by Dale Brown
MOMENTS LATER
“Missile launch detection!” Christine Rayhill, the terrestrial-weapons officer on Armstrong Space Station, shouted. “Two Russian Wasp ASATs launched from Kamchatka!”
Kai Raydon mashed the “all-call” button on his console. “Combat stations!” he shouted, trying to keep his voice under control. “All personnel to combat stations, this is not a drill!” To Valerie Lukas he said, “All defensive systems to auto, Valerie—we’ll have to put it back in MANUAL when the spaceplane approaches. What’s the status of Skybolt?”
“Still deactivated,” Valerie said. “We’ve just started disconnecting Starfire.”
“Connect it back up—we might need it,” Kai said. “Where are the students?”
“I’m right here,” Brad said, attached to a bulkhead beside Valerie’s console. “Casey is in the Skybolt module. What should I do?”
“Keep watch over the monitors and sing out if you see something that looks dangerous,” Kai replied. “Point it out to Sergeant Lukas, or anyone else, if she’s busy. I can always use another set of eyes.”
“Should I get into a space suit?” Brad said on intercom once he’d donned his oxygen mask and activated it.
“It’s too late,” Kai said. “All the modules should have been sealed up by now. Command-module personnel have to rely on damage-control crewmembers to assist.” Kai didn’t want to think about what would eventually happen to all of them in the case of a major hull breach, oxygen or no, but one hundred percent oxygen was the best they had. He hit another intercom button. “Boomer, say your status?”
“We’ll be off in ten minutes, General,” Boomer replied. He and Ernesto Hermosillo had docked with Armstrong Space Station and were supervising the off-loading of supplies from the cargo bay and refueling, and as soon as the alert was sounded they had terminated off-loading and began preparing to undock.
“All defensive weapons except Skybolt are active and on auto,” Valerie reported. “Starfire, can you give me a—”
“It’s the S-19!” Christine Rayhill shouted. “The Wasp is targeting the S-19! Intercept in two minutes! Two missiles inbound!”
“Shit!” Kai swore. He hit a button on his console. “Midnight Two, this is Armstrong, red Wasp, repeat, red Wasp.” On intercom he asked, “What’s their range to station?”
“Beyond Hydra range,” Valerie replied.
“Crank the range up to maximum,” Kai said. The Hydra chlorine-oxygen-iodine laser, which had a maximum range of three hundred miles, had been detuned to sixty miles in compliance with the treaty, but Kai Raydon wasn’t going to pay attention to treaties now. “Get the Kingfishers on station ready to go. They’re released as soon as you have a firing solution.”
“The Midnight is accelerating and climbing,” Henry reported. In orbit, speed meant only one thing: altitude above Earth. Go faster and your altitude increased; slow down and altitude decreased.
“Computing a firing solution now,” Valerie reported. The Kingfisher weapon garages being stored on Armstrong’s central truss had been connected to the combat system and its missiles made available for station defense.
Moments later Henry Lathrop shouted, “Got it! Intercept course set! Six interceptors ready!”
“Combat, batteries released,” Valerie said. “Nail those suckers!”
“Weapons away!” Henry shouted. Two of the weapon garages on the station’s truss released all three of their satellite interceptors. They were simple nonaerodynamic boxes—since they would never fly in Earth’s atmosphere, they could be in any shape—six feet long, with a radar and imaging infrared seeker in front, maneuvering rocket nozzles around the body at both ends, and a large rocket engine in back. The interceptors used steering signals from Armstrong to maneuver until they could lock on to targets with their own sensors. “Good track on all Trinities. Sixty seconds to intercept. I think we’ll be in time, sir. The Midnight is going higher and faster. The inbounds will be within range of Hydra in seventy seconds.”
Kai wasn’t going to relax until both those Russian Wasp missiles were goners. “Trev, contact Space Command, tell them what’s going on,” he ordered. “Tell them I want permission to take out every antisatellite airfield and launch site that we—”
“Pop-up orbiting bogey!” Henry Lathrop shouted. A new icon had appeared on the large tactical display. It was in an orbit offset from Armstrong’s by more than a hundred miles and in a completely different declination, but that was a very near miss in orbital terms. “It came out of nowhere, sir! Designate Oscar one.” It did not seem to be a threat to the station or the S-19 Midnight, but the fact that they had not detected it until it was very close was troubling, very—
“Sir, I’m losing the Trinities!” Henry shouted.
