by Dale Brown
Brad keyed his mike. “Shadow Two-One, this is Midnight Zero-One. We have good visual contact. Welcome to space!”
Through his headset, he heard Nadia’s amused-sounding voice. “That was supposed to be my line, Midnight Zero-One. After all, we were here first!”
Well, Brad thought, that was true, though only by a few minutes. The S-29 piloted by Peter Vasey, with Nadia as mission commander, had kept them company for most of the long trip to the South Pacific before flying on ahead to make its own climb to this extremely low orbit.
“Fair enough, Shadow Two-One,” he allowed. “Stand by. We’re moving into precontact position now.”
Carefully, using tiny bursts from the S-19’s maneuvering thrusters, Boomer brought their spaceplane into position slightly below and behind its larger companion. The indicators on his HUD flashed green. “In precontact position, Two-One,” he radioed. He flipped a switch to open the slipway doors above and behind the cockpit. “Ready to proceed. ‘Bomb’ first, please.”
“Roger, Zero-One,” Nadia replied. “We show you stabilized precontact. We are ready with ‘bomb.’ You are cleared into contact position.”
Boomer glanced at Brad with a quick smile. “Now we find out if this cockamamie idea of yours will work.”
“Hey, you’re the one who did the math,” Brad retorted virtuously. “I’m just the big-picture guy here.” Ostentatiously, he folded his arms. “If we blow up, it’s not my fault.”
“Well, that’ll be a comfort, no doubt,” Boomer said dryly. “Shadow Two-One, Midnight is moving into contact position now,” he said into his mike. His hands made small, precise movements on the thruster controls. Slowly, with infinite care, the S-19 slid closer to the larger spaceplane . . . drifting higher to within a few yards of its open cargo bay doors.
A new set of green indicators flashed on his HUD. One careful tap activated thrusters arrayed around the S-19’s nose. They fired—canceling out the additional forward motion he’d imparted earlier.
“Good position. Zero relative velocity,” Brad confirmed after checking his own display.
Boomer breathed out. Unlike a regular air tanker, the S-29 Shadow they’d hastily converted for this mission didn’t have any of the visual guides—flashing director lights or painted lines—pilots relied on when maneuvering into position. To assist him, Sky Masters techs had done some very rapid coding to create a variation of the computer program used for docking with other spacecraft and space stations. He radioed Nadia. “Midnight Zero-One is stabilized in contact position. Over to you.”
“Roger, Zero-One,” Nadia replied. “I am maneuvering the BOHM refueling boom now.”
Brad peered up through the canopy into the S-29’s cargo bay. Directed by Nadia, a long, flexible boom unlatched from one side of the bay and slowly extended toward them. Tiny thrusters attached to the end of the boom fired in microsecond bursts.
Seconds later, he and Boomer felt a gentle CL-CLUNK as the nozzle at the end of the boom slid into the slipway and seated itself in their spaceplane’s refueling receptacle. “I show contact,” Nadia told them.
“Contact confirmed,” Boomer said.
Aboard the S-29, pumps whirred, using helium to “push” the thick borohydrogen metaoxide into the S-19’s fuel tanks in zero-G conditions. Brad watched the readings collected by sensors inside the tanks themselves. Steadily, their oxidizer reserves increased. For long minutes, the two spaceplanes flew in tandem above the blue, cloud-decked ocean far below.
“BOHM transfer complete,” Nadia radioed. “Detaching the first boom.”
With another CL-CLUNK, the boom’s nozzle slid back out of the slipway. Guided by thrusters, it retracted back into the converted tanker spaceplane’s cargo bay and latched.
Repeating the process with a second boom, this one pumping JP-8 jet fuel from a second tank, went faster. Even so, by the time the fuel transfer was finished, the linked spacecraft were approaching the solar terminator, the earth’s ever-moving dividing line between day and night. Ahead, city lights along the South American coast shone brightly, like diamonds against a black velvet backdrop.
