The Kremlin Strike

Forty-Three

Colonel Vadim Strelkov looked ahead and saw a line of darkness curving across the surface of the earth. They were approaching the terminator, the point where Mars One would cross into darkness for thirty-four minutes on this orbit. He opened an intercom channel to Pyotr Romanenko. “Solar array status?”

“We are currently generating twenty-four kilowatts. But that is dropping fast,” the engineering officer reported. “Shifting to station backup batteries now.”

“Understood,” Strelkov said. He switched channels. “Filatyev. Revin. Give me a report on your weapons.”

Filatyev spoke first from his post in the aft weapons module. “Thunderbolt’s supercapacitors are fully charged. The weapon is ready to fire.”

“Both Hobnail battery packs are at maximum capacity,” Leonid Revin said from the forward weapons module. “All indicators are green on both lasers.”

“Very well,” Strelkov said. During most periods of darkness, he relied on those on duty to handle their own preparations. After so many orbits, this process was quickly becoming routine, but it never hurt to be fully ready for action when they were forced to rely completely on stored power. That was why he ran drills like this two or three times during any given “day.” Soon, though, they would no longer be necessary. To keep from drifting off across the command compartment, he made sure his feet were hooked under the edge of his console and then carefully swiveled toward Georgy Konnikov. “Give me an update on the reactor module, Major.”

Konnikov had the answer at his fingertips. “It is currently six hundred kilometers behind us, sir, and closing on an elliptical transfer orbit.”

“Time to the final docking maneuver?”

“Currently estimated at three hours and thirty-five minutes,” the sensor officer told him.

Strelkov nodded. In just two more orbits, once their fusion generator was online and providing massive amounts of power, this station would be invulnerable — safe against any conceivable American attack.

Abruptly, their lights and displays flickered for a fraction of a second and then stabilized.

“We’ve crossed the solar terminator,” Romanenko reported. “Shift to battery power is complete.”

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.

Caught off guard by the loud warning echoing through the station, Strelkov grabbed for his console. “Identify this threat!” he demanded.

“One of our EKS warning satellites has detected a launch over Ecuador — almost directly below us!” Konnikov said urgently. He hammered at his keyboard, interrogating their primary computer. “The launch detection is confirmed by our own IR sensors.”

Ecuador? Strelkov felt cold. Could the Americans have deployed some of their missile defense interceptors to South America to ambush Mars One as it crossed through the earth’s shadow? All the intelligence reports he’d studied claimed those weapons weren’t supposed to be mobile. Then again, spies were never infallible. “Is that a missile?”

“Negative, Colonel,” Konnikov said. He turned his head. “The computer evaluates this contact as an American spaceplane. Based on its thermal signature, I believe it is an S-9 Black Stallion. It is boosting to orbit on a converging course with us.”

“Time to intercept?”

Konnikov scrolled through his displays. “Fourteen minutes.”

Strelkov frowned. The S-9 was the oldest, smallest, and least capable of the Sky Masters S-series spaceplanes, not much larger than a two-seater F-16D fighter. How much of a threat could it pose to his station? He considered waiting to engage it, hoping to see what else the Americans might have planned.

“Sukin syn,” Konnikov muttered in shock. He spun around toward the colonel and was pulled up short by the tether connecting him to his sensor console. “EKS and IR data handoff to our X-band radar is complete. I have a more accurate trajectory for the enemy spacecraft!”

“And?”

“It’s not attempting to simply match our orbit, sir,” Konnikov said hurriedly. “That S-9 is on a direct collision course! It’s coming right at us!”

Strelkov felt his mouth open in surprise. The Americans were using their spaceplane as a kamikaze — sacrificing the S-9 and its pilot to destroy Mars One on impact. He stabbed down at another intercom button. “Pavel! Fire the thrusters! Take us higher!”

“Activating thrusters,” Lieutenant Colonel Pavel Anikeyev acknowledged. Strelkov’s second in command was at his station in the aft compartment he shared with Romanenko. “Stand by for a five-second burn.”

Strelkov held tight as Mars One shook briefly. The maneuvering thrusters of their docked Progress cargo ships and the Federation orbiter were pushing them higher in this orbit. A five-second burn wouldn’t add much to their altitude, no more than a few kilometers, but that should be enough.

The station steadied again, back at zero-G.

“Burn complete. But our fuel reserves are now critically low, Vadim,” Anikeyev said tightly. “We have enough hydrazine left to counter the recoil of several more Thunderbolt shots and to conduct another short maneuvering burn… but nothing more.”

“I understand,” Strelkov replied. Once the reactor was docked and online, they would no longer have to rely on conventional fuels. They would have abundant electrical power to run the ion thrusters ringing the exterior of each station section.

Then, to his horror, he heard Konnikov report, “The American spaceplane has adjusted its trajectory! It has matched our maneuver and is still on a collision course!”

Enough, Strelkov decided. “Major Filatyev,” he said over the command circuit. “Activate Thunderbolt and destroy that enemy spacecraft.”

“Tracking data received,” the weapons officer confirmed. “Firing now.”

Mars One shook again as the rail gun pulsed — hurling a ring of superheated, ultradense plasma outward at ten thousand kilometers per second.

“Good kill!” Konnikov crowed. His radar showed the American S-9 Black Stallion spinning away off course, trailing debris and a cloud of frozen fuel. “The enemy spacecraft will hit the atmosphere and burn up in just a few minutes.”

