by Dale Brown
“Thank you, sir,” Ann said.
“I’ll head back to Washington right away,” the president said. “I’ll plan on going on television to explain that Starfire was not a space weapon and that the United States will deactivate and detach the laser module right away.”
“Very good, sir,” Ann said. “I’ll see you from station. Wish me luck.” And the video teleconference was terminated.
“We’re all going to need some luck,” the president said half aloud, then reached for the phone to call Air Force One’s flight crew. In moments, the president’s plane was heading east toward Washington.
Next, the president called Moscow. “What did you decide, Phoenix?” Gryzlov asked through the interpreter without any pleasantries or preamble.
“The United States agrees to undock the Skybolt module from Armstrong Space Station,” Phoenix said, “and at an appropriate time deorbit it and allow it to reenter the atmosphere. Any parts that survive reentry will splash down in the ocean.”
“Then Russia agrees not to restrict its airspace above twenty kilometers,” Gryzlov said, “to all spacecraft . . . except your S-series spaceplanes and your Kingfisher weapon garages.”
“We need those spaceplanes, Mr. President,” Phoenix said.
“They represent as much a danger to Russia as your Skybolt laser, Phoenix,” Gryzlov said. “Maybe even a greater danger. No, sir. The United States flew in space for decades without a spaceplane, and you now have several commercial operators who can service the space stations and do other tasks. The commercial spacecraft are permitted to overfly Russia, as long as they report their mission details before they launch. But after ten days’ time from today’s date, we will consider any overflight by the spaceplanes or the weapon garages to be a hostile act and will respond accordingly. Do we have an agreement, Phoenix?”
“No, you do not, sir,” Phoenix said. “The spaceplanes allow us access to Earth orbit and to our in-orbit assets. They are not military weapons. We will agree to keep informing you of future launches and their flight paths, and we will keep the spaceplanes from overflying Russia in the atmosphere if possible, but we insist on access to space for all our vehicles, including the spaceplanes. Are we agreed, Mr. President?”
After a long pause, Gryzlov said, “We will be watching your military space station for signs that the laser module has been deactivated and detached. Then we will speak again.” And the call was terminated.
Phoenix pressed the button for the communications officer. “Yes, Mr. President?” she answered immediately.
“I want to speak with the national security team back at the White House again,” he said. A few moments later, the vice president, national security adviser, and secretary of defense appeared again on the video teleconference screen. “I made a deal with the devil, guys,” he said. “I want the Skybolt module detached from Armstrong Space Station as soon as possible. Ann, get up there as quickly as you can.”
ABOARD ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
A SHORT TIME LATER
“Is he insane?” Brad exclaimed. “Gryzlov wants us to detach Skybolt and deorbit it? And now he’s going to restrict all the airspace over Russia out to three hundred miles up? That’s craziness!”
“Guys, I am so sorry about this,” Kim Jung-bae said over the satellite videoconference feed from the White Sands Missile Test Range. “I never said it was a space weapon—that was Dr. Nukaga’s conclusion. I’m sorry I told him we used the MHD generator, but all I did was admit to him that my power transfer relays did not work, and he asked me what power source we did use. I am so sorry, guys. I had no idea this would blow up like this.”
“It’s not your fault, Jerry,” Brad said. “I think Dr. Nukaga thought it was a weapon from day one. But he supported the project because of you, and then when Cal Poly won that big grant and we went international, he was fully on board.” Jerry still looked ashen and dejected, as if he had just lost his best friends in the world by getting caught stealing from them. “The question is: What do we do now?”
“That one’s easy, Brad; as soon as we can, we’re going to bring a spaceplane up and get you and Casey off station,” Armstrong Space Station’s director Kai Raydon said. He was seated at the command position, and every other combat position was manned as well—including the Skybolt station, even though the Starfire microwave generator was still installed. “After that, I want to get this station ready for war, not only on the ground but imminently in space.”
“Can any orbiting body completely avoid overflying Russia?” Casey Huggins asked.