Once the JP-8 fuel boom was clear, Boomer fired the S-19’s thrusters again. Aboard the bigger S-29 Shadow, Vasey did the same while Nadia closed their cargo bay doors. The two spaceplanes separated vertically and horizontally.
“Nice job, Shadow Two-One,” Brad radioed. “Midnight Zero-One is gassed up and ready to go.”
“Copy that,” Nadia replied. There was a slight pause. “We are beginning our powered reentry now. Good luck and stay safe!”
Brad saw a brief glow light up the other spaceplane as it fired its five LPDRS engines in rocket mode. Decelerating hard, it dropped lower on its way back down into the atmosphere and, ultimately, Battle Mountain. “Thank you, Two-One,” he said. “We’ll see you back at the barn in a few hours.”
Beside him, Boomer tapped their thrusters again, pitching the S-19’s nose up and away from the earth’s curving horizon. He glanced at Brad. “You ready to chase down that Russian space station?”
Dry-mouthed suddenly, Brad nodded tightly. “Yeah. But let’s make sure we don’t get too close, okay?”
“Amen to that,” Boomer said cheerfully. “Don’t sweat it, Brad. We’re just gonna mosey on up to within a hundred miles or so of our cosmonaut buddies and launch our nanosats . . . unobtrusive-like. Then we just kick back and wait while the little birds do all the hard work.” He brought their main engine controls back online. “Stand by for engine relight.”
“Affirmative. Standing by.” Brad checked his own displays. “Everything looks solid. No red lights. We are go for the burn.”
Cued by their flight computer, Boomer advanced the throttles. “Okay, here we go. Next stop, Mars One.”
With a muffled whummp, the S-19’s rocket motors relit. Instantly, G-forces slammed Brad and Boomer back into their seats. Accelerating fast, the spaceplane streaked higher—climbing almost vertically toward the still-distant Russian orbital platform.
Aboard Mars One, over South America
That Same Time
Tethered comfortably in front of his sensor console, Major Georgy Konnikov fought to keep his eyes open. He yawned once and then again, even deeper. His jaw muscles ached with the strain. Between the hard labor involved in unloading supplies from the two Progress cargo modules and the frantic rush to bring their life-support, electronics, and weapons systems online, no one in the Mars One crew had gotten much sleep in the past twenty-four hours.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
The shrill warning tone warbling through his headset yanked Konnikov’s eyes wide open. Startled, he floated backward against the tether and then pulled himself hurriedly back within reach of the console.
He pulled up the alert on his display. Mars One’s passive IR sensors had just detected a major heat source—either a missile or a rocket launch. But which was it? And where the hell was it headed? His fingers rattled across a keyboard as he interrogated the station’s primary computer. Unnoticed, a droplet of sweat broke free from his furrowed brow and drifted off across the component-crowded compartment.
In response to Konnikov’s frantic queries, lines of text scrolled across the display. They were superimposed on a map that showed Mars One’s orbital track as a green line. Suddenly a red line appeared, arrowing across the map . . . on an intercept course with the station.
“My God,” the major muttered. Without any further hesitation, he punched a button on his console. Alarms blared in every compartment. “Action stations,” he yelled into the intercom. “All personnel to action stations. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill! Colonel Strelkov to Command at once!”
Colonel Vadim Strelkov reacted instantly to the ear-piercing shriek of the “action stations” alarm. He’d been dozing, half asleep and half awake, in a sleeping bag anchored to the wall of his small cabin. Now, before he even fully regained consciousness, his hands tugged the zipper down far enough so that he could worm free of
its comforting embrace.
For a brief moment, floating free in the tiny space, he shook his head in a desperate bid to clear out the last cobwebs of fatigue. Then, hearing Konnikov’s urgent summons, he swept the curtain to his cabin aside and launched himself down a narrow, conduit- and storage-cabinet-lined corridor.
Seconds later, Strelkov glided through an open hatch into the command compartment. He could hear confused voices echoing through other hatches as the rest of the station’s crew struggled to wake up, comprehend what was happening, and maneuver in zero-G to their allotted posts. He gritted his teeth in mingled fury and humiliation. Years of rigorous training and drills and this . . . this disgraceful disorder . . . this was the result of the first real crisis?
