by Dale Brown
“Yep,” Brad said. “Which is mostly why I’m here now. My dad just uploaded a new variation on our attack plan. Constable’s configuring the simulators now. They should be ready for the three of us to try another run-through in about half an hour.”
Nadia sighed. “I will be there.” She put a gentle hand on his left arm. “But after that, I would like to spend some time with you. Only with you.” Her blue-gray eyes were serious. “Because we both know this mission is likely to be a one-way trip for more than just our little satellites.”
Brad suddenly wished with all his heart that he were a better liar . . . so that he could offer her a more optimistic assessment of their chances and be believed. But as it was, all he could do was give her a quick, silent nod.
Vostochny Cosmodrome
Forty Hours Later
“Energia-5VR guidance systems are configured,” one of the controllers reported.
From his station on the top tier of Vostochny’s control center, Yuri Klementiyev followed the progress of the automated launch sequence with a certain fatalistic calm. At this point, the computers aboard the huge rocket out on Pad 3 were fully in control. Short of ordering an emergency abort, there was nothing more he could do. Success or failure was now wholly in the hands of the gods of probability, physics, and fortune. Despite that, he was keenly aware that both Gennadiy Gryzlov and Colonel General Leonov were closely monitoring this operation from Moscow. It had been made clear to him that he would not survive any launch accident that destroyed the new reactor intended for Mars One.
Vostochny’s director closed his eyes. If he were a genuinely religious man, he could have passed the time with a litany of heartfelt, unspoken prayers. As it was, all he could do was await the outcome.
“All stages look good,” another controller said through his headset. “We are ready for flight.”
Klementiyev opened his eyes.
The base of Pad 3 disappeared in a cloud of brownish smoke and bright flames. “Zazhiganiye. Ignition,” his deputy announced. And then, seconds later, “Engines throttling up. Full power!”
Through the thickening smoke, Klementiyev saw the gantries holding the massive, twenty-five-hundred-ton rocket in place swing up and away. Unrestrained now, the Energia-5VR rose on a column of fire, climbing toward the heavens with rapidly increasing speed. “Podnyat’! Lift-off!”
Unable to sit idle any longer, he stood up—mentally urging the rocket onward as it roared higher, pierced a layer of low-lying cloud, and kept going. Nearly three minutes later, long-range tracking cameras captured the welcome sight of a perfect third-stage ignition. Mars One’s replacement fusion reactor was on its way safely into orbit.
Klementiyev breathed out, feeling as though an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Slowly, he took his seat again and turned his attention to the Soyuz-5 rockets waiting on Pads 7 and 9. “Status on the Elektrons?”
“Both are go for launch. Their flight computers and automated programs look solid. We are holding for ignition,” his deputy reported.
He nodded. If something had gone wrong with the Energia heavy-lift rocket, there would have been no point in sending its escorts into orbit. Now it was time to send the two armed spaceplanes and their cosmonaut pilots aloft. “Light the fires, Sergei,” he ordered. “Let’s give that reactor some company.”
A few short minutes later, both Soyuz-5 rockets blazed into the sky and headed toward space.
Battle Mountain
A Short Time Later
Orbiting high above the earth in geosynchronous orbit, America’s space-based infrared satellites detected all three launches from Vostochny. Within minutes, their reports were relayed to the White House and from there to the members of the Sky Masters–Scion assault force in Nevada and Utah.
The news triggered an immediate operational readiness conference.
Brad McLanahan looked around the table. Nadia and Peter Vasey were seated with him. His father, Martindale, and President Farrell were visible on one side of the conference room’s large LED screen, present via secure link from the Oval Office. Boomer and the five members of his S-29B Shadow crew looked out from the other side of the screen. They were being broadcast from their hangar at St. George.
“The Russians have definitely put their reactor module into space,” Brad told them. “The Space Surveillance Telescope in western Australia took this image as it passed overhead a few minutes ago.” He used his laptop computer to pull up the picture he’d downloaded. It showed an unmistakable cylindrical shape, identical to the other three that already made up Mars One.
