by Dale Brown
Nevertheless, as a precaution, he kept both hands on the two controllers fixed below his MFD—the left for translation maneuvers and the right to rotate their spacecraft as needed. If something went wrong with the computer, he would dock manually. It was a maneuver he and the other cosmonauts had practiced hundreds of times in their preflight training.
From the seat beside him, Major Georgy Konnikov kept up a running commentary on their progress. “Closing at twenty centimeters per second. Range one hundred meters. We are slightly low and to the left.” New thrusters fired briefly. “Closure rate now eighteen centimeters per second. Range eighty meters. Good position and angle.”
Minutes passed, slowly at first, and then all in a rush as they drew nearer to the space station.
“Closing at ten centimeters per second. Range four meters. In the groove,” Konnikov intoned.
Less than a minute later, the Federation’s docking probe slid perfectly into the Mars One port’s cone-shaped receptacle.
“Contact!” Konnikov reported. A tiny vibration rippled through their spacecraft as latches closed around the probe and retracted—pulling the Federation orbiter tightly against Mars One’s port. “And capture.”
Suddenly aware that his hands ached from tension, Strelkov let go of the manual controls and radioed. “Moscow Center, this is Federation One. We have arrived.”
Through his headphones, he heard muted cheers from the mission control center. “Acknowledged, Federation. This is a great day for Russia.” There was a brief pause before the controller remembered they were broadcasting to an as-yet-unsuspecting international audience. “And, of course, a great day for all of humanity, too.”
One hour later, after completing a series of pressurization tests to make sure they had a good seal, Strelkov ordered the hatch opened. He was the first one through, floating nimbly through the airlock and into his new command. It was time to bring Russia’s new military space station to life.
Aboard Mars One
Several Hours Later
Colonel Vadim Strelkov hooked his feet beneath an electronics console to hold himself in place and looked around the crowded compartment. The five cosmonauts who made up his crew hovered nearby, clinging to footholds or handholds of their own. “Very well, gentlemen,” he said briskly. “Now that you’ve had some time to check things over, I need your status reports.”
Intense training had rendered every one of them a jack-of-all-trades, intimately familiar with every piece of hardware and electronics aboard Mars One. But each cosmonaut still had a specialty—a weapons, station support, or sensor system on which he was the acknowledged expert.
“The environmental control and life-support systems in all three modules are functioning within the expected parameters,” Lieutenant Colonel Pavel Anikeyev said crisply. Besides being the station’s designated second in command, the short, round-faced cosmonaut knew more about the carbon-dioxide scrubbers, water-reclamation systems, and other life-support equipment than anyone else aboard. “The consumables stores aboard our Progress cargo ships appear intact. Off-loading those should be our next priority.”
Strelkov nodded in agreement. Shifting and stowing several tons of rations, drinking water, and other supplies would be grueling, time-consuming work. Better to get to it while they were relatively fresh.
Georgy Konnikov was the next one to speak. “I’ve run diagnostics on our X-band and L-band radars,” he reported. “They appear to be in excellent condition.” The younger man’s mobile mouth quirked upward in a wry smile. “Pursuant to our new orders from Moscow, I have refrained from carrying out full-power tests.”
Strelkov nodded somberly. It would not yet do to reveal that Mars One was equipped with military-grade radar systems. “What of our other detection systems?”
“Our IR sensors are working perfectly,” Konnikov said. “As a test, I was able to pick out the thermal signature of the American MENTOR 9 signals intelligence satellite at a range of thirty-six thousand kilometers.”
Strelkov was impressed. The geostationary MENTOR-series satellites, used by the Americans to collect a wide range of electronic signals—everything from rocket and missile telemetry to cell-phone calls—were enormous, with main antennas well over one hundred meters in diameter. While that made them relatively easy to detect visually, zeroing in on their small thermal output at such a long range was still a remarkable feat.
“Our data links to other ground- and space-based sensors are also fully functional,” Konnikov continued. “We are already receiving data from our Persona and Razdan electro-optical, EKS ballistic early warning, and Kondor radar imaging satellites.”
