Eagle Station

by Dale Brown

  Farrell and his father both gave him encouraging smiles.

  “A few days ago, I mentioned that we were working on a possible plan for an armed reconnaissance of the moon’s far side,” Brad went on. “The good news is that after crunching all the numbers and running detailed simulations, we’re now confident our proposed mission plan is feasible.”

  General Kelleher spoke up from his place. “And I’m going to repeat my earlier question, Mr. McLanahan: Where’s the actual honest-to-God spacecraft that’s going to fly this hypothetical armed recon you’re talking about?”

  Brad ignored the other man’s somewhat insulting refusal to address him by the major’s rank he’d earned with the Iron Wolf Squadron. Like many officers in the U.S. armed forces, Kelleher probably wasn’t exactly comfortable with the idea of private military units. Besides, this wasn’t the time to get into a pissing contest over nonessentials. With a slight shrug, he mentally pulled the pin on the rhetorical grenade he was about to toss into everyone’s laps. Then he turned and nodded to the large S-29B Shadow spaceplane parked nearby. “You’re looking right at it, General.”

  Kelleher stared hard at him. “If that’s your idea of a joke, I’d advise you to drop it fast and get serious.”

  “I’m not joking,” Brad said quietly. “We can send that S-29 to the moon.”

  Now he heard a muttered storm of protest from around the room. Even President Farrell looked uncertain. Only his father nodded thoughtfully. Figures, he thought. His dad was usually about ten steps ahead of everyone else when it came to adapting military hardware to new and never-imagined uses.

  Martindale, however, was clearly somewhat less flexible—at least in this case. He shook his head in disbelief. “Cut the crap, Major,” he snapped. “The S-29s and their sister spaceplanes are designed solely for limited-duration missions in low Earth orbit and in the atmosphere. It’s sheer fantasy to propose flying something that’s half airplane, half spaceship out into deep space, around the moon, and then all the way back to Earth.”

  To his own surprise, Brad stayed calm. If anything, he suddenly realized, he was actually enjoying this chance to play the contrarian. Maybe he was more like his father than he’d ever imagined. “It’s not fantasy at all, Mr. Martindale,” he said bluntly. “Like I said earlier, my team and I have run this concept through detailed analysis and simulation.” He signaled the Sky Masters computer techs controlling their audiovisual equipment. “And with the necessary modifications, there’s no reason that an S-29B can’t handle this reconnaissance mission.”

  The display screens behind him lit up, showing computer-generated visuals to accompany his presentation.

  “First, we’re going to cut the S-29’s crew from the normal complement of five to just two—a pilot and a weapons and systems specialist,” Brad said. On-screen, the S-29B schematic showed the whole aft cabin emptied of its crew workstations, acceleration couches, and other equipment and stripped down to bare metal. “In addition, we’ll need to remove all four defensive microwave emitters.” Again, the schematic changed—now visually deleting the two wingtip microwave pods, the third pod mounted on top of the forward fuselage, and the last emitter set below the S-29’s aft fuselage.

  “What does that gain you?” one of the Space Force staff officers asked curiously.

  Brad could feel the atmosphere in the hangar start to shift. He could tell that many of those who’d at first thought the idea of using a spaceplane for this mission was crazy were beginning to wonder if they might have been wrong. “Cutting the crew size and stripping out the microwave pods gets us just enough mass and cubic capacity for the additional life-support and stellar navigation gear we need to make a long-range, deep-space mission feasible.”

  He continued. “Running through all the numbers, the Shadow’s five LPDRS engines, firing in pure rocket mode, are powerful enough to make a translunar injection burn from Earth orbit possible—as long as the spaceplane is fully fueled before departure.”

  Another of Kelleher’s staff officers raised a hand. “But that’ll pretty much leave the S-29 with dry fuel tanks,” she pointed out. “So you get only one pass across the far side before using the moon’s gravity to slingshot you back toward Earth on a free-return trajectory. That’s a serious limitation for any reconnaissance mission, especially if the situation turns hot and the enemy starts shooting.”