“What?” Kai shouted. “What in hell’s going on?”
“I don’t know, sir!” Lathrop shouted. “Lost contact with one . . . two . . . three, sir; three Trinities, negative contact!”
“What is that newcomer?” Valerie shouted. “Can you get a visual on it?”
“All electro-optical trackers are being used on the Trinity intercepts,” Lathrop said. “I’ve got a good radar track but negative visual.” A heartbeat later: “Lost contact with four Trinities. Am I cleared to engage bogey Oscar-one, sir?”
“It’s not a threat to station or the S-19, it’s not at our altitude or orbit, and we don’t have a visual identification,” Kai said. “Negative. Do not engage. Launch more Trinities to get those ASAT missiles, now.”
ABOARD THE RUSSIAN ELEKTRON SPACEPLANE
THAT SAME TIME
They could not have timed it better, and Colonel Mikhail Galtin knew it was as much fate and luck as it was design, but it didn’t matter—it was going to work perfectly. After four orbits intersecting Armstrong Space Station’s, but at a lower altitude and offset about sixty kilometers, he had gotten himself in perfect position to arrive at the exact spot to engage the American space station’s defensive missiles. He knew he had only seconds to act . . . but seconds were an eternity to the Hobnail laser weapon.
As soon as the American antisatellite weapons were launched from Armstrong Space Station, Galtin’s Elektron’s fire-control radar had begun tracking them from a range of one hundred kilometers: six American interceptors—nothing but a steerable rocket engine with a seeker on it, but simple and effective as an antisatellite and antiballistic-missile weapon. That the interceptors were fired from the station itself was interesting: the report that President Joseph Gardner had destroyed all of the Kingfisher constellation’s weapon modules was not quite true. Apparently there were others, attached to the military space station and fully operational.
No matter. The Fates had placed him in perfect position to intercept the interceptors. Galtin marveled at the luck involved, marveled at the boldness and courage of his president, Gennadiy Gryzlov, to order this attack, marveled at the thought of what was going to happen. Russia was about to attack a spaceplane belonging to—arguably—the most powerful nation on Earth. They were attacking a $3 billion spacecraft with American civilians on board. That was ballsy. There was no other term for it: ballsy. To say that the ante had just been raised in the war for control of space was a vast understatement.
Galtin raised the red guarded cover of the weapon arming switch and moved the switch underneath from SAFE to ARM. The attack computer was in control now. In seconds, it would be over. Three spacecraft and six missiles, traveling at tens of thousands of kilometers an hour hundreds of miles above Earth, would intersect at this point in space. It was nothing short of breathtaking. The science, the politics, the sheer courage, and yes, the luck, was all on the side of the Russian Federation right now.
Attack.
ABOARD THE S-19 MIDNIGHT SPACEPLANE
THAT SAME TIME
As soon as she heard the “red Wasp” warning, Gonzo had fired the main rocket engines. “What is it? What happened?” Ann Page asked. “What’s a ‘red wasp’?”
“Russian
antisatellite weapon,” Gonzo replied. “Our only hope is to outrun, outclimb, or outmaneuver it. Everybody, lower visors, lock them down, and make sure your oxygen is on. Sondra, check Agent Clarkson.” Gonzo and Ann began running checklists in preparation for a possible collision.
“Midnight, be advised, we’ve lost contact with four of the interceptors we launched at the Wasp,” Kai radioed. “Two are still tracking. We have an unknown pop-up target above and to your right, about forty miles, doesn’t look like it’s on an intercept course.”
“It’s a Russian spaceplane,” Ann said. “We were briefed that the Russians were using a laser aboard at least one of their Elektrons. It shot down a satellite and is probably attacking the Trinity interceptors.”
“Shit,” Gonzo swore. “Armstrong, this is Midnight. Our passenger said that bogey is probably an Elektron and it’s firing a—”
“Gonzo, maneuver!” Kai cut in. “Wasp on your tail! Maneuver!”
Gonzo immediately hit the maneuvering thrusters, throwing the spaceplane into a sharp sideways maneuver, then hit another set of thrusters that moved it “up”—away from Earth. She then began to translate backward, maneuvering to point the nose opposite the direction of flight to present the smallest possible profile to . . .
