and closing on spaceplane one.”

“Engage with Hydra,” Kai ordered.

“Roger, Combat, clear to engage with Hydra!” Valerie said.

“Combat copies,” Henry said. “Hydra firing!”

“Missile launch detection!” Christine reported. “Multiple S-500 launches from near Chkalovsky Air Base!”

“Direct hit on spaceplane one!” Henry reported. “Nailed him! Shifting track to target two!”

“Command, Engineering, battery power down to seventy-five percent,” the technician said. “You can fire Hydra two, maybe three more shots! Our solar panels are charging the batteries at only half rate — it’ll take hours to fully recharge them even if you don’t fire any more weapons!”

Kai thought quickly; then: “Take out that second spaceplane with the Hydra, and use any Trinities we have left on the third spaceplane,” he said.

Just then they heard Casey shout, “It’s ready! It’s ready!”

“Casey? I told you to get out of that module!”

“It’s ready!” she repeated. “Try it!”

“Hydra engaging second spaceplane!” Henry reported. This time the lights significantly dimmed in the command module.

“Hydra powered down!” Valerie said. “It drained the batteries below forty percent and shut itself down!”

“Second spaceplane still inbound.”

“Try it, General!” Casey said on intercom.

“Valerie?”

“Starfire has full continuity,” Valerie said. She looked over at Kai, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “Permission to spin up the MHD, General.”

“Go,” Kai said. On intercom he said, “Engineering, Command, permission to spin up the MHD.”

“Engineering copies,” Alice acknowledged. A moment later the lights dimmed again. “Batteries down to twenty-five percent.”

“Too bad we can’t plug the MHD generator into station,” Kai said. “We’d have all the power we’d ever need.”

“Next time, we will,” Trevor said.

“MHD at twenty-five percent,” Alice said.

“Spaceplane two closing to one hundred miles,” Christine said. “I’m picking up a target-tracking radar from that spaceplane — he’s locked on to us with something. Spaceplane three closing to two hundred miles. Multiple S-500 missiles still inbound.”

“High hull temperature warning on the Galaxy module!” Alice reported. “Temperature still rising!”

“Everyone in the Galaxy module, get into your lifeboats!” Kai shouted. “Move! Engineering, make sure the Galaxy module is—”

“Hull temperature at limits!” Alice reported about thirty seconds later.

“Lifeboat one sealed,” Trevor reported.

“Lifeboat two, seal it up now! Lifeboat two, do you—”

Suddenly alarms went off throughout the command module. “Galaxy module hull breached,” Alice said. Kai looked at Trevor, who shook his head — lifeboat two was still not sealed up. “Module pressure down to zero.”

“Spaceplane two is headed away from us,” Christine reported. “Spaceplane three closing to one hundred miles.”

“Hobnail is locked on to target,” Colonel Galtin reported to his command post. “Request permission to engage.”

“Permission granted,” the controller said. “Elektron Two had a successful attack. Good luck.”

I need no luck, Galtin thought — I have Elektron and Hobnail. Seconds later, the radar reported in range and Galtin hit the switch to commit the Hobnail laser.

“Warning, hull temperature in command module rising!” Alice shouted. “It’ll hit the limit in twenty seconds!”

“Lifeboats!” Kai shouted. “Move!” But no one moved. Everyone stayed at their stations… because Kai did not unstrap himself from his seat, they were not going to do so either.

“MHD is at one hundred percent!” Alice reported.

“Valerie, go!”

“Combat, Starfire commit! Shoot!”

The first indication that something had happened was the acidy smell of burning electronics, even though Galtin was sealed up in his space suit. The second was the astounding scene of his instrument panel sparking, arcing, and finally setting itself afire, all in the blink of an eye. The third was a warning tone in his headphones indicating a complete system failure, although he could no longer see the status of any of his systems. The last thing he encountered was his space suit filling with smoke, then he briefly felt the oxygen in his suit explode…

… seconds before his Elektron spaceplane exploded into a billion pieces and spread across space in a fiery spear; then the oxidizer was consumed and the fire blanked itself out.

“Spaceplane three eliminated,” Christine said. “Still multiple S-500 missiles inbound, about sixty seconds.”

“Hull temperature stabilizing,” Alice reported. “MHD and Starfire are in the green. Batteries are down to ten percent. At five percent the station will shut down to allow the remaining battery power to drive lifeboat release mechanisms, air pumps, emergency lights and alarms, and rescue beacons.”

