The Omega Command

by Jon Land

  “Yeah, well, since you don’t trust me, you should keep in mind that if I wanted to make this the shortest flight you ever took, all I’d have to do would be to leave one of your straps unfastened. The G-forces at lift-off would send you bouncin’ ’round the cabin wall to wall. But don’t worry, fella, I fastened them all ’cause I believe ya and I know you’re the best chance we got once we hit the sky.”

  Blaine flicked his pistol’s safety on and wedged it beneath his seat.

  “That’s better,” sighed a relieved Petersen. “Now we can get the final check under way. …”

  “We are at T-minus four minutes. …”

  When the final check was complete, with all systems operating satisfactorily, Petersen turned back to McCracken.

  “You wanna hear the flight plan?”

  Blaine found he was squeezing the arms of the seat through his thick gloves. “I’ve got nothing else to do at the moment.”

  Petersen smiled. “Two minutes after lift-off, the SRBs— that’s the solid rocket boosters—will be automatically ejected. The main engines—SSME system—will continue blasting us toward orbit for another seven minutes or so. Once they cut off, that monster of a propellant tank will jettison and we’ll enter a low, oval orbit.”

  “We are at T-minus sixty seconds to launch. … Fifty-five…”

  “I’ll fill you in on the rest later,” Petersen said, and turned back to his three monitors flashing a constantly changing display of data.

  “Fifty…”

  There was really nothing for Petersen to do at this point. Everything connected with launch procedures was handled by computer from Houston. He felt more like a passenger than a pilot.

  “We are at T-minus thirty seconds. Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven …”

  Blaine felt his teeth chattering. A horrible sensation of dread filled him. He fought down the urge to tear his straps away and pop the escape hatch to flee this nightmare. He closed his eyes and steadied himself. His whole frame had begun to twitch.

  “Good luck,” said Nathan Jamrock into his mouthpiece.

  “T-minus twenty seconds and counting. T-minus fifteen, fourteen, thirteen … T-minus ten …”

  The monstrous lift-off rockets beneath Pegasus had begun to fire. The spacecraft rumbled and seemed to tremble in eager anticipation of its launch.

  “T-minus five … We have gone for main engine start. …”

  A thunderous roar found Blaine’s ears. Those in the observation area saw a blinding spout of orange and yellow flames burst out from the shuttle’s base, intermixed with a rush of erupting steam.

  “Main engines and solid rocket boosters firing!” a voice said inside Blaine’s helmet.

  The ground shook and threatened to break open. A quake of heat rolled across the miles of empty land surrounding the launch pad.

  “We have lift-off!” a voice bellowed.

  Pegasus rose patiently into the air, seemingly unburdened by all the frantic activity that had preceded her rise. The majesty and glamour of the event was totally lost on McCracken. His entire frame felt as if it had been squeezed into a crate a third its size. There was pressure from both above and below, seeming to compress his head closer and closer to his toes. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t find his voice. He knew he was breathing, but the action felt separate from himself. He was convinced he was choking to death, and he would have groped for his throat had he been able to free his arms from the rests. Finally he gave up and forced his shoulders back against his suit as far as they would go. He was vaguely conscious of a slight smoothing of Pegasus’s track and of words being exchanged rapidly in his headset.

  “Pegasus, this is Houston Cap-Com,” came the voice of NASA’s capsule communicator. “You’re flying a few degrees higher than your planned trajectory. Should be no problem, but expect a slightly higher release altitude for SRBs and SSMEs.”

  “Roger, Houston,” said Petersen.

  A little over two minutes later Blaine heard the Houston Cap-Com announce that the SRBs had been released from the shuttle. This left Pegasus to be carried up by the thrust of its three main engines. McCracken was more relaxed now, breathing easier, but still he felt disjointed, as if he were riding some dizzying amusement ride he couldn’t get off. Three minutes into the flight, Pegasus was traveling at 6,200 feet per second. At six minutes that pace had more than doubled. McCracken’s heart was pounding at twice its normal rate. Through a side window he watched the earth shrinking away.

