The Kremlin Strike

Nineteen

Through the spaceplane’s forward cockpit windows, Brad McLanahan could see a black sky stretching above them toward infinity. Stars, visible as hard bright pinpoints of light, were strewn across the blackness in all directions. The sheer beauty of it would have robbed him of breath if the G-forces they were pulling hadn’t already accomplished that.

“Passing through… sixty-four miles,” Boomer grunted from the left-hand pilot’s seat. “Good ignition on the Leopards in rocket mode… speed fourteen thousand miles per hour and increasing.” As he followed the steering cues on his heads-up display, his gloved hand nudged the sidestick controller forward a tiny bit. The nozzles of the four LPDRS engines gimbaled slightly, adjusting the direction of thrust. The S-19’s nose dipped in response, until the spaceplane had almost completely leveled off.

Now the rounded curve of the world was distinctly visible — with a sharp blue band along the horizon marking the division between sky and space. They were just above the Kármán line, past the point where the increasingly tenuous upper atmosphere could provide any aerodynamic lift. Staying aloft now required attaining orbital velocity, the speed at which their forward motion would equal the acceleration of gravity pulling them downward.

“Altitude seventy-two miles. Speed now… seventeen thousand miles per hour and still climbing,” Boomer said, pushing the words out against the four Gs pressing them back into their seats. “Engine cutoff coming up in five seconds… four… two… one. Shutdown.”

Brad felt the sensation of enormous, overwhelming pressure gripping his body suddenly disappear. Even with the straps holding him tight in the seat, he experienced an eerie floating sensation. With a mental effort, he focused on not feeling queasy. It always took him a little time to acclimate to zero-G.

“Good burn,” Boomer reported.

Brad checked the navigation and velocity data shown on his own multifunction display and nodded. “I confirm that. We’re in the planned parking orbit.”

Their S-19 Midnight was far out over the South Pacific, flying northeast along the same relative orbital track as the slower-moving Russian space station still several hundred miles ahead of and above them. Since the velocities necessary to stay in orbit decreased with altitude, if nothing else changed they would catch up with and pass far below Mars One in approximately one hour.

With a grin, Brad turned his helmeted head toward Boomer. “Hey, are we there yet? Huh? Huh? Are we?”

Boomer chuckled. “Ask me that one more time, kid, and I swear to God, I’ll stop this thing and dump you out into the cold hard vacuum of space.”

This had already been a long mission. Since taking off from Battle Mountain more than five hours ago, they’d flown a little over five thousand miles south-southeast out over the Pacific at Mach 2—slowing down a couple of times along the way to top up with JP-8 from Sky Masters — owned 767 aerial tankers. When they arrived at a precisely calculated mid-ocean point between New Zealand to the west and central Chile to the east, Boomer had executed a sharp turn back to the northeast. Then the instant they were on a course mirroring the Russian orbital track, he’d punched it — sending the spaceplane streaking spaceward at full power.

“Radar contact at twelve o’clock high. Range is three miles and closing,” the S-19’s computer reported. “Contact is an S-29 Shadow.”

“Right on schedule,” Brad said with satisfaction. “Man, I love it when a crazy-ass plan actually comes together.” Reaching out, he punched in commands on his display and locked the contact into their navigation program. Instantly, the necessary steering cues appeared on Boomer’s HUD.

“We’re a little off to port and a scooch low,” Boomer remarked with a slight smile of his own. “Not too shabby after traveling practically a bazillion miles like a bat out of hell.” He locked out the sidestick controller and throttles for their main engines, and then pulled down what looked like a video game controller with two small knobs. “Thruster controls online.” Gingerly, he tweaked the knobs. In response, hydrazine maneuvering thrusters fired in sequence, pushing them to the right and higher.

As they closed in from below, they could see the other spaceplane grow from just a small black dot lit up by the sun to a blended-wing craft identical to their own, except larger and with a fifth engine mounted atop the fuselage. Relative to them, the S-29 was upside down and backward, flying tail first at more than seventeen thousand five hundred miles per hour. Its cargo bay doors were open, revealing two large silver-colored fuel tanks tightly slotted inside.

Brad keyed his mike. “Shadow Two-One, this is Midnight Zero-One. We have good visual contact. Welcome to space!”

Through his headset, he heard Nadia’s amused-sounding voice. “That was supposed to be my line, Midnight Zero-One. After all, we were here first!”

Well, Brad thought, that was true, though only by a few minutes. The S-29 piloted by Peter Vasey, with Nadia as mission commander, had kept them company for most of the long trip to the South Pacific before flying on ahead to make its own climb to this extremely low orbit.