“Can we get the rest of those S-500s with the power we have left?” Trevor asked.

“We got no choice but to try,” Valerie said.

“No, not the missiles — the S-500 radar and control truck,” Kai said. “Maybe that will take out the missiles.”

Valerie hurriedly called up the last-known S-500 site at Chkalovsky Air Base northeast of Moscow and used Armstrong Space Station’s powerful radar and optronic sensors to scan the area. The S-500 transporter-erector-launchers had moved to the south side of the airport in three widely separated emplacements, but the radar truck, command vehicle, and power and hydraulic generator truck were in the same location as previously cataloged. The trucks were located in a vacant area of the large aircraft parking ramp, where long lines of Antonov-72, Ilyushin-76, and -86 transport planes were lined up; farther down the ramp were two rows of five MiG-31D antisatellite-missile launch planes, each with a 9K720 antisatellite missile waiting to be loaded aboard. “Target acquired!” Christine shouted.

“Combat, shoot!” Valerie ordered.

“Starfire engaged!” Henry shouted…

… and just seconds later, all power in the command module went completely out, leaving only emergency exit lights. Kai hit a button on his console, and an alarm bell sounded, along with the computerized words, “All personnel, report to lifeboats immediately! All personnel, report to lifeboats immediately!”

The maser beam from Armstrong Space Station fired for less than two seconds… but traveling at five miles every second, the beam was able to sweep across almost the entire length of Chkalovsky Air Base before extinguishing.

The S-500 command, power, and radar trucks sparkled as the beam swept across them, and moments later their fuel tanks exploded, setting all of them afire. Next were the transport planes, which one by one burst open like overripe melons, transforming hundreds of thousands of gallons of jet fuel instantly into huge mushroom clouds of fire. The same fate awaited the MiG-31D fighters, fed by ten exploding 9K720 solid rocket booster motors that launched several of the missiles spinning through the sky for miles — and spreading radioactive material from two of the missiles’ micronuclear warheads. The beam shut down the base operations building, destroyed several more parked and taxiing aircraft, and then detonated several aircraft inside their maintenance hangars, obliterating each hangar in a spectacular fireball.

Casey heard the alarm and hurriedly began unstrapping herself from her seat in the Skybolt module. There was no lifeboat in the Skybolt module, but she knew that the closest one was in the Engineering module just “above” hers. She donned her emergency oxygen mask, then looked up and saw Larry Jessop the life-support guy looking through the window in the hatch waiting for her. She smiled and was about to unlock the hatch…

… when a tremendous explosion rocked the station. The destruction of the S-500 command and control vehicles at Chkalovsky had nullified guidance to all of the 9K720 missiles… except for the first four that had been launched and had locked on to Armstrong Space Station with their own terminal guidance sensors. All four made direct hits, and the fourth missile hit squarely on the Skybolt module.

Casey turned and saw nothing but planet Earth beneath her through the gaping, sparking hole that seconds ago was her Starfire microwave cavity and Skybolt. She smiled and thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life. As she watched, the spectacular blues and whites of the spinning planet below her feet slowly faded into shades of gray. It was not as beautiful as before, but she still marveled at her home planet right there—she even thought she could see her home, and she smiled, thinking of the next time she would go home and see her parents and her brothers and sisters and tell them about this incredible adventure. She smiled, her mom and dad’s faces smiling back at her, and felt happy and a little euphoric, until her vision tunneled closed into blackness seconds later as the last of her oxygen seeped out of her body.

The S-500S missiles tore into Armstrong Space Station. Boomer and Brad watched in absolute horror as modules were either hit or ripped off when the station started to cartwheel through space. “Midnight, this is Shadow,” Boomer radioed. “Hold on, guys. I’ll be over there in a minute. We’ll transfer you out through the cockpit and through the hole in the fuselage.”

There was no reply for several long moments; then, a sleepy, tired voice radioed, “I don’t think… even… the great spaceplane pilot… Hunter ‘Boomer’ Noble could… could match this spin,” Vice President Ann Page said. “Save your fuel. Retrieve the lifeboats. I’m… I’m hypoxic, I don’t see… see any lights on Gonzo’s suit… save your fuel and… and retrieve the lifeboats, Boomer. That’s an… an order.”

