Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  The hypervelocity missile tracked precisely on course, following the laser beam directly to its target. Govorov watched it all the way to impact. The missile plunged through the circular device at the nose of the spacecraft and sliced through it like it was paper. No explosion, only a puff of metal and some escaping gases. The spacecraft began to wobble a bit—obviously its directional control now destroyed— but otherwise it continued on course. Worried that the device wasn’t yet dead—perhaps it had some sort of proximity detector or last- track-to-target capability—Govorov maneuvered well above the spacecraft, then rotated around so he could watch it. The device did not follow him. A few moments later it was safely underneath him, now noticeably wobbling. Its altitude had already decreased—it would not be long before it reentered the atmosphere.

  There was no proximity explosion, no terminal or kamikaze detonation. Govorov reminded himself to inform Soviet intelligence of this new type of American spacecraft. He wanted more information on it, wanted to know what its capabilities were. Right now, though, he had to concentrate on the instructions the ground controllers were sending him in preparation for deorbit. As he maneuvered to begin his deorbit bum, he thought that even with the unexplained loss of Voloshin and Elektron Two, the mission had been a success....

  SPACE SHUTTLE ENTERPRISE

  Ann had been hanging in the same place on Enterprise's charred middeck for an hour. Saint-Michael had passed by her several times during his grisly task, twice from the middeck level and a few times from the flight-deck level. A bad cramp had developed in her left thigh. She said nothing. Saint-Michael’s job would be tough enough.

  Finally she heard the more familiar whine of circulating pumps and electronic equipment, and through the vinyl and canvas surrounding her she could see a few lights wink on. Just the sound of something operating made her hope.... “Jason?”

  “Power is back on,” he said. “We still have half our air supply left—two weeks’ worth. Not as much as I’d hoped for but. .. plenty of thruster power, except for the nose RCS.”

  “What about....”

  “They’re all in the docking module on the station.”

  “I’m sorry, Jason.”

  She could imagine the pain in his face. Armstrong Station, Skybolt, the Persian Gulf, Iran—even the earth seemed so very far away. What was left was a burned-out space shuttle. Seven charred bodies— “I found something,” Saint-Michael said after a moment. “There was an extra spacesuit on board that wasn’t damaged in the fire. I can still pressurize Enterprise's airlock. You’ll be able to change in there.”

  He carried her into the airlock and soon after that the airlock was pressurized enough so that she could unzip the rescue ball and climb out.

  “Now I know what a butterfly feels like getting out of the cocoon.”

  “I think you’ve set a record for sitting in a rescue ball.”

  When he spoke she noticed that his breathing seemed to be a bit heavier, labored. “Matter of fact, I don’t think a rescue ball has ever been used for real....”

  “Jason, are you all right?”

  He seemed not to have heard her. “Hang on, I’m going to disconnect from Armstrong. The automatic system is out, I’ll have to do a brute-force disconnect.” She felt a shudder and heard a loud metallic popping sound as Enterprise broke free of the docking clamps.

  Five minutes later Ann emerged from the airlock in her spacesuit and made her way to the upper flight deck, where she found Saint- Michael strapped into the left-hand commander’s seat punching instructions into the digital autopilot. He motioned for her to sit in the right-hand pilot’s seat. As she passed the center console and began strapping herself in, she looked out the front cockpit windows and caught a glimpse of Armstrong Station.

  “My... God....”

  “They did a job on her, that’s for sure,” Saint-Michael said. “They hit almost everything mounted on the keel—radiators, comm antennas, fuel cells, fuel storage.... One of the SBR antennas seems okay. Good, they didn’t get everything. But they put holes in all the modules except for the laser module and the MHD reactor. Looks like they got the Skybolt electronics module, too.

  “Well, there’s a hole in it, but there may not be extensive damage —Jason, are you all right?”

  Saint-Michael was shaking his head, blinking his eyes, and licking moisture from his upper lip. “I’ve got a headache, is all.. .. ”

  “Check your oxygen.”