“Fair enough, Shadow Two-One,” he allowed. “Stand by. We’re moving into precontact position now.”

Carefully, using tiny bursts from the S-19’s maneuvering thrusters, Boomer brought their spaceplane into position slightly below and behind its larger companion. The indicators on his HUD flashed green. “In precontact position, Two-One,” he radioed. He flipped a switch to open the slipway doors above and behind the cockpit. “Ready to proceed. ‘Bomb’ first, please.”

“Roger, Zero-One,” Nadia replied. “We show you stabilized precontact. We are ready with ‘bomb.’ You are cleared into contact position.”

Boomer glanced at Brad with a quick smile. “Now we find out if this cockamamie idea of yours will work.”

“Hey, you’re the one who did the math,” Brad retorted virtuously. “I’m just the big-picture guy here.” Ostentatiously, he folded his arms. “If we blow up, it’s not my fault.”

“Well, that’ll be a comfort, no doubt,” Boomer said dryly. “Shadow Two-One, Midnight is moving into contact position now,” he said into his mike. His hands made small, precise movements on the thruster controls. Slowly, with infinite care, the S-19 slid closer to the larger spaceplane… drifting higher to within a few yards of its open cargo bay doors.

A new set of green indicators flashed on his HUD. One careful tap activated thrusters arrayed around the S-19’s nose. They fired — canceling out the additional forward motion he’d imparted earlier.

“Good position. Zero relative velocity,” Brad confirmed after checking his own display.

Boomer breathed out. Unlike a regular air tanker, the S-29 Shadow they’d hastily converted for this mission didn’t have any of the visual guides — flashing director lights or painted lines — pilots relied on when maneuvering into position. To assist him, Sky Masters techs had done some very rapid coding to create a variation of the computer program used for docking with other spacecraft and space stations. He radioed Nadia. “Midnight Zero-One is stabilized in contact position. Over to you.”

“Roger, Zero-One,” Nadia replied. “I am maneuvering the BOHM refueling boom now.”

Brad peered up through the canopy into the S-29’s cargo bay. Directed by Nadia, a long, flexible boom unlatched from one side of the bay and slowly extended toward them. Tiny thrusters attached to the end of the boom fired in microsecond bursts.

Seconds later, he and Boomer felt a gentle CL–CLUNK as the nozzle at the end of the boom slid into the slipway and seated itself in their spaceplane’s refueling receptacle. “I show contact,” Nadia told them.

“Contact confirmed,” Boomer said.

Aboard the S-29, pumps whirred, using helium to “push” the thick borohydrogen metaoxide into the S-19’s fuel tanks in zero-G conditions. Brad watched the readings collected by sensors inside the tanks themselves. Steadily, their oxidizer reserves increased. For long minutes, the two spaceplanes flew in tandem above the blue, cloud-decked ocean far below.

“BOHM transfer complete,” Nadia radioed. “Detaching the first boom.”

With another CL–CLUNK, the boom’s nozzle slid back out of the slipway. Guided by thrusters, it retracted back into the converted tanker spaceplane’s cargo bay and latched.

Repeating the process with a second boom, this one pumping JP-8 jet fuel from a second tank, went faster. Even so, by the time the fuel transfer was finished, the linked spacecraft were approaching the solar terminator, the earth’s ever-moving dividing line between day and night. Ahead, city lights along the South American coast shone brightly, like diamonds against a black velvet backdrop.

Once the JP-8 fuel boom was clear, Boomer fired the S-19’s thrusters again. Aboard the bigger S-29 Shadow, Vasey did the same while Nadia closed their cargo bay doors. The two spaceplanes separated vertically and horizontally.

“Nice job, Shadow Two-One,” Brad radioed. “Midnight Zero-One is gassed up and ready to go.”

“Copy that,” Nadia replied. There was a slight pause. “We are beginning our powered reentry now. Good luck and stay safe!”

Brad saw a brief glow light up the other spaceplane as it fired its five LPDRS engines in rocket mode. Decelerating hard, it dropped lower on its way back down into the atmosphere and, ultimately, Battle Mountain. “Thank you, Two-One,” he said. “We’ll see you back at the barn in a few hours.”

Beside him, Boomer tapped their thrusters again, pitching the S-19’s nose up and away from the earth’s curving horizon. He glanced at Brad. “You ready to chase down that Russian space station?”

Dry-mouthed suddenly, Brad nodded tightly. “Yeah. But let’s make sure we don’t get too close, okay?”