Strelkov nodded. That was good news indeed. Even while they were orbiting at six hundred and forty kilometers above the earth’s surface, their visual and radar detection ranges were limited to some thousands of kilometers. Data links to other space-based and ground-based radars, cameras, and infrared sensors significantly improved their situational awareness—making it virtually impossible for the Americans to sneak anything past them.
He turned his attention to two more of his officers. Major Viktor Filatyev, tall and burly for a cosmonaut, was the sole nonaviator aboard. Before joining the Mars Project, he had been assigned to one of Russia’s experimental ground-based laser R&D programs. On the station, he was in charge of their primary offensive weapon, the Thunderbolt coaxial plasma rail gun. Filatyev’s shorter and leaner subordinate, Captain Leonid Revin, was chiefly responsible for their two upgraded Hobnail lasers. Primarily intended for close-in defense, the lasers had a maximum effective range of around one hundred kilometers. But even at that range, they were powerful enough to cut through a centimeter of solid steel in seconds.
“Leonid and I have run systems checks on the three energy weapons,” Filatyev said. “All indicators are green.” The big man frowned deeply. “But without our reactor, power supply is a very serious problem.”
“We’ll dig into that in a moment, Viktor,” Strelkov said with more patience than he felt. It would not do for the crew to know the depth of his own concern about their situation without the lost fusion generator. “Let’s finish running through what works before we focus on what doesn’t, eh?”
Abashed, Filatyev shrugged, quickly tightening his grip on a handhold when the instinctive reaction threatened to send him drifting into the compartment ceiling. “Sorry, sir.”
Strelkov grinned. “Zero-G takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?”
Heads nodded in response. Three of the other cosmonauts looked slightly green around the gills. Even with antinausea medications, completely adjusting to the absence of any defined “up” or “down” would take some of them a few days.
He looked back at Filatyev. “What is the status of our kinetic weapons?”
The big man relaxed slightly, obviously glad to be able to report some good news. “Fully functional, Colonel.”
“Very good,” Strelkov said. Besides its revolutionary directed-energy weapons, Mars One’s armament included a retractable rotary launcher with twelve Scimitar short-range hypersonic missiles and several Rapira or Rapier ground-attack weapons. Like the Hobnail lasers, the Scimitars were part of the station’s defenses—ready to engage enemy missiles or spacecraft that posed a direct threat.
In sharp contrast, the Rapiers were purely offensive weapons. They were kinetic-kill warheads made of high-temperature composite materials originally developed for Russia’s failed Avangard hypersonic glide-boost bomb carrier. Each warhead was mated to a thruster with enough delta-v to change its orbital inclination by up to ten degrees and then make a controlled reentry burn. Slashing down from space, Rapiers could strike fixed ground targets like airfields, ICBM silos, and other military and civilian installations at up to Mach 20.
That left just one member of the Mars One crew to hear from. Fit and trim, Major Pyotr Romanenko looked every inch the tough, aggressive Su-35 fighter pilot he had been before being tapped for Russia’s military cosmonaut program.
Assigned to manage both the reactor and solar power arrays as needed, he also had a secondary role—defending Mars One in close combat, should the Americans somehow manage the almost unthinkable . . . docking with and boarding the station. “Our solar panels are presently operating at maximum efficiency,” he said gruffly. “Right now, in full sunlight, we’re generating approximately seventy-five kilowatts of electricity.”
Strelkov nodded. Romanenko’s stress on the words in full sunlight was the root of one of their biggest problems. At this altitude and with the sun’s current angle to their orbital plane, Mars One spent approximately thirty-four minutes of each orbit in darkness. During those periods in shadow, the solar arrays would not generate any electricity, forcing the station to rely entirely on backup battery power for routine operations.
Even during the daylight portion of each orbit, the power provided by their solar panels fluctuated, depending on the station’s position relative to the sun. And some of that was needed to recharge their batteries. After figuring in the electricity needed to run their life-support systems, computers, and various sensors, relatively little would be left over to recharge the two lasers and their plasma rail gun.
