The Kremlin Strike

Forty-Five

Maneuvering thrusters fired in sequence, pitching the S-29 Shadow spaceplane “downward” so that it was now flying toward Mars One with its nose pointed to the earth below and its upper fuselage aimed straight at the Russian space station.

“Range to target now ninety miles. Closing velocity is eleven hundred feet per second,” the S-29 reported. “Opening cargo bay doors. Doors are unlatched.”

Through his COMS sensors, Brad saw a thin, almost impossibly black line appear down the length of the cargo bay’s ceiling. Slowly, the twin clamshell doors opened wider, revealing the star-filled infinity of space. And suddenly the realization of what they were about to attempt hit him with full force. We must be absolutely batshit crazy, he thought in amazement. “Wolf One to Wolf Two and Three,” he said. “I suppose it’s too late to come up with another plan?”

“I wondered that myself,” Vasey replied dryly.

Nadia laughed quietly. “Come now, boys. This should be fun.”

Almost against his will, Brad smiled. “Remind me to go over the precise American English definition of ‘fun’ with you when we’re back home.”

“It is a date,” she said.

The voice of the S-29’s computer intruded. “Propulsion systems and electronics are go for all nanosatellites. Guidance systems initialized and final navigation data downloaded.” Moments later, it said, “Range to target now eighty-two miles. Launching nanosatellites.”

Brad held his breath as spring mechanisms ejected the cloud of twenty-four tiny Sky Masters — built machines out into space — releasing them from separate points around the forward section of the bay at quarter-second intervals to avoid any collisions. Once the nanosats were clear of the doors, short bursts from their small chemical engines sent them flying on ahead of the spaceplane in a carefully calculated constellation.

“Good launches on all nanosatellites,” the S-29 reported, sounding almost smug… for a collection of electronic circuits and computer chips.

Brad exhaled. That was one hurdle down. Now they would see how the ingenuity and hard work of Jason Richter’s engineers and technicians stacked up against Mars One’s array of high-powered radars, IR sensors, and telescopes.

“Activating ECM constellation,” the spaceplane’s computer said.

Konnikov bent over his console, paging through displays from his different sensors at a rapid, controlled pace. “Our X-band radar has a solid lock on the enemy S-29 Shadow. Range is one hundred thirty kilometers and closing. I’m transferring the tracking data to the laser fire-control computers.”

“Tracking data received,” Revin confirmed from the station’s forward weapons module. “Both Hobnail lasers are locked on and ready to fire. The target will be at maximum effective range in twenty-five seconds.”

Konnikov stiffened suddenly. “New launch detection, centered on the American spacecraft! L-band radar shows many new contacts, twenty-plus, on closing trajectories.” He locked their X-band radar on to the contacts picked up by the lower-frequency system. “The bogeys are small, not even one meter in diameter. Relative closing velocity is roughly three hundred and fifty meters per second.”

This was definitely a saturation attack, Strelkov decided. The Americans were throwing large numbers of weapons at Mars One in an effort to overwhelm the defensive lasers and drain their battery packs. The comparatively slow speed of the devices the S-29 had just launched suggested their propulsion systems must be small… with a correspondingly larger fragmentation warhead. If just one or two of those mobile space mines made it past Revin’s lasers and detonated, they might be able to inflict crippling damage on the station. “Shift targets, Leonid,” he ordered quickly. “Destroy those newly launched weapons first!”

“Yes, Colonel,” Revin replied. “All targets are laid into my computer. I am…”

“Jamming!” Konnikov shouted. “Both radars have lost all contact.” He tapped frantically at his keyboard. “Initiating frequency-hopping to counter the jamming and regain contact.”

Strelkov fought to stay calm. “What is the source of this jamming? The American spaceplane?”

Konnikov shook his head. “No, sir. It’s coming from that cloud of small spacecraft the Americans launched at us.” He swallowed hard. “Radar frequency-hopping is ineffective. There are too many different jamming sources and they’re changing frequencies to match my systems with incredible speed.”

“Then shift to your IR sensors,” Strelkov said tightly. “And send the information you obtain from them to the laser fire-control computers.”

“Other enemy countermeasures make that impossible,” Konnikov told him. “My thermal sensors now show well over one hundred potential targets!” There was a definite undercurrent of fear in the younger officer’s voice now. “At this range, I cannot discriminate between the decoys and the genuine enemy contacts!”

Strelkov stared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Konnikov twisted away from his console. “I think several of those small spacecraft are dispensing the equivalent of aircraft decoy flares, Colonel,” he explained urgently. “Made of some kind of pyrotechnic mixture with its own oxidizer to allow combustion in a vacuum.”

“Find a way to penetrate the enemy’s countermeasures screen, Major,” Strelkov said. “And fast.”

