The Kremlin Strike

Twenty-Four

President John Dalton Farrell watched the last few seconds of nanosatellite imagery through narrowed eyes. His jaw tightened angrily when the screen froze on a blinding flash from one of the Russian space station’s weapons and then went black. “Those sons of bitches,” he growled. “So much for Foreign Minister Titeneva’s public-relations horseshit about the peaceful uses of outer space.”

He turned his head toward the two other men in the room, Kevin Martindale and Patrick McLanahan. “What type of weapon was that?”

“It was definitely a directed-energy weapon… and a remarkably powerful one,” Patrick said tiredly. He seemed to have aged at least ten more years in the last few minutes. “Brad and Boomer’s spaceplane was more than one hundred and fifty miles from Mars One when it was hit. But we lost all telemetry from the S-19 within milliseconds of that flash. No conventional missile or projectile could possibly have covered that kind of distance so rapidly.”

Farrell nodded. “Was it a laser? Like the ones we saw knock out our recon nanosatellites?”

“I don’t believe so,” Patrick replied. “A laser weapon of sufficient power could definitely destroy one of our spaceplanes, but not so quickly. At a minimum, we should have received telemetry from Midnight Zero-One indicating a rapidly rising hull temperature. But that is not what we observed.” Using a small, palm-sized computer linked to the White House network, he sent more images to one of the Situation Room’s large screens. “This is tracking data collected by the Globus II space surveillance radar at Vardø, Norway, right on the Russian border.”

The radar images showed the S-19 as it started to move away from Mars One. A green line depicted its projected orbital track curving northward to enter an even more inclined orbit. “Seconds before they were fired on, Boomer had initiated a significant plane-change maneuver.”

“To open the range fast,” Farrell said.

Patrick nodded. “Yes, sir. By lighting up those undeclared military-grade radars, the Russians were demonstrating potential hostile intent. Boomer’s reaction was exactly correct.” He looked down for a moment, obviously trying to control his emotions. “I would have made the same move if I’d been in the pilot’s seat.”

“But they didn’t get far,” Farrell said carefully.

“No, sir.” Patrick tapped an icon on his computer, advancing the radar footage. “This shows the precise moment of the attack.”

On the screen, the blip representing the S-19 suddenly veered off its projected track—“falling” away from the Russian space station on a wildly eccentric trajectory.

“Everything we know now suggests the spaceplane sustained significant impact damage, probably coupled with intense electromagnetic pulse effects,” the older McLanahan said bluntly. “That would explain why we immediately lost contact with both the crew and the S-19’s computers… and why they haven’t been able to regain control over the spacecraft yet.”

“Assuming they’re even still alive,” Martindale said delicately, plainly aware that he was treading on painful ground.

Patrick nodded without speaking. He brought up a new map. This one showed the current trajectory of the crippled Sky Masters spaceplane. If nothing changed, it was on course to hit the earth’s atmosphere somewhere over the Western Pacific. A digital readout showed the estimated time remaining before catastrophic reentry. It was down to less than twenty minutes. His lined face showed little emotion, but his eyes were full of sorrow. “If Brad and Boomer are still alive, one thing’s certain… they’re running out of time fast.”

Farrell winced. What could he possibly say to a father about to watch his son die? Nothing useful, he supposed. Horrible though it was, however, he needed the other man’s experience and knowledge right now. Expressions of shared grief and sympathy would have to wait. “Okay, so the S-19 wasn’t hit by a laser,” he said slowly. “Then what could have caused this impact and EMP damage you mentioned?”

“Probably a plasma cannon,” Martindale said.

Farrell stared at him in surprise. “You’re joking.”

Martindale shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m not.” He nodded toward the screen. “It’s the only thing I can think of that would explain what we just saw.”

“You actually believe the Russians have built themselves an honest-to-God real live plasma weapon?” Farrell said dubiously. “Like something out of Star Wars?”

“Yes, but not Star Wars the movie,” Martindale told him. “More likely, one of the advanced weapons concepts we explored decades ago as part of President Reagan’s original Strategic Defense Initiative.”

“Which were never developed,” Farrell said. “Right?”

Martindale nodded. “True. But we learned enough to know plasma weapons were probably technologically feasible — at least given a huge investment of time, scientific and engineering resources, and money.”

“And you think Gennadiy Gryzlov has gone ahead and done just that,” Farrell said slowly.

“I do.” Martindale’s mouth turned downward. “Though, I admit, much to my deep regret. Because if the Russians really have managed to put a working high-powered plasma weapons system in orbit, this country is in a great deal of danger.”

Patrick’s computer pinged suddenly. He read the alert and then looked up at them. His eyes now showed a tiny flicker of hope. “That was Mission Control at Battle Mountain. Several minutes ago, one of our space surveillance satellites detected two small objects separating from the S-19 Midnight.”

Martindale looked wary. “That might just be debris breaking loose from the wreck,” he cautioned.

“It could also be the crew bailing out,” the older McLanahan countered sharply.

“Bailing out?” Farrell didn’t bother hiding his confusion. “How the holy hell can anyone bail out in space, for Christ’s sake? I mean, even ignoring the fact that there’s no air… how could anyone hope to survive reentering the atmosphere wearing just a space suit?” His perplexity cleared slightly. “Or do you mean Brad and Boomer are clear of the S-19 and can stay in orbit long enough for us to send up another one of the spaceplanes to rescue them?”