Strelkov shifted his foothold a tiny bit so that he could face Filatyev and Revin more fully. “If we have to fire Thunderbolt or the Hobnails before the replacement reactor we’ve been promised arrives, what is our tactical situation?”
Revin spoke up first. “Each laser’s battery pack provides about thirty seconds of total firing time, sir.”
“That’s what? Maybe six or seven separate shots sufficient to destroy larger targets like incoming missiles or enemy spacecraft?” Strelkov estimated.
“Yes, sir. But killing or deflecting smaller pieces of shrapnel or space debris requires much less energy,” Revin said. “We could successfully engage targets of that type with short, single-second bursts.”
Strelkov breathed a little easier. Even relying solely on battery power, the Hobnail lasers could still defend Mars One against anything but a sustained mass attack. They were orbiting well above the reach of the Standard SM-3 antisatellite missiles employed by the U.S. Navy and Japan’s Maritime Self-Defense Force. And while the larger, more powerful ballistic-missile interceptors that formed America’s Ground-Based Midcourse Defense might be able to attack the station, there were relatively few of them—and they were only deployed in fixed silos at California’s Vandenberg Air Force Base and New York’s Fort Drum. Given Mars One’s high relative velocity, there should be no way the Americans could hope to launch their interceptors rapidly enough to overwhelm his defenses.
But what about the unknown factor? his mind reminded him coldly. What about the Sky Masters spaceplanes? Current intelligence reports from the GRU suggested they were unarmed, but Russia’s spies were never infallible. Defeating an attack by missile- or laser-armed spaceplanes might take a longer-range weapon.
He looked at Filatyev. “And your Thunderbolt rail gun, Major? How many times can you fire using the energy stored in its supercapacitors?”
“Only twice, Colonel,” the big man replied. “The gun requires a substantial amount of power to create plasma toroids and magnetically accelerate them up to ten thousand kilometers per second.”
“You can fire only twice,” Strelkov repeated flatly. He turned to Romanenko. “How much time do you need to recharge the lasers and rail gun using power diverted from our solar arrays?”
The engineering officer shrugged. “Of the two weapons systems, Thunderbolt is the easier to replenish. Its supercapacitors can be charged much faster than conventional batteries. Based on the numbers I’ve worked out in consultation with Moscow, we ought to be able to fully power the rail gun every five or six minutes. That’s assuming, of course, that we shut down every other nonessential system aboard the station. And that’s also assuming the solar panels are in full sunlight and at peak efficiency,” he warned. “Anything less will greatly slow the process.”
“And the Hobnail lasers?”
“Given our battery technology and other power constraints, it would take a miracle to recharge them in anything less than two or three full orbits.”
Strelkov’s jaw tightened. That was pretty much what he’d expected to hear, but it didn’t make the news any more welcome.
Pavel Anikeyev, his second in command, cleared his throat apologetically. “I’m afraid we do have one more problem, sir.”
Briefly, Strelkov closed his eyes in frustration. Then he reopened them with a crooked smile. “Only one, Pavel? I should kiss you,” he said sardonically. The other cosmonauts laughed.
“Without power from the lost fusion reactor, the station’s advanced ion thrusters are useless,” Anikeyev pointed out.
“Shit,” Strelkov muttered. Somehow he’d missed that fact in the frantic rush to figure out work-arounds for their energy weapons and bring Mars One’s systems online after they boarded. But his deputy was right. And without those ion thrusters, their four-hundred-ton station’s ability to maneuver in orbit would be severely limited. Whether compensating for the recoil generated by the plasma rail gun or fighting atmospheric drag, they would be forced to rely solely on the conventional rocket engines and thrusters of the two docked cargo modules and their own Federation orbiter. Until the replacement fusion reactor promised by Colonel General Leonov was docked with Mars One and functioning, they were far more vulnerable to an American attack than originally anticipated.
