The Kremlin Strike

by Dale Brown

  “Roger,” Vasey agreed. “Inert and dump our ‘bomb’ first.” Bomb was Sky Masters slang for “borohydrogen metaoxide” or “BOHM.” Essentially refined hydrogen peroxide, BOHM was the liquid oxidizer their engines would have needed for combustion after transitioning to pure rocket mode. While not quite as efficient as supercooled liquid oxygen, it was considerably less costly. BOHM could also be transferred by tanker aircraft—which was not yet possible for cryogenic oxygen.

  Nadia typed in new orders, instructing the computers to flush the BOHM tank with helium to render the compound safe before she dumped it into the air high over the ocean. Green lights blinked, indicating the job was done. Quickly, she tapped the fuel-dump icon.

  “Bombs away,” she said with a slight, twisted smile.

  Vasey blinked. “My God, really? That was terrible, Major. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Sorry, Constable. But I’ve always wanted to say that,” she admitted.

  She waited another sixty seconds to begin dumping their conventional JP-8 jet fuel. No one in their right mind wanted to risk inadvertently mixing BOHM with jet fuel outside a “leopard” engine operating in rocket mode. Ordinarily, it took a pulsed laser igniter to set off the combination . . . but sometimes any source of friction or even just a vibration at the wrong frequency could trigger a massive explosion.

  The S-29 was down to a little over six thousand feet by the time they crossed the coastline—gliding silently above a shore marked by jagged rocks and rolling, whitecapped breakers. Off to their right, Nadia could see a little town her computer identified as Bodega Bay. Ahead lay a jumble of hills and ridges. The slopes swept by winds coming off the Pacific were mostly scrub brush and tall grass. The hills and narrow valleys farther inland were either thickly wooded or a mix of terraced vineyards and fenced cattle-grazing land.

  Buffeted by updrafts swirling above those slopes, the spaceplane juddered briefly. Their airspeed dropped further. Control surfaces whirred open, providing a little more lift as they flew lower across Sonoma County.

  Beyond the range of coastal hills, housing developments and vineyards sprawled across flatter, more open country. Santa Rosa’s more crowded streets and denser network of buildings lay ahead and to the right. The county’s regional airport was off to the left, about six nautical miles northwest of the city. Live oaks lined both sides of a creek that meandered across the valley floor.

  Nadia checked her navigation display. “Two nautical miles out.”

  “Copy that,” Vasey said. He turned his attention to the airport tower controller monitoring for their approach. “Santa Rosa Tower, this is Shadow Two, descending through one thousand feet, airspeed one-nine-zero knots, full stop.”

  “Shadow Two, Santa Rosa Tower, winds light and from the west, cleared to land Runway Three-Two. Emergency has been declared. Rescue crews standing by,” the controller responded.

  The steering cues on Vasey’s HUD slid sharply to the left, indicating this was the point selected for his final turn to line up on the runway. Concentrating fiercely, he tweaked the stick to follow them—rolling toward the northwest and then leveling out.

  “One nautical mile out,” Nadia told him.

  Vasey nodded. He tapped the landing-gear icon on his own multifunction display. “Descending through five hundred feet. Gear down.”

  Hydraulics under their feet whined. The S-29’s center fuselage gear and wing-mounted bogies were coming down. Robbed of its perfect streamlining, the big spaceplane shuddered and rattled.

  An indicator on Vasey’s HUD flashed solid green. “Gear down and locked.”

  The runway loomed ahead through the S-29’s thick, heat-resistant windscreen, growing larger with every passing second. He peered ahead, blinking away a droplet of sweat. The gloved fingers of his left hand curled around the stick, making tiny movements as he fought to stay on the precisely computed glide path.

  Now.

  The spaceplane dropped the last few feet and touched down with a sharp jolt—right at the start of the angled yellow chevrons that marked the runway’s overrun area. Braking hard, it rolled fast along the asphalt strip, slashing past the fire trucks and other emergency vehicles parked off to the side.

  Looking ahead, Nadia clenched her teeth. Święta Matka Boża, Holy Mother of God, she realized. They weren’t going to stop in time to stay on the runway’s paved surface.