“Any orbit less than about thirty-five degrees inclination will not overfly Russia,” Valerie Lukas said. “We can still look pretty deeply into Russia, although we miss most of their farthest north regions, depending on the altitude. In contrast, if we put up the same restriction, Russian spacecraft would be limited to no more than about twenty-five degrees. But except for geosynchronous orbits or for ocean surveillance, equatorial orbits are mostly useless because so little of Earth’s population lives on the equator.”
“But that’s not the point, Valerie,” Kai said. “There are thousands of spacecraft that overfly Russia every day—Gryzlov can’t simply tell everyone that they have to move them. It’s all bluster. Even if he had enough weapons to attack satellites that overflew Russia, he knows he could spark a world war if he even attempted to shoot down a foreign satellite. Gryzlov is making wild accusations, and using his trumped-up scenarios to try to institute an emergency edict and circumvent international law.” His serious expression turned even darker. “Casey, how long would it take to get your microwave generator off Skybolt?”
“Less than two days, sir,” Casey replied, “with at least one spacewalk.”
“Plus another two days, maybe three, to plug in the free-electron laser, with at least one spacewalk,” Valerie Lukas added. “Plus a day or so to test it. We could sure use some technical assistance and more hands to help.”
“Trevor, get Alice together with the Starfire people and start to work getting the microwave generator uninstalled,” Kai said. The station manager, Trevor Shale, turned to his communications panel and started making intercom calls. “I’ll call U.S. Space Command and start getting some help and permissions to reinstall the free-electron laser and get it ready to go.”
“Do you really think Gryzlov would attack the station, sir?” Brad asked.
“You heard him, Brad; the guy thinks we’re going to start razing towns, villages, and the countryside with death rays,” Kai replied. “He’s given us an ultimatum of just ten days, and anyone that overflies Russia will be subject to what he calls ‘neutralization,’ whatever that means. Those are some pretty serious threats. I want this station fully operational just in case he’s serious.”
Kai heard the incoming-call alert tone and hit a button on his command console. “Just getting ready to call you, General,” he said after the encryption channels locked in.
“I take it you’ve heard Gryzlov’s remarks, Kai,” General George Sandstein, commander of Air Force Space Command, said.
“Pretty outrageous, General,” Kai said, “but I’m believing every word. I want to reactivate the free-electron laser and start rebuilding the Kingfisher constellation right away.”
“Unfortunately, the order from the White House is to deactivate Skybolt and detach the module from the station, Kai,” Sandstein said.
“Say again, General?”
“That’s the order from the president himself,” Sandstein said. “We’re launching an S-19 and an S-29 as soon as possible to get the students off the station and bring up some extra personnel—including Skybolt’s designer.”
The entire command module occupants gasped in surprise. “They’re sending up the vice president?”
“You heard me right, Kai,” Sandstein said. “It sounds a little loco, but she’s an experienced astronaut, and there’s no one who knows Skybolt better. Sorry about Skybolt, Kai, but the president wants to defuse the situat
ion before things get out of hand. Everything else in the green?”
“The Hydra laser is operational,” Kai said, shaking his head in disbelief. “We are also able to use the Kingfisher modules on the central truss for station self-defense.”
“Excellent,” Sandstein said. “Good luck up there. We’ll be watching. Hopefully everyone will stay nice and cool, and this will all blow over soon.”
MCLANAHAN INDUSTRIAL SPACEPORT, BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA
LATER THAT DAY
“Thanks for coming in so quickly, guys,” Boomer said as he strode into the crew briefing room. Seated around the room were the six spaceplane student pilots and four instructor spacecraft commanders, along with mission support and maintenance technicians. “This might sound like some cheezy World War Two novel, but I’m sure you heard Gryzlov’s nonsense, and I think we are inching toward war with the Russians. The president has canceled the rest of his campaign and is on his way back to Washington to make an address about the Starfire thing. He has ordered the deactivation of the Skybolt laser and detaching it from Armstrong.”
