The Kremlin Strike

by Dale Brown

  The Kremlin, Moscow

  The Next Day

  With a quick, irritable gesture, Gennadiy Gryzlov swept his hand over the slick surface of the computer built into his desk. In response, new images scrolled across the large LED monitor set into the same desk. The photographs sent by the GRU team at Battle Mountain were crisp and clear. They showed a row of Sky Masters spaceplanes parked out in the open, surrounded by fuel tankers and other vehicles. Glowering, he turned to Colonel General Mikhail Leonov. “It appears the Americans are waking up from their torpor.”

  Calmly, Leonov nodded. “Dragomirov’s report confirms what their own trade press has been saying for some time. Their new president is determined to restart his nation’s manned space program. But he wants to send astronauts up in those reusable vehicles instead of NASA’s expendable rockets.” He shrugged. “The choice is sensible. When it comes to putting humans in orbit, the spaceplanes are much cheaper than any conventional space launch system. And their ability to fly from virtually any airfield also confers a significant operational advantage.”

  Still scowling, Gryzlov stared back at the photographs on his monitor. “How many of those damned things do the Americans have?”

  “Based on our intelligence, those six spaceplanes are effectively their entire inventory,” Leonov replied. “I count two of the older S-9 Black Stallions. Plus, the two surviving S-19 Midnights, and a pair of larger, considerably more capable S-29 Shadows.” He pulled at his chin. “There were some reports that Sky Masters considered building a third S-29 spaceplane some years ago . . . but our agents were never able to confirm its existence.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because even if those initial reports were accurate, I do not believe the spacecraft’s construction was ever completed,” Leonov said. “We know the Barbeau administration viewed the company as a political enemy and canceled all of its existing government contracts. Without federal appropriations, I doubt a private corporation like Sky Masters could afford the costs involved. Anyway, since the Americans abandoned manned spaceflight on President Barbeau’s direct orders, building another spaceplane would have been nothing but wasted effort.”

  “Well, that’s all changed now,” Gryzlov growled.

  Wisely, Leonov refrained from pointing out that Gryzlov himself was largely responsible for the recent shift in American space policy. The covert attacks he’d ordered against military and civilian targets inside the United States itself—culminating with an outright attempt to assassinate Stacy Anne Barbeau’s presidential election opponent—had tipped the outcome against her. Now they faced a very different American president, one with every intention of reversing her earthbound policies of drift, indecision, and isolationism.

  Impatiently, Gryzlov waved his hand again. The disturbing images from Battle Mountain’s airport vanished from the screen. Then he shoved back his chair and stalked over to stare out across the Kremlin’s rooftops and onion-domed towers. Without looking away, he demanded, “What do we know of Farrell’s goals, Mikhail? What is this American really up to? Is he reactivating these spaceplanes to regain military superiority in orbit?”

  “I do not believe so,” Leonov said cautiously. “So far, the evidence indicates the new U.S. space program will be primarily scientific and commercial in nature.”

  Gryzlov turned his head. “In what way?”

  “Besides a series of routine test flights to make sure the spaceplanes are safe for operational use, the Americans have only announced plans to practice orbital rendezvous with payloads lofted by heavy-lift cargo rockets like the SpaceX Falcon Heavy and its competitors,” Leonov explained. “This tells me they view these spaceplanes largely as crew transports—ferrying astronauts and scientists to a talked-about new civilian space station or to spacecraft assembled in orbit for possible exploratory missions to the moon or even Mars.”

  “Only idiots would consider turning a revolutionary technology into a glorified bus service,” Gryzlov scoffed. Then his gaze sharpened. “Which is why you should remember that Sky Masters has a long history of providing deadly weapons to our enemies around the world. And now you want me to believe its intentions are purely peaceful?” He shook his head. “I do not believe the leopard has changed its spots so completely.”

  “There is speculation that Sky Masters is seeking funding to develop an even more advanced follow-on spaceplane, tentatively dubbed the XS-39,” Leonov admitted. “Rumors suggest it might be designed to carry weapons for use against targets on the ground . . . and in space.”