“Three rockets lifted off from Vostochny,” Boomer pointed out. “So what sort of payloads were the other two carrying?”
Brad kept as much control over his voice and expression as he could. “These,” he said, pulling up two more images captured by the powerful U.S. Air Force–operated telescope. Both showed winged spacecraft with their cargo bays open, revealing a fixed weapons mount inside.
“Elektron spaceplanes,” Boomer muttered. “Armed with more of those fucking Hobnail lasers.”
Brad nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“What’s your evaluation?” his father asked.
“Both Russian spacecraft have entered the same orbit as the reactor module. One Elektron is on station about twenty miles ahead of the module. The second trails it by about the same distance,” Brad told him. “Based on that, it’s pretty clear that they’re acting as escorts, with orders to protect that reactor until it’s safely docked with Mars One.”
“I concur,” the older McLanahan said. He turned to Farrell. “If we needed any further confirmation that Gryzlov has launched a replacement fusion generator, there it is. There’s no reason he would commit those two armed spacecraft to protect anything that he didn’t consider absolutely vital.”
The president nodded his understanding. He looked at Brad. “How much time do we have before this module is in a position to link up with the Russian space station?”
“Based on its current trajectory, our computers estimate it will be ready to dock with Mars One in five, or possibly six more orbits,” Brad said. “That’s approximately eight hours from now.”
“And after it’s docked? How long will it take the Mars One crew to bring their new reactor online?”
Patrick shrugged. “Without a clearer understanding of the technology the Russians have developed, there’s no way to be sure, Mr. President. But we can’t count on it taking them very long.”
Privately, Brad agreed. The Russians were smart enough to design their systems so that all the necessary power connections from the reactor to the rest of their station ran through its docking port. And unlike a conventional power plant or even a fission-based reactor with its steam turbines, it was unlikely that any functioning small fusion generator had many moving parts. Spinning it up might be as simple as running a number of safety checks and then flipping a switch.
“So we must go and go soon,” Nadia said decisively.
“Nadia’s right,” Brad said. He pulled up Mars One’s projected orbital track. “A little under three orbits from now, in roughly four hours, the Russian station will cross into darkness over South America. That’s our best chance to jump them while they can’t recharge their plasma rail gun and lasers.”
“But attacking then isn’t ideal,” Farrell guessed.
“No, sir,” Brad admitted. “On that orbit, the ground track for Mars One passes within striking range of a number of high-priority European targets.”
“Including Warsaw,” the president said flatly.
“Yes, sir.”
Nadia shook her head impatiently. “Yes, the risk exists. We cannot avoid it. I will brief President Wilk, but I already know what he will say: better death than slavery. Is not that the lesson of the heroic defenders of your own Alamo?”
Beside her, Peter Vasey hid a sudden grin. Nadia had the duelist’s gift, all right. Give her any opening, however small, and she would thrust h
ome straight through it—striking straight to the heart.
“I take your point, Major,” Farrell said quietly, with a wry smile. He looked at Brad. “Then I guess it comes down to whether or not y’all can be ready to go in time.”
“We can,” Brad said firmly. “I’ve run the flight times to the necessary jump-off point over Ecuador. All of the spaceplanes we’re committing to this operation can make it with time to spare . . . but only if we take off within the next hour.”
Martindale nodded. “Sky Masters has already staged the necessary refueling aircraft to airports in Mexico and Central America.” He looked at Farrell. “As soon as you give the word, I can get those tankers airborne.”
Farrell sat in silence for a moment. Then he turned to Patrick. “Do I have an alternative?”
“Short of eventual capitulation to anything Gryzlov demands?” the older McLanahan said. He shook his head. “No, Mr. President, I’m afraid you really don’t.”
Farrell grimaced. He seemed to have aged several years in as many minutes. Finally, he looked up at Brad and the others. “All right. Y’all have my permission to go into orbit and kick some Russian ass.”