  With another sharp jolt, the S-29 skidded off the far end of the runway. It bounced and bucked almost all the way across a furrowed dirt field before shuddering to a halt in a swirling cloud of dust . . . barely one hundred feet short of slamming nose first into a rusting metal viewing platform.

  For a long, unbelieving moment, there was only silence in the cockpit. Finally, both Nadia and Vasey exhaled sharply, amazed to find themselves in one piece. Then, with wildly exuberant grins, they turned and exchanged high fives.

  “Well . . . that was fun,” Nadia said slowly, trying to control the tiny quaver in her voice. “But let’s not do it again.”

  “Definitely not,” Vasey agreed. “My mother always claimed I had a cat’s nine lives. If so, that little exploit might easily have used up number seven.”

  Suddenly the view outside their cockpit windows went black. “Mission complete,” the Sky Masters computer said smoothly. Lights flickered on, outlining the door on the side of the S-29 flight simulator. “Emergency landing successful.”

  When they unstrapped and climbed out of the simulator, Brad McLanahan met them at the foot of the ladder. The tall, blond-haired young man had a grin of his own plastered across his face. “Nice job, guys!”

  “We are not in trouble?” Nadia asked, surprised. “Despite choosing such a risky option?”

  Surprised, Brad shook his head. “Heck no.” He turned serious. “This was your graduation exercise. Losing all five engines? At hypersonic and supersonic speeds? Man, that’s called a really bad day on the way into space. And yet you still figured out a way to save the spaceplane? Amazing. Believe it or not, you even managed to impress Boomer. Most trainee crews would have taken the easy way out and just ejected.”

  “And if we had?” Vasey wanted to know.

  “You’d start over again in the simulator tomorrow morning,” Brad told him. He shrugged. “Of course, the same thing would have happened if you crashed on landing. Boomer’s not screwing around here. And I don’t blame him. Tough, realistic training is the only real way to turn out a solid cadre of space-ready crews for these S-planes.”

  “So, what comes next?” Nadia asked quietly.

  “Both of you already have decent experience handling high-Gs,” Brad said. “So we can skip that part of the program.”

  “Which means we move on to zero-gravity?” Vasey guessed. “Riding the Vomit Comet?” Short of actual spaceflight, the best method of re-creating the sensation of weightlessness involved repeated high-angle parabolic maneuvers in an aircraft. During each stomach-churning climb and dive, passengers experienced short periods of zero-G. Airsickness was common, which explained the nickname.

  Brad nodded. “And then you head to Houston for EVA training at NASA’s Neutral Buoyancy Lab.”

  “It sounds . . . busy,” Nadia observed.

  “Too true,” Brad admitted. Then his smile returned, lighting up his whole face. “But before that, we all get a whole day off for some much-needed R&R.”

  “You’re going to show Major Rozek the cultural highlights of Battle Mountain, Nevada?” Vasey guessed, with a dry grin. “But what will you do for the next twenty-three hours and fifty-five minutes?”

  Nadia laughed. “Oh, we will think of some way to occupy our time, Constable.” Over Brad’s sudden blush, she offered the Englishman a pitying smile. “We may even spare a moment to wonder what you are doing to entertain yourself.”

  “A hit, Major Rozek,” Vasey declared grandly, putting his hand on his heart. “A palpable hit.”

  Seven

  Vostochny Cosmodrome, Amur Oblast, Eastern
Russia

  A Week Later

  Monitors in the launch observation bunker showed the enormous rocket waiting on Pad 3, five kilometers away. Securely nestled in a ring of retractable gantries, the three-stage Energia-5VR heavy-lift launch vehicle stood ninety meters tall and weighed more than twenty-five hundred tons. Digital readouts blinked rapidly, counting down the moments to the launch. Speakers carried audio patched in from Vostochny’s control center.

  “Guidance systems are configured.”

  “Energia flight computer is online and in control. The launch program is running.”

  “RD-171MV engines on standby.”

  “All stages look good, ready for flight.”

