The Kremlin Strike

Four

Brad McLanahan let the security door swing shut behind him. Then he slid his sunglasses into the pocket of his Sky Masters flight suit and stood still for a few seconds, waiting for his eyes to adjust. After the brilliant sunshine and typical scorching high-desert summer temperatures outside, something about entering the enormous hangar reminded him of the time Nadia had showed him Kraków’s beautiful, centuries-old Gothic cathedral. Standing here in this equally vast, cool, and dimly lit space, he felt a touch of the same awe that had overwhelmed him then.

No surprise there, I guess, he thought. In its own way, Hangar Three was also a sacred space — though one dedicated to space-age aviation rather than to the deity. Come to think of it, he realized, maybe that impression wasn’t as sacrilegious as it first sounded. To the despair of his English teachers in school, he’d never been much of a poetry fan, but some of “High Flight,” written by a pilot who’d been killed during the Second World War, had stuck with him… especially the last couple of lines, where the poem talked about putting out your hand in space and touching the face of God.

Now that he could see more clearly, Brad focused on the big, black, blended-wing craft parked in the middle of the hangar. To a layman’s untutored eye, it would look a lot like a larger version of the SR-71 Blackbird, only with four massive engines mounted under its highly swept delta wing instead of two. But to someone like him, who’d flown this model before, the distinctive shape was instantly recognizable.

That was a Sky Masters S-19 Midnight spaceplane — equipped with revolutionary LPDRS (Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System) triple-hybrid engines. Those “leopard” engines, able to transform from air-breathing supersonic turbofans to hypersonic scramjets to pure, reusable rockets, were powerful enough to propel the spaceplane into Earth orbit. At the same time, the spaceplane, like its smaller counterpart, the S-9 Black Stallion, and its larger cousin, the S-29 Shadow, could take off and land on ordinary runways built for commercial airliners.

“Hey, kid, you planning to do any real work this afternoon?” a tall, lanky man called from the foot of a high rolling ladder pushed up against the S-19’s open twin cockpit canopies. “Or are you just here sightseeing?”

“Hey, Boomer!” With a cheerful grin, Brad waved back at Hunter “Boomer” Noble, the chief of aerospace engineering for Sky Masters and its lead test pilot for the reactivated S-series spaceplanes. “Sorry I’m late, but we had a slight problem on the last simulator run that I had to sort out.”

“Shit,” Boomer growled. “Tell me a newbie didn’t just break one of the company’s incredibly expensive machines?” Sky Masters Aerospace ran some of the world’s most advanced flight simulators out of a converted hangar at the other end of the airport. Mounted on massive Hexapod-system hydraulic jacks, the full-motion simulators could be configured to mimic the flight characteristics and capabilities of virtually any aircraft — everything from single-engine turboprops to fifth-generation fighters like the F-35 Lightning II on up to the S-series spaceplanes. Between the company’s immersive, virtual-reality simulator programs and its expert instructor pilots, Sky Masters made a tidy profit training fliers for airlines and even the armed forces of several smaller U.S. allies.

“‘Break’ is a harsh word,” Brad said judiciously. “But I guess our trainee did bend it a little.”

Boomer winced, probably imagining the outraged memos from corporate accounting that were likely to land on his desk. “Bent it how, exactly?”

“Well, it looks like a couple of the Hexapod actuators froze up when the simulator pod tried to spin end over end.”

“No fucking way,” Boomer said in disbelief. He pinched the bridge of his nose hard and closed his eyes for just a second. “Which one of our merry band of aspiring astronauts managed to mess up a simulator like that?”

“Constable.”

“The Brit?”

Brad nodded. Peter Charles “Constable” Vasey had flown Harrier jump jets and other high-performance aircraft for the Fleet Air Arm. Several years before, bored out of his skull by peacetime service, the former Royal Navy flier had signed up with Scion. Since then, he’d flown a wide range of different aircraft for the private military company, taking part in a number of dangerous covert missions around the world. When offered a shot at flying spaceplanes for the new Sky Masters — Scion joint venture, the Englishman had naturally jumped at the chance.

From everything Brad could see so far, Vasey was a gifted pilot whose only weakness might be a tendency to push his luck and his aircraft to the limit. Kind of like me, he admitted to himself.

“What the hell did he do?” Boomer demanded.

“He tried to roll the S-29 in hypersonic flight,” Brad said, not bothering now to hide his amusement.

Boomer stared back at him. “You’re bullshitting me.”

“Nope,” Brad said virtuously. “Scout’s honor. That’s what he did.”

“And, pray tell, what was Comrade Vasey’s airspeed when he decided to commit virtual suicide?” Boomer asked, with yet another deep sigh.

“Mach eight.”

“Jesus Christ.” Boomer shook his head in sheer astonishment. At one hundred thousand feet above sea level, Mach 8 meant the spaceplane was traveling at nearly forty-eight hundred knots. “What made that lunatic Brit think it was a good idea to try rolling a freaking spaceplane at Mach-fricking-eight — right in the middle of God’s own little turbulent hell of skin friction and shock-wave heating?”