He could sense his heart rate increasing in time with their deteriorating tactical situation. The mix of weapons and jammers launched by the Americans could be within lethal range of Mars One in minutes. And who knew what the S-29 Shadow itself was doing while it was hidden from their sight? With Konnikov’s X-band radar jammed, they didn’t have enough tracking information to zero in visually on the enemy spaceplane using the station’s powerful telescopes. For now, the colonel and his fellow cosmonauts were effectively blind.

“ECM constellation is fully operational,” the S-29’s computer reported. “No lock by enemy X-band radar system.”

Through his COMS’ IR sensors, Brad saw the space between their spaceplane and the Russian space station come alive with hundreds of new bright green heat signatures. Imagining the frustration aboard Mars One as its crew tried desperately to sort out which of those were real and which were fakes made him smile, despite his own rapidly increasing tension.

He opened a channel to Nadia and Peter Vasey. “Wolf One to all Wolves. Report status on Wolf cubs.”

“Cubs Two and Three are ready,” Nadia said. The two unpiloted COMS under her control were good to fly.

Vasey came in next. “Cub Four is in the green.”

Through a data link, Brad checked Cub One, the robot spacecraft remotely tied to his own Wolf One. It was also ready.

“Estimated range to target now seventy-one miles. COMS release in five seconds.”

Pulled by motors attached to the sides of the S-29’s cargo bay, the webbing holding their egg-shaped robots in place retracted. Freed from restraint, the seven COMS deployed one by one, propelled “up” out of the spaceplane by short bursts from the tiny maneuvering thrusters that studded their outer surfaces.

Secure in his cockpit, Brad stared in wonder at the immensity all around him. Through his neural link, the visual and other sensors set around the robot’s exterior gave him a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of his surroundings — creating the eerie illusion that he was flying through space without a helmet to obstruct his view. He had almost complete situational awareness of the darkened earth below, the other six COMS around him, and the winged Sky Masters spaceplane behind them.

The S-29 Shadow’s thrusters popped briefly — altering its trajectory just enough so that it would pass beneath Mars One without risking a collision. The large spacecraft’s cargo bay doors were already closing as it rolled to turn the thermal protection tiles on its undercarriage toward the still-invisible Russian space station.

“Predicted time to rendezvous with target now four minutes, thirty-five seconds,” the COMS computer told him. “Closing velocity is one thousand feet per second.”

Resolutely, Brad tamped down on the sudden queasy sensation in his gut. Knowing that they were all orbiting the world at more than seventeen thousand miles per hour was one thing. Realizing that he was headed straight for Mars One fast enough to slam into its metal surface at nearly seven hundred miles per hour was quite another. Braking safely was going to stress the COMS thrusters to the very edge of their rated capabilities — requiring a deceleration rate twelve times greater than would have been possible with the Manned Maneuvering Units used by NASA astronauts during EVAs.

They were still crossing high above the pitch-black Atlantic. There, in the distance, he could see the orangish glow of city lights along the fast-approaching coastline of Europe.

“Wolf One to Wolf Two and Three,” Brad radioed. “Ready all weapons. This is going to happen awfully fast.”

Listening to their affirmative replies, he fed power to the mechanical limbs attached to his robot and to the improvised weapons they held. Information flowing through his neural link confirmed that all of the limbs were online, ready to respond as though they were his own arms. Then he powered up the CID electromagnetic rail gun held by Cub One. Using the data link between the two robots allowed him to “see” through the remotely piloted COMS’ sensors just as well as he could through those of his own. Carefully, he aimed the rail gun at the center of the bright green brackets that showed where the Russian station should be.

Keenly aware that their lives now depended entirely on him, Major Georgy Konnikov kept working to penetrate the enemy’s jamming. His gloved fingers stabbed at different controls on his console, commanding both his X-band and L-band radars to change their operating frequencies as randomly as he could. For far too long, nothing worked. His displays still showed only a glowing splotch of green-tinged static across the projected track of the inbound American space weapons.

He blinked hard at a droplet of sweat that had somehow wormed its way out from under his communications cap. It floated away and clung to the visor of his helmet, slightly distorting his vision through that small section. “Der’mo,” he muttered. “Shit.”

Suddenly the static cluttering his radar displays thinned and then rolled backward — revealing a large cluster of small distinct blips. They were within forty kilometers of Mars One. The area behind the oncoming formation was still hazed by jamming.

“Burn through!” Konnikov said loudly. The approaching cloud of American weapons had reached the point where the effective radiated power of his radars was sufficient to overwhelm that of their jamming systems. His hands swept across his controls, selecting different contacts and locking them up. “Transferring targeting information!”

“Data handoff complete,” Revin reported from his post in the forward weapons module. “I have fire-control solutions.”

“Open fire!” Strelkov ordered.