  Less than a minute later the shuttle’s nose angled down to increase velocity. When its tip came up again, its speed had risen to more than 16,000 feet per second.

  It was nine minutes into the flight when Blaine felt something buckle, as if someone had applied the brakes briefly.

  “Houston, we have main engine cutoff,” Petersen reported.

  Blaine felt his stomach make a determined leap for his throat, until a sudden shift in the shuttle’s trajectory forced it to drop for his feet.

  “Pegasus, this is Houston. Propellant tank is away. Good work with the wheel, Captain.”

  “That’s a roger, Houston. Thanks for your help.”

  The sensation Blaine had felt had been an evasive maneuver enacted by the flight computers to steer Pegasus away from the free-falling tank.

  He could have used some Dramamine after all.

  “What is your altitude, Pegasus?”

  “Houston, we read altitude at one oh five miles and climbing. Twin orbital maneuvering engines burning now. Climbing toward one seven five nautical-mile orbit.”

  “Roger, Pegasus. We show all systems go. You’ll be passing out of range of our Bermuda tracking station in seconds. We’ll catch up with you over Madrid.”

  “Si, señor,” said Petersen.

  “What’s happening now?” Blaine asked the commander a few minutes later.

  “To begin with, we’ve achieved initial orbit. But we’re still climbing and the orbit will change slightly as we do. Eventually it’ll become elliptical for maximum maneuverability once we reach our cruising altitude and proceed on our intercept heading.” Petersen adjusted his headset. “Here’s the strategy. We’re going to assume the same orbit Adventurer did when it ran into this thing. Since we’ve got the advantage of knowing exactly where it’s gonna be at eight o’clock, thanks to you, the flight computers will time our course to insure that we meet up with the bastard somewhere over the Pacific before it begins its pass over the country. Things happen pretty fast at seventeen thousand miles per hour, but we’ve got a few minutes to play with.”

  McCracken’s eyes wandered over the endless rows of gauges, dials, and cathode-ray tube displays on the cockpit’s front and sides. “Yeah, but how well can you control this bus once the time comes?”

  “You mean in manual?” When Blaine nodded, Petersen went on. “I’ll spare you the details, but because of its military nature, Pegasus was built to handle like a goddamn Ferrari.”

  “So you’ll be able to maneuver once we meet up with our friend.”

  “I’ll be able to take you wherever you want to go.”

  “You already are, Captain.”

  Chapter 34

  THE MINUTES PASSED into agonizingly long hours. Cabin pressure had stabilized, allowing Blaine to remove his confining helmet long before. Still, comfort was a thing not to be found. His motions felt slow and elongated, the fun of being able to float buoyantly at whim totally lost upon him. He had to admit, though, that the view was spectacular. Petersen acted as tour guide for much of the trip’s duration by pointing out various countries and bodies of water as Pegasus passed above them.

  They were into their fifth orbit, cruising comfortably toward the mid-Pacific, when Captain Petersen steadied his headset.

  “Houston, this is Pegasus. We have reached our cruising altitude of one seventy-five nautical miles and are proceeding on intercept course with Comet X-ray. Final engine burns complete. Cap-Com, she’s riding smooth.”

  “Roger, P
egasus.”

  “Houston, we should be in the vicinity of Comet X-ray in minutes now. Do your instruments show anything?”

  “Negative, Pegasus. All boards and monitoring stations look clear. The sky’s all yours.”

  “That’s a roger.”

  Because the transmission was open, the true purpose of the shuttle’s mission was being cloaked in seemingly mundane talk. Comet X-ray was their private name for the intruder satellite they were seeking. Petersen held no illusions about Houston’s response to his query, though. He had read all the reports on Adventurer’s destruction in detail and memorized the final transmissions. There had been no warning in that case either. The killer machine had appeared out of nowhere.

  “Houston, we will maintain present heading in attempt to sight Comet X-Ray. We will check in every minute. Repeat, every minute.”

  “Roger, Pegasus.”

  “Give us a buzz if you catch wind of anything down there, Cap-Com.”

