The Kremlin Strike

Twenty-Eight

Colonel Vadim Strelkov looked down at the Pacific Ocean as the station swung northeastward toward the coast of California. Masses of clouds, bright white in daylight, towered above the dark navy-blue waters of the deep sea. “Time to the first estimated American launch window?” he asked Konnikov.

“Two minutes, sir,” the younger man replied from his sensor console.

Strelkov tapped the intercom button. “All personnel. Stand by for possible attack. Close and seal your suits.” He closed his own helmet visor.

Readiness reports flowed smoothly from the rest of the crew. The lasers and Thunderbolt plasma rail gun were fully charged and ready to fire. The station’s own sensors and data links to other satellites and ground-based radars were operational.

“Sixty seconds,” Konnikov reported. A warning tone pulsed through their headsets. “We are being painted by an X-band radar. My computer evaluates it as an AN/TPY-2 phased-array system.”

Strelkov nodded. That was one of the bus-sized, long-range, very high-altitude surveillance radars the Americans used for a number of their missile and air defense systems, including the GMD interceptors based at Vandenberg Air Force Base. “Is that radar locked on to us?”

“Not reliably,” Konnikov answered. “Our stealth coating is absorbing most of its energy.” He glanced toward the colonel. “But they probably have enough tracking data to launch against us anyway.”

“Understood, Major.” By combining the bits and pieces of information gathered by their ground-based telescopes, radars, and geosynchronous SBIRS satellites, the Americans could certainly pin down their orbital track clearly enough to target Mars One. Briefly, he considered using the thrusters aboard the docked cargo spacecraft and orbiter to change their orbit slightly — in the hope of throwing off the enemy’s firing solution. Then he rejected the idea. Such an evasive maneuver would consume too much of their precious fuel reserves with too little guarantee of success.

“Fifteen seconds.”

Strelkov gripped the edges of his console. Yes, they had simulated this exact scenario dozens of times during training. But all those successes in computer-generated war games seemed less impressive when confronted by a real attack.

“Launch detection by EKS missile warning satellite!” Konnikov rapped out. “A missile has been fired from the silos at Vandenberg. Mars One is confirmed as the target.” He leaned over his console. “Second launch detection! Same source. Same target.”

“Time to impact for the first American interceptor?”

“Fifty seconds.”

Strelkov spoke to Filatyev. “Engage those enemy missiles when ready, Viktor.”

From his station, the burly major acknowledged with a terse, “Yes, sir.”

Konnikov spoke up. “EKS data handoff to our X-band radar is complete. Time to impact for the first American missile is now thirty-five seconds. First-stage separation observed. Transferring data to Thunderbolt’s fire-control computer.”

“Data received,” Filatyev confirmed. A second later, he said, “I have a firing solution. Firing now.”

Mars One vibrated as the plasma rail gun pulsed.

“Good hit!” Konnikov reported excitedly. His radar display showed the image of the inbound American interceptor blossom into a cloud of separate fragments and veer off course. He shifted his attention to the second enemy missile still climbing toward them. Like its counterpart, it had already separated from its first stage and must be nearly ready to shed its second — which would leave only its payload, the much smaller EKV, or exoatmospheric kill vehicle, speeding aloft to home in on and strike the station. “Time to impact for the second interceptor is twenty-eight seconds.”

“Firing Thunderbolt,” Filatyev said.

Again, Mars One shuddered. And again, the plasma toroid fired by the rail gun slammed home. While it was still more than three hundred kilometers from the Russian space station, the second American missile swerved aside… shedding pieces of itself as it fell back toward Earth.

“Excellent shooting, Viktor!” Strelkov said with open delight. He let go of his console and drifted slightly into the middle of the compartment. He rotated to face Konnikov. “How long before we’re in range of the interceptors based at Fort Drum, Georgy?”

“Just under eight minutes, Colonel.”