Angrily, he shoved aside the pathetic excuse offered by his unruly subconscious, that his cosmonauts were simply exhausted and in serious need of rest. What did fatigue matter if Mars One was truly under attack? Would an enemy missile refuse to detonate out of pity because those it sought to kill were tired?
Before he sailed entirely across the compartment, Strelkov grabbed a handhold and arrested his momentum. “Give me a situation report!” he demanded.
Still bleary-eyed himself, Konnikov complied. “Our thermal sensors have a contact, sir! The computer evaluates it as one of the American spaceplanes. It is currently accelerating into orbit on a converging course. Based on its present trajectory, I estimate it will come within two hundred kilometers of the station, possibly even closer.”
Strelkov scowled. The Americans were reacting faster than he had hoped. Whether this was an attack or something else entirely—maybe only a reconnaissance flight—he would have to take precautions. He let go, pushed off the compartment wall with his fingertips, and floated over to the younger man. “Attention, all crew. Begin donning your Sokol pressure suits immediately. Major Romanenko, prep your special-action armor,” he ordered over the intercom. “Report when ready.”
GRU intelligence reports or not, he thought coldly, if that American spaceplane was armed after all and attacked them, depressurizing Mars One would at least minimize the danger of fire and explosive decompression. And since each man’s space suit was stored close to his assigned action station, it shouldn’t take them more than a few minutes to obey.
Seeing Konnikov reach for the tether holding him to his sensor console, Strelkov stopped him with a gesture. “Before you suit up, Georgy, I need you to contact Moscow,” he snapped. “Get me Colonel General Leonov . . . and the president!”
Twenty
National Defense Control Center, Moscow
That Same Time
Russia’s new military command center was a large complex of buildings on the northern bank of the Moskva River, about three kilometers from the Kremlin. It featured three auditorium-sized control rooms equipped with enormous, wraparound projection screens, tiered seating with dozens of individual computer stations, and secure connections to what was billed as the world’s most powerful military supercomputer.
Privately, Colonel General Mikhail Leonov judged those vast, futuristic-looking control rooms to be mere theater—stage sets to impress the gullible Russian public with a display of their nation’s military power and advanced technology. For all their glitz and glitter, no sensible commander would run an actual operation in one of those fishbowls. When you were making crucial, life-or-death decisions, who needed IMAX-sized screens or an audience of surplus junior officers all tapping away on their computers in an effort to look useful?
He had chosen, instead, to direct Mars Project operations from a much smaller control room buried deep beneath the ground and guarded by several layers of both human and automated security. Four workstations, one for him and three more for his principal deputies, were sufficient to manage operations—especially when coupled with secure video links to the Kremlin, the Mars One station, Vostochny, Plesetsk, and other key sites across Russia.
It had one other advantage: an adjoining bedroom suite. While they were not luxurious, these living quarters allowed Leonov to exercise direct operational command at any time of the day or night, with minimal delays. And during these first critical weeks, he believed it was vital to keep a firm hand on matters.
So when Strelkov’s emergency signal from Mars One arrived shortly before five a.m., Moscow time, Leonov was able to reach his desk within a matter of minutes. The colonel’s image, bounced through a network of military communications satellites, was up on one screen. His normally lean face looked puffy, a common hydrostatic effect of prolonged weightlessness where fluids normally drawn by gravity down toward the legs and lower torso accumulated instead in the face and upper body.
A second screen showed Gennadiy Gryzlov in his private Kremlin office. He appeared to be wide-awake. Given the president’s proclivity for keeping late hours, Leonov suspected he had not yet gone to bed.
“What is your status, Colonel?” Leonov asked.
“We have detected an American spaceplane, probably an S-19 Midnight from its thermal signature, climbing toward Mars One.”
“Ni pizdi!” Gryzlov thundered over the secure video teleconference link. “Don’t bullshit me! I thought you told me the American spaceplanes could not fly high enough to reach Mars One!”
