by Dale Brown
He opened the hatch, closed it behind him and made sure the Skybolt module began to repressurize itself. When the pressure was nearly normal he slid down the narrow aisle between the, massive electronics racks and pulled Ann to him. He quickly checked her POS connections and found them secure. Further examination revealed a large cut and a bump on her left temple.
He touched his helmet to her POS faceplate. "Ann, can
you hear me?"
After a long, tense wait he noticed her neck and face muscles jerk, and then her eyes opened. "You all right?" "I ... I hit the instrument panel ... big explosion. "We've got to get out of here. Can you move?" She nodded, reached out with a foot to find the floor was still several feet above the deck. "I can move you, want to get you into a rescue ball." "Skybolt ... it works, Jason. I fired ... it fired. "Easy. Never mind Skybolt. Those spaceplanes are shooting up the modules. This one could be next." He unstowed a rescue ball from a yellow-painted container mounted on the module ceiling. "Can you seal yourself up inside?"
She nodded weakly, her labored breathing fogging the POS face mask.
Another explosion rocked the station, and with it the station's spin seemed drastically to change direction. Saint-
Michael had to hold himself steady until his body caught up with the new wobble in the station, then he opened the rescue ball. "Curl yourself up around the POS pack." With his help she wrapped her arms and legs around the POS pack and lowered her chin on the top of it. "Don't forget-seal up the ball when I cover you with it, and keep checking the pressure gauges.
Keep the ball at seven p. s.i. with your POS if you need to."
With Ann in a fetal curl a few feet from the deck, SaintMichael enclosed her with the rescue ball and zipped it closed around her. He could feel her fumbling with the ziplock-style pressure seal inside as he steered her over to an oxygen panel in the Skybolt module, plugged an oxygen hose into a pressure fitting on the ball and began to inflate the rescue ball. He noted the ball's small pressure gauge steadily rise, pumped the ball up to one standard station atmosphere and checked the seal again. It looked like a big beach ball.
Leaving Ann connected to the oxygen fitting, he bypassed the safety interlocks and undogged the hatch leading to the engineering module. The galley had completely lost its pressurization, and judging from the occasional explosions he heard, the rest of the station was probably just as dead. Only one last possibility for survival. He disconnected Ann and her rescue ball from the oxygen supply and carried her through engineering and the connecting tunnel to the docking module-
Through the wireless intercom came a stronger, firmer voice: "Jason ... ?" "How you doing?" '61 see stars every time I blink my eyes, and my head hurts like hell. Where are we going?" "Enterprise. " "Didn't the Russians attack it?" "Enterprise won't get us home," Saint-Michael said, opening the hatch to the docking module at the end of the main connecting tunnel, "but maybe it can save us. My spacesuit has enough air -and power for only seven hours. Enterprise, even damaged, has enough air and water for thirty days and it still has the thruster power to keep itself in orbit. It's our chance until-"
She wondered why Saint-Michael had suddenly stopped in midsentence. Then she understood.... He had carried her into the docking module, where the burned-up bodies of Bayles and Kelly still lay. She almost imagined that she could see the crewmen trying to crawl back to Silver Tower for safety, chased by the wall of flame from Enterprise's destroyed fuel cells.... . Saint-Michael's eyes were drawn to the distorted faces, the sightless eye sockets, the scorched Space Command uniforms, the gnarled, bony hands. Gently lifting his precious cargo over the charred remains, he realized that the woman
he carried in that plastic and canvas rescue ball could just as easily have been one of those bodies on the deck beneath him.
As he made his way down the docking tunnel into Enterprise's air locks and into the shuttle itself he saw that the hungry fire had blackened everything. "Are we in Enterprise yet?" Ann asked. He could not answer, and she did not press the question.
Montgomery, Wallis and Davis were still strapped in place, melted POS masks on their chests. The fuel-cell explosion in the lower deck storage area had torn apart Enterprise's middeck. The air was filled with floating debris that would never settle, never fall. "I'm going to leave you on the middeck," Saint-Michael said. He let her float between the airlock hatch and the ladder leading to the upper deck, plugged the rescue ball into another oxygen supply hose and activated the oxygen supply. Enterprise's oxygen supply, he noted with relief, still seemed operational. "You can recharge your POS pack with the hose inside the ball. I've got to . . . to see if Enterprise is flyable. "
Ann did not acknowledge. She knew what he really had to do-move the bodies of Will and Sontag out of the charred cockpit.
ELEKTRON ONE SPACEPLANE
One missile left.
General Alesander Govorov took every last second available to him before breaking off his systematic attack on the American space station. He had plunged Scimitar missiles into all but two of the station's eight pressurized modules, making sure that all within range were at least punctured. The two modules remaining were both on the outside of the revolving station and were therefore moving the fastest and were harder to hit, so he had targeted easier
modules, the ones closest to the central keel, with his few remaining missiles.