Brad laughed. “Constable told me he just wanted to find out what would happen in a maneuver at that speed. Plus, he was kind of curious to see how the simulation would handle something so crazy.”

“And?”

“Apparently, he and his copilot got one heck of a ride before the system went down and they lost power.” Brad’s grin grew even wider. “I believe it, too. When we overrode the locks and pried the simulator door open, they were hanging almost upside down in their harnesses.”

Boomer eyed him suspiciously. “Who was flying in the other seat during this little jaunt?”

“Nadia,” Brad said simply.

“Nadia? Nadia Rozek? Your Nadia?” Boomer whistled. “Oh, man. Please, please, tell me she killed that goofball Vasey with her bare hands when you got them unstrapped.”

“Nope, I’m afraid not.” Brad shook his head in mock sadness. “She was too busy whooping it up. She said it was more fun than all the thrill rides at Disneyland and Universal Studios combined.”

“Swell,” Boomer said wryly. “Look, Brad, I need you to ride herd on Vasey. Rein him in a little, okay? At least enough to satisfy the suits like Kaddiri and Martindale that we aren’t running a total lunatic asylum here.”

Brad nodded his agreement. Dr. Helen Kaddiri was the president and chairman of Sky Masters. Her Scion counterpart was former U.S. president Kevin Martindale. Neither was especially noted for having much of a sense of humor — at least not when it came to paying unexpected repair bills for expensive equipment.

Since he was one of the few surviving people with real-world spaceplane experience, Brad had been named second in command of the reactivated S-series flight program, which meant maintaining day-to-day discipline among the eager, hard-charging men and women they were training as crews was mostly his job. He couldn’t pretend it was a task he enjoyed, but if that was the price of getting into space again, it was a price he was completely willing to pay. “Maybe I’ll have Constable write ‘I will not break my spaceplane without permission’ on a whiteboard a couple of thousand times,” he suggested.

Boomer snorted. “Think that’ll work?”

“Probably not,” Brad conceded. Mulling it over, he looked up at the sleek silhouette of the S-19 Midnight parked next to them. “Then I guess I read him the riot act. Warn him to cool his jets, or Mr. Vasey’s Wild Simulator Ride will be the closest he’ll ever get to actually flying one of these babies. That should settle him down a little.”

“Harsh, but seriously motivating,” Boomer agreed. “You do that.”

“Speaking of actually flying…” Brad continued, deliberately changing the subject to something a lot nearer and dearer to his heart. He waved a hand at the spaceplane towering over them. “What’s the latest word on when we can take this crate and the others out of mothballs and back into the sky?”

Boomer grinned at him. “Why? Getting itchy feet here on the ground, McLanahan?”

“Maybe a little.”

The other man nodded. “Yeah, me too.” He shrugged. “Not long now, I hope. Most of the birds look like they’re in pretty good condition, but my crew chiefs are still checking every component from nose to tail fins. Anything that looks dodgy gets pulled.”

“That can’t be cheap,” Brad said slowly.

“It sure isn’t,” Boomer agreed. “But the higher-ups saw the point when I told them it was a choice between spending a couple of million dollars on needed maintenance now… or maybe watching a spacecraft worth a couple of hundred million dollars burn up on reentry or auger into some Iowa farmer’s cornfield later.”

Brad flashed a smile of his own. “Nicely argued, Dr. Noble. I’m betting the other little fact, that you’d be one of the guys riding in the cockpit of that doomed spaceplane, wouldn’t have been nearly as persuasive.”

“Maybe not,” Boomer allowed. “The definition of ‘acceptable risk’ sure changes when you’re the one taking the risks.” He jerked a thumb toward the rolling ladder up to the S-19’s open cockpit. “Speaking of which, I’ve got something new to show you.”

Curious now, Brad followed him up the ladder to a platform overlooking the cockpit. From this vantage point, everything about the S-19 Midnight looked identical to the one he’d flown into orbit five years before. Or, for that matter, to the digitally simulated versions he’d trained on for the last several weeks. It had the same two side-by-side seats for the pilot and copilot, who was called the mission commander — with all the usual consoles and panels crowded with touch-screen multifunction displays and other controls.

Boomer tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to a patch of metal deck visible between the seats. “See there?”

Brad squinted, and this time he spotted a small pull handle set almost flush with the deck itself. Thin, dark lines in the deck plating outlined what looked like a new hatch or compartment. That was weird. Unlike NASA’s larger space shuttle, the S-19 only had one deck. Everything below the spaceplane’s cockpit should be just sensor instrumentation, avionics, and heat shielding. He glanced back at the other man. “Okay, I’m officially baffled. What gives?”

For an answer, Boomer lowered himself into the open cockpit and settled into the right-hand mission commander’s seat. He patted the other. “Take a seat, kid, and I’ll show you.”

Still puzzled, Brad climbed down into the left-hand pilot’s seat. In his lightweight Nomex flight suit, it felt a lot wider and less cramped than it did when wearing a standard full-pressure space suit. “All right. Now what?”