  “No doubt about it,” Brad agreed. He smiled. “Pretty early on in our sims, we identified the fuel constraint as a serious operational problem. Fortunately, we’ve come up with a solution for that. Granted, the maneuvers required are a little tricky, but they’re not beyond the capabilities of a good pilot.”

  Speaking carefully, he outlined this revolutionary element of their mission plan. Behind him, the screens depicted the necessary spacecraft modifications, timing, and anticipated maneuvers in intricate detail. When he finished, you could practically hear a pin drop across the hangar.

  From near the back row, Colonel Miller broke the silence. “You know, Brad, that’s really fucking clever.”

  “Thanks, Dusty,” Brad acknowledged with a grin.

  “It’s also the kind of cockeyed scheme that only someone who’s basically batshit crazy would even think of in the first place,” the S-29B pilot went on.

  “Maybe so,” Brad allowed. He shrugged stubbornly. “But it will work.”

  Miller nodded. “Oh, no doubt about that.” He grinned back at the younger man. “I just wanted to go on record with my assessment of your fundamental mental health.”

  Smiling broadly himself, Brad waited for the subsequent laughter to die down before picking up the threads of his briefing. Miller’s quip had broken a lot of the remaining tension.

  Another Space Force staffer asked a question: “Without its defensive microwave emitters, won’t the Shadow be more vulnerable to enemy attack?”

  Nadia stepped up to the lectern to answer this one. While Brad, Boomer, and Jason Richter worked through orbital mechanics and life-support problems, she’d put in a lot of time analyzing the military aspects of their proposed mission. “That is true only if the Russians and Chinese are using modified air-to-air or surface-to-air missiles as their weapons against targets in lunar orbit. We consider that highly unlikely.”

  “Why is that?” President Farrell asked.

  “Because, given the costs involved in ferrying payload mass from the earth to the moon, it would be remarkably inefficient to rely on relatively bulky, single-use missiles,” she explained.

  The president’s eyes narrowed. “Then what do you think we’re facing?”

  “Quite probably a version of the same Russian-designed plasma rail gun we captured on Mars One,” Nadia told him.

  And just that quickly, Brad sensed the tension in the room return to its previous high pitch.

  “Jesus,” Farrell muttered. “Powered by what? Some kind of solar array? With battery backups?”

  Now it was Jason Richter’s turn to answer a question. “No, sir. My guess is they’ve also developed a smaller version of their helium-3 fusion reactor. My engineering teams don’t see any technical hurdles that would prevent the Russians from scaling down that ten-megawatt reactor they built for Mars One.” He shrugged. “A smaller reactor, somewhere on the order of one or two megawatts, would only weigh one or two tons. That’s well within the payload capacity of one of those Chinese cargo landers. And having that much power available would be very useful for any lunar base.”

  Farrell grimaced. “It’s sure starting to sound like y’all are proposing a suicide mission. Just getting to the moon’s hard enough. Going up against a fully powered plasma gun at the end of the trip seems liable to be one step too far.”

  Brad shook his head. “No one up here’s interested in turning kamikaze, Mr. President. For one thing, that enemy weapon, whatever it is, has to be based on the lunar surface. If the Russians and Chinese had a weapons platform orbiting the moon, we’d already have spotted it.”

  “Wh
ich means their weapon’s effective range will be significantly restricted,” Kelleher realized.

  “Yes, sir,” Brad agreed. “Plasma guns and combat-grade lasers are strictly line-of-sight weapons. They can’t shoot through mountains or crater rims, or at anything beyond their visual horizon. Worst case, a surface-deployed plasma gun will only have a range of around five hundred miles against a target in orbit.”

  “So it can still shoot a lot farther than the laser on our spaceplane,” Martindale pointed out dryly. “That doesn’t sound too promising to me.”

  To Brad’s surprise, Kelleher cut in to respond to this, sounding far more positive than he had at the beginning of the briefing. “Our S-29s have conducted a large number of practice engagements against Eagle Station’s plasma gun, Mr. Martindale. The evasive maneuvers my pilots have pioneered should give the crew of that spaceplane a fighting chance—even if they are outranged.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brad said. “Which is why we’re confident this mission is doable, especially with an experienced crew at the controls.”