Patrick shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. President. Given the trajectory the spaceplane is on, their emergency backpack thrusters can’t possibly boost the crew back into a stable orbit. They don’t have the power or fuel required to do the job. And even if they could, by the time we can sortie another S-plane and achieve rendezvous, Brad and Boomer would already be out of oxygen.”

Farrell stared at him in honest bewilderment. “Then how—?” he began. Quickly, Patrick gave him a rundown on the Emergency Return from Orbit gear now carried by every Sky Masters spaceplane. When he finished, Farrell let out a low whistle. “Hell, General, that’s like betting your whole stake without seeing a single goddamned card.”

“It’s not quite that bad,” Martindale said evenly. “While I admit that no one has ever used the ERO system in real life, we have run a substantial number of computer simulations to pin down the odds of a successful reentry.”

Farrell looked straight at him. “Which are?”

“Somewhere around fifty percent,” Martindale admitted. “If everything goes perfectly.”

Patrick’s computer pinged again. He grabbed for it eagerly, read the new message, and looked up with the faint beginnings of a smile. “Brad and Boomer both made it out of the S-19 alive! That satellite spotted both contacts outside the spaceplane executing controlled burns… with a five-minute separation between the first and the second.”

He tapped quickly on the tiny screen, sending a short text message. Seeing Martindale and Farrell’s quizzical looks, he explained. “I’ve ordered Battle Mountain to send us estimates of the crew’s probable landing zones. Between what we know about their known angles of descent, velocity, and the reported atmospheric conditions along their reentry tracks, our computers should be able to narrow those down pretty well.”

Less than a minute later, Battle Mountain’s updated estimates blinked onto the Situation Room’s main screen. Red ovals centered on the most probable landing sites for each ERO were displayed on a large digital map of Asia and the Pacific. For a long moment, the three men stared at the map in horrified silence.

Recovering fast, Farrell grabbed the secure phone next to him. “Get me the commander of the Pacific Fleet,” he snapped. “And then patch me through to the Japanese prime minister!”

Leonov waited patiently for Gennadiy Gryzlov to run through the telescopic imagery collected during Mars One’s first engagement yet another time. They were dramatic, he admitted to himself… more so than he would have predicted. Military-power laser beams, despite the way they were often depicted in films and popular entertainment, were not visible — especially in space. But their devastating effect on targets, especially small targets like the stealth mines or missiles the Americans had launched, was undeniable. Short Hobnail laser bursts had torn them into clouds of glowing superheated debris. The resulting plasma bloom had the additional benefit of nudging those debris clouds safely away from the space station. Eventually, they would drop out of orbit and burn up in the atmosphere.

The most incredible footage, though, showed the American spaceplane just as it was struck by Thunderbolt’s plasma toroid. It disappeared momentarily in a dazzling flash… and when it reappeared the S-19 was already tumbling wildly away through space, obviously completely out of control.

“Beautiful,” Gryzlov murmured. “Absolutely beautiful.” On the secure video link from his Kremlin office, he looked up at Leonov with a cruel, wolfish smile. “Now that was a successful demonstration of Mars One’s firepower, Mikhail. By now, the Americans must be shitting in their pants with fear.”

Leonov nodded in agreement. While he would have preferred not to reveal the space station’s armament so soon, the wholly one-sided battle ought to deter further American attacks for a time — with luck long enough for them to launch Mars One’s replacement fusion reactor into orbit and bring it online.

“It seems we have been far too cautious,” Gryzlov said, still smiling. “We worried too much about what the Americans could do to our space station before it was fully operational. But now we see the truth. They are impotent. With our new weapons, Mars One is safe from anything the Americans can throw at it.”

“Nothing made by man is invulnerable,” Leonov cautioned. “Without power from a reactor, Strelkov’s defenses might still be overwhelmed by a sufficiently large attack.”

Gryzlov dismissed his warning with a wave of his hand. “You sound like an old hen, Mikhail. Cluck, cluck, cluck.”

“But, sir—”

“Enough.” Gryzlov slapped his hand down on his desk. “I will no longer take counsel from your fears. It’s time to move ahead with the next phase of the Mars Project. You will direct Colonel Strelkov to open offensive operations at once!”

Leonov set his jaw stubbornly. “Such a move would be premature. The scientists and engineers at Akademgorodok are very close to finishing their work on the replacement fusion reactor module. Even so, it will take several more days to transport the reactor to Vostochny and mate it with the Energia-5VR rocket that will carry it into space.” He spread his hands. “True, we’ve won the opening skirmish. But that does not change the basic facts: right now the combat readiness of Mars One’s weapons and sensors is still very limited. Opening full-scale military operations in space remains unnecessarily risky.”

Gryzlov snorted. “How can you be so blind, Leonov? I thought you were a strategist.” He shook his head in reproof. “The station’s potential weaknesses are precisely why we should push ahead fast. Why give the Americans time to analyze their defeat and come up with some new plan to use against us? Now that they know we’ve deployed a military outpost in Earth orbit, it’s more vital than ever to knock them off balance and blind them!”

He leaned closer to the camera. “My new orders stand, Colonel General Leonov. You will hit your targets as originally planned,” he said fiercely. “You will not allow our enemies to regain their footing.”