Immediately both of Mars One’s Hobnail lasers went into action. One- and two-second bursts were sufficient to destroy individual American weapons, reducing them to clouds of half-melted scrap metal shoved onto trajectories that would not impact the space station.

“Ten targets destroyed. Battery packs down to sixty-eight percent,” Revin reported. “Continuing to engage.”

Konnikov kept his gaze fixed intently on his displays. Every laser hit tore another hole in the enemy’s ECM “screen.” Already, the hash of green static that had blinded his radars was much thinner. At any second now, he should be able to get a fix on that American spaceplane.

“Eighteen targets destroyed. Six remaining. Battery power down to forty-two percent.”

Across the command compartment, Colonel Vadim Strelkov winced. Revin was doing his best, firing his lasers only long enough to confirm the destruction of each enemy weapon or jammer. But even so, this battle was consuming their energy supplies at an alarming rate. The supercapacitors for the station’s Thunderbolt plasma rail gun were already drained, rendering the weapon useless. Soon the same would be true of the Hobnail lasers… which would leave only the short-range, hypersonic Scimitar missiles available to defend Mars One. He spoke over the intercom to Major Filatyev. “Viktor, activate your missile launcher.”

“At once, sir,” Filatyev replied.

Strelkov felt the deck of the command module vibrate as a hatch opened, allowing the Scimitar rotary missile launcher to elevate into firing position.

Only half listening to this exchange, Konnikov saw a new blip appear on his X-band radar display, emerging out of the now-faint haze of enemy jamming. “New contact at thirty-five kilometers!” he announced excitedly. “It’s the S-29. The spaceplane has changed its trajectory to pass below us at a distance of approximately ten kilometers.”

“Revin! Destroy that spaceplane!” Strelkov snapped.

As Revin obeyed his order, both Hobnail lasers swung round, locked on to the S-29 Shadow, and fired. Each burst was much longer this time, nearly five seconds. “Solid hits by both lasers,” Revin reported. Then he warned, “My battery packs are below twenty percent. I have enough remaining energy to attack the S-29 again… or to destroy the surviving American space weapons. I cannot do both.”

Strelkov stared down at his own display, which showed the American spaceplane continuing on without any observable deviation from its plotted course. Why wasn’t their radar picking up traces of debris? Had the enemy spacecraft somehow survived those laser shots? He swiveled toward Konnikov. “Get me a visual on that target!”

Quickly, the other man tied one of the station’s telescopes to the tracking data supplied by its X-band radar.

Strelkov frowned at the pictures as they appeared on his screen. The American pilot had maneuvered to present the S-29’s underside to Mars One’s lasers — evidently hoping the spaceplane’s heat-resistant thermal tiles would offer some protection. The gamble had paid off, at least to the extent that neither Hobnail burst seemed to have penetrated the spaceplane’s outer hull. On the other hand, he could see significant damage to those thermal tiles in two separate places, large areas where they had been deeply scored and cracked all the way through. Damaged as it was, there was no longer any possibility the S-29 Shadow could survive reentry.

“The six remaining American space weapons are now within twenty-five kilometers and still closing,” Konnikov pointed out carefully.

Strelkov nodded. He made his decision. “Shift your fire back to those weapons, Captain,” he told Revin. “We’ll finish that spaceplane off with a Scimitar missile instead.”

The Hobnail lasers spun back to their first targets and opened fire again.

“All targets destroyed,” Revin said with evident satisfaction several seconds later.

“What is your battery status?” Strelkov asked.

“Hobnail One has no stored power remaining. Hobnail Two has enough left for a single one-second shot.”

Strelkov opened a channel to Filatyev. “Prepare to engage the S-29 with a single missile, Viktor.” He smiled, feeling a wave of relief sweep over him. If the enemy spaceplane had mounted other weapons, it would already have used them. Now it was just a question of mopping up. The American attack had come closer to success than he would have thought possible, but in the end all of their cleverness and suicidal willingness to spend lives had fallen short. And by the time they could organize another assault on Mars One, the station’s replacement fusion reactor would be operational.

“Sir! This isn’t over,” Konnikov blurted out. He looked down in dismay at his radar displays. “I’ve detected seven new bogeys on a direct trajectory to intercept us! They’re within thirty kilometers and closing at three hundred meters per second!”

Strelkov felt the blood drain from his face. “Show me!”

Konnikov sent him the light-intensified images captured by their telescopes.

For a long moment, Strelkov stared at the pictures in horrified silence. They showed seven spheroids headed straight for Mars One, each bristling with several limbs and what appeared to be hand weapons. They looked eerily like some sort of ancient predatory sea creatures rising out of the abyss. He shivered. What kind of new Sky Masters devilry was this? He swallowed hard, fighting down the urge to vomit. “Major Filatyev,” he rapped out. “Stand by to fire the Scimitar launcher. I want those… things… dead.”