  “You see?” Gryzlov said cynically. His mouth tightened into a hard, thin line. “Which is all the more reason to press our advantage now—before the Americans realize what is happening. Correct?” Slowly, Leonov nodded. “Then you do your damnedest to make sure the Mars Project moves ahead as planned, Colonel General Leonov,” Gryzlov told him coldly. “I don’t want any excuses. I don’t want to hear any bullshit about unavoidable technical delays. You tell your scientists and engineers and production chiefs that their lives are on the line this time. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Leonov agreed. He rose to go.

  “And one more thing, Mikhail,” Gryzlov continued, more quietly now.

  “Gennadiy?”

  “Friend and old comrade-in-arms or not, your own life is on the line, too,” Gryzlov said.

  Leonov nodded somberly. “That is something I have never doubted for one moment, Mr. President.”

  Six

  Over the Pacific Ocean

  Several Days Later

  At nearly sixty thousand feet above the surface of the ocean, the view through the S-29 Shadow’s forward cockpit canopy was spectacular. Seen from this altitude, the earth’s curvature was obvious. The horizon fell away visibly on either side of the spaceplane’s direction of flight. And while the sky was still a deep, rich blue along the edge of that distant horizon, higher up it thinned to paler and paler shades of the same color before fading away entirely into the infinite blackness of space.

  “Coming up on Mach three,” Peter “Constable” Vasey said, speaking through the open visor of his pressure helmet. The Englishman’s gloved left hand held the sidestick controller, while his right rested on the bank of engine throttles set in the center console between the spaceplane’s two forward seats. “Stand by for transition to scramjet mode.”

  “Affirmative. Standing by,” Major Nadia Rozek replied from the right-hand mission commander’s seat. “All engine readouts are nominal.” Like the pilot, she wore an orange Advanced Crew Escape Suit, or ACES—a full-pressure suit similar to those once used by space shuttle astronauts and SR-71 Blackbird crews. Even after all these weeks of training, she was still astonished at how casually she now accepted the ease with which this marvelous machine attained these kinds of speeds. Their S-29 was already racing east toward the distant Pacific coast at nearly two thousand miles per hour and still accelerating rapidly.

  “Mach three.” Vasey had his light blue eyes fixed on his heads-up display. “Go for scramjet transition.” His gloved right hand slowly advanced the throttles.

  The pitch of the roar from their five powerful engines—two under each wing and one atop the aft fuselage—audibly changed.

  Nadia saw the curves on her engine displays changing. “Spiking initiated,” she reported. The large cone or “spike” in each engine’s inlet was moving forward—diverting the air entering at supersonic speeds away from their turbine fans and into ducts where it could be compressed, mixed with jet fuel, and then ignited. Freed from the need to rely on any moving parts, their transformed engines could now push them up to around Mach 15, nearly ten thousand miles per hour.

  Gently, Vasey pulled back on the stick. The S-29’s nose pitched up at around twelve degrees and they soared skyward. Their angle of ascent grew steeper as their speed climbed. “Mach four. Approaching Mach five.”

  Pressed back into her seat, Nadia saw the sky ahead of them grow blacker. They were heading toward space, she thought exu
ltantly—on their way into low Earth orbit for the first time.

  Suddenly the S-29 Shadow lurched sharply, falling off to the right. They were thrown hard against their seat harnesses.

  In that same moment, one of the readouts on Nadia’s multifunction display flashed red. “Emergency shutdown on number four engine,” she said tersely. Without waiting, she tapped an icon. “Shutting down number one engine to compensate.” At these speeds, there was no way any control surface could possibly cope with the imbalanced thrust generated by having only one working engine under their starboard wing.

  “Roger that.” Gritting his teeth, Vasey tweaked his stick just a hair back to the left, struggling to keep their nearly hypersonic spaceplane out of a catastrophic spin. When flying at nearly three thousand knots, overcorrecting was almost as dangerous as undercorrecting. Responding to his slight touch, the S-29 rolled a few degrees back to the left, straightening out.

  He risked a sidelong glance at Nadia. “Wake the lazy buggers for me, will you, Major?”

