The Kremlin Strike

by Dale Brown

  Mercifully, the engines and thrusters that had been firing randomly began shutting down in ones and twos—either because they’d consumed all their fuel or because they’d burned out. At least that would make it slightly easier to move around inside the S-19’s cramped cockpit. But only slightly. Between zero-G and the weird centrifugal and Coriolis effects induced by the spaceplane’s tumbling motion, even getting out of the seat was going to be a bitch.

  Brad swallowed, fighting the urge to throw up. He gritted his teeth. The longer he just sat here, the harder this would be. Carefully, he unbuckled his harness and pushed the straps out of the way. Then he bent at the waist and raised his thighs toward his chest, as though he were doing a stomach crunch. While his left hand gripped the edge of the seat, the fingertips of his right gently pushed off against the other side.

  Still holding on, he pivoted slowly up and around to face the back of the cockpit. One of his knees slammed into Boomer’s helmet. He tightened his hold on the seat as the reaction pushed him away. “Oops,” he muttered, feeling his face redden slightly. He guessed no one would award him a prize for grace and style in zero-G anytime soon. Or ever, McLanahan, his mind scolded, unless you stop screwing around.

  Cautiously, he reached out with his right hand, grabbed on to the back of his seat, pulled himself over it, and twisted around again. Then he reached down and grabbed the pull handle set almost flush with the deck between the cockpit seats. At his tug, a section of the deck plating rose smoothly and pivoted away—revealing the deep compartment containing their PLSS life-support gear and Emergency Return from Orbit kits.

  Boomer had already unlatched his own harness and turned to face him. He reached out with a gloved hand and took the bulky white backpack Brad gave him. It took them both several minutes to struggle into the backpacks and connect up their umbilical hoses. Instantly, fresh oxygen started flowing to their suits. The red lights on their suit-sleeve environmental control panels turned green.

  “Radio check.”

  Brad heard Boomer’s voice clearly through his headset. The short-range radios in their backpacks were working. “Roger,” he replied. “Loud and clear. How me?”

  “I hear you, too, loud and clear,” Boomer said back. He sighed. “Okay, McLanahan, are you ready to field-test those Rube Goldberg–style Emergency Return from Orbit kits I showed you way back when at Battle Mountain?”

  Almost against his will, Brad shot him a crooked grin. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Nope.”

  “I figured as much,” Brad said. He pulled one of the ERO cases out from the storage compartment and passed it to the other man. Then he took the second kit for himself. Looking again at the weird assortment of gear it contained—the inflatable aerogel-Nomex shell, parachute pack, and twin-nozzle retro-rocket—didn’t exactly inspire confidence. On the other hand, considering that his options boiled down to either rolling the dice with this untested piece of equipment or certain death aboard the crippled S-19 when it hit the atmosphere, maybe that wasn’t such a tough choice after all. And Earth, as it slid across the spaceplane’s cockpit windows, already looked a hell of a lot closer.

  Boomer waited for him to float back across his seat and clip on. “Step one is to get these cockpit canopies open. Now, the motors are probably shot to shit. But even if they aren’t, our control switches are, so—”

  “We do this the old-fashioned way,” Brad finished for him. He reached out to his side of the cockpit and pulled open a small panel. Inside was an emergency release lever and a manual crank handle to raise the starboard-side canopy. “Right?”

  “I’ll give you a gold star when we get down,” Boomer said dryly. He opened an identical panel on his side of the S-19’s cockpit. “Okay, let’s get this done.”

  What would have been a comparatively simple task in Earth’s gravity was much more difficult in zero-G. Brad found he had to wedge his booted feet under his seat to get enough traction just to turn the handle. With excruciating slowness, the twin canopies unlatched and cranked open—straining upward into the blackness of space.

  “Who gets out first?” Brad grunted, struggling to turn the crank handle for his canopy.

  “I already tossed that coin in my mind,” Boomer said, sounding equally exhausted. “You won.”

  Brad forced a smile. “What’s this? Noble by last name, noble by nature?”