Clouds of debris hovered everywhere around the torn-up space station. A sparking relay junction or fuel cell occasionally erupted somewhere on the keel, and pieces of the spacebased radar, communications antennas and heat-exchange radiators fluttered in the weightlessness of space as if pushed by some strange, unearthly wind. The station's rotation was erratic. Originally centered directly along the central keel, now it was a wobbly, off-kilter eccentric spin. The space shuttle was still attached to the docking port, but the cockpit windows were dark and lifeless and the battered, ruptured nose insured that the shuttle was useless.
Govorov had established contact with Soviet Space Defense Command shipborne tracking stations just after Voloshin had disappeared. The ground-tracking stations were not as sophisticated as the American Tracking and Data Relay, Satellite system, TDRS, or WESTAR, so voice and data contact with small, low-powered craft such as the Elektrons was intermittent at best. They could not help with Voloshin's disappearance. They were also no help with a plan to dock with the Soviet Union's orbiting mo6le. Besides, Govorov found he did not have the fuel to risk a long, protracted hunt for Mir, so his only option was to deorbit. "Elektron One, this is Glowing Star Command Control." "Go ahead, Control." "Elektron One, we are recommending another orbit to align in the slot for deorbit. "
What? This was crazy ...... Control, I don't have the reserves for another two hours in orbit. I need to deorbit on this turn in the slot. What is your reason for the delay?" "We are showing a possible obstruction within ten kilometers of your computed descent path, Elektron One." "An obstruction? Another spacecraft?" "Affirmative. We predict that the object could be within five kilometers of you when you begin your deorbit bum. Please state your intentions."
Govorov took a firm grip on his control stick. It seemed the fight was not over. "Can you identify the object, Control? Its point of origin?" "Negative. It is not a known orbiting spacecraft. It has appeared in your vicinity within the hour, very close to your present flight path. " "I want a vector toward the object, Control, immediately. "Say again, Elektron One." I
"I want a vector toward the object. I intend to engage the . . . obstruction. "Yes, sit. Stand by." When Govorov received the range and vector coordinates to the subject, sweat broke out on his forehead. It had indeed moved very close to his flight pathdangerously close. It was less than thirty kilometers away, no more than five thousand meters from his own altitude.
He activated his laser designator and opened his cargoweapons bay doors once again. He thought he knew what this oncoming spacecraft was. For several years the Americans had had a fighter-based antisatellite miss
ile in operation. Fired from a high-performance F-15 fighter, the missile could seek out, track and destroy many kinds of Soviet satellites. Enhancements to the American ASAT weapon reportedly included a much higher altitude capability, a larger warhead and a more maneuverable design. It was supposed to be as long as a Thor space-based missile, perhaps ten to twelve meters long, but not as large in diameter and aerodynamically shaped for carriage under an F-15: like a flying torpedo.
It had to be an American retaliatory response. The Americans were mounting their ASAT attack at the one point in his mission when he was the most vulnerable: just before deorbit. Low on fuel, maneuvering to enter the deorbit slot, busily
inattentive to everything else-a perfect time to strike. Well, the Americans were going to get a surprise. He would be the hunter instead of the hunted. . . . "Elektron One, spacecraft is at your altitude, inside twenty kilometers,
slow moving . . . now on collision course. Repeat,collision course. You are on an intercept heading, twelve o'clock, now eighteen kilometers."
Govorov put his laser viewfinder on widest possible arc.... At the extreme magnification of the laser designator appeared a large, bright object moving across the stars at the very rim of the earth. As it came slowly into range he could make out its smooth, oblong shape and a circular device on one end---an active radar-homing device or infrared seeker? At fast he worried that he might be engaging someone's low-orbiting satellite, or perhaps even a reconnaissance "ferret" satellite, but this thing was unlike any satellite he had ever seen. It was not pointed directly at him, but the laser rangefinder reported it was definitely moving closer. He placed the aiming reticle directly on the nose sensor of the weapon, received a READY beep in his headset, rechecked his weapons panel and at a range of fifteen kilometers fired his last Scimitar missile.
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 bitobviously 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 terrninal 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. SaintMichael's job would be tough enough.
Finally she heard the more familiar whine of circulating pumps and jelectronic 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 .... 11
"T'hey're all in the docking module on the station." .'I'm sony, Jason."
She could imagine the pain in his face. Armstrong Station, Skybolt, the Persian Gulf, Iran--even the earth seemed so very fir away. What was left was a burned-out space shuttle. Seven charred bodies- "I found something," Saint-Michael said after a moment. "IMere 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 keelradiators, 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 them 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 percent. 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 comin 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, Enterprise," came 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 fink 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 wai
t for rescue shuttle sortie." "Copy, Enterprise. " The signal was getting stronger.
"Enterprise, we 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-t6-ground channel one. How do you hear?" "Loud and clear,
Control." Saint-Michael switched his comin 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 lookedhopeful. "Have you been informed of our situation?" Saint-Michael said. "Affirmative, Enterprise. Atlantis will be airborne in twentyfour 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?" Ann 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?"