Everyone in the briefing room looked horrified. “This is bullshit!” Sondra Eddington exclaimed. “Gryzlov spouts off, makes all kinds of outrageous claims, and threatens us, and we kowtow to him? Why don’t we tell him to bugger off instead?”
“I agree with you, Sondra, but we’ve got our orders, and time is of the essence,” Boomer said. “We’ve been tasked to bring up supplies and technicians to help detach the Skybolt module, and we’ll also be flying more supplies to the ISS as well. I think we’ll be doing a lot of flying in the next couple weeks.” He looked over the spaceplane crewmembers before him. “John, Ernesto, and Sondra, you have a year of training or more and are checked out as mission commanders in at least two of the spaceplanes, so you’re going to go operational and fly as mission commanders before graduation.” All three of them wore excited smiles and gave each other high-fives, and the others looked dejected. “Don, Mary, and Kev, you guys might not get much spaceplane time for a few weeks, but you can keep up your studying and double up on the simulator and MiG-25 time. Kev, you’re closest to the one-year cutoff and you’re checked out as MC in the S-9 and S-19, so you may be called upon if this thing drags on.
“Now, Russian president Gryzlov threatened to attack any spaceplanes overflying Russia after ten days,” Boomer reminded them all. “I think the guy is doing nothing but chest-thumping, but we just don’t know for sure. So if you think there might be too much danger—even more than we normally have in store on every flight—you don’t have to fly. No one will criticize you at all if you decide to bug out. We’re not in the military: we’re contractors, and although we put our butts on the line every time we step into those flying machines, we’re not expected to work in a combat zone. We take enough risks already to not have to fly with missiles or lasers being fired at us, right? You don’t have to tell me now—tell me in my office, in private, and we’ll redo the schedule.”
“I’ll tell you right now, Boomer: I’m flying,” Ernesto Hermosillo, one of the senior student pilots, said. “Gryzlov can besar mi culo peludo.” The others in the briefing room all clapped and said they would go as well.
“Thank you, all of you,” Boomer said. “But I know you haven’t spoken about this with your families, and it has to be a family decision. After you talk with your families, if you want to cancel, just tell me. Like I said, no one will think less of you.
“We have one S-29 and one S-19 on the line, and two more 19s ready to go in a few days, so here are the assignments,” Boomer went on. “Gonzo and Sondra in the S-19, and myself and culo peludo Ernesto in the S-29. Because I anticipate doing some spacewalks when we arrive, I’ll be prebreathing.” He handed out the other assignments, always pairing up an experienced spaceplane commander with a student mission commander. “Get your physicals, we’ll all be in EEAS or ACES suits, and will probably stay in them for several days. Ernesto, we’ll brief right after we suit up during my prebreathe. Questions?” Boomer fielded several questions and shared a little nervous banter with his crews. “Okay, guys, the countdown has started for the first two birds. Let’s pay attention, work smart, work as a team, and everyone comes home. Let’s go.”
Sondra stayed behind after the others left, a little flash of anger in her eyes. “Why am I flying with Gonzo?” she asked. “Why can’t I fly with you?”
“You’re not checked out as MC in the S-29, Sondra,” Boomer said. “Ernesto is. Besides, I’m giving you and Gonzo the stop in Washington. You’ll get to meet the vice president and take her up to Armstrong.”
Instead of being surprised or happy about flying the vice president, Sondra was still angry. “I’m just a couple months from finishing the S-29 mission commander course,” she said petulantly. “I’m a better MC now in any of the spaceplanes than Ernesto will ever be.”
Boomer’s eyes rolled in surprise. “Whoa, whoa, Sondra. We don’t talk smack about fellow pilots, even in private. We’re a team.”
“You know it’s true,” Sondra said. “Besides, the damn thing practically flies itself—it doesn’t even need an MC. You did it because you’re pissed because we’re not sleeping together anymore.”