  “Hell no,” Boomer retorted. “This is more like callow youth before crafty veteran. This way, I figure if you screw up somehow, I get a shot at seeing what went wrong in time to do better.”

  “Fair enough,” Brad agreed. He tilted his helmet toward the open canopy, waiting as the earth, which now filled their whole view, twirled away out of sight, leaving only stars in its wake. The gap looked wide enough. There was no percentage in waiting any longer. He unclipped from the seat and triggered a short burst from his backpack’s emergency maneuvering system. With the ERO clutched to his chest, he soared out into space—clearing the edge of the canopy with only inches to spare.

  Another quick burst from the gas jets altered his trajectory, sending him corkscrewing away from the S-19’s aft fuselage as it spun past on its descent toward the atmosphere. More finger taps on the maneuvering controls turned him around so that he could see the world below. He was so close now that its clouds and forests and mountains filled his whole field of view—growing larger and more defined with every passing second as he curved east and down at more than seventeen thousand miles per hour.

  “Some view, huh?” he heard Boomer radio. The other man’s space suit was visible only as a bright speck of reflected sunlight several miles away on their orbital track.

  “I liked it a whole lot more from inside a working spacecraft,” Brad admitted ruefully.

  “Yeah, me too.” Hissing static overlaid Boomer’s words. They were already near the outside edge of the range of their low-powered radio gear and separating fast. “So we’ll build our own. Now get to it, Brad . . . and good . . .” The static grew louder and louder until it drowned out every other sound.

  “Good luck to you, too,” Brad said softly, knowing the other man was already too far away to hear him. He switched the radio off. Since no other human being was within its limited range, there was no point in wasting battery power. For a brief, terrifying moment, he experienced the sudden, overwhelming sensation of being utterly and completely alone—totally cut off from everyone he knew and loved. If this emergency reentry went wrong, no one would ever really know what had happened to him. He’d simply vanish, like a shooting star that streaked across the night sky for one brief moment and then disappeared forever in a split-second flash of bright golden light.

  Abruptly, he shook his head in self-reproach. Whine when you’re back on the ground, McLanahan, he thought grimly, not now.

  It took some doing to open and empty the clear ERO case without putting his suit into a spin. At last, though, Brad managed it.

  Equally careful and precise movements allowed him to unfold the disk-shaped aerogel shell so that its thin Nomex cloth heat shield faced the earth below. Cautiously, he maneuvered into position inside the uninflated shell, strapped the parachute pack to his suit, and tightened his hold on the little handheld rocket motor. Then, satisfied that he was as close to the exact center as he could get, he activated a pair of pressurized containers. Instantly, expandable polyurethane foam spewed out of their nozzles—inflating the six-foot-diameter bag around him.

  Within seconds, the foam had hardened, locking him snugly in place. And what had been a disk of ultrathin, ultrastrong material now had a conical dish shape.

  Brad looked up at the star-speckled black depths above him and then took a deep breath. There was no sense in putting this off any longer. Sure, he was already on a course to deorbit anyway, but their derelict S-19 Midnight was on that same basic trajectory . . . and it was bound to break up on reentry, shredding into a massive fireball composed of thousands of burning fragments. It would be a whole lot better to dr
op out of orbit far, far away from where the spaceplane was doomed to meet its own fiery end.

  Here goes, he thought. Next stop, Earth . . . or oblivion.

  He squeezed the retro-rocket trigger.

  At first, the ride was undramatic. When the rockets fired, he only saw two quick puffs of vapor and felt a tiny jolt . . . about the same as if someone had dropped a five-pound weight on his stomach. But the velocity decrease was just enough to steepen his descent, further tightening gravity’s grip on his improvised reentry capsule. For long moments, though, nothing seemed to be happening. Since he couldn’t see the world growing beneath his heat shield, Brad had no visible frame of reference and no way to judge his relative motion.