Strelkov nodded. “Very good, Major.” He relaxed his grip on his console. “Connect me to Moscow. We need to report in.”

Alerted by the emergency signal from Mars One, Leonov reached his workstation in time to hear the tail end of Strelkov’s excited account. “Our sensors are monitoring the wreckage as it falls toward the atmosphere. So far, we’ve seen no sign of any attempt to bail out.”

“Excellent work, Colonel!” Gennadiy Gryzlov said from another screen. The president was in his Kremlin office. He smiled coldly. “Now we’ll show Farrell how stupid he has been. You will carry out an immediate Rapira retaliatory strike on the Sky Masters spaceplane base in Nevada.”

Strelkov swallowed hard. “Unfortunately, Mr. President, we will not be in range of any targets in the continental United States during this orbit.” He looked apologetic. “The Americans must have timed this new attack with that in mind.”

Gryzlov’s smile disappeared. He was plainly irked by the news that orbital mechanics would delay the execution of his desired counterstroke. But then he shrugged his shoulders irritably. “I suppose it won’t matter that much if we strike now… or in two hours.”

“No, sir,” Strelkov agreed quickly.

“If anything, the delay will only increase the terror the Americans suffer as they realize how foolish it was to challenge us,” Gryzlov commented, regaining his good humor.

Listening to the president’s confident assessment, Leonov kept his own counsel. Nothing in his study of previous Scion, Sky Masters, and Iron Wolf operations suggested this single spaceplane sortie would be all they had planned. It was possible, he decided, that launching that small S-9 Black Stallion against Mars One was just another feint — one intended to mask a sudden American lunge against the fusion reactor module before it could dock.

Unnoticed by the other two men, he opened a new secure communications channel, this one to the two Elektron spaceplanes escorting the reactor. ACTIVATE ALL SENSORS AND COME TO FULL ALERT, he typed. ENEMY ATTACK MAY BE IMMINENT. LEONOV OUT.

“We will be ready to attack the Sky Masters air base as soon as we come within range,” Strelkov assured the president. “You can rely on…”

He broke off in midsentence, interrupted by another high-pitched warning tone that warbled through his headset.

“New launch detection!” Konnikov shouted. “Over Venezuela, this time!” Working with desperate speed, he sorted through the information pouring in from different sensors. “It appears to be another American spaceplane, much larger than the S-9 Black Stallion.”

“Another S-19 Midnight?” Strelkov asked.

Konnikov matched the heat signature of this new contact against the sensor data he’d collected during their first space battle ten days before. Only ten days… and yet it felt like years had passed, he thought in amazement. He stared at the results for a moment and then turned toward Strelkov. “No, sir, the engine plume from this spacecraft is more intense. It’s almost certainly an S-29 Shadow.”

“On what trajectory?” the colonel snapped.

Again, Konnikov saw a red line intersect their own green orbital track on a map display. “Straight at us.”

Strelkov nodded grimly. “Of course.”

He could feel himself starting to sweat. Mars One would not emerge into full sunlight for another thirty minutes, and their plasma rail gun had only enough power left in its supercapacitors for one more shot. Had the Americans somehow deduced that he couldn’t recharge his energy weapons without electricity from the solar panels? Were they trying to wear down his defenses with repeated attacks? If so, it might be wiser to keep the rail gun’s last shot in reserve and risk a closer engagement against this second spaceplane using the station’s Hobnail lasers and Scimitar missiles.

Gryzlov broke in over the still-open satellite communications link to Moscow. “What are you waiting for? Why haven’t you already fired on this new target?”

When Strelkov hesitantly tried to explain his concerns, the president snapped, “Don’t be a fool! The Americans have almost certainly armed at least one of their spaceplanes already. If you don’t fire Thunderbolt now, you may never get a second chance.”

Helplessly, the colonel looked toward Leonov. “Sir?”

“The president is right,” the other man admitted. “We’ve analyzed radar data collected during the final stages of the successful American effort to rescue their downed astronaut. They seem to show the intervention of a large supersonic craft in the battle area shortly before the confirmed disappearance of one of our Su-35 fighters. If so, that S-29 Shadow headed your way may well be armed with weapons of its own.”

“Very well,” Strelkov said slowly. Unable to shake the premonition that he was making a tactical error, he looked across the command compartment at Konnikov. “Transfer your tracking data to Thunderbolt’s fire-control computer, Major.”

“Transfer complete,” the younger man reported seconds later.

“My computer has a solution, Colonel,” Filatyev announced over the intercom circuit. “Standing by to fire on your order.”

“Weapons release granted,” Strelkov said reluctantly.

“Firing.”

The plasma rail gun pulsed a second time.

“Good hit!” Konnikov exulted. He slaved the station’s powerful telescopes to its X-band radar and sent the light-intensified images they captured to Strelkov’s console. They showed the dead Sky Masters S-29 Shadow curving away with a ragged hole torn in its aft fuselage. It was surrounded by a dense fog of frozen fuel, oxidizer, and debris.

Strelkov studied the pictures intently. He frowned, puzzled by what he observed. “There is a lot more fuel in that debris cloud than I would have expected,” he noted.

On-screen, Gryzlov nodded sagely. “The spaceplane must have been carrying long-range missiles in its payload bay, Colonel. That would explain the extra fuel.” He smiled. “So you see, you were wise not to let that S-29 get any closer to Mars One before killing it.”