  It was 7:50 eastern standard time when Pegasus passed over Wake Island. Petersen was steering manually now, simply holding the shuttle on its preprogrammed heading.

  “Houston,” said Petersen, “this is Pegasus. I’m going to raise us a mite higher to slow our orbit and give Comet X-ray a fair chance to catch up.”

  “Roger, Pegasus.”

  Petersen turned to McCracken. “If we do find this thing, Blaine,” he said somberly, “it’s gonna be your job to blast it. I’ll fill you in.” He shifted in his seat to allow Blaine to creep up closer. Then he pointed to a center panel within easy reach of his right hand. The panel was dominated by a monitoring screen and a twin pair of joysticks. “This thing may look like a video game, but it’s the firing mechanism for the laser cannons.”

  “Where do I insert the quarter?”

  “In Jamrock’s toilet to the rear of the shuttle. Anyway, when the system’s activated, this is what you get.”

  Petersen flipped a switch and the viewing screen came to life with a series of three-dimensional angular shapes merging into a single square sliced up into individual boxes.

  “Okay,” he continued, “we’ve got two cannons, one inside each side of the front. For security reasons, since no one’s supposed to know we’re armed, the lasers are hidden behind heat shield panels that slide away upon activation. See that green light in the right corner of the panel?”

  “Sure.”

  “That indicates the panels are open and the cannons are operable. The fail-safe mechanism makes it impossible to fire them if the panels are still closed. Anyway, the cannons’ angle of fire can be changed by manipulating the joystick controls. They’re tied into the same circuit, so moving one is the same thing as moving both.” Petersen’s hand moved onto the screen. “Now, here’s the most important thing. Once we find this satellite of yours, you’ve got to adjust the joysticks so that it fills out the center of the box on the viewing screen. The closer we get and the bigger it is, the more individual cubes it will take up. And, remember, up here it doesn’t take long to cover lots of ground. But the thing’s still gotta be centered in the square to be sure of a hit. Savvy?”

  Blaine shrugged. “It would seem a lot safer for you to do the shootin’, Sheriff.”

  “I’ve got to drive this baby.”

  “What about your deputy over there?” Blaine asked, head tilting toward the copilot.

  “He’s gotta track the damn thing and adjust sensor and deflector shield levels.”

  “Deflector shields? What is this, another of the continuing voyages of the starship Enterprise!”

  “We’re well on the way to that, Blaine, but don’t be too impressed. The deflector shields are just a new toy that work on reverse polarity and it’s not quite perfected yet. We’d be best off not to rely on them.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to.”

  It was 7:52. The Philippines were drawing slowly closer. From this altitude the Pacific looked like a beautiful blue blanket.

  Blaine’s chair was set back from the pilot’s and copilot’s, and the weapons mechanism was built into what might have been a sloping desk within easy reach. He shifted about uncomfortably, growing eager for the confrontation that was about to come. His eyes looked out through the shuttle’s elaborate windshield, searching for something, anything. In the profound darkness of space, objects not producing their own light were virtually invisible. If the killer satellite were painted black, it could be almost on top of them and they wouldn’t be able to see it.

  “I’d better check in with Houston,” Petersen announced.

  McCracken’s fingers flirted with the joysticks.

  “Houston, this is Pegasus. We’re just reaching the Philippines now. I’m gonna fire the maneuvering rockets, bring her around, and hold steady as she goes.”

  “Pegasus, this is Houston. We read you but you’re a bit garbled. Could you repeat your last sentence?”

  “I said I’m gonna bring her around and—”

  At the command center in Houston static drowned out the final part of Petersen’s sentence. The interference was getting stronger now. All eyes rose from their terminals and gazed up at the world’s most sophisticated radar board responsible for monitoring the shuttle and anything near it. At present it showed only a single blue blip to indicate Pegasus.

  “Pegasus, does your board show anything?”

  “Say again, Houston,” requested Petersen through static.

  “Is there anything on your board?”

  The copilot shook his head. Petersen gave the response. “Negative, Houston. Nothing.” His last word was indistinguishable to the men on Earth.