  All that changed the moment he crossed the Kármán line and hit the tenuous upper fringes of the atmosphere. As the aerogel-and-Nomex “sled” tore deeper and deeper into thicker and thicker air, it decelerated fast. G-forces slammed into Brad’s chest, squeezing down harder and harder the farther he fell. Despite his training and pressure suit, the Gs kept piling up with crushing force. It grew more difficult to breathe. Desperately, he contracted his stomach, thigh, and shoulder muscles, fighting to keep enough blood in his brain to stay conscious. Colors started to leach out of the world at the far corners of his vision.

  Superheated filaments of electrically charged plasma streamed past him in a dazzling light show. Gradually, the sky above him changed color, shading from the black of space to a rich blue hue. Rivulets of sweat stung his eyes. It was getting hotter now . . . much, much hotter.

  Down and down Brad plunged—blazing across the sky like a meteor . . . or a fallen angel cast out of the heavens.

  Twenty-Four

  The White House Situation Room, Washington, D.C.

  That Same Time

  President John Dalton Farrell watched the last few seconds of nanosatellite imagery through narrowed eyes. His jaw tightened angrily when the screen froze on a blinding flash from one of the Russian space station’s weapons and then went black. “Those sons of bitches,” he growled. “So much for Foreign Minister Titeneva’s public-relations horseshit about the peaceful uses of outer space.”

  He turned his head toward the two other men in the room, Kevin Martindale and Patrick McLanahan. “What type of weapon was that?”

  “It was definitely a directed-energy weapon . . . and a remarkably powerful one,” Patrick said tiredly. He seemed to have aged at least ten more years in the last few minutes. “Brad and Boomer’s spaceplane was more than one hundred and fifty miles from Mars One when it was hit. But we lost all telemetry from the S-19 within milliseconds of that flash. No conventional missile or projectile could possibly have covered that kind of distance so rapidly.”

  Farrell nodded. “Was it a laser? Like the ones we saw knock out our recon nanosatellites?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Patrick replied. “A laser weapon of sufficient power could definitely destroy one of our spaceplanes, but not so quickly. At a minimum, we should have received telemetry from Midnight Zero-One indicating a rapidly rising hull temperature. But that is not what we observed.” Using a small, palm-sized computer linked to the White House network, he sent more images to one of the Situation Room’s large screens. “This is tracking data collected by the Globus II space surveillance radar at Vardø, Norway, right on the Russian border.”

  The radar images showed the S-19 as it started to move away from Mars One. A green line depicted its projected orbital track curving northward to enter an even more inclined orbit. “Seconds before they were fired on, Boomer had initiated a significant plane-change maneuver.”

  “To open the range fast,” Farrell said.

  Patrick nodded. “Yes, sir. By lighting up those undeclared military-grade radars, the Russians were demonstrating potential hostile intent. Boomer’s reaction was exactly correct.” He looked down for a moment, obviously trying to control his emotions. “I would have made the same move if I’d been in the pilot’s seat.”

  “But they didn’t get far,” Farrell said carefully.

  “No, sir.” Patrick tapped an icon on his computer, advancing the radar footage. “This shows the precise moment of the attack.”

  On the screen, the blip representing the S-19 suddenly veered off its projected track—“falling” away from the Russian space station on a wildly eccentric trajectory.

  “Everything we know now suggests the spaceplane sustained significant impact damage, probably coupled with intense electromagnetic pulse effects,” the older McLanahan said bluntly. “That would explain why we immediately lost contact with both the crew and the S-19’s computers . . . and why they haven’t been able to regain control over the spacecraft yet.”

  “Assuming they’re even still alive,” Martindale said delicately, plainly aware that he was treading on painful ground.

  Patrick nodded without speaking. He brought up a new map. This one showed the current trajectory of the crippled Sky Masters spaceplane. If nothing changed, it was on course to hit the earth’s atmosphere somewhere over the Western Pacific. A digital readout showed the estimated time remaining before catastrophic reentry. It was down to less than twenty minutes. His lined face showed little emotion, but his eyes were full of sorrow. “If Brad and Boomer are still alive, one thing’s certain . . . they’re running out of time fast.”