“I did it because you’re not checked out as an MC in the S-29, Sondra, simple as that,” Boomer said. “Besides, I made the decision not to sleep with you. Brad and I were working closer and closer together on Starfire, and I didn’t think it was right.”
“But it was okay when I started training here, wasn’t it?” Sondra spat. “You knew I was seeing him back then.”
“Sondra, I’m not changing the schedule,” Boomer said. “Fly with Gonzo or don’t fly.” He looked at his watch, then at her. “The countdown has started. Are you going or not?” In reply, she gave him an angry scowl, spun on a heel, and stormed out.
Boomer ran an exasperated hand across his face, confused and conflicted about what to do in this situation. But he resolved to put this personal matter out of his mind and concentrate on the task at hand.
Every crewmember was required to get a physical exam before flight, so that was Boomer’s first stop. Afterward, he stopped at Mission Planning to check on the flight schedule, which was being set up and verified by computer and then loaded into the spaceplane’s computers. His own S-29 Shadow spaceplane was being loaded with much-needed supplies for Armstrong and the ISS, so he would arrive first. Gonzo’s S-19 Midnight spaceplane had the passenger module on board in the cargo bay. She would take off, arrive at Joint Base Andrews near Washington just a couple hours later, pick up the vice president and her Secret Service detail, and fly her to Armstrong about four hours after he arrived at Armstrong.
Next stop was life support. While Hermosillo needed help to get into his Advanced Crew Escape Suit, suiting up was relatively easy for Boomer. The EEAS, or Electronic Elastomeric Activity Suit, was like a heavy union suit, made of silvery radiation-proof carbon-fiber threads that covered every part of the body from the top of the neck to the bottoms of the feet. After putting on electronically controlled insulated underwear, which would control his body temperature during a spacewalk, Boomer slipped into the EEAS, then into boots and gloves, locking in the connectors for each, plugged his suit into a test console, then put on his prebreathing mask.
After making sure there were no deep folds or crinkles and that his testicles and penis were arranged properly, he plugged the suit into a test console and hit a button. The suit instantly constricted tightly around every square inch of his body that came into contact with it, making him involuntarily grunt aloud—the source of the suit’s nickname and pseudonym for EEAS, “EAHGHSS!” But moving about and especially spacewalking would be much easier for him than it would be for someone in an oxygen-inflated ACES, because the suit would automatically readjust around his body to maintain pressure on the skin without creating any binding or causing changes in pressure. The human body’s vascular system was already pressure-sealed, but in a vacuum or at a lower-atmosp
heric pressure, the skin would bulge outward if it were not constrained; the ACES did it with oxygen pressure, while the EEAS did it with mechanical pressure.
“I always think I’d like to try one of those things,” Ernesto said on intercom, smiling and shaking his head while he watched Boomer preflight his suit, “and then I watch you hit the test switch, and it looks like you get kicked in the nuts every time, so I change my mind.”
Boomer shut off the test switch to relax the suit. “Takes a little getting used to,” he admitted.
They finished getting suited up, then sat in comfortable chairs while they received a crew briefing by the chief mission planning officer, Alice Wainwright, via video teleconference. The route of flight got Boomer’s attention right away. “Uh, Alice? Given the reason we’re doing all this, is this really the route of flight we should be taking?” he asked over the intercom.
“The computers don’t know about politics or Gryzlov, Boomer—all they know is desired final position, bearing, velocity, gravity, orbital mechanics, thrust, position of station, and all that good stuff,” Alice said. “Station needs the equipment as soon as possible.”
There was a process called the “accident chain,” Boomer knew: a series of minor and seemingly unrelated incidents that combine to cause an accident—or in this case, an encounter with a Russian antisatellite weapon. One of the more common incidents was “get the mission done—it’s important; disregard safety and common sense and just get it done.” That’s what was happening right now—link number one in the accident chain had just appeared. “It can’t wait one more day or even a few hours?” Boomer asked.