In the Kremlin, Ostavok put down the red-colored phone. “Bucharev is a good comrade. There will be no difficulty from him. Now, what do we do with this rock?”
The portly Secretary of the Communist Party corrected him. “No, my dear Ostavok, it is not merely a rock. It is a gift from UNSOC. Now, we can finally be rid of a problem.”
***
The missile had been waiting in its underground bunker for decades. Solid-fueled rockets could wait forever, almost, and be ready to fire with just the minimum of maintenance. What really required the most work on a nuclear tipped intercontinental ballistic missile was the nuclear weapon itself. Depending on design, it might be ten years between servicing, or it might require quarterly tuneups. This missile had last been touched by human hands five years ago.
Suddenly, electrical voltages of the correct pattern began surging through its umbilical. The onboard computer compared the pattern of voltages and the shape of the waveforms with those stored in its memory. They matched, and the missile began powering up to launch mode. Batteries topped off their charges and heaters turned on, ensuring the electronics were ready to perform as specified.
The missile received a new pattern—that of the yield for the bomb. The computer requested a retransmission, standard in this case. The missile received the same pattern and made the appropriate changes. It flashed the 'ready to launch' codes back to its controller.
Launch parameters, thrust profiles, and guidance envelopes, the missile received them all in the minutes remaining until launch time. It received positive launch permission from its controllers and started the countdown sequence.
At T-30 seconds, a high-pressure hydraulic ram slammed aside the twenty-ton concrete hatch cover.
T-20, and the missile verified the final 'go for launch' command and began exercising the fins and nozzle gimbals.
T-10, the controllers sent the final guidance commands.
T-9 to T-2, all subsystems verified ready for launch.
T-2, ignition.
T-0, and the missile blasted out of its silo, one of nearly fifty scattered amongst the taiga of the northern Russian forest.
The missile streaked upward, arcing over a Europe that watched it with nervous eyes. American anti-missile batteries were on high alert for any deviation from its announced launch path. Even though the Moon was hammering the Earth indiscriminately with impacts, the US and Russia still didn't trust each other and were eternally wary of a World War III nuclear first strike launched under the cover of a meteor diversion strike.
The missile reached its pre-programmed point in space. Electrical impulses fired. In the tip of the missile, specially shaped explosive charges were detonated in a specific sequence. Shock waves propagated outward and inward, forcing the heavy wedges of plutonium together in a specific arrangement. A non-optimal arrangement. Before the entire sphere of plutonium was formed, the aft half of the critical mass began its chain reaction early, disrupting the fore half of the sphere and preventing a perfect fission reaction.
To the casual observer on the ground, if one were to be so foolish, the explosion was eye-searing. Anything electronic on the ground acquired chaotic electrical impulses, just less than would have occurred if the weapon had fired correctly.
The missile ceased to exist as such. A high-density plasma formed and raced outward at thousands of meters per second. It impacted the onrushing chunk of lunar debris as planned, but with far less force than it should have.
The debris was not shoved back into space. Indeed, it was not shoved outward very much at all. By design.
***
“Report!” demanded the Party Secretary.
Ostavok checked his computer. “The missile fizzled, Comrade. It did not explode as designed.”
“Good, good.” The Secretary rubbed his fat hands together, the sausage-shaped fingers tumbling over each other like spilling intestines.
Ostavok was stone-faced. “Calculating new trajectory.”
“And?”
“Figures coming in now. New impact point has shifted eastward. Circular error has it centered over Chechnya.”
“Excellent! Ah, UNSOC has been great for us today.”
Ostavok tucked the horror deep into his soul, where only he could see it. Not even the delicious Skyana would know what his hands had wrought today.
***
The city of Grozny was like any city during the new times. The occasional fearful eye in the sky. The barrels of water secured throughout the cityscape. People seldom dawdled any more. Instead, they raced to make their purchases, then fled back home. Impact could come at any time, so the saying goes, best be with your loved ones when it happened. Workers at the job jumped at every distant thump or nearby crash. Traffic was far more frantic than usual. It was a fearful time.
Into this atmosphere of fear and loathing, the flaming apparition in the sky was met with an air of resignation. Those with their loved ones had time for a final kiss, those separated from their families had just enough time for a pang of regret.
The lump of lunar rock didn't care. It was returning to the Earth from which it had been born billions of years before. As it shoved aside the column of air between it and home, it lost some of its energy. A killing amount from the point of view of the unlucky airliners in the way, but not enough to materially affect those earthbound.
The impact immediately converted the central mass of the lunar rock into a dense ball of plasma. As the energy of impact converted to heat, it stripped the electrons completely away from their nuclei. The highly compressed plasma immediately sought release, thrusting outward in all directions.
A large and supersonically growing fireball hovered over the former city. Within, the bodies of lovers, haters, the lonely, the angry, the passive, and the activists, became puffs of vapor that intermingled and thrust skyward.