  “I did,” but he rechecked it. “On and one hundred precent. Good blinker light.” He tried not to notice her worried look. “I’ve got the lifeboat’s rescue transponder tuned in but I’m not receiving it yet. We’ve got to try to contact someone on the ground to arrange a linkup with the lifeboat and send up a rescue craft.”

  “Okay.. .just tell me what to do.”

  “Switch over to air-to-ground frequency one and keep trying to raise someone. Try both air-to-ground channels. That Soviet missile ripped out most of the antennas on the bottom of the Enterprise, but the ones on top should work. I’ll try the satellite network again.” The two worked apart for several minutes until a hiss of static and a faint, heavily accented voice made Ann jerk upright. “Jason, I’ve got someone.”

  “Which channel?”

  “It’s... air-to-ground two. I’ve got it set to UHF.” Saint-Michael quickly reset his comm switches to the same settings.

  “Any station, any station. This is United States Space Shuttle Enterprise. Repeat, this is United States Space Shuttle Enterprise. Come in. Emergency. Over.”

  Through waves of squeals and static they heard: “Space Shuttle Enterprise, this is NASA Dakar. Repeat, this is NASA Dakar. We read you. Over.”

  “Dakar, this is Lieutenant General Saint-Michael. Request a kilo- uniform-band satellite data link with any available network. This is an emergency. Over.”

  “Copy, Enterprisecame the heavy accent. “Requesting Ku-band data link. Dakar is not Ku-band capable. Stand by.”

  A few moments later a different controller came on, this one with a definite American accent: “General Saint-Michael, this is Kevin Roberts, GS-17, senior communications officer. Sorry, sir, but we weren’t expecting a UHF call from any American spacecraft. We’re triangulating your position. We should have a Ku-band link with TDRS East in a few minutes. Can you tell us the nature of your emergency?” “Yeah... Armstrong Station has been attacked. Nine fatalities, repeat, nine fatalities. Shuttle Enterprise with two on board is damaged and unable to deorbit. Space-station lifeboat with four on board is in orbit. I want to join with the lifeboat and wait for rescue shuttle sortie.”

  “Copy, EnterpriseThe signal was getting stronger. “Enterprise, w'e have triangulated your position. TDRS link in progress. Stand by.”

  “Have you heard anything from our lifeboat, Dakar?”

  “Negative, Enterprise. We were pretty lucky to hear you in this backwater joint. I’ll relay your query to Rota for immediate reply. Understand you want immediate linkup with the lifeboat.” “Affirmative, Dakar, Enterprise standing by.”

  The wait did not last long. “Enterprise, this is Falcon Control, Colorado Springs, on air-to-ground channel one. How do you hear?” “Loud and clear, Control.” Saint-Michael switched his comm panel over from the direct line-of-sight UHF channel to the main TDRS system, which relayed voice and data through four geosynchronous satellites to a master ground station at White Sands, New Mexico. As if in reply, the computer monitor belonging to the shuttle’s general navigation computer began to display several hundred lines of position and navigational update information. For the first time in hours Ann looked hopeful. “Have you been informed of our situation?” Saint-Michael said.

  “Affirmative, Enterprise. Atlantis will be airborne in twenty-four hours to retrieve you.”

  “Copy.” Saint-Michael tried to sit back in his seat, appeared to be exercising his hands and arms inside his spacesuit. "I’m receiving . . . receiving computer input.”

  “Jason?” An
n said.

  He turned halfway toward her. “I... I feel weak ... my head ... hurts bad.” And then he stopped moving.

  “Jason?” She unstrapped and moved her helmet closer to his, staring into his face. Oh, God... it was twisted and contorted, obviously he was in great pain. “Jason, can you hear me?”

  “Get me.. . get me off the flight deck... airlock... max pressure, hurry.” One of his eyes rolled back up into his head, and he began to shiver, an oppressive, body-contorting shaking.

  Ann moved free of the right seat and fumbled at his straps. “Hurry, Ann... hurry for God’s sake....”

  “What is it, Jason? What’s wrong?”