  “Going for simultaneous engine restart,” she acknowledged. Quick control inputs reconfigured the two idled engines so that neither could fire up without the other. Satisfied by what she saw, Nadia tapped another icon. Nothing. The system function lights for both engines remained obstinately red. “Gówno,” she muttered in frustration. “Crap. No joy on the restart, Constable.”

  “Understood.” Vasey spoke more formally. “Sky Masters Control, this is Shadow Two. Declaring a mission abort. Returning to Battle Mountain.”

  “Shadow Two, this is Control. Abort declaration acknowledged,” Nadia heard Brad’s voice say. For this flight, he was acting as CAPCOM, their intermediary with the Sky Masters engineers and other specialists monitoring this spaceplane flight from the ground. She sighed inside. With only three working engines, there was no way they could reach orbit—even after transitioning to full rocket power.

  Gradually, Vasey lowered the S-29’s nose, leveling off at a hundred and twenty thousand feet while he eased back on the throttles. The big spaceplane slowly decelerated. After a couple of minutes, he announced, “Dropping below Mach three.”

  The low, rumbling roar reaching them from outside the cockpit altered a bit, becoming slightly higher-pitched.

  “Engine spikes reversing,” Nadia confirmed. “Turbofans spooling up.”

  No sooner had she said that than two muffled bangs rattled through the spaceplane’s fuselage. This time, the Shadow rolled sharply left. More red warning lights blossomed across her multifunction display. “Engine failure on numbers two and five,” she snapped, tasting blood from where she’d bitten the inside of her lip. As she strained against her safety harness, her fingers danced across the screen, hurrying to shut off their last operational engine before it could drag them into a dizzying spiral down toward the waters of the Pacific Ocean far, far below.

  The comforting roar of their engines died—replaced by the keening noise of thin air rushing past.

  With great difficulty, Vasey regained control, bringing the S-29 back onto an easterly heading and slightly nose down. “APU status?” he asked coolly.

  “The APU generator is on,” Nadia confirmed. With all five engines dead or shut down, the S-29’s auxiliary power unit was crucial. It was now the only source of the power needed to operate their computers and flight controls.

  “Engine status.”

  She paged through diagnostic screens, rapidly evaluating the data provided by the spaceplane’s internal and external sensors. “It looks like we lost multiple fan blades in both numbers two and five,” she reported. “But the fan cases themselves held. The damage seems to have been contained inside the engines themselves. I show no fire or fuel-leak warnings.”

  Vasey nodded slightly. That was a small blessing. Using technology developed under a NASA grant, the turbofan casings for the S-29’s massive LPDRS engines were manufactured out of triaxial carbon braid. That made the casings both stronger and lighter than if they had been made out of a more conventional metal, like aluminum. “Let’s try for a restart on numbers one and three.”

  Nadia tapped in a series of commands. If they could power up the two engines that hadn’t actually failed, one under each wing, they should still be able to limp back to Battle Mountain. But when she hit the restart icon, a new row of red caution and warning lights lit up. “Psiakrew! Hell! Both of them show fuel-pump failures. They will not restart.”

  “Well, that tears it,” Vasey muttered. He called the control center again. “Sky Masters Control, this is Shadow Two. We are negative return to Battle Mountain. I say again, we are negative return to Nevada. I’m afraid that we’ve just become a rather oversized and somewhat clumsy glider.”

  “Copy that, Two,” Brad radioed. “Standing by for your emergency abort field decision.”

  Nadia switched her display to show the onboard computer’s evaluation of their flight status and glide ratio. At their current supersonic speed and high altitude, the S-29’s ratio was abysmal—something on the order of 3:1 . . . so for every thousand feet they descended, they’d cover just three thousand feet on the ground. But that would improve substantially when they got down into thicker air and slowed to subsonic speeds. In theory, they ought to be able to come close to the glide ratios achieved by modern jet airliners that had lost all their engines, somewhere between 15 and 17:1. By trading airspeed and elevation for distance, she estimated their probable maximum glide range at around one hundred and sixty nautical miles.