Boomer reached down to the pull handle set between them. In one easy motion, he tugged it up and to the right. A section of the deck plating rose smoothly and pivoted away behind his seat, revealing a deep compartment extending below the cockpit. “We had to reroute some cabling and sacrifice a small amount of fuel tankage to make room for this,” he explained.

Brad shot him a crooked grin. “So what’s inside? A built-in bar?”

“In your dreams,” Boomer said dryly. Still bent over, he caught hold of a piece of gear stored inside the compartment. Grunting with effort, he yanked a bulky, white backpack up into view. “This would be a heck of a lot easier in zero-G,” he said through gritted teeth as he set it down carefully on the deck. “Here on Earth, this damned thing still weighs about fifty pounds.”

Brad leaned over himself, taking a closer look at the backpack. It was about twenty inches high, eighteen inches wide, and eight inches deep. A number of ports, connectors, and valves dotted its outer surface. “That’s a PLSS,” he realized. “But it looks significantly smaller than the other models I’ve seen.” A PLSS, or Primary Life Support System, contained oxygen, power, carbon-dioxide scrubbers, environmental controls, communications gear, and a small emergency maneuvering system. Astronauts wore them during EVAs.

Boomer nodded. “Yep. Our Sky Masters engineers took the advanced version of the PLSS that NASA’s been working on at the Johnson Space Center and slimmed it down quite a bit. They had to, since everything has to fit into this one tight compartment.” Straining, he pulled out a second life-support pack and rested it on top of the first.

“What’s the trade-off involved in the reduced size?”

“These life-support packs only provide three hours of air and power, not the eight-plus hours of the bigger models,” Boomer replied.

Brad frowned. “That’s one hell of a negative trade-off.”

“This new equipment isn’t intended for routine use,” Boomer said patiently. “It’s all strictly for emergencies.”

“Emergencies as in ‘oh, shit, this spacecraft is kaput and we’ve gotta get out’?” Brad guessed.

“Yeah. Those kinds of emergencies.”

“Three hours of life support doesn’t seem like nearly enough time for anyone to mount a rescue operation,” Brad said dubiously.

“It’s not,” Boomer agreed. He reached down inside the compartment and retrieved another piece of gear. “Which is why we developed this little Rube Goldberg — looking device.”

Brad felt his eyebrows rise. The other man was holding up a clear case packed full of smaller pieces of equipment, including what looked oddly like a large, deflated white balloon, a parachute pack, and what appeared to be a small, twin-nozzle, handheld rocket motor. “What is that?”

“The high-tech version of a ‘Hail Mary’ pass,” Boomer said matter-of-factly. “More officially known as an ERO kit.”

“ERO?”

“Emergency Return from Orbit.” Boomer tapped the side of the clear case. “If everything works as intended, all this hardware assembles into a disposable one-man reentry vehicle.” His expression was completely serious. “Way back in the 1960s, General Electric engineers designed a system they hoped would allow Gemini astronauts stranded in orbit to return safely to Earth… without using another spacecraft to retrieve them. They called the concept MOOSE, for Manned Orbital Operations Safety Equipment.”

“But the system was never actually deployed?” Brad guessed.

“Canceled after early ground testing,” Boomer acknowledged. “The ERO kit is our own updated version, using more advanced materials.” He tapped the case. “For example, that weird balloon-like thing is actually a disk-shaped, six-foot-diameter aerogel bag with a thin Nomex cloth heat shield attached to one side and a parachute pack and retrorocket combo on the other.”

“Aerogel? That’s the super-lightweight stuff they call ‘solid smoke,’ isn’t it?” Brad said slowly. At Boomer’s nod, he frowned again. “But aerogel is made out of silica, basically beach sand. It’s incredibly brittle.”

“This is a new form of aerogel developed by NASA’s Glenn Research Center out in Ohio,” Boomer reassured him. “They make it out of polyimide, a really strong, amazingly heat-resistant polymer. It’s hundreds of times sturdier than the traditional aerogels — so much so that you can actually support the weight of a car on a thick enough piece.”

“Sounds pretty cool,” Brad conceded. Then he shrugged. “But I still don’t see how you turn this stuff into an honest-to-God reentry vehicle.”

“ERO is really a fairly simple concept,” Boomer said. “Once you’re outside the spacecraft, you inflate the aerogel disk around you, filling it with a special, highly expandable polyurethane foam. That creates a conical dish shape that should remain stable at high speed when it hits the atmosphere. Then, when you’re ready, you fire off those handheld retrorockets… and away you go — falling toward the ground at seventeen thousand miles per hour.”

Brad felt his mouth fall open slightly in stunned disbelief. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” Boomer told him quietly. “We lost a lot of good people in orbit five years ago. I’m not willing to pass up anything that could save lives in the future.”

“But has anyone actually tested this thing yet?”

“Oh, hell no, Brad,” Boomer admitted with a laugh. “No one’s that crazy!”