  Gennadiy Gryzlov kept his eyes fixed on the monitors while he listened to the litany of unhurried reports. For all of the confidence they displayed, he could still sense the tension in those voices—and in the shorter, barrel-chested man standing beside him. Like his subordinates, Colonel General Mikhail Leonov knew the risks involved in testing a new rocket. Much could go wrong, even though the Energia-5VR’s main engines and many of its other components were based on tried-and-true systems that had flown successfully dozens, even hundreds, of times on other rocket designs.

  No doubt, Gryzlov thought with amused contempt, his presence at this test launch made Leonov and the rest even more nervous. Watching their prized heavy-lift rocket explode on lift-off or disintegrate in midflight would be bad enough. But a disaster under the very eyes of Russia’s mercurial, notoriously short-tempered leader would be infinitely worse . . . perhaps even fatal.

  “Energia-5VR is go for launch.”

  Both Gryzlov and Leonov leaned forward, peering intently at the screens.

  “Zapusk,” the voice of Vostochny’s flight director said crisply. “Launching.”

  Suddenly brownish smoke lit from within by orange-white flames billowed around the base of the huge rocket—accompanied by a low, crackling roar. “Zazhiganiye. Ignition.”

  Out the corner of his eye, Gryzlov saw the muscles around Leonov’s strong, square jaw tighten suddenly. This was a rare moment, he realized: almost the first sign of an ordinary human reaction to stress. Usually, the burly commander of Russia’s aerospace forces prided himself on exhibiting rigid self-control under pressure.

  “Predvaritel’naya tyaga. Preliminary thrust,” the director reported. “Booster and core engines at twenty percent. Throttling up.”

  Rapidly, the roar deepened, growing ever louder and more deafening. The clouds of smoke and flame grew denser and brighter. Through the shimmering heat waves curling off the launchpad, Gryzlov saw the rocket vibrate, almost as though it were a bird of prey straining to be set free.

  “Polnaya moshchnost’. Full power.” Abruptly, the blue-painted gantries that had locked the Energia-5VR in place pivoted up and away. Freed, the rocket surged upward—with what seemed surprising slowness at first and then with ever-increasing speed. “Podnyat’! Lift-off!”

  Subdued cheers rolled through the observation bunker, echoed more loudly over the audio feed from the control center. Caught up in the excitement, several of the military officers and high-ranking civilian officials who’d accompanied Gryzlov from Moscow clapped each other on the back.

  He ignored them. His whole being was focused on watching the mammoth heavy-lift rocket as it soared higher—arrowing skyward on a dazzling pillar of fire. Together, the five kerosene-fueled engines in the Energia-5VR’s four strap-on boosters and second-stage central core were generating more than eight million pounds of thrust as they hurled it toward space. That was comparable to the Saturn V rockets used in America’s vaunted Apollo program.

  Long-range tracking cameras followed the swiftly ascending rocket as it climbed higher and higher through the atmosphere. One hundred and sixty-one seconds after launch, with the Energia-5VR already seventy kilometers above the earth and hundreds of kilometers downrange, the bright glow winked out abruptly. Four puffs of white vapor blossomed briefly around the speeding spacecraft.

  “All four strap-on boosters have separated,” the flight director announced, to more cheers in the control center. “Core engine cutoff was on schedule. Preparing for second-stage separation and third-stage ignition.”

  Gryzlov noticed Leonov’s jaw clench again. This was another danger point, he knew. The Energia’s third stage was powered by two brand-new, liquid-hydrogen RD-0150 engines. While more powerful and efficient than their kerosene-fueled counterparts, these engines were also significantly more complex—which was one of the reasons the old Soviet-era space program had avoided using them until long after their American rivals had mastered the technology.

  On-screen, the wavering, blurry shape of the rocket altered suddenly—apparently splitting in two. The larger of the two halves fell away, tumbling toward the waters of the Sea of Okhotsk. Between the four strap-on boosters and now its core second stage, the Energia had already shed more than 90 percent of its original mass. Seconds later, a bright flare appeared at the base of the much smaller section as it climbed onward.

  “Good separation,” the flight director reported. “Third-stage engine ignition confirmed. The burn looks good.”

  Gryzlov heard Leonov breathe out quietly as he relaxed.

