by Dale Brown
“We’ve lost one of the Mars One modules,” Leonov said bluntly. “An Energia-5VR blew up in flight—approximately two and a half minutes after launch.”
Strelkov bit down on an obscenity. He took a couple of short breaths, trying to compose himself. Not that he would be fooling anyone, he knew. The doctors monitoring the telemetry of their vital signs would just have seen his blood pressure and heart rate spike. “What did we lose?” he asked at last.
Leonov’s voice was grim. “Your fusion power reactor, Colonel,” he said quietly.
Sixteen
Sky Masters Aerospace, Inc., Battle Mountain, Nevada
The Next Day
“Your secure video link to the White House will go live in thirty seconds,” a Sky Masters technician announced over the conference room speakers. “Stand by.”
Brad McLanahan glanced at Nadia Rozek and Hunter “Boomer” Noble. “Everybody set?”
His voice sounded tighter than he liked. He had briefed senior government officials before, all the way up to Poland’s president, Piotr Wilk. For some reason, though, the prospect of performing this same task for his own country’s commander in chief, President John D. Farrell, had him even more on edge than he’d expected. Maybe it was because he’d just been getting used to focusing on flying again—gratefully leaving concerns about geopolitics and strategy to those at higher pay grades. Wrestling with technical aeronautical and astronautical problems and spaceplane crew training had been strangely restful. But now, suddenly, here he was back in the big leagues. With U.S. intelligence agencies still half crippled by years of neglect, the president wanted the joint Scion–Sky Masters team’s analysis of Russia’s surprise lunge back into outer space.
Coolly, Boomer nodded back.
“We are ready,” Nadia said, with complete assurance. Under the table, out of sight of the camera focused in their direction, she took Brad’s hand in hers.
For a second, he allowed himself to relax. As long as he had this amazing woman at his side, what was there to worry about? Naturally, the undisciplined little voice inside his mind started running through a litany: Well, let’s see . . . there are still the Russians out there and the inherent dangers of spaceflight and the chance that you’ll screw up your briefing and . . .
Mercifully, the video camera light blinked to red, indicating that it was live. In that same moment, the big LED screen on the conference room wall lit up. President Farrell, Kevin Martindale, and his own father looked back at them from the Oval Office. Instantly, Brad felt his twitchy nerves start to settle down. All the waiting was over. Now, finally, he had an important job to do and no more time to fret.
“Captain McLanahan and Major Rozek, it’s real nice to see y’all again,” Farrell drawled out around a warm, welcoming grin. It was a politician’s practiced expression, but no less real for that. For any truly successful elected official, a sincere liking for people was a fundamental requirement. Most voters could spot a phony a mile off—no matter how much “spin” a candidate’s PR team imparted. “And you too, Dr. Noble. We haven’t met before, but I can assure you that your reputation precedes you.”
Boomer laughed. “Only the good parts, I hope, Mr. President.”
Farrell’s grin grew wider. “Son,” he said with an even more pronounced twang, “I was riding herd on wildcatter oil drilling crews before you were out of middle school. Trust me, there ain’t nothing I haven’t already heard about loose women, fast cars, and cardplaying.”
Brad heard Nadia choke back on a sudden amused snort. The scuttlebutt around Sky Masters was that Boomer’s idea of a long-term romantic commitment was dinner and a movie . . . with breakfast in bed to follow.
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere now, Mr. President,” Boomer shot back, not abashed in the slightest. “I already voted for you last November.”
Brad saw a pained look cross Martindale’s face. The former president occasionally regretted the easy informality with which some in the Iron Wolf Squadron and Sky Masters approached those in authority.
“Perhaps we can dispense with any further recitation of Dr. Noble’s extracurricular exploits, impressive though they are?” Martindale said, mildly exasperated. “And move on instead to recent events in outer space?”