  Farrell winced. What could he possibly say to a father about to watch his son die? Nothing useful, he supposed. Horrible though it was, however, he needed the other man’s experience and knowledge right now. Expressions of shared grief and sympathy would have to wait. “Okay, so the S-19 wasn’t hit by a laser,” he said slowly. “Then what could have caused this impact and EMP damage you mentioned?”

  “Probably a plasma cannon,” Martindale said.

  Farrell stared at him in surprise. “You’re joking.”

  Martindale shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m not.” He nodded toward the screen. “It’s the only thing I can think of that would explain what we just saw.”

  “You actually believe the Russians have built themselves an honest-to-God real live plasma weapon?” Farrell said dubiously. “Like something out of Star Wars?”

  “Yes, but not Star Wars the movie,” Martindale told him. “More likely, one of the advanced weapons concepts we explored decades ago as part of President Reagan’s original Strategic Defense Initiative.”

  “Which were never developed,” Farrell said. “Right?”

  Martindale nodded. “True. But we learned enough to know plasma weapons were probably technologically feasible—at least given a huge investment of time, scientific and engineering resources, and money.”

  “And you think Gennadiy Gryzlov has gone ahead and done just that,” Farrell said slowly.

  “I do.” Martindale’s mouth turned downward. “Though, I admit, much to my deep regret. Because if the Russians really have managed to put a working high-powered plasma weapons system in orbit, this country is in a great deal of danger.”

  Patrick’s computer pinged suddenly. He read the alert and then looked up at them. His eyes now showed a tiny flicker of hope. “That was Mission Control at Battle Mountain. Several minutes ago, one of our space surveillance satellites detected two small objects separating from the S-19 Midnight.”

  Martindale looked wary. “That might just be debris breaking loose from the wreck,” he cautioned.

  “It could also be the crew bailing out,” the older McLanahan countered sharply.

  “Bailing out?” Farrell didn’t bother hiding his confusion. “How the holy hell can anyone bail out in space, for Christ’s sake? I mean, even ignoring the fact that there’s no air . . . how could anyone hope to survive reentering the atmosphere wearing just a space suit?” His perplexity cleared slightly. “Or do you mean Brad and Boomer are clear of the S-19 and can stay in orbit long enough for us to send up another one of the spaceplanes to rescue them?”

  Patrick shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. President. Given the traject
ory the spaceplane is on, their emergency backpack thrusters can’t possibly boost the crew back into a stable orbit. They don’t have the power or fuel required to do the job. And even if they could, by the time we can sortie another S-plane and achieve rendezvous, Brad and Boomer would already be out of oxygen.”

  Farrell stared at him in honest bewilderment. “Then how—?” he began. Quickly, Patrick gave him a rundown on the Emergency Return from Orbit gear now carried by every Sky Masters spaceplane. When he finished, Farrell let out a low whistle. “Hell, General, that’s like betting your whole stake without seeing a single goddamned card.”

  “It’s not quite that bad,” Martindale said evenly. “While I admit that no one has ever used the ERO system in real life, we have run a substantial number of computer simulations to pin down the odds of a successful reentry.”

  Farrell looked straight at him. “Which are?”

  “Somewhere around fifty percent,” Martindale admitted. “If everything goes perfectly.”

  Patrick’s computer pinged again. He grabbed for it eagerly, read the new message, and looked up with the faint beginnings of a smile. “Brad and Boomer both made it out of the S-19 alive! That satellite spotted both contacts outside the spaceplane executing controlled burns . . . with a five-minute separation between the first and the second.”

  He tapped quickly on the tiny screen, sending a short text message. Seeing Martindale and Farrell’s quizzical looks, he explained. “I’ve ordered Battle Mountain to send us estimates of the crew’s probable landing zones. Between what we know about their known angles of descent, velocity, and the reported atmospheric conditions along their reentry tracks, our computers should be able to narrow those down pretty well.”

  Less than a minute later, Battle Mountain’s updated estimates blinked onto the Situation Room’s main screen. Red ovals centered on the most probable landing sites for each ERO were displayed on a large digital map of Asia and the Pacific. For a long moment, the three men stared at the map in horrified silence.