  Given that, one quick glance at a digital navigation map showed their two best options for an emergency, engines-out landing. She flagged both in order of priority and sent them to Vasey’s own display.

  The Englishman’s eyes narrowed for a split second in concentration as he ran through his own internal calculations. Then he nodded. “Sky Masters Control, this is Shadow Two. Submit we head for SFO, with OAK as the alternate field.”

  Both international airports, San Francisco and Oakland, had long runways that more than met their minimum parameters. Now that the spaceplane couldn’t brake using reversed engine thrust, the flight manuals said they needed at least seventy-five hundred feet of smooth, hard-surfaced runway available for a safe landing.

  “Wait one, Shadow Two,” Brad answered.

  A minute passed, feeling like an eternity to Nadia.

  “Two, this is Sky Masters Control. Regret unable to approve requested abort to SFO or OAK,” she heard Brad say. “ATC says they can’t clear the airspace in time.”

  “Bugger,” Vasey said under his breath. With dozens of scheduled passenger and air cargo flights crisscrossing the skies above the Bay Area at any given moment, that wasn’t especially surprising. But it was still very bad news.

  “Can you make Travis?” Brad asked, sounding concerned now.

  Vasey shot Nadia another glance. Frowning, she shook her head. Based on their projected rate of descent and airspeed, they would slam into the ground about eight miles short of Travis Air Force Base. Unfortunately, no other airport within their glide range had a runway that met the S-29’s specified emergency requirements.

  “Unable, insufficient range, Sky Masters Control,” Vasey replied, sounding very cool, almost icily detached, now.

  “Copy that, Two,” Brad said. “Suggest you prepare to eject over the ocean. We’ve alerted the coast guard. They have two MH-65 Dolphin search-and-rescue helicopters on alert.”

  “Stand by on that, Sky Masters,” Vasey said. He turned his head toward Nadia, with a single eyebrow arched in an eloquent, unspoken question.

  Nadia shook her head. The thought of so casually abandoning this expensive and badly needed spaceplane was abhorrent to her. There must be another option, something else they could try. But what?

  Through the forward canopy, a brownish haze now marked the far horizon. They were down to around sixty thousand feet and roughly one hundred nautical miles from the Northern California coast. Something about the word nautical tugged at her mind. Realizing wh
at it was, she turned excitedly to Vasey. “You were a Royal Navy pilot, yes?”

  He nodded with a slight, wry smile. “For my sins, I was.”

  “Then you have landed on aircraft carriers?”

  Again, he nodded. “Hundreds of times.” His smile grew wider. “But that’s a nonstarter, Major. Even a madman like me has some limits. I may be a damned fine pilot, but no one on God’s good earth could put an ungainly beast like this one down on a patch of deck only a hundred and fifty meters long!”

  Nadia shook her head impatiently, but with a grin of her own. “That is not enough, I agree.” Swiftly, she scrolled through her computer’s maps and satellite photos of different Bay Area regional and municipal airports. Settling on one, she flicked a hand across her display, sending it to Vasey’s MFD. “But this one, you see?”

  Intrigued, the Englishman studied her find. Sonoma County’s Charles M. Schulz Airport, about fifty miles north of San Francisco, had a decent six-thousand-foot-long runway, with another six hundred feet or so of hard-packed dirt extending beyond it. Going strictly by the book, that was still too short, but flight safety manuals always built in a margin for pilot error. He whistled softly. “It’s doable, by God.” He flashed her a madcap grin. “So then, by God, we’ll do it!”

  While Vasey alerted Brad to their new plan, and secured both his reluctant approval and grudging clearance from the relevant air traffic controllers, Nadia locked the airport’s Runway 32 into the S-29’s flight computer. New steering cues blinked onto Vasey’s HUD.

  Following them, he banked the big spaceplane, turning a few degrees more to the east-northeast. They were descending rapidly now, slanting toward the ever-closer coast.

  Nadia kept a close watch on their speed. After a few more minutes, she announced, “We are subsonic again, slowing past five hundred knots.” She pulled up another display, this one governing the S-29’s twin fuel tanks. “I suggest we begin dumping fuel to reduce our landing weight.”