“We will not let you down,” Nadia promised.
“See that you don’t,” the president said gruffly. “And make damned sure you come back in one piece.”
No one had anything much to say to that.
Forty-Three
Aboard Mars One, over the South Pacific
Several Hours Later
Colonel Vadim Strelkov looked ahead and saw a line of darkness curving across the surface of the earth. They were approaching the terminator, the point where Mars One would cross into darkness for thirty-four minutes on this orbit. He opened an intercom channel to Pyotr Romanenko. “Solar array status?”
“We are currently generating twenty-four kilowatts. But that is dropping fast,” the engineering officer reported. “Shifting to station backup batteries now.”
“Understood,” Strelkov said. He switched channels. “Filatyev. Revin. Give me a report on your weapons.”
Filatyev spoke first from his post in the aft weapons module. “Thunderbolt’s supercapacitors are fully charged. The weapon is ready to fire.”
“Both Hobnail battery packs are at maximum capacity,” Leonid Revin said from the forward weapons module. “All indicators are green on both lasers.”
“Very well,” Strelkov said. During most periods of darkness, he relied on those on duty to handle their own preparations. After so many orbits, this process was quickly becoming routine, but it never hurt to be fully ready for action when they were forced to rely completely on stored power. That was why he ran drills like this two or three times during any given “day.” Soon, though, they would no longer be necessary. To keep from drifting off across the command compartment, he made sure his feet were hooked under the edge of his console and then carefully swiveled toward Georgy Konnikov. “Give me an update on the reactor module, Major.”
Konnikov had the answer at his fingertips. “It is currently six hundred kilometers behind us, sir, and closing on an elliptical transfer orbit.”
“Time to the final docking maneuver?”
“Currently estimated at three hours and thirty-five minutes,” the sensor officer told him.
Strelkov nodded. In just two more orbits, once their fusion generator was online and providing massive amounts of power, this station would be invulnerable—safe against any conceivable American attack.
Abruptly, their lights and displays flickered for a fraction of a second and then stabilized.
“We’ve crossed the solar terminator,” Romanenko reported. “Shift to battery power is complete.”
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
Caught off guard by the loud warning echoing through the station, Strelkov grabbed for his console. “Identify this threat!” he demanded.
“One of our EKS warning satellites has detected a launch over Ecuador—almost directly below us!” Konnikov said urgently. He hammered at his keyboard, interrogating their primary computer. “The launch detection is confirmed by our own IR sensors.”
Ecuador? Strelkov felt cold. Could the Americans have deployed some of their missile defense interceptors to South America to ambush Mars One as it crossed through the earth’s shadow? All the intelligence reports he’d studied claimed those weapons weren’t supposed to be mobile. Then again, spies were never infallible. “Is that a missile?”
“Negative, Colonel,” Konnikov said. He turned his head. “The computer evaluates this contact as an American spaceplane. Based on its thermal signature, I believe it is an S-9 Black Stallion. It is boosting to orbit on a converging course with us.”
“Time to intercept?”
Konnikov scrolled through his displays. “Fourteen minutes.”
Strelkov frowned. The S-9 was the oldest, smallest, and least capable of the Sky Masters S-series spaceplanes, not much larger than a two-seater F-16D fighter. How much of a threat could it pose to his station? He considered waiting to engage it, hoping to see what else the Americans might have planned.
“Sukin syn,” Konnikov muttered in shock. He spun around toward the colonel and was pulled up short by the tether connecting him to his sensor console. “EKS and IR data handoff to our X-band radar is complete. I have a more accurate trajectory for the enemy spacecraft!”
“And?”
“It’s not attempting to simply match our orbit, sir,” Konnikov said hurriedly. “That S-9 is on a direct collision course! It’s coming right at us!”
Strelkov felt his mouth open in surprise. The Americans were using their spaceplane as a kamikaze—sacrificing the S-9 and its pilot to destroy Mars One on impact. He stabbed down at another intercom button. “Pavel! Fire the thrusters! Take us higher!”
