Orbital: This is the Future of War (Future War Book 3)

by FX Holden

  Bondarev sighed inwardly, stood and pointed at the map. “China.” He ran a finger across the country from border to border. “The West–East pipeline. We have reviewed the options.”

  Popovkin had been an Olympic weightlifter in his early days in the military, and still had the broad shoulders and thick biceps of his youth. His stomach had expanded to match his shoulders in recent years, however, turning him from a young Hercules into an old grizzly bear. He folded his hands on the desk in front of him as he spoke. “Not a simple target.”

  “No, Comrade General. A network of gas pipelines, thousands of miles long – an engineering feat to rival the Great Wall. As you know, it stretches from Kazakhstan in the west to Beijing and Shanghai in the east, Hong Kong and Guangzhou in the southeast. It is China’s main energy artery, taking gas and oil from the Caucasus and Siberian Kovykta in the west to feed Chinese industries in the east.” He drummed his fingers on the screen, pointing at a colored line that went deep into the desert in the southwest of China. “And there is this spur, from Urumqi southwest into the heart of the Tarim Basin oil and gas fields. Opening up the Tarim Basin has significantly reduced China’s demand for Russian gas and oil.”

  Popovkin smiled. “Yes. The Abqaiq attack and the friction between Iran and Saudi Arabia have dealt with the issue of supply. Crude oil is up ten dollars a barrel already and climbing daily. But supply is only half the equation. The other half is demand. Russian gas and oil need a market, and in recent years, as China has brought its west–east oil and gas pipeline into play, demand for our product has been falling. Destroy that pipeline and we will also address the issue of demand, but you need to do it without disrupting our own ability to supply into China.”

  Bondarev looked at the map again and put his finger on a large town. “We do not need to destroy it all. In the westernmost section of the map, there is a spur of the pipeline down to a town called Lunnan, the industrial center for the Tarim Basin. I am told a hundred billion cubic meters of gas and several million barrels of oil a year go through that pipeline: about half of what Beijing consumes in a year. If we take out that section of the pipeline, China has only two ways to fill the gap, by sea using LNG and crude oil carriers, or…”

  “From Russia, via the pipeline through Kazakhstan,” Popovkin said, looking at the tracery of pipelines on the map. “Is a Groza strike feasible? I am also considering sabotage; a special forces action. But such an operation, so deep inside China…”

  “We have a proposal,” Bondarev said. He moved his finger. “The feeder lines out of Lunnan and the Tarim Basin converge on this town … Korla. From the satellite photos, it looks like there is a compressor plant of some sort there. Dozens of lines in, only one out, toward here … Urumqi.”

  “Yes?”

  “Hit that plant, we can choke the flow of gas out of Lunnan completely,” Bondarev said. “But it’s going to look damn suspicious so soon after Abqaiq, even if they are thousands of miles apart.”

  “Perhaps not. Cyberwarfare Unit 26165 is increasing the amount of social media noise on the asteroid belt story. I’m told a friendly Oxford professor is going to provide sound bites for us and specifically name China as being at high risk due to its huge landmass and high population density. But Chinese suspicion is an issue your strike planners will need to address,” Popovkin said.

  Bondarev looked at the map again. “We could spread the strike,” Bondarev offered. “Over a wider area. Take out the Korla plant, but hit a couple of nearby areas too, which have no military or industrial value at all. Maybe keep the biggest hit for something of societal value, so that all focus is on that, and the Korla strike might attract less attention until the economic consequences become clear.”

  “The Chinese are even more secretive than us when it comes to such ‘disasters,’” Popovkin agreed. “It might take weeks for them to even disclose the event, and longer still for them to confirm any suspicions that we were involved.”

  “They’ll know as soon as the Mozprom gas salespeople start knocking on their doors offering to push more gas through Kazakhstan,” Bondarev warned. “Mozprom can’t be allowed to increase its activity until the strike is public or China will see straight through this. I assume we want to keep them guessing as long as possible.”

  “Good point,” Popovkin nodded, then grimaced. “Kelnikov will have to let that ass Lapikov into the need-to-know circle. As Energy Minister, he has the influence on Mozprom we’d need to coordinate this, but he’s been moaning to Avramenko to be brought in on Groza and this would make it look like Kelnikov is capitulating.”