Boomer glanced at Brad, saw his tiny nod, and shrugged. “Sure thing, Mr. Martindale.” His expression grew more serious. “For the past twenty-four hours or so, we’ve been closely monitoring the situation since the Russians launched those seven rockets. Several things are now clear. First, despite the loss of one of their big Energia-5VR vehicles, the Russians have successfully put an enormous amount of material in orbit—something close to four hundred tons of payload, maybe even more.”
“But not just material,” Farrell interjected.
“That’s correct, sir,” Boomer said. “Reports from Baikonur suggest the supposedly ‘unmanned’ Federation orbiter actually launched with up to six cosmonauts on board. Since then, we’ve picked up radio transmissions between the spacecraft and a control center in Moscow which confirm the presence of at least one cosmonaut.”
“Could there be just one man flying that thing?” Farrell asked. “As a sort of test pilot?”
“I doubt it, Mr. President,” Boomer said. “If it were up to me, I’d want a minimum of two crew for any test flight. Even on a mature spacecraft, too many things can go wrong too fast for one man to handle. And from my experience, the Russians tend to think in terms of three-man or larger crews for anything except their rocket-launched Elektron spaceplanes.”
Patrick McLanahan frowned. “It’s pretty clear that Gryzlov isn’t just testing this new spacecraft. This is a full-on operational flight. I bet that Federation is fully crewed, with all six seats occupied.”
Boomer nodded. “That’s our bet, too, General.”
Using the laptop computer in front of him, he brought up a series of computer-generated 3-D visuals to illustrate his next points as he spoke. The images were mirrored in a corner of their screens. “Approximately twelve hours ago, six separate Russian spacecraft—which appear to be three large Energia third-stage fuel tanks with smaller payload modules attached, two Progress-MS cargo ships, and the manned Federation orbiter—successfully rendezvoused in orbit.” Half a dozen red icons spiraled around a digital representation of the earth, drawing closer to each other with each successive orbit until they merged into a single glowing dot.
“Rendezvoused? Do you mean all those spacecraft docked with each other?” Farrell asked.
Boomer shook his head. “Not quite, Mr. President. Or at least not yet. Instead, they entered a tight formation . . . tight by the standards of space travel, I mean. Not the kind of wing-tip-to-wing-tip flying you’d see in a jet-fighter air show.” He zoomed way in until the icons representing the six Russian spacecraft were again visible as distinct and different shapes. They were all traveling in the same orbital plane, separated by no more than a few miles. “They held this formation over the next several orbits. At that altitude, it takes them a little more than ninety-seven minutes to circle the earth.”
“But now those Russian spaceships are on the move again?” the president guessed.
“Yes, sir.” Boomer tapped a key. Five of the vehicles began adjusting their positions and orientations, apparently slowly closing in on a common center point. “Four hours ago, our ground- and space-based radars and telescopes picked up the start of what appears to be an intricate series of automated maneuvers. Our analysis indicates these maneuvers are designed to create a single, multicomponent structure in orbit. For now, the cosmonauts in that Federation orbiter are holding position a few miles off to the side—probably preparing to dock when it’s safe to do so.”
Farrell rocked back in his chair. His expression was pensive. “So Gennadiy Gryzlov is building himself a brand-new space station. And in a mighty big hurry.”
It was Brad’s turn now. “Yes, sir,” he agreed. “We think the Russians are pulling the same stunt we used to build Sk
ylab back in the 1970s and then Armstrong Station after that. We strongly suspect they’ve converted those Energia third-stage fuel tanks into modules containing living quarters and all the other hardware needed for an operational orbital platform.”
Farrell nodded his understanding. America’s first space station, Skylab, had begun life as an empty Saturn V third-stage fuel tank before its conversion into an orbiting habitat and science outpost. “Do you have any evidence to back up your suspicions?”
“We do, sir,” Brad said. “We spotted each of those tanks intentionally venting gases after they reached orbit. And spectroscopic analysis confirms those gases were liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen.”
“They were dumping unneeded fuel,” Martindale said slowly.