“I’m not in your chain of command, Miss Vice President,” Boomer said. “Hang on. Stay with me.”

“Brad?” they heard. “Brad, can… can you hear me?”

“Sondra!” Brad exclaimed. “We’re going to rendezvous with you! Hang on!”

There was silence for a long time, and Brad’s mouth was quickly turning dry. Then they heard in the tiniest of voices: “Brad?”

“Sondra, don’t worry,” Brad said. “We’ll be there as fast as we can!”

“Brad? I… I’m sorry. I…”

“Sondra!” Brad cried out. “Hang on! We’ll rescue you! Hang on!” But as they watched the crippled space station spin away, they knew it would not be possible to try a rescue.

Defying federal orders, thousands of vehicles of every description were parked at the edge of the Black Rock Desert in northwestern Nevada at the terminus of Highway 447 to witness something that no one believed they would ever see in their lifetimes. The Black Rock Desert was the home of the world-famous Burning Man Festival, where thousands of artists, adventurers, and counterculture free spirits gathered every summer to celebrate freedom and life… but this would be a day on the playa that would represent death.

“I guess it is returning home,” Brad McLanahan said. He was seated in a lawn chair on the roof of a rented RV. Beside him on one side was Jodie Cavendish, on the other was Boomer Noble, and behind them, clearly separating himself from the others, was Kim Jung-bae. They had just concluded a series of press interviews with the dozens of news agencies that had come out to witness this incredible event, but now they had broken away from the reporters several minutes before the appointed time so they could be by themselves.

Jodie turned to Jung-bae and put a hand on his leg. “It’s okay, Jerry,” she said. Jung-bae lowered his head. He had been weeping ever since they had arrived on the playa and had refused to talk with anyone. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is my fault,” Jung-bae said. “I am responsible for this.” And for the millionth time since the test firing, he said, “I am so sorry, guys. I am so sorry.”

Brad reflected back on the events over the past week. After realizing they could not rescue the persons trapped in the Midnight spaceplane, he and Boomer had returned to the area where the three lifeboats had been jettisoned before the Russian S-500S missiles had hit the station. Boomer had exited the cockpit, suited up, gone into the cargo bay, and jettisoned the last few remaining pieces of cargo. With Brad at the controls of the Shadow spaceplane, he had maneuvered them to each of the lifeboats, and Boomer reeled them into the cargo bay. After hooking up oxygen, power, and communications cables, they made a transfer-orbit burn and entered the International Space Station’s orbit.

It took almost two days, but they finally rendezvoused with the ISS. Sky Masters had flown up two station technicians on commercial spacecraft to power up the station and bring supplies, and they used the robot arms to attach the lifeboats to docking ports. All of Armstrong’s crewmembers had to spend a night in an airlock pressurized with pure oxygen to ward off nitrogen narcosis, but afterward they were all deemed fit to fly, and they returned to Earth the next day.

Brad’s smartphone beeped a warning. “It’s time,” he said.

They watched and waited. Before long they could see what looked like a star grow brighter and brighter in the cloudless Nevada sky. It grew brighter and brighter, and everyone parked on the playa thought they could actually feel heat from the object… and then suddenly there was a tremendous earsplitting sound, like a thousand cannons going off all at once. Car windshields cracked, and cars rocked on their wheels — Brad thought he was going to be jostled right off the roof of the RV.

The star turned into a spectacular ball of fire that grew and grew, trailing fire behind it for a hundred miles, until the ball started to break apart. Seconds later there was another tremendous explosion, and twenty miles to the north the spectators saw a massive ball of fire at least five miles in diameter, followed by a rapidly growing mushroom cloud of fire, sand, and debris. They saw a huge wall of sand and smoke thousands of feet high rushing toward them, but just as they were thinking they should retreat inside their vehicles, the wall began to dissipate, and it thankfully disappeared long before it reached them.

“So long, Silver Tower,” Boomer said. Jung-bae was openly and loudly sobbing behind them, crying in sheer anguish at the thought of his friend Casey Huggins in that maelstrom. “It was nice flying with you, old buddy.”