  Bondarev suppressed a wry smile. None of this was news to him since it more or less confirmed what Lapikov’s advisor, the Italian woman, had confided to him. The Energy Minister Lapikov had been lobbying President Avramenko to ensure he was given advance warning of any Groza strike that might impact his portfolio, while Defense Minister Kelnikov had been trying to keep his rival at bay.

  “With respect, I would be concerned about providing too much information to Minister Lapikov. Comrade General,” Bondarev said. “I cannot go into details, but I am not completely confident that the staff in his political office are entirely … reliable.” Before Popovkin brought Lapikov into the inner circle, Bondarev had an idea he wanted to test. A little niggle in the back of his mind that concerned the beautiful but intense Roberta D’Antonia.

  Popovkin narrowed his eyes and looked like he was about to ask Bondarev to explain, but then closed his mouth again. Sometimes, and especially where it concerned Kremlin politics, it was better for a man not to peer too closely into the darker corners. “So, your proposal?”

  Bondarev stared thoughtfully out of the window. A strike on a remote target in China, multiple targets in fact. Undefended. With Groza, indefensible in fact. The risk of immediate retaliation was virtually zero. Payback would come, of that Bondarev was sure. But not within the immediate future. The operational calculus was straightforward, except for one element. “Yes, sir. That gas compression plant looks similar in size and scale to the Abqaiq facility. We used two Groza payloads on that strike and those satellites are now depleted and being retasked to surveillance duties. We propose to use the minimum ordnance necessary to ensure target destruction, but if we are to spread the attack to include one or more secondary targets, we can expect to expend at least two more Groza payloads. That will leave us with only twelve orbiting satellites for future contingencies, one of which is still experiencing problems with its propulsion system.”

  Popovkin frowned. “I have not been made aware that any of the Groza platforms are non-operational.”

  It has been in every report we have sent up the line for two months, Bondarev thought to himself. But he didn’t want to argue the point. “I considered it a temporary issue and have not brought it to the General’s attention. The platform is allocated to targets in South East Asia and can be tasked for strikes in the region. But for now, it cannot be repositioned.”

  “And when are the next planned launches of satellites to replace the Groza units that have been expended?”

  Bondarev sighed inwardly. You know damn well there are none planned, or more importantly, budgeted for. We sacrificed the refit of the carrier Kuznetsov and just about bankrupted the Aerospace Forces budget putting sixteen of the monsters into orbit. “We have an Angara A7 launch slot booked for January next year, but as yet, no payload for it. I’m keeping the slot open in case Groza production constraints…” in other words, funding, “… are lifted.”

  Popovkin looked like he was going to make a caustic remark, but bit it back. “Twelve satellites still give us potent capabilities, assuming you are able to bring the malfunctioning unit back online. But to address your earlier concerns, we had better hope the President and Minister Kelnikov are not planning an extended campaign of ‘economic repositioning,’ hadn’t we?”

  A week had gone past since Rodriguez and Severin had briefed their squadron on the mission to bring down a Russian satellit
e – the first truly offensive mission for the US Space Force in its 15-year history. And this was not just the take-down of a rogue satellite or other piece of errant space hardware; it was an attack on a foreign military satellite that O’Hare had just learned could shoot back.

  Their mission was now taking place against the backdrop of a tit-for-tat shooting war in the Persian Gulf. Iran had hijacked another Saudi oil tanker and was shooting at any Saudi aircraft that came near its airspace. Commercial airlines were having to detour hundreds of miles north or south of the Gulf to avoid the risk of an accidental shoot down. The Saudi Navy had begun escorting vessels through the Straits of Hormuz and had fired on an Iranian missile boat that had come too close to one of its tankers. A Saudi tanker moored off the Emirates’ coast had been sabotaged, probably mined, and the Saudis had blamed Iran. In retaliation, and despite the fact Russia had moved two squadrons of front-line stealth fighters into the region to support Iran, the Saudis had conducted a ballsy strike on an Iranian frigate in the Red Sea and put it out of action, claiming it had been sailing inside Saudi territorial waters.