“Activating thrusters,” Lieutenant Colonel Pavel Anikeyev acknowledged. Strelkov’s second in command was at his station in the aft compartment he shared with Romanenko. “Stand by for a five-second burn.”
Strelkov held tight as Mars One shook briefly. The maneuvering thrusters of their docked Progress cargo ships and the Federation orbiter were pushing them higher in this orbit. A five-second burn wouldn’t add much to their altitude, no more than a few kilometers, but that should be enough.
The station steadied again, back at zero-G.
“Burn complete. But our fuel reserves are now critically low, Vadim,” Anikeyev said tightly. “We have enough hydrazine left to counter the recoil of several more Thunderbolt shots and to conduct another short maneuvering burn . . . but nothing more.”
“I understand,” Strelkov replied. Once the reactor was docked and online, they would no longer have to rely on conventional fuels. They would have abundant electrical power to run the ion thrusters ringing the exterior of each station section.
Then, to his horror, he heard Konnikov report, “The American spaceplane has adjusted its trajectory! It has matched our maneuver and is still on a collision course!”
Enough, Strelkov decided. “Major Filatyev,” he said over the command circuit. “Activate Thunderbolt and destroy that enemy spacecraft.”
“Tracking data received,” the weapons officer confirmed. “Firing now.”
Mars One shook again as the rail gun pulsed—hurling a ring of superheated, ultradense plasma outward at ten thousand kilometers per second.
“Good kill!” Konnikov crowed. His radar showed the American S-9 Black Stallion spinning away off course, trailing debris and a cloud of frozen fuel. “The enemy spacecraft will hit the atmosphere and burn up in just a few minutes.”
Strelkov nodded. “Very good, Major.” He relaxed his grip on his console. “Connect me to Moscow. We need to report in.”
National Defense Control Center, Moscow
One Minute Later
Alerted by the emergency signal from Mars One, Leonov reached his workstation in time to hear the tail end of Strelkov’s excited account. “Our sensors are monitoring the wreckage as it falls toward the atmosphe
re. So far, we’ve seen no sign of any attempt to bail out.”
“Excellent work, Colonel!” Gennadiy Gryzlov said from another screen. The president was in his Kremlin office. He smiled coldly. “Now we’ll show Farrell how stupid he has been. You will carry out an immediate Rapira retaliatory strike on the Sky Masters spaceplane base in Nevada.”
Strelkov swallowed hard. “Unfortunately, Mr. President, we will not be in range of any targets in the continental United States during this orbit.” He looked apologetic. “The Americans must have timed this new attack with that in mind.”
Gryzlov’s smile disappeared. He was plainly irked by the news that orbital mechanics would delay the execution of his desired counterstroke. But then he shrugged his shoulders irritably. “I suppose it won’t matter that much if we strike now . . . or in two hours.”
“No, sir,” Strelkov agreed quickly.
“If anything, the delay will only increase the terror the Americans suffer as they realize how foolish it was to challenge us,” Gryzlov commented, regaining his good humor.
Listening to the president’s confident assessment, Leonov kept his own counsel. Nothing in his study of previous Scion, Sky Masters, and Iron Wolf operations suggested this single spaceplane sortie would be all they had planned. It was possible, he decided, that launching that small S-9 Black Stallion against Mars One was just another feint—one intended to mask a sudden American lunge against the fusion reactor module before it could dock.
Unnoticed by the other two men, he opened a new secure communications channel, this one to the two Elektron spaceplanes escorting the reactor. ACTIVATE ALL SENSORS AND COME TO FULL ALERT, he typed. ENEMY ATTACK MAY BE IMMINENT. LEONOV OUT.
Mars One
That Same Time
“We will be ready to attack the Sky Masters air base as soon as we come within range,” Strelkov assured the president. “You can rely on . . .”
He broke off in midsentence, interrupted by another high-pitched warning tone that warbled through his headset.