The shock wave of the destruction of Grozny heaved outward like an airborne shovel of death, scooping up and flinging to the heavens everything in its path. It scoured suburbs down to the bedrock. Forests became less than toothpicks. The heat of the fireball immediately carbonized everything within a twenty-kilometer radius. The survivor found closest to the point of impact lived only because he was installing a boiler in the basement of a high-rise apartment block. The building above him was torn away, but he survived, if you’d call someone with smashed limbs, burned out eyes, and shattered eardrums a survivor.
The fireball bulldozed its way across the countryside, planing the earth free of all human habitation, for some twenty-five kilometers. When it stopped, it left an impenetrable wall of debris plowed against the unfortunate structures remaining. As the shock wave weakened, it still killed people and animals in an expanding ring beyond the radius of total destruction, but the percentage of the living began to tick upward.
When the initial shock was over, and the debris stopped flying, a moment of absolute silence descended over nearly two thousand square kilometers of absolute devastation. Then the fires began from the fifty-million-degree central impact zone. Soon, a column of fire, some five kilometers across, spiraled upward, a hurricane of fire fed from the incoming winds roaring across the countryside.
All told, some three million Chechens perished in the single strike. It was worse than any nuclear strike could possibly have been.
The Party Secretary of the Russian Federation was pleased. The thorn in the side of Russia was now removed in a single stroke.
***
The UN met in an emergency session. It seemed like it was always in emergency session, with the lunar impacts occurring daily.
“These are serious charges, and I reject them categorically!” thundered the Ambassador from Russia. “To think that we, the great Russian peoples, would ever do such a thing is slanderous!”
The Ambassador from Chechnya signaled for time. “I reiterate. We are in possession of information that would indicate that the Russian Rocket Services deliberately misused a nuclear missile to divert a meteor to impact on
Grozny. This cannot be denied with bluster. These readings must be explained to our satisfaction, or we will be forced to declare that Russia committed an act of war. Even now, the fires of Grozny continue to burn, people continue to die, and Russian Federations Services are keeping the international community from helping our country.
“I call upon the international community to request free passage for all rescue and recovery operations across Russian frontiers to help our country!”
A rising surf-roar of babbling followed this challenge and response. The chairwoman of the assembly had wisely turned off all of the microphones, isolating the Ambassadors while she figured out whom to call upon next.
“The Ambassador from the United States.”
The Ambassador, Andrea Nevin, was a raven-haired woman who was known for her courtliness, friendly demeanor, and unswerving devotion to the aims of her country. She had received instructions about the situation from the President not long before this meeting. She rose and waited for the other Ambassadors to stop talking.
She looked around her and fixed the Russian representative with a piercing glare. “The people of the United States have a proposal that we wish you all to consider. We are prepared to turn over approximately half of our nuclear arsenal to a joint task force of the military from every member of the Security Council for the sole purpose of deflecting large inbound lunar meteors for such time as they continue to be a problem. We will hold veto power over all nuclear munitions, but do not expect to use it.”
She sat down and waited for the tsunami. The atmosphere was hushed, as if a storm was ready to break. The Ambassador from China signaled for time and received it.
“I am stunned by this, Ambassador Nevin. Stunned by the generosity, and its implications. China has always valued human life, and is gratified by the opportunity this presents that will allow the Peoples Republic to contribute to the salvation of mankind. We need only look at the overflights of the Grozny crater to know the horrible destruction that can be wrought by these impacting mountains of stone. We will match the United States, missile for missile, warhead for warhead, for this noble cause.”
Nevin leaned over towards her assistant. “Ha. We knew the Reds had more missiles than we did. Now they've told the world.”
Soon, every nation in possession of nuclear missiles agreed to contribute some number to the cause. All except for Russia. At last, the Ambassador, Piotr Lubnovik, signaled for time.
“Ambassadors. It has long been the experience of the great state of Russia that enemies surround it on all sides. Peoples that will slander it at any chance,” he said, staring at the Ambassador from Chechnya. “However, Russia will allow itself some vulnerability for this, the great pooling of nuclear missiles, by contributing half of its arsenal for this great cause. There is, however, one catch.”
The rest of the assembly held its breath. What monkey wrench would Russia demand?
“We have been quite impressed with the selflessness, international comity, and pure honor of the members of the late, lamented Roger Chaffee space station. We cannot think of any group better situated to put the needs of others above their own but the command staff of the Chaffee. We will release our missiles to their command only.”
Ambassador Nevin almost sprained her thumb pressing on her button, demanding time. The chairman, recognizing immediately why she wanted the time, granted it.
“Ambassador Nevin, you have the floor.”
Andrea Nevin stood, aware of the historicity of the moment. “We, the people of the United States, will amend their offer to add this stipulation of the Russian Ambassador. We share Ambassador Lubnovik's admiration for the command structure of the Chaffee, and will only release our missiles to their command.”
The rest of the nations rapidly agreed. Lost, momentarily, was the fact that most of the command structure came from America. Russia knew this, but was also aware that any further 'malfunctions' would be laid at the feet of the Great Satan, America, and not on their heads. Because malfunctions could occur no matter who pushed the launch button.