Brad nodded. “Yep. But here’s the kicker. Our guys at both Sky Masters and NASA say the amounts involved were way too low. So either those big-ass fuel Energia tanks are going to dock with tons of liquid hydrogen and oxygen still sloshing around—”
“Or there’s no fuel left on board any of them . . . because the vast majority of that tankage space has already been reconfigured for other purposes,” his father said.
“That’s our assessment,” Brad confirmed.
“What about the rocket the Russians lost on launch?” the president asked. “Do we know what its payload was?”
“Beyond the probability that it was another of those converted fuel-tank modules? Not really,” Brad said doubtfully. He highlighted the graphic representation Boomer had created again. It showed the five surviving unmanned spacecraft still firing thrusters—slowly pirouetting through space as they maneuvered into docking positions. “Though we might be able to make some educated guesses once we have a clearer picture of the Russian station’s design architecture.”
For a long moment, Farrell watched the computer-generated imagery play out across their screens. Then he shook his head with a frown and turned his attention back to Brad. “Which leads straight to the big question, Captain McLanahan,” he said bluntly. “What the hell is Moscow up to?”
Brad looked him straight in the eye. “Considering the intelligence Mr. Martindale’s agents picked up on Gryzlov’s cosmonaut training program, we think there is only one reasonable conclusion: the Russians are building an armed orbital platform.”
“Can you prove that?” the president demanded.
“In a court of law? Or in the court of international public opinion? No, sir.” Brad nodded toward Martindale. “Not without blowing Scion’s intelligence operation in Russia sky-high.”
“Even doing that won’t achieve much,” Martindale pointed out quietly. “My people couldn’t penetrate Gryzlov’s security directly. We don’t have any written or other clear-cut technical evidence to confirm what this failed Russian cosmonaut candidate told them.”
“Which makes their report nothing more than hearsay,” Farrell said with a sigh. “So if we go public with this situation as things stand now, it’s just going to end up being my word against Gryzlov’s.”
Martindale nodded. “I’m afraid so. And that’s not enough to sway any of the nonaligned nations our way. Nor can I see many of our allies thanking us for provoking a new confrontation with Russia without better proof.”
“Poland will stand with you, Mr. President,” Nadia said fiercely. “As will the other countries of the Alliance of Free Nations. I am sure of it.”
Somberly, Farrell inclined his head to her. “I do thank you for that, Major.” Then he shrugged his big shoulders. “But I’m not ready yet to ask anyone to go all in with us. Not when we’re holding such a weak hand.” He looked them all over. “At the same time, I’m sure as hell not inclined to sit back passively and wait for Gryzlov’s next move. Whatever it might be.”
“No, sir,” Brad agreed, a sentiment instantly echoed by Nadia, his father, and the others.
“So our top priority is getting solid data on this space station. And muy pronto,” Farrell told them firmly.
Brad saw his father frown.
“That could be difficult,” the older man said. “Ground-based telescopes and conventional reconnaissance satellites probably won’t provide enough information. The Russians aren’t stupid. It’s likely that they’re using a mix of external camouflage and antithermal and radar-absorbent materials to shield many of their systems and capabilities from distant snooping.”
From his seat on the other side of Nadia, Boomer nodded. “That matches up with our observations so far, General. The radar and thermal signatures of those converted fuel tanks are significantly weaker than they should be, given their estimated size and mass.”
“Which is why we need to take a closer look,” Nadia said flatly. “Close enough to pierce through the Russian maskirova, their disguise.”
Martindale raised an eyebrow. “And just how on earth do you propose to arrange that, Major Rozek?”
“Not on Earth at all,” she replied with the faint hint of a mischievous smile. “Naturally, we will use one of our spaceplanes for the mission.”
At her nod, Boomer pulled up another piece of 3-D animation. This one showed a green icon marked as an S-19 Midnight spaceplane climbing steeply on an intercept course to the orbiting Russian space station. Shortly before it flew on by, a cloud of other, smaller icons detached from the S-19 and angled toward the station—passing it on all sides at very close range, a matter of mere miles.