  Tehran had responded by threatening to turn Saudi Arabia to glass in a ‘sea of nuclear fire.’ TV pundits were saying that perhaps the only thing holding Iran back from carrying out its threat was the fact Saudi Arabia was known throughout the Islamic world as ‘the protector of the two holy cities’: Mecca and Medina. If an Iranian strike did any damage to either the Al-Haram Mosque in Mecca or the Prophet’s Mosque in Medina, it was probable they would become the pariahs of the Islamic world. Both sites were in the Hejazi region of the Arabian Peninsula, two hundred miles from a logical target for retaliation such as the Saudi capital Riyadh, but a nuclear strike on Riyadh risked fallout that might affect the holy sites, and would certainly disrupt the pilgrimages of millions of Muslims, possibly for years. Saudi Arabia was clearly betting that Iran would not go so far.

  O’Hare was sitting with Zeezee, poring over the schematics for a Russian 30mm autocannon on a desktop flat screen. “That’s the same thing they have mounted in their Su-57 stealth fighter, right?” O’Hare asked the Chinese American.

  “Correct.” The Master Sergeant was economical with words. She was economical with everything, O’Hare reflected. No earrings, no makeup, whether on or off duty. Space Force regulations actually allowed ‘modest’ makeup and, regarding nails, stated that, “If worn by females, nail polish will be a single color that does not distinctly contrast with the complexion, detract from the uniform, or be extreme colors. Do not apply designs to nails or apply two-tone or multi-tone colors; however, white-tip French manicures are authorized.” Zeezee also wore no nail polish. Her broad flat face wasn’t unattractive – she had beautiful green eyes – but she rarely decorated it with a smile. She wasn’t exactly the girl you’d want with you as a wingman for a night on the town, but O’Hare would take her any day if she was going into a stand-up fight.

  “Did the RAF report say anything about laser targeting?” O’Hare asked.

  “Yeah, it said they picked up no sign it was using a laser for targeting,” Zeezee said. “That would have generated a heat signature, and they recorded none. A laser would require extra juice; not much, but enough that they might have opted to go without it if they thought electro-optical and infrared targeting was good enough to deal with space junk.”

  “OK,” O’Hare said thoughtfully. “That might be a vector. Both infrared and electro-optical are slower than laser. We might be able to slam through at max thrust…”

  “Blow the hell out of it and scream Yippee-kay-ay mofo on our way past?” Zeezee said, deadpan. “No dice, Captain.” She pulled up a tactical display on the screen. It showed the 3D model of the Groza, which the RAF Spacecraft had created, and the US X-37, on a wire-style grid that O’Hare saw showed the two objects were at least twenty miles distant. “You will locate and confirm the target,” Zeezee continued. “You will hold at 20 miles, orbit the target at minimum safe distance and obtain imagery…”

  O’Hare pointed at the RAF’s 3D model on the screen. “Brits already did that.”

  “And this is a different unit,” Zeezee said. “It could have been built before or after the unit the Brits imaged. It may have different capabilities. We need to be sure before you put our X-37 in harm’s way.”

  “But assuming there are no surprises, I am going to toast it, right?”

  “Not exactly Space Force terminology, but yes. Using your own infrared targeting system, you will try to lock it up, advancing slowly until you do. If you cannot get a lock before minimum safe distance of 15 miles, you will abort. If you do manage to get a target lock…”

  “I engage with HEL at maximum range and hope the laser can burn through from 15 miles out?” O’Hare said, completing the sentence. “Which, given particle dispersion, is frankly unlikely. Lethal range is probably two to three miles. I am going to need to get up close and personal.”

  “Love the enthusiasm, Captain. But we don’t want to risk Bertha,” Zeezee said. “The RAF report indicated the Groza unit maneuvered when firing. Which means it is probably full of propellants such as tetroxide and hydrazine. Heat one side disproportionately, you may be able to nudge it out of orbit. Or better still, overheat its containment chambers, that propellant could blow.” She gave O’Hare a slight smile. “You might be glad you are 15 miles out when that happens.”