  “So who do you have in mind for this little jaunt?” Farrell asked quietly.

  “Boomer and I have the most actual flight and simulator time,” Brad replied. “So we should go.”

  Beside him, Nadia muttered something angry-sounding under her breath in Polish. This was an argument she still wasn’t ready to admit she’d lost.

  Abruptly, Kelleher stood up. “No, sir,” the Space Force general said flatly. “This isn’t a job for civilians.” Seeing their faces tighten, he held up his hand. “Lord knows, I respect the skill and courage you folks have shown in the past several years. But this mission rightly belongs to my pilots and mission specialists. Thanks to our training maneuvers, they have more practical experience than anyone else when it comes to flying against the kinds of Russian and Chinese weapons you’re talking about.”

  Behind him, the uniformed Space Force pilots and crewmen nodded their agreement.

  Kelleher turned to Farrell. “The United States has invested a lot of money and other resources to stand up the Space Force, Mr. President. And with respect, it’s time you committed us to active service against our nation’s enemies.”

  Slowly, Farrell nodded. “I think you’re right about that, General.” He looked over at Brad and the others. “Y’all have put your lives on the line for the U.S. and our allies again and again. Usually when there wasn’t anyone else with the guts or brains needed to take on the fight. But that’s not the case here. It’s time for the regular armed forces to step into the breach.”

  Brad’s jaw tightened. “Sir, I—”

  Farrell shook his head. “My mind’s made up, Major McLanahan.” He shrugged. “Besides, it’s just barely possible that the Chinese and Russians might hesitate to fire on a Space Force S-29 and risk a wider conflict with this country. They’d have no such hesitation in firing on a spacecraft flown by folks they’ve called mercenaries and space pirates.”

  Nadia frowned. “That is a very thin reed to cling to, Mr. President,” she warned.

  “I know it,” Farrell said evenly. His face was somber. “But given all the other risks involved in this lunar recon mission, I figure we should play every last card we can.”

  Thirty-Six

  Command Center, Central Military Commission of the People’s Republic of China, Beijing

  Several Days Later

  President Li Jun looked up from a sheaf of reports when General Chen Haifeng came in. Silently, he motioned for his aides to withdraw and then politely gestured to a place across the table. “Be seated, General.”

  Chen did as he was told. The general looked thinner, worn down by the months of unremitting work involved in managing China’s part of Operation Heaven’s Thunder. In any given week, he was either out at the Xichang and Wenchang space complexes to supervise launch preparations, or he was in Russia, coordinating with Leonov and his staff. Today he had just returned from Moscow.

  “You have news from our ally?” Li asked.

  Chen nodded. “Leonov shared his country’s most recent intelligence with me.”

  “And?”

  “It confirms our own reports from the Ministry of State Security,” Chen told him. “The Americans have pulled one of their armed spaceplanes off active duty. From what we can tell, it landed at the Sky Masters facility in Nevada. One of the Sky Masters–owned unarmed S-29s has also dropped out of sight.”

  Li frowned. “For what purpose? Routine maintenance? Or something more?”

  “We don’t know, Comrade President,” Chen admitted. “The entire Sky Masters complex is under strict security measures—with a reinforced guard detail that apparently includes three CID combat robots. Neither our agents nor those of the Russian GRU have been able to get anywhere near the perimeter.”

  Li pondered that. From all reports, the piloted war machines were terrifyingly effective. But they were also extremely expensive, with only a handful in existence. He doubted the Americans would have committed so many CIDs to a passive security role without good cause. Whatever was going on in Nevada, they were determined to keep it secret. “Anything else?”

  “A commercial SpaceX Falcon Heavy launch slated for two weeks from now has just been scrubbed,” Chen said.

  Li raised an eyebrow. “And why is that significant?”

  “Because it was scrubbed by direct order from the White House, on national security grounds,” Chen told him. “Instead, the Americans want the rocket on standby to lift another payload into orbit.”

  “What kind of payload?” Li demanded.