Brainstorms Ahead
Mars Expedition, Enroute to Mars, March 21 2083, 0854 GMT
The pressure was intense. Every minute, every hour, every day meant that the eventual course correction would be that much more difficult, that much more violent. But the stakes were not just their lives. The awake crew knew that they also spoke for one hundred and eighty-eight hibernating men on the two ships. It was impossible to awaken each sleeper, get them up to speed, ask their opinion, then put them back into hibernation.
Roger Smithson felt like his headset had become fused to his skull. If he wasn't talking to Mike Standish over on the Bradbury, he was in the middle of discussions with McCrary or one of the Collins staff. The most intense discussions were with Jimmy Fields, head of the new Lunar Flinger, Vito VonShaick, Collins' head of Nuclear Power, and Peter Brinkley, the Head Lunar Controller and the man responsible for ensuring that the right package was launched on the right trajectory to find itself buried deep in their magnetic catcher's mitt.
Other people spent long hours on the ships' computers, working with the simulations and wondering just how feasible this hare-brained scheme really was.
“It's going to be easy, all you have to do is roll out the plastic bag, trigger the LOX tank, and stand back. In fifteen minutes, you'll have one big Mylar hot dog,” said Peter during the rare radio conferences with the crews. “I've done it several times here.”
“Easy for you to say,” said Harel. “You've got a nice big Moon to stand on. Imagine doing this in freefall. One leak, and the damned thing is gonna fly out of our hands worse than a party balloon.”
“I did this when I was blowing up shelters for some special cargo when I was a tech on the Chaffee,” explained Brinker. “That was in freefall, and just as dangerous. You can do it, you just have to be careful.”
Grumbling, they moved on to the next phase of the operation, and the wrangling began anew.
The red dot in the forward scanners grew larger and larger, and after about a week, the Commanders called a halt. “We need your final opinions within twelve hours, and we must render a decision on the course of action. Put your recommendations into the computer, and get some sleep.”
Course Commit
Mars Expedition, Enroute to Mars, March 22 2083, 1132 GMT
“Testing, testing. Read me, Roger?” The voice in his headphones was a bit echoey and sounded like a gargling dragon, but Roger had no trouble making it out.
“The encryption hardware needs a bit more buffer, Mike, but I can figure you out. How am I sounding?”
“Like a sea monster with gas. Hang on.” He made an adjustment in the hardware module at his end. “How about now?”
“Five by five. How me?”
“Hey, you're human! All right, let's hash this out.”
“Agreed. As overall Commander, let me start this. Commander Standish, what is your overall recommendation for the remainder of this mission?”
“Damn, Roger, do you have to be so formal? Why can't we do this like a couple of regular guys?”
“Because the regular guys are either asleep or trying to wiretap us right outside our hatches. We can't be regular guys, not for a decision of this magnitude. So, let's start over, I forgot to turn on the recorder. Mike, I'll let you know when we can be normal. Ready? Recording in three, two, one.
“I am Roger Smithson, Captain of the UNSOC spaceship BurAye, commonly known as the Burroughs, and overall Commander of the Mars Expedition. I am discussing the fate of the mission with Captain Standish of the RayBee, commonly known as the Bradbury. He is the Deputy Commander of the Expedition.”
Roger laid out the situation, as well as the several options that they had to choose from, and the most likely outcomes from those options.
“Therefore, we have come to a crux. We must choose between several of these options. We have solicited input from our cruise phase crew, and have not awakened any of the hibernatin
g crew. Captain Standish, I require your input. What course of action do you recommend at this point?”
Michael Standish sounded much more formal in Roger's headphones. “I have solicited input from the crew of the Bradbury. While they are quite properly concerned with the unknowns, they have all recommended that we immediately set course for the Asteroid Belt, there to secure armor behind which we can return to Earth. To a man, they believe that any other option would mean death, either quickly via debris impact around Earth’s orbit, or slow and lingering on the surface of Mars. I concur with their recommendation, Captain Smithson. Change course for the Asteroid Belt.”
“Thank you for your input, Captain Standish. The cruise phase crew of the Burroughs also agree that our sole chance to return alive to the Earth is to divert to the Asteroid Belt as you described.
“On behalf of all crew, awake and hibernating, and in my capacity as Expedition Commander, on my own authority, I will deviate from Mission Directives, cross behind the planet Mars in its orbital path, and set course to rendezvous with the comet identified by the Collins crew. This change is to take place immediately.”
There was a pause, and Roger came back on the line. “Okay, recorder off. They'll crucify us when we get back home, you know.”
“I really don't care, Roger. Anything else is death, quick or slow. That's not what any of us signed up for and you know it.”
“Yeah. Still, the sleepers are going to be shocked out of their minds when they wake up halfway to Jupiter. Well, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Anything else?”
“Nope. Go ahead and make the announcement, Roger, so we can get back to some semblance of order here.”
“Doing that right now.” Roger connected to the joint intercom and announced the decision.
Dead Men Flying Page 5