. . . and halfway through the maneuver, the Wasp antisatellite missile struck. It had a small ten-pound fragmentation warhead, which ignited jet fuel and BOHM oxidizer that leaked out of ruptured fuel tanks, creating an explosion that tore through the spacecraft.
“It hit! It hit!” Valerie shouted. “The first Wasp hit the spaceplane!” The command-module crew watched the electro-optical image of the stricken spaceplane in horror as the tremendous explosion filled the screen.
“Second Wasp missile intercepted and destroyed,” Henry Lathrop reported in a quiet voice on intercom. “Scope is clear.”
“Boomer?” Kai radioed.
“I’ll be off in five minutes,” Boomer said.
“Have you been prebreathing?”
“Yes, I have,” Boomer replied. “Not my MC.”
“Trev, find out if anyone on station is suited up and has been prebreathing.”
“Stand by,” Trevor Shale responded. A moment later: “Sorry, Kai. We’ve got three suited up but none were prebreathing.”
“Get them on oxygen right away,” Kai said. On the radio he said, “Looks like you’re the one, Boomer. We don’t see any survivors from here, but go take a look. Be sure to rig for towing.”
“Roger,” Boomer said. A few minutes later: “We’re ready to get under way.” As soon as he was detached from the station, he received vectors to the Midnight spaceplane’s last location and began to make his way toward it—luckily, because the S-19 was approaching Armstrong in preparation for docking, they were all in the same orbit, so it was just a matter of maneuvering laterally over to it rather than launching into a different orbit with a different altitude or direction.
“Valerie, get the Kingfisher constellation activated, and get Starfire online as soon as possible,” Kai said. “It’s time to do some hunting.” He called up U.S. Space Command headquarters from his console. “General, we lost the S-19 spaceplane,” he said when the secure channel was linked. “It had the vice president on board. We’re checking for survivors, but so far it looks like a total loss.”
“My God,” General George Sandstein groaned. “I’ll notify the White House immediately.”
“Request permission to attack the entire fucking Russian space force, General,” Kai said angrily.
“Negative,” Sandstein said. “Don’t do a thing except protect yourself. Do not fire unless fired upon.”
“I’d say we’ve been fired upon, General,” Kai said. “I don’t know if the spaceplane was the target or if station was and the spaceplane got in the way. Either way, we’re under attack.”
“Let me notify the president first and see what his response is, Kai,” Sandstein said. “In the meantime, I’m authorizing you to activate every defensive-weapon system you have and begin putting the Trinity modules you have stored on the station back into orbit. You have a spaceplane with you right now, do you not?”
“Yes, an S-29,” Kai replied. “It’s searching for survivors, and then we need to off-load supplies for here and for the ISS.”
“What other spaceplanes are available?”
“Two S-19s will be available in a few days, and we have two S-9s that can be made ready in a few weeks,” Kai said, checking his spacecraft status readouts. “General, I have ten weapon garages in orbit, which places much of the Russian antispacecraft force in the crosshairs, and they’ll be activated shortly. I began the process of disconnecting the Starfire maser device from Skybolt, but I’m having my crews reconnect it. That should be ready soon. I request permission to lay waste to any Russian antisatellite facility that gets within range.”
“I get the intent of ‘lay waste,’ Kai,” Sandstein said. “I want permission from the White House before you start bombarding Russian targets from space. Your orders are: Protect your station with everything you have, and await further orders. Repeat my last, General Raydon.”
Kai hesitated, and even thought about not replying; instead: “Roger, General,” he said finally. “General Sandstein, this is Station Director Raydon aboard Armstrong. I copied: my orders are to protect the station with everything we have, and await further orders.”
“I’ll be in touch, Kai,” Sandstein said. “This won’t go unavenged. Stand by.” And the connection was broken.
“Shit,” Kai swore. “The vice president of the United States was just maybe blown into space debris, and I’m supposed to just ‘stand by.’ ” He checked his monitors. “Valerie, what is the status of the on-orbit Kingfishers?”
“We have six of the ten online and expect the rest in about an hour,” Valerie Lukas reported.
That was just a fifth of the complete constellation, but it was better than what they had just minutes ago. “Put up the Russian and China-based terrestrial targets within range of our land-attack weapons.”