“Amen to that,” Boomer said cheerfully. “Don’t sweat it, Brad. We’re just gonna mosey on up to within a hundred miles or so of our cosmonaut buddies and launch our nanosats… unobtrusive-like. Then we just kick back and wait while the little birds do all the hard work.” He brought their main engine controls back online. “Stand by for engine relight.”

“Affirmative. Standing by.” Brad checked his own displays. “Everything looks solid. No red lights. We are go for the burn.”

Cued by their flight computer, Boomer advanced the throttles. “Okay, here we go. Next stop, Mars One.”

With a muffled whummp, the S-19’s rocket motors relit. Instantly, G-forces slammed Brad and Boomer back into their seats. Accelerating fast, the spaceplane streaked higher — climbing almost vertically toward the still-distant Russian orbital platform.

Tethered comfortably in front of his sensor console, Major Georgy Konnikov fought to keep his eyes open. He yawned once and then again, even deeper. His jaw muscles ached with the strain. Between the hard labor involved in unloading supplies from the two Progress cargo modules and the frantic rush to bring their life-support, electronics, and weapons systems online, no one in the Mars One crew had gotten much sleep in the past twenty-four hours.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.

The shrill warning tone warbling through his headset yanked Konnikov’s eyes wide open. Startled, he floated backward against the tether and then pulled himself hurriedly back within reach of the console.

He pulled up the alert on his display. Mars One’s passive IR sensors had just detected a major heat source — either a missile or a rocket launch. But which was it? And where the hell was it headed? His fingers rattled across a keyboard as he interrogated the station’s primary computer. Unnoticed, a droplet of sweat broke free from his furrowed brow and drifted off across the component-crowded compartment.

In response to Konnikov’s frantic queries, lines of text scrolled across the display. They were superimposed on a map that showed Mars One’s orbital track as a green line. Suddenly a red line appeared, arrowing across the map… on an intercept course with the station.

“My God,” the major muttered. Without any further hesitation, he punched a button on his console. Alarms blared in every compartment. “Action stations,” he yelled into the intercom. “All personnel to action stations. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill! Colonel Strelkov to Command at once!”

Colonel Vadim Strelkov reacted instantly to the ear-piercing shriek of the “action stations” alarm. He’d been dozing, half asleep and half awake, in a sleeping bag anchored to the wall of his small cabin. Now, before he even fully regained consciousness, his hands tugged the zipper down far enough so that he could worm free of its comforting embrace.

For a brief moment, floating free in the tiny space, he shook his head in a desperate bid to clear out the last cobwebs of fatigue. Then, hearing Konnikov’s urgent summons, he swept the curtain to his cabin aside and launched himself down a narrow, conduit- and storage-cabinet-lined corridor.

Seconds later, Strelkov glided through an open hatch into the command compartment. He could hear confused voices echoing through other hatches as the rest of the station’s crew struggled to wake up, comprehend what was happening, and maneuver in zero-G to their allotted posts. He gritted his teeth in mingled fury and humiliation. Years of rigorous training and drills and this… this disgraceful disorder… this was the result of the first real crisis?

Angrily, he shoved aside the pathetic excuse offered by his unruly subconscious, that his cosmonauts were simply exhausted and in serious need of rest. What did fatigue matter if Mars One was truly under attack? Would an enemy missile refuse to detonate out of pity because those it sought to kill were tired?

Before he sailed entirely across the compartment, Strelkov grabbed a handhold and arrested his momentum. “Give me a situation report!” he demanded.

Still bleary-eyed himself, Konnikov complied. “Our thermal sensors have a contact, sir! The computer evaluates it as one of the American spaceplanes. It is currently accelerating into orbit on a converging course. Based on its present trajectory, I estimate it will come within two hundred kilometers of the station, possibly even closer.”

Strelkov scowled. The Americans were reacting faster than he had hoped. Whether this was an attack or something else entirely — maybe only a reconnaissance flight — he would have to take precautions. He let go, pushed off the compartment wall with his fingertips, and floated over to the younger man. “Attention, all crew. Begin donning your Sokol pressure suits immediately. Major Romanenko, prep your special-action armor,” he ordered over the intercom. “Report when ready.”

GRU intelligence reports or not, he thought coldly, if that American spaceplane was armed after all and attacked them, depressurizing Mars One would at least minimize the danger of fire and explosive decompression. And since each man’s space suit was stored close to his assigned action station, it shouldn’t take them more than a few minutes to obey.

Seeing Konnikov reach for the tether holding him to his sensor console, Strelkov stopped him with a gesture. “Before you suit up, Georgy, I need you to contact Moscow,” he snapped. “Get me Colonel General Leonov… and the president!”