“We began developing this plan for a close reconnaissance as soon as we concluded Moscow was building a military platform in orbit,” Nadia said, quite seriously now. “During its flyby, the S-19 will deploy a constellation of tiny spy satellites around the Russian station. These satellites will collect the information we need.”
Farrell leaned forward, openly curious now. “Tiny spy satellites?”
“After the destruction of Armstrong Station, Sky Masters did some crash R&D work on a new class of very small recon satellites,” Boomer explained. From the enthusiasm in his voice, it was pretty clear who had been the project lead. “We designed them to be equipped with a range of sensors, including high-resolution cameras, infrared sensors, and even an experimental low-powered 35.75 gigahertz Ka-band radar.”
“How small are these satellites of yours exactly, Dr. Noble?” Martindale asked. “Microsatellites in the fifty-to-one-hundred-kilogram range?”
“Much smaller,” Boomer told him proudly. “The prototypes we built are classed as nanosatellites. Each weighs less than five kilograms, around ten pounds, and they’re only about a foot in diameter.”
“Like the CubeSats so many colleges and small companies launch as science experiments,” the president realized.
Boomer nodded. “Yes, sir. But ours are shaped to reduce their radar cross section—which makes them much more suitable for covert intelligence-gathering and military missions.” He shrugged. “We figured the Pentagon and other agencies might be interested. But no such luck.”
“Let me guess,” the president said dryly. “Stacy Anne Barbeau’s administration slammed the door in your face.”
“Hell, they’d have had to open the door first,” Boomer said with a pained look. “None of her people ever even answered my e-mails.”
Farrell nodded slowly. His predecessor had a lot to answer for. Her lack of vision and obsession with settling petty political scores had cost the U.S. government dearly. Then he frowned. “Okay, but one thing bothers me. Why not simply launch these spy satellites into orbit using a conventional unmanned rocket? Wouldn’t that be safer than flying one of the spaceplanes so close to this Russian space station?”
“Safer for us, maybe,” Brad said. “But sending the nanosats up on an unmanned rocket would almost certainly guarantee a mission failure.”
“Why?”
“Because Boomer’s nanosatellites have very limited thruster power and communications capabilities. It’s part of the trade-off between size and sensor power. Deploying them properly around the Russian platform is going to require some seriously intricate
flying, well beyond the capability of any existing autonomous system.” Brad shrugged. “Basically, trusting the nanosat’s dinky onboard computers to handle the mission entirely on their own would be risky—possibly even leading to unintended near misses the Russians could mistake for a deliberate attack. No, sir, to pull this off, we need a man in the loop.”
“Or a woman,” Nadia said stubbornly.
Brad shook his head with a lopsided grin. “Not this time, O Queen of the Skies. Boomer and I won the toss, remember? Besides, you and Constable Vasey are going to have your hands full managing that beast of an S-29 Shadow while we gas up.”
Seeing the puzzled look on the president’s face, he went on. “We actually need to fly two spaceplanes to pull this off, sir—not just one. There’s only one way to put an S-19 Midnight into an orbit four hundred miles up with enough fuel for maneuvers and a powered reentry. We need to do a preliminary in-space refueling from an S-29 Shadow we’ve converted to a tanker first.”
Farrell stared at him first and then at Nadia. “Refueling one spaceplane from another? Is that something that’s ever been done before?”
“Oh, yes, many times,” Nadia assured him blithely. She smiled broadly. “Well, at least in simulations.”
“And in real life?” the president asked quietly.
“This will be the first time.”
“Sweet jumping Jesus,” Farrell muttered in astonishment. He glanced at Patrick McLanahan. “Do I have any alternative here?”
Although his own worries about this proposed flyby were plain on his lined face, Brad’s father doggedly shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. President. Not unless you’re willing to wait for Gryzlov to act first—in his own sweet time and according to his own plans.”
“Hell no,” Farrell said tightly. He sighed. “So there it is. I don’t like it. I don’t like it much at all.” He looked out of the screen at Brad, Boomer, and Nadia. “All right. I’ll give my blessing to this little jaunt of yours. But y’all just be damned careful up there, comprende?”