  Ten minutes later, the Energia-5VR entered a stable circular orbit six hundred and forty-four kilometers above the surface of the earth. There, over the next forty-eight hours, its payload would carry out a further set of tests and maneuvers. But for now, one thing was clear to Gennadiy Gryzlov. After decades of failure and many false starts, Russia at last had the heavy-lift rocket capability it had long desired. And it was the final piece of technology he needed to turn the Mars Project from a cherished dream into a solid reality—a reality the Americans and their allies would find nightmarish.

  Openly delighted, he glanced at Leonov. “Well done, Mikhail! This was a complete success, despite all the risks.” He snorted. “So much for the staid old fools who said it would take ten more years to develop the Energia-5VR.” With a thin, pleased smile of his own, Leonov nodded.

  Gryzlov turned back to study the monitors. They showed the projected ground track of the rocket’s third stage as it circled the globe. Moving at more than twenty-seven thousand kilometers per hour, it was already well out over the Pacific Ocean. “How many of these big Energia rockets are currently under construction?”

  “A dozen,” Leonov told him.

  “And how many of those are close to completion?”

  “Four heavy-lift rockets should be available for launch in a matter of weeks, with two more not far behind,” Leonov said, obviously glad to be able to report even more good news. “So we’ll be able to conduct a rigorous flight-test program while still shaving months off the time needed to certify the Energia-5VR as fully operational.”

  “More flight tests? After this picture-perfect launch?” Gryzlov shook his head. “A waste of resources, Mikhail.”

  Leonov’s face froze. “What?”

  Gryzlov eyed him closely. “You heard me.” He nodded toward the monitor. “The Americans are not fools. Not all of them, anyway. And now we’ve just revealed a space launch capability they never dreamed we could develop so quickly. Some of the brighter people in Washington, D.C., are going to start wondering what else we have up our sleeves.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “No, we don’t have any more time to throw away. Not when the Americans are already rushing to make those damned spaceplanes of theirs operational again. We need to move fast . . . even faster than we first planned.”

  For a long moment, Leonov stared back at him in stunned silence. “What are you proposing, Gennadiy?” he asked finally.

  “Proposing? I’m not proposing anything. I think you mistake your place, Mikhail,” Gryzlov snapped with biting sarcasm. “What I am doing is issuing orders.” His voice grew colder. “So listen closely. You will not waste those expensive new Energia rockets conducting additional test flights. Instead, you will proceed immediately to the nex
t phase of the Mars Project—the operational phase. When our next heavy-lift rockets launch, I expect them to carry the weapons and other equipment necessary to construct Mars One in orbit. Is that clear?”

  Leonov’s face might have been carved from stone. “With respect, Mr. President,” he said, stressing every word. “I cannot guarantee the reliability of the Energia-5VR system on the basis of a single successful test flight. We were very lucky today. Tomorrow, we might not be so fortunate. Each rocket is an incredibly complex machine, with hundreds of thousands of separate parts. Even the smallest production fault or a single software glitch could be disasterous.”

  “You will make them work, Colonel General,” Gryzlov interrupted curtly. His eyes held all the warmth of a Siberian winter. “I’m counting on you.”

  Eight

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  Two Days Later

  Beyond the looming spire of the Washington Monument, the sky had turned a dark gray. Towering masses of clouds were rolling in from the south, bringing rain and predicted high winds. In the fading light, even the green, tree-covered South Lawn looked gloomy.

  With a thoughtful frown, U.S. president John Dalton Farrell turned away from the Oval Office windows. After nearly six months in office, he still missed the wide-open horizons of his native Texas—especially those of the vast plains and plateaus of West Texas, where he’d made his fortune as a wildcatter in the energy industry. In the east, he felt more confined, more hemmed in, especially in crowded, bustling Washington, D.C. People here moved and talked faster, but somehow their words carried less meaning . . . and their dreams were narrower. The capital’s political power brokers and federal bureaucrats had long ago mastered the art of drowning new and unconventional ideas in a morass of regulatory red tape and dreary, pompous, never-ending argument.

  Then he shrugged. Quit your bitching, J.D., pull on your britches and your boots, and get back to work, he told himself firmly. He’d worked his butt off to beat Stacy Anne Barbeau and park himself behind the big Oval Office desk, hadn’t he? Nobody’d ever promised him the job was going to be easy.