  “Pegasus, you’re breaking up. We’ve lost your television transmission. Repeat, your television transmission is scrambled. … What’s going on up there? Pegasus, please acknowledge.”

  Static was the only response.

  “Pegasus, please acknowledge.”

  More static. The shuttle’s existence was reduced to a tiny blue blip on a huge screen. Every eye in mission control was locked on it, searching for reassurance, fighting against the panic each felt.

  “Oh, my God,” Nathan Jamrock said out loud. A handful of Rolaids slipped to the floor. “It’s happening again.”

  “Houston do you read me? This is Pegasus. … Come in, Houston.” Petersen finished bringing the shuttle around in a 180-degree turn, so it was now moving backward in its orbit, and looked at McCracken grimly. “We’ve lost them.”

  “What happens now?”

  Blaine could see Petersen swallow hard. “We hold our course as best we can. The thing should be here any second.”

  A red light started flashing on the copilot’s warning board, and a beep started sounding.

  “Captain,” the copilot called, “sensors have locked on to something.”

  “Where?”

  “Twenty thousand meters behind, in front now, and closing.”

  “Switch on front deflector shields.” Then, to Blaine, “Looks like the fucker’s about to show itself.” And he pressed a button that activated the weapons system.

  The copilot hit four switches, lighting a green signal under each.

  “Shields in place, Captain.”

  Petersen’s eyes strained out the viewing panels. “Come on out, you bastard,” he urged the thing.

  “Fifteen thousand meters, Captain.”

  “What’s its heading?”

  The copilot hesitated. “Direct intercept.”

  Petersen raised his eyebrows. “Looks like it’s gonna be eyeball to eyeball, Blaine. Flip your visor down and get ready on those guns.”

  Blaine grabbed the joysticks between warm, sweat-soaked hands and locked his eyes on the now functioning targeting screen. Something had started to fill in the squares.

  “Range ten thousand meters,” said the copilot. “Still closing. Should be in view any— Oh my Christ …”

  The three men gazed out the shuttle’s windshield and saw it together. The killer satellite looked like a giant bull
et rotating in the sky, at least as tall as Pegasus was long. Starting about two thirds of the way down its sleek, dark structure were thick legs like landing nodules linked together in a maze of wire and steel. Its lower third appeared to be wider than the top.

  “Looks like somebody fired it out of a fuckin’ giant cannon,” muttered Petersen.

  “Range seventy-five hundred meters …”

  McCracken was working the joysticks feverishly now, trying to capture the killer satellite in the center of the square. It kept eluding him, changing direction to match Pegasus’s orbit, these slight alterations throwing the weapons’ sensors off.

  “I can’t get a fix!” he complained into his helmet, licking the sweat from his upper lip.

  “Range five thousand meters and … slowing.” The copilot swung toward Petersen. “The damn thing’s slowing, Captain.”

  “Get your fix, Blaine!” Petersen ordered. “For God’s sake, shoot the fucker out of the sky!”

  Before McCracken could fire, the thing came to almost a complete stop relative to them in space. Cylindrical attachments popped free of its sides and spread like a fan. The attachments were reflective. The center base rotated, its blackness abandoned for the same shiny surface its extended sides were composed of.

  “Jesus Christ,” muttered Petersen.

  McCracken gained a brief fix on the satellite and hit both joystick buttons. A pair of ice-blue rays shot out from either side of the shuttle, angling toward intercept right smack in the center of the adversary. Blaine could feel his smile forming.

  But not for long. The lasers’ rays bounced off the reflective surface like light off a mirror and cascaded through space.

  “Aim higher!” Petersen ordered. “We got to find a weakness in— What the …”

  McCracken saw the flash coming from the satellite what felt like a second before it impacted. His face shield went opaque for an instant, saving him from blindness, while Pegasus shook violently. Pieces of white surface material flew off, soaring past the viewing windows.

  “We’re breaking up!” Blaine screamed.

  “It’s the heat shield,” Petersen corrected him as he struggled to maintain the shuttle’s balance. “Pieces of it anyway. Not enough to do us much harm.”