  “Nitrogen... too much nitrogen... not enough prebreathing oxygen... oxygen....”

  He began to fumble for his spacesuit’s oxygen controls. “Ann... suit pressure... increase my suit pressure....” She reached down to his spacesuit control panel on his chest and moved the suit pressurization selector to PRESS, increasing the suit’s pressurization to maximum, nearly nine p.s.i.

  What had he said? Get him to the airlock. She lifted him up, an easy task in microgravity, brought him over to the ladder, then carried him down to the middeck level and into the airlock.

  By this time he was unconscious. She sealed the airlock behind her and studied the airlock controls. She had received briefings on how to operate the shuttle airlock, but that was a long time ago.... Finally she found the right switches and set the controls to maximum pressurization. While pure oxygen was being pumped into the chamber and the pressure slowly increased, she switched communication controls on her spacesuit chest panel from IC to A/G.

  “Control, this is Enterprise. Emergency.”

  “Enterprise, this is Falcon Control. Dr. Page, is that you?”

  “Yes. General Saint-Michael is unconscious. He passed out a few minutes ago complaining of extreme pain. We’re in the shuttle’s airlock with the controls set at emergency pressurization.”

  “Copy, Enterprise. Stand by. We’re calling the flight surgeon now.” The wait was not long. “Enterprise, this is Doctor Haroki Matsui. Is General Saint-Michael wearing a spacesuit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he complete the proper prebreathing before wearing the suit?” It was then she finally realized what was happening. Dysbarism, the bends, occurred when the body was moved from normal atmospheric pressure to an area of lower pressure. If the pressure was low enough—as it was when wearing a spacesuit—nitrogen in the bloodstream, which was denser than other dissolved gases, would bubble out of solution. Tiny bubbles of nitrogen would then float through the bloodstream, lodge in blood vessels or joints, grow larger and cause tremendous pain. In many cases nitrogen bubbles in the brain caused nitrogen narcosis, which made the victim feel angry or depressed or schizophrenic.

  Prebreathing pure oxygen before putting on a spacesuit was critical to flush nitrogen out of the bloodstream. The normal prebreathing time was two hours before exposure to a low-pressure regime. Ann had been spared the effects of dysbarism because the rescue ball had been inflated to one standard atmosphere with pure oxygen, which she had been breathing for hours. But Saint-Michael had been wearing a POS off and on before putting on his spacesuit, which did not provide enough time to flush the deadly nitrogen from his bloodstream. So he had had absolutely no protection. The physical labor he had done on Armstrong Station and on Enterprise only made things worse....

  “No, I don’t think he prebreathed properly,” Ann said, having sorted it out.

  “Then it’s dysbarism. You’ve done the only thing you can do for him now. Listen carefully. When the pressure in the chamber exceeds ten p.s.i., the pressure in the airlock will be greater than his suit’s pressure. Remove his helmet and yours. Monitor the airlock pressure to make sure it climbs to at least twenty p.s.i. on the emergency setting. If it falls below ten p.s.i. for any reason, seal him back up in his spacesuit and set his suit controls to EMER again. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep him quiet and immobilized as much as possible. You’ll be in there for at least twenty-four hours until the rescue craft reaches you. How do you feel?”

  “I feel like I wish you guys were here now....”

  “No pain in your joints? Lightheadedness? Nausea?”

  “No, no.... ”

  “You should be okay if you follow the same regime as prescribed for the general. We’ll fly a hyperbaric chamber up with Atlantis in case he hasn’t recovered by then.”

  “Thanks,” Ann said. Then had a sudden thought: “Can you retrieve the lifeboat with a hyperbaric chamber in the cargo bay? Will there be enough room?”

  No reply.

  “Control? Do you copy?”

  “Falcon here, Enterprise.”

  The controller had come back on the channel, and his voice was muted, a monotone. Ann felt a shiver, anticipating what was coming next.

  “Dr. Page, we lost contact with the lifeboat some hours ago. We were in radio contact with them shortly after separation from Armstrong Station. About a half-hour later they said they... sustained some damage. We lost control soon afterward....”