“Roger.” Moments later a list of targets appeared on the main command-center display as well as a list of available weapons that might be capable of defending against them. The list included targets other than antispacecraft ones: any militarily significant target was on the list, and as the Kingfisher weapon garages or Armstrong Space Station passed beyond range, the target disappeared, only to be replaced by another that had crossed over a weapon’s horizon somewhere else on the globe. With only ten weapon garages plus Armstrong Space Station, the target list was very short, but every few minutes a new potential target popped up, would stay for two to four minutes, then disappear again.
One line on the target list turned from green to yellow. “Xichang Spaceport,” Kai observed. “What’s going on at Xichang?”
“S-500S ‘Autocrat’ Echo-Foxtrot-band search radar from Xichang Spaceport swept us,” Christine reported. “Ever since the Russians set up the S-500S in China, they’ve tracked and sometimes locked us up on radar when we pass overhead. I think it’s just calibration or training—it’s just a long-range scan. Nothing ever happens.”
“ ‘Locked us up,’ eh?” Kai muttered. “Anything beyond just a scan?”
“Once in a while we’ll get a squeak of a 30N6E2 India-Juliet band missile-guidance uplink radar, like they’ve fired a missile at us,” Christine said, “but all signals disappear within seconds, even the search signals, and we don’t detect a motor plume or missile in the air—it’s obvious they don’t want us to think they’re steering an interceptor toward us, using radar or optronics or anything else. It’s all cat-and-mouse crap, sir—they shoot us radar signals to try to frighten us, then go silent. It’s bullshit.”
“Bullshit, huh?” Kai said. “Report if it happens again.”
“Yes, sir,” Christine replied.
Kai was silent for a few moments, thinking hard. “Christine,” he said, “I want some detailed imagery of that S-500S
unit. Give me a narrow-beam SBR scan from our big radar. Max resolution.”
Christine Rayhill hesitated for a moment, then commented, “Sir, a spotlight scan could—”
“Do it, Miss Rayhill,” Kai said tonelessly. “Narrow-beam scan, max resolution.”
“Yes, sir,” Christine said.
Things were quiet for about sixty seconds; then: “Sir, detecting S-500S target-tracking radar, appears to be locked on to us,” Christine said. “Azimuth, elevation, and range only—no uplink signals.” It was precisely what she had been concerned about: if the S-500S battery detected that they were being tracked on radar from Armstrong, they might think they were under attack and could retaliate.
“Designate target and send to Combat, Christine,” Kai ordered. “Continue scanning.”
There was a bit of confusion in Christine’s voice: this was certainly no big deal, not worth a target ID badge. “Uh . . . designate target Golf-one, sir,” she replied after entering commands into the attack computer. “Target locked into attack computer.”
“Command, this is Operations,” Valerie reported. “Verifying that target Golf-one is locked into Combat. Two Hammers ready from Kingfisher-09, one remaining, forty-five seconds until out of engagement envelope.”
“Verified,” Kai said. “Christine, warn me if the target’s designation changes.”
“Wilco, sir,” Christine said. Her palms started to get a bit sweaty: this was starting to look like a prelude to—
Suddenly the signal identification changed from TARGET TRACK to MISSILE TRACK. The shift was instantaneous, and it didn’t stay on the board for more than one or two seconds, but it was long enough for Christine to call out, “Command, I have a missile tr—”
“Combat, Command, batteries released on Golf-one,” Kai ordered. “Repeat, batteries released.”
“Batteries released, Roger,” Valerie said. “Combat, target Golf-one, engage!”
A Kingfisher weapon garage almost four thousand miles away from Armstrong—although Armstrong Space Station was much closer to the target, the missiles needed time and distance to reenter Earth’s atmosphere, so a Kingfisher weapon garage farther away got the tasking—maneuvered itself to a computer-derived course, and two Orbital Maneuvering Vehicles were ejected from the weapon garage thirty seconds apart. The OMVs flipped themselves over until they were flying tail first, and their reentry rockets fired. The burns did not last too long, decelerating the spacecraft by just a few hundred miles an hour, but it was enough to change their trajectory from Earth orbit to the atmosphere, and the OMVs flipped back over so their heat-protective shields were exposed to the onrushing atmosphere.