“We have not yet positively identified the spacecraft, sir,” Strelkov said. “It could be a new model of their single-stage-to-orbit spaceplanes.”
“You had better get a positive identification, and get it now!”
“On its current course and velocity, we predict this spaceplane will very shortly enter a stable orbit offset from ours by less than two hundred kilometers.” Strelkov looked off-camera toward one of his subordinates and nodded sharply. “Major Konnikov is relaying our sensor data to you now.”
“Is this an attack?” Gryzlov snapped. “Could that thing be a missile or weaponized satellite?”
“It is possible,” Strelkov admitted. “Our cameras will give us a positive identification soon. I find it troubling that the Americans have timed their approach with such precision.”
Gryzlov stared at him. “How so?”
“We are still in darkness and thus unable to recharge our directed-energy weapons,” Strelkov said, unable to hide the anxiety he felt. “If the Americans are making an offensive move against us, this is the best possible moment for them—when our defenses are at their weakest.”
“Calm down, Vadim,” Leonov said coolly. He needed to reel Strelkov back from the edge before he overreacted. Tired men could make very bad decisions. And tired and frightened men were prone to jump at every shadow. “There is no evidence our enemies have breached the Mars Project’s security, let alone learned anything about your station’s temporary vulnerability.”
He looked at Gryzlov. “This American spacecraft is almost certainly only flying a reconnaissance mission. This is a probe, nothing more. It poses no real threat.” He shrugged. “From the outside, Mars One looks exactly like the peaceful, unarmed orbital facility we have proclaimed it to be. If we are careful, the Americans will learn nothing of value—certainly nothing that will contradict our cover story.”
Gryzlov frowned. “You seem very confident, Mikhail.”
“For good reason,” Leonov assured him. “At two hundred kilometers, or even at one hundred kilometers, an S-19’s limited onboard sensors should not be able to penetrate the station’s disguise.”
“And if the Americans come even closer?” Gryzlov wondered acidly. “If they poke the nose of that spaceplane right up Mars One’s ass, how well will your much-hyped camouflage and stealth measures work?”
Leonov shook his head. “The crew of that spaceplane isn’t likely to be so foolish, Gennadiy. Without positive coordination between Mars One and the American spacecraft, a very close approach would only risk a collision that could destroy them both. Since our two nations are nominally at peace, there is no reason for the Americans to take such a risk.”
“You think not?” Gryzlov said with undisguised scorn. �
��Where have you been for the past twenty years, Leonov? In a monastery? Have you forgotten all the other times the United States has launched unprovoked surprise attacks on Russia or on our interests abroad?”
“No, Mr. President.” Leonov saw little point in debating the subject. Gryzlov’s definition of unprovoked was much the same as any four-year-old’s complaint that his younger sibling had “hit him back first.”
“Exactly. And how many of those illegal aggressions were carried out by that madman McLanahan or his lunatic son?” Gryzlov went on. His handsome face contorted in anger. “You would do well to remember that they, along with their coconspirator Martindale, now have the ear of the new American president.”
Leonov noticed that Strelkov looked even more perturbed now. Acutely aware as the colonel was that the S-19 was closing fast, the last thing he needed was seeing open friction between his two superiors.
Gryzlov turned his attention to the commander of Mars One. “If the Americans don’t behave as rationally as Leonov here imagines, are your defenses ready to destroy them?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Strelkov said quickly. “Our Hobnail lasers have more than enough power to destroy the spaceplane if it approaches within one hundred kilometers.” Hesitantly, he offered a compromise. “If the Americans do try a close approach and fail to shear off after being warned, we could activate and fire a single laser.”
“Why rely on only one laser?” Gryzlov asked.
“Because then we could blame the incident on an unintentional malfunction of Mars One’s automated defenses against dangerous space debris,” Strelkov said. “The Americans would find it difficult to prove otherwise . . . and the rest of our station’s weapons systems would remain hidden.”