  “It would be good to know at what temperature tetroxide and hydrazine cook off,” O’Hare commented. “Give us an idea if we have any chance.”

  “I can chase that up,” Zeezee nodded. They threw around a few more scenarios before Zeezee finally straightened and turned off the screen. “Permission to share something personal with you, Captain?” she said.

  O’Hare looked in her eyes but saw nothing but the usual intense green staring back at her. “Uh, sure, Sergeant, go ahead.”

  “I have family in New York, right under the orbit of that thing. A father, mother and a sister. If you screw this up and that Groza gets past you, Russia will be pissed. And my family might die, along with a few hundred thousand other New Yorkers.”

  “I’ll try not to let that happen, Sergeant,” O’Hare said. “But a little personal motivation always helps.”

  Zeezee gave her a tight and not very sincere smile. “I advised Colonel Rodriguez to assign one of the other pilots we recruited for the engagement phase of this mission. Someone more … stable.”

  “OK then, so that’s out there, thanks for the transparency.”

  “You’re welcome, Captain. She also thanked me for my input, but declined,” Zeezee said. “She said none of the other pilots had your combat experience or ‘instincts.’”

  “Clearly, or I wouldn’t be here,” O’Hare pointed out.

  “No. Well, thank you for allowing me to speak freely,” Zeezee said and coughed. “I’ll see you at three for the tactical brief with Lieutenant Albers. And I’ll get those propellant temperature estimates to you before then.”

  O’Hare was still processing Zeezee’s little sharing moment, and couldn’t quite let it go. “So, no concerns about my choice of wizzo? Albers is ‘stable’ enough for you?”

  Zeezee didn’t hesitate. “Lieutenant Albers is a fine weapon systems officer. I supported that choice. If that’s all, I’ll be going, ma’am.” The Chinese American snapped off a sharp salute, turned to leave, and then turned back. “But it is a shame he isn’t a pilot, ma’am.”

  O’Hare thought she caught the slightest of winks before Zeezee spun and left the room.

  “Thank you for coming at such short notice, Ms. D’Antonia,” Yevgeny Bondarev said. “May I introduce you to the 15th Aerospace Army’s Chief Scientist, Anastasia Grahkovsky?”

  D’Antonia had been staring at the woman from the moment she had been ushered into Bondarev’s office. Called just two hours earlier and asked to travel to the Titov Research Center for a meeting with the General, she had dropped everything, of course, and ordered her car to take the emergency service
s lane on the freeway as she pushed frantically through traffic to get to Titov in time. Walking into the familiar office of General Bondarev, she had been surprised to see the strikingly bald woman sitting beside his desk, her scalp and hands covered in a patina of scars, her eyes milky and unseeing, a walking cane clasped between her thighs. The expression on her face was one of … irritation, more than anything else. She did not rise or extend a hand as Bondarev introduced her.

  “Pleased to meet you,” D’Antonia said, standing awkwardly.

  When the woman didn’t respond, Bondarev indicated a chair beside her and opposite his desk. “Please sit. I have explained to the Chief Scientist that you are principal advisor to Energy Minister Lapikov. I have also explained that you expressed a not unnatural interest in our Groza technology.”

  “General, I hope I didn’t step over any boundaries, I was simply…” D’Antonia began.

  Bondarev waved her apology away. “Not at all. I understand your Minister’s concerns, as does my commander, Colonel-General Popovkin. Hence this meeting,” Bondarev said with a charming smile. “I have agreed with the General for you to receive a full briefing on the Groza system from its architect, Chief Scientist Grahkovsky. After this, you should be able to answer any question your Minister might have.”

  D’Antonia looked from Bondarev to the disturbingly mute woman in the chair beside her, and then back again. “Thank you, General, my Minister will be very grateful for the favor.”

  “Perhaps,” Bondarev said, nodding slightly. He lifted a briefcase from the floor and adjusted his uniform. “Now, I have other matters to attend to. You may use my office for your discussion.” He pointed to the coffee table where there were cups and glasses, water, tea and fruit. “Please help yourselves. If you need anything, my adjutant is outside. Good day.” With that, he was gone and D’Antonia was left in the company of Anastasia Grahkovsky.