  Apologetically, Chen shrugged his shoulders. “Neither the Russians nor our own people have been able to find out. All we know is that, whatever this secret payload is, it was flown to the Kennedy Space Center in Florida aboard a Sky Masters–owned cargo aircraft—with another Scion combat robot along as an escort.”

  “Sky Masters and Scion again,” Li said with a scowl.

  “Yes, Comrade President.”

  “Do you or Marshal Leonov have any theories about what the Americans are planning?”

  Somewhat hesitantly, Chen nodded. “It’s possible that they are readying a retaliatory strike against one or more of our space launch complexes, using a combination of their spaceplanes and some type of new orbital weapons. Without any real ability to act offensively on or around the moon, the Americans may see this as their only real option. Serious damage to Plesetsk, Vostochny, Wenchang, or Xichang would make it difficult to keep Korolev Base operational.”

  Li nodded his understanding. Periodic shipments of food, spare parts, and other consumables were necessary to sustain the cosmonauts and taikonauts stationed at the lunar base—and to keep their sophisticated sensors and other hardware running in an airless environment marked by wild temperature swings and high radiation. He pinned Chen with a cold-eyed gaze. “In your military judgment, could such an attack succeed?” he snapped.

  “Our defenses around each site are very strong,” Chen replied. But his uncertain tone belied those confident words.

  Again, Li nodded. All four space complexes were ringed by networks of powerful phased-array radars and regiments of advanced S-500 surface-to-air missiles. S-500s were very long-ranged and they were designed to engage and destroy ballistic missiles and even spacecraft attacking at hypersonic speeds. On paper, any enemy S-29 raid should be doomed to failure. Unfortunately, both he and Chen were only too aware of previous American victories achieved in the face of what seemed like overwhelming odds.

  He reached out and picked up a phone. “This is the president. Arrange a secure satellite link to Moscow at once.” While waiting, he looked across the table at Chen. “I have no intention of waiting for the Americans to unleash their planned counterstroke. Before they move, Marshal Leonov and I will make it very clear to President Farrell that an attack on any Chinese or Russian space launch complex will be treated as an existential strategic threat by both our governments.”

  Chen’s eyes widen
ed. “One that would trigger an immediate nuclear response?”

  Li nodded gravely. “Exactly so. Somehow I do not believe that even this Texas cowboy will risk the destruction of San Francisco or Dallas or New York for so small a prospective gain.”

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  A Short Time Later

  Tight-lipped with anger, President Farrell took the printout of the “joint communiqué” sent by Moscow and Beijing and fed it unceremoniously into the classified materials shredder next to his desk. As it whirred into oblivion, he turned to Kevin Martindale and Patrick McLanahan. “I guess it’s nice to know those bastards are starting to feel a little nervous.”

  Martindale smiled. “And that they’re looking in completely the wrong direction.” From the beginning, their own tactical analysis had shown that any spaceplane attack on Sino-Russian launch sites would be a pointless disaster. Learning that their enemies feared the possibility enough to threaten nuclear war offered a useful window into their mind-set.

  “That won’t last long,” Patrick cautioned. “As soon as we launch our S-29s and other mission components into orbit, the Chinese and Russians will start putting the pieces together. And there’s no way we can hide any translunar injection burns. So any cosmonauts and taikonauts stationed on the moon’s far side will have days of warning about what’s headed their way.”

  Farrell nodded grimly. Thanks to their Magpie Bridge com relay and Kondor-class radar surveillance satellite stationed out around the Earth-Moon Lagrange-2 point, Moscow and Beijing had complete situational awareness of everything in cislunar space and lunar orbit. Tactically speaking, any spacecraft the United States launched toward the moon was in essentially the same situation as a group of soldiers forced to attack uphill across a barren slope against an entrenched enemy. Every move they made could be observed. There was no real way to achieve surprise.

  He wished, for the hundredth time, that there was some way to knock those satellites out. Unfortunately, given the enormous distance to the L2 point from Earth, that was effectively impossible. Even if the United States had hunter-killer satellites of its own, any launch toward the Lagrange point could be detected and monitored throughout its flight—giving the Chinese and Russian satellites ample time to evade an attack . . . or to eliminate it, with their own defenses.