  “I see.” Her body went limp. “Control, what sort of damage? What... happened?”

  There was a moment’s pause, then, “The last survivor, Airman Moyer, said they were under attack from a Soviet spaceplane. It apparently fired a single missile into the lifeboat. They didn’t have time to get into spacesuits before their air ran out. There were no survivors....”

  CHAPTER 8

  August 1992 MOSCOW, USSR

  Govorov entered the Stavka conference chambers, accepting congratulations as he made his way to his place at the conference table. He gave a polite bow, then sat down, giving the other Stavka members their cue to follow. The Soviet general secretary remained standing, saying, after the room had quieted, “Welcome home, General Lieutenant Govorov. I’d like to ask you at this time to please step forward.”

  Govorov got up, walked to the front of the room beside the general secretary, and stood to attention.

  “Attention to orders,” Minister of Defense Czilikov said in a properly ringing voice. The members of the Stavka got to their feet. Czilikov held up an ornately lettered document and read: “By order of the commander in chief of the military forces of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Alesander Govorov is hereby promoted to the rank of Marshal Kosmonatsii, Soviet Space Defense Command, Troops of Air Defense, effective this date. The Politburo joins with the Kollegiya and the people of the Soviet Union in honoring the accomplishments of Comrade Marshal Alesander Govorov this day.”

  The general secretary moved forward, unclipped Govorov’s gold and black three-star shoulder boards and replaced them with shoulder boards carrying one large five-pointed star underneath a gold four- blade propeller. Govorov saluted the general secretary and turned again to face the members of the Stavka.

  Czilikov called out, “Present arms” Govorov and the members of the Stavka saluted the hammer and sickle over the general secretary’s right shoulder, then saluted Govorov, who returned their salute.

  “Ready, front” The Stavka members returned to attention and were motioned back to their seats. When the group was settled it was all the general secretary could do to keep to himself the Politburo’s wanting to award Govorov the Order of Lenin for his exploits in space the previous month, but he couldn’t reveal it—at least publicly —because of Govorov’s accidental destruction of the American space station rescue craft, mistaking it for a missile. It was damned unfair but there it was: he could just imagine the international press screaming about the Russian barbarians. True, it was against policy to shoot down a rescue craft, but it hadn’t been intentional.... Well, perhaps later, after things had calmed down....

  The general secretary nodded to Czilikov, who now took the podium beside him. “I extend my personal congratulations to Marshal Govorov, to his staff, and to every member of his command. I also extend to him the condolences of a nation for the l
oss of his comrade and wingman, Colonel Ivan Voloshin, who will receive the Order of Lenin for his role in the attack on the American space station. His actions are worthy of praise in any world forum.” Followed by a short, polite round of applause. A few astute people understood that this was also a way of honoring Govorov... once removed.

  As for the new Soviet hero, so far he had managed to keep his own feelings in check—about shooting down the American escape craft, mistaking it for a new weapon. But the honors and celebrations of his so-called great exploits by the general secretary—reflecting, of course, on the general secretary—were beginning to get to him. Yes, he was proud of what he and his men had accomplished. He believed in their mission, had fought for it, in fact. But it wasn’t so easy to shut out of his mind what those men in that helpless craft had suffered___ Had death been instantaneous? Who knew? He had to hope so. If it had happened to him, he knew he would have wanted it swiftly. There was no special honor or nobility in suffering. That was for martyrs and sick would-be heroes. He hoped he was neither of these. Ever since it had happened—or rather, ever since he had found out what he had done—he had thought about a simpler time when air war was plane against plane.... He had read avidly as a boy the accounts of wartime “dog fights,” as they were called, between airmen in World War I and in World War II. He had always preferred that one-on-one confrontation, between fighting men who depended on their own skill and managed to have some respect for each other. The notion might be romantic—heaven forbid that he should reveal that side of his character except to his wife in bed—but he still secretly longed for that kind of combat.... All right, he chided himself, enough of this. You are also a patriot, and it’s undermining your usefulness to go about wringing your hands....