After observing the final flight of Armstrong Space Station, Brad McLanahan and Jodie Cavendish had done more media interviews in Reno and San Francisco, then they flew the turbine P210 Silver Eagle back to San Luis Obispo. Night had already fallen. They had just pushed the plane into the hangar and were unloading their few pieces of luggage when Chris Wohl appeared at the hangar door. “You must be Sergeant Major Wohl,” Jodie said, extending a hand. After a moment Chris took it. “Brad has told me a lot about you.”

Chris shot a querying expression at Brad. “Yes, a lot,” Brad said.

“I’m sorry about your friends,” Chris said. “I’m glad you made it back, Brad. Had enough of space travel for a while?”

“For now,” Brad admitted. “But I am going back. Most definitely.”

“Done with all the media stuff too for a while?”

“Definitely no more,” Jodie said. “I can’t wait for our lives to go back to normal. Crikey, I can’t even remember what normal is.”

“You need anything, either of you?” Chris asked. “The team will be back in the morning. When you feel up to it, you can start training.”

“He’s right back to his usual routines,” Jodie said. “I might join him from now on.”

“That would be fine,” Chris said. “Ready to go back to the apartment?”

“We’ll unload, and then I’ll close it up,” Brad said. “I’ll wipe it down tomorrow.”

“I’ll drive with you back to Poly Canyon, and then I’m going to the hotel,” Chris said. “I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll update your call sign then, I think.” He gave Brad and Jodie a half smile, which was a big one by Wohl’s standards, and then he put his hands in his pockets against the growing chill, turned on a heel, and…

… walked right into the knife held by Yvette Korchkov, which plunged deep into his belly. He had enough strength and wherewithal to head-butt his assailant before falling to the tarmac, clutching his abdomen.

“Grebanyy ublyudok,” Korchkov swore, holding her bleeding forehead. “Fucking bastard.” Brad pushed Jodie behind him. “We meet again, Mr. McLanahan. Thank you so much for informing the world where you will be. It was child’s play to track you down.”

Brad pulled Jodie to the back of the hangar, then went over to a toolbox and found a Crescent wrench. “Call 911,” he told her. To Korchkov he said, “Svärd, or whatever the hell your name is, if you don’t want to get caught, you’d better leave. This place has security cameras, and Wohl’s troops will be here any minute.”

“I know where all of the sergeant major’s associates are, Brad,” Korchkov said. “They are hours away, and I will be gone long before the police arrive. But my mission will be completed.”

“What mission? Why are you after me?”

“Because your father made a terrible enemy in Gennadiy Gryzlov,” Korchkov said. “He ordered all of your father’s possessions to be destroyed, and you are at the top of the list. And I must say, after the destruction you caused near Moscow last week, he will have an even greater burning desire to see you dead.”

“The police are on their way,” Jodie called out.

“They will be too late,” Korchkov said.

“Well, then, come and get me, bitch,” Brad said, waving her on. “You like doing it up close and personal? Then give me a hug, bitch.”

Korchkov moved like a cheetah despite the wound on her forehead, and Brad was far too late. He partially deflected the knife with the wrench, but the blade sliced across the left side of his neck. Jodie screamed when she saw the rivulet of blood forming between Brad’s fingers as he tried to stop the flow. The wrench dropped from his hand as the room started to spin.

Korchkov smiled. “Here I am, handsome space traveler,” she said. “Where is your tough talk now? You are perhaps a little weak from your space travels, no?” She raised the knife so Brad could see it. “Give me a good-bye hug.”

“Here’s your hug, bitch,” a voice behind her said, and Chris Wohl broke a push-broom across Korchkov’s head. She whirled and was about to knife him again, but Chris dropped to the floor and was still.

“Finish bleeding and die, old man,” Korchkov said.

“That’s not an old man — he’s a sergeant major,” Brad said, just before the Crescent wrench crunched on the back of Korchkov’s head. She went down. Brad brought the wrench down hard against the hand holding the knife, pushed the blade away, then continued to beat her face with the wrench until he couldn’t recognize it anymore. He collapsed on top of the battered body as Jodie ran up to him, rolling him away from Korchkov and pressing her fingers against the gash on his neck.

Brad opened his eyes to the sounds of sirens outside the hangar and found Jodie still crouched over him, her hands pressed against his bleeding neck. “Brad?” she asked. “Oh, God…”

“Hey,” he said. He gave her a weak smile. “Who says I can’t show my girl a good time?” And he thankfully dropped into unconsciousness once again.