Strelkov swiveled back to the intercom and spoke to Pyotr Romanenko. “What is the status of Thunderbolt’s supercapacitors, Major?”

“They are recharging now,” the engineering officer replied. “We should be able to fire two more shots in less than six minutes.”

Strelkov allowed himself to relax. With the plasma rail gun operational, they were essentially safe from anything the Americans could throw at them. True, he thought, a sequenced attack like this would be more difficult to defeat if it were carried out while Mars One was in the earth’s shadow. In those circumstances, using Thunderbolt to destroy a first wave of American missiles would drain their supercapacitors — leaving only their much-shorter-range Hobnail lasers to handle a second wave. Given the high closure rates in this kind of orbital engagement, Leonid Revin’s lasers would have just seven seconds to hit and destroy the incoming interceptors. That was still feasible, but there was no denying that the odds that the Americans might score a crippling hit would increase dramatically.

Fortunately, given the orbital mechanics at work, the American missile defense sites could not conduct a coordinated attack in darkness for at least another nine days. And by that time, the replacement fusion reactor Colonel General Leonov had promised should be in orbit and mated with Mars One. Once that happened, nothing could touch them. Russia’s total domination of low Earth orbit would be assured.

President Farrell listened intently while Nadia Rozek outlined her proposed plan to snatch Brad McLanahan safely from Russian territory. Seen over the secure link to Battle Mountain, she looked exhausted, with dark shadows under her large blue-gray eyes. Despite her obvious fatigue, though, she sounded completely confident and fully in control of her faculties and emotions. He found that reassuring, because otherwise what she contemplated would have struck him as riding awfully close to the edge of crazy.

When she finished, he pursed his lips. “Let’s assume I sign off on all of this, Major. Can you guarantee me that this rescue operation of yours will succeed?”

“No, I cannot, Mr. President,” Nadia said frankly. “The challenges we face are enormous. And this plan is, of necessity, fairly complex — with many working parts. Should any of them go wrong… or if the Russians fail to react as I predict… we will fail.”

Farrell nodded. That pretty much squared with his own assessment. He looked closely at her. “Basically, you’re asking me to commit a substantial U.S. military force and run huge political and diplomatic risks — all in the hope of saving just one man. There’s a lot of folks out there — especially in Congress and the media — who might not see that as real sensible.”

“Yes, that is true,” she agreed. She offered him a wan smile. “But remember, I will still be risking more than you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? How’s that?”

“I will be gambling with my own life, Mr. President,” Nadia said quietly. “And that of the man I love.”

Damn, J.D., this lady sure knows how to square up and throw a punch, Farrell thought with admiration. And the best of it was that he could tell she meant every single word. There was no artifice in Nadia Rozek. He sat quietly for a moment. Then he nodded decisively. “You’ve made your point, Major. If you’re going all in, how can I do any less? I’ll issue the necessary orders to the commander of the Pacific Fleet. No doubt there’ll be some squawking from some of the Pentagon’s wet hens, but you pay that no mind. I’ll see to it that you get the help you need.”

“Thank you,” Nadia said simply. She looked down briefly, hiding her face from him.

She was probably concealing a few tears of relief, he judged. One thing he’d learned was that this young woman hated the thought of competing on anything but a level playing field. A lot of people would have gone straight for the emotional jugular — reminding him of how she’d lost her legs saving his miserable hide. Somehow, he doubted the idea of doing that had ever crossed her mind.

Farrell waited a few seconds, letting her recover, and then asked, “When do you figure you’ll be ready to kick this thing off?”

“Approximately seventy-two hours from now,” Nadia replied. “I wish it could be sooner, but I must contact my own government and request the use of some of its resources — those of the Iron Wolf Squadron. It will take time to assemble the necessary aircraft and munitions and transfer them here from Poland.”

“Seventy-two hours,” he said meditatively. “That’s three days.”

She nodded darkly. “Three days during which Brad must avoid detection and capture. Otherwise, everything we are doing will be in vain.”