Nineteen
Aboard an S-19 Midnight Spaceplane, High over the South Pacific Ocean
The Next Day
Through the spaceplane’s forward cockpit windows, Brad McLanahan could see a black sky stretching above them toward infinity. Stars, visible as hard bright pinpoints of light, were strewn across the blackness in all directions. The sheer beauty of it would have robbed him of breath if the G-forces they were pulling hadn’t already accomplished that.
“Passing through . . . sixty-four miles,” Boomer grunted from the left-hand pilot’s seat. “Good ignition on the Leopards in rocket mode . . . speed fourteen thousand miles per hour and increasing.” As he followed the steering cues on his heads-up display, his gloved hand nudged the sidestick controller forward a tiny bit. The nozzles of the four LPDRS engines gimbaled slightly, adjusting the direction of thrust. The S-19’s nose dipped in response, until the spaceplane had almost completely leveled off.
Now the rounded curve of the world was distinctly visible—with a sharp blue band along the horizon marking the division between sky and space. They were just above the Kármán line, past the point where the increasingly tenuous upper atmosphere could provide any aerodynamic lift. Staying aloft now required attaining orbital velocity, the speed at which their forward motion would equal the acceleration of gravity pulling them downward.
“Altitude seventy-two miles. Speed now . . . seventeen thousand miles per hour and still climbing,” Boomer said, pushing the words out against the four Gs pressing them back into their seats. “Engine cutoff coming up in five seconds . . . four . . . two . . . one. Shutdown.”
Brad felt the sensation of enormous, overwhelming pressure gripping his body suddenly disappear. Even with the straps holding him tight in the seat, he experienced an eerie floating sensation. With a mental effort, he focused on not feeling queasy. It always took him a little time to acclimate to zero-G.
“Good burn,” Boomer reported.
Brad checked the navigation and velocity data shown on his own multifunction display and nodded. “I confirm that. We’re in the planned parking orbit.”
Their S-19 Midnight was far out over the South Pacific, flying northeast along the same relative orbital track as the slower-moving Russian space station still several hundred miles ahead of and above them. Since the velocities necessary to stay in orbit decreased with altitude, if nothing else changed they would catch up with and pass far below Mars One in approximately one hour.
With a grin, Brad turned his helmeted head toward Boomer. “Hey, ar
e we there yet? Huh? Huh? Are we?”
Boomer chuckled. “Ask me that one more time, kid, and I swear to God, I’ll stop this thing and dump you out into the cold hard vacuum of space.”
This had already been a long mission. Since taking off from Battle Mountain more than five hours ago, they’d flown a little over five thousand miles south-southeast out over the Pacific at Mach 2—slowing down a couple of times along the way to top up with JP-8 from Sky Masters–owned 767 aerial tankers. When they arrived at a precisely calculated mid-ocean point between New Zealand to the west and central Chile to the east, Boomer had executed a sharp turn back to the northeast. Then the instant they were on a course mirroring the Russian orbital track, he’d punched it—sending the spaceplane streaking spaceward at full power.
“Radar contact at twelve o’clock high. Range is three miles and closing,” the S-19’s computer reported. “Contact is an S-29 Shadow.”
“Right on schedule,” Brad said with satisfaction. “Man, I love it when a crazy-ass plan actually comes together.” Reaching out, he punched in commands on his display and locked the contact into their navigation program. Instantly, the necessary steering cues appeared on Boomer’s HUD.
“We’re a little off to port and a scooch low,” Boomer remarked with a slight smile of his own. “Not too shabby after traveling practically a bazillion miles like a bat out of hell.” He locked out the sidestick controller and throttles for their main engines, and then pulled down what looked like a video game controller with two small knobs. “Thruster controls online.” Gingerly, he tweaked the knobs. In response, hydrazine maneuvering thrusters fired in sequence, pushing them to the right and higher.
As they closed in from below, they could see the other spaceplane grow from just a small black dot lit up by the sun to a blended-wing craft identical to their own, except larger and with a fifth engine mounted atop the fuselage. Relative to them, the S-29 was upside down and backward, flying tail first at more than seventeen thousand five hundred miles per hour. Its cargo bay doors were open, revealing two large silver-colored fuel tanks tightly slotted inside.
