The Kremlin Strike

by Dale Brown

  “New launch detection!” Konnikov shouted. “Over Venezuela, this time!” Working with desperate speed, he sorted through the information pouring in from different sensors. “It appears to be another American spaceplane, much larger than the S-9 Black Stallion.”

  “Another S-19 Midnight?” Strelkov asked.

  Konnikov matched the heat signature of this new contact against the sensor data he’d collected during their first space battle ten days before. Only ten days . . . and yet it felt like years had passed, he thought in amazement. He stared at the results for a moment and then turned toward Strelkov. “No, sir, the engine plume from this spacecraft is more intense. It’s almost certainly an S-29 Shadow.”

  “On what trajectory?” the colonel snapped.

  Again, Konnikov saw a red line intersect their own green orbital track on a map display. “Straight at us.”

  Strelkov nodded grimly. “Of course.”

  He could feel himself starting to sweat. Mars One would not emerge into full sunlight for another thirty minutes, and their plasma rail gun had only enough power left in its supercapacitors for one more shot. Had the Americans somehow deduced that he couldn’t recharge his energy weapons without electricity from the solar panels? Were they trying to wear down his defenses with repeated attacks? If so, it might be wiser to keep the rail gun’s last shot in reserve and risk a closer engagement against this second spaceplane using the station’s Hobnail lasers and Scimitar missiles.

  Gryzlov broke in over the still-open satellite communications link to Moscow. “What are you waiting for? Why haven’t you already fired on this new target?”

  When Strelkov hesitantly tried to explain his concerns, the president snapped, “Don’t be a fool! The Americans have almost certainly armed at least one of their spaceplanes already. If you don’t fire Thunderbolt now, you may never get a second chance.”

  Helplessly, the colonel looked toward Leonov. “Sir?”

  “The president is right,” the other man admitted. “We’ve analyzed radar data collected during the final stages of the successful American effort to rescue their downed astronaut. They seem to show the intervention of a large supersonic craft in the battle area shortly before the confirmed disappearance of one of our Su-35 fighters. If so, that S-29 Shadow headed your way may well be armed with weapons of its own.”

  “Very well,” Strelkov said slowly. Unable to shake the premonition that he was making a tactical error, he looked across the command compartment at Konnikov. “Transfer your tracking data to Thunderbolt’s fire-control computer, Major.”

  “Transfer complete,” the younger man reported seconds later.

  “My computer has a solution, Colonel,” Filatyev announced over the intercom circuit. “Standing by to fire on your order.”

  “Weapons release granted,” Strelkov said reluctantly.

  “Firing.”

  The plasma rail gun pulsed a second time.

  “Good hit!” Konnikov exulted. He slaved the station’s powerful telescopes to its X-band radar and sent the light-intensified images they captured to Strelkov’s console. They showed the dead Sky Masters S-29 Shadow curving away with a ragged hole torn in its aft fuselage. It was surrounded by a dense fog of frozen fuel, oxidizer, and debris.

  Strelkov studied the pictures intently. He frowned, puzzled by what he observed. “There is a lot more fuel in that debris cloud than I would have expected,” he noted.

  On-screen, Gryzlov nodded sagely. “The spaceplane must have been carrying long-range missiles in its payload bay, Colonel. That would explain the extra fuel.” He smiled. “So you see, you were wise not to let that S-29 get any closer to Mars One before killing it.”

  Forty-Four

  Shadow Two-Two, over the North Atlantic, off the Coast of Guyana

  That Same Time

  Almost invisible from below against the night sky and from above against the darkened surface of the ocean fifty thousand feet below, a second S-29 Shadow streaked northeast at high speed. As the spaceplane’s airspeed reached Mach 3, its five hybrid LPDRS engines finished their transition to scramjet mode. Immediately the S-29’s nose pitched up and it climbed toward the upper edges of the atmosphere, accelerating at an ever-increasing rate.

  The forward section of the spaceplane’s cargo bay contained two dozen Sky Masters–built nanosatellites. Each tiny satellite sat nestled in metal bracing. Power and data cables connected them to the S-29’s computers. None of the twenty-four nanosats were identical. Each carried a unique blend of antennas, other emitters, maneuvering thrusters, and power supplies.

  In the aft cargo bay, seven large spheroid COMS—Cybernetic Orbital Maneuvering Systems—were packed in tight, held in place by a lattice of webbing. Three of the egg-shaped robots were occupied by human pilots. The other four were configured for a mix of autonomous and remote control. All seven one-man construction spacecraft had been hurriedly modified for combat use. Three of the unpiloted COMS were equipped with electromagnetic rail guns. The numerous mechanical limbs of the other four held a variety of tools repurposed for use as weapons—including drills, laser welders, explosive breaching devices, and powered cutting saws.

  Secure inside the cockpit of his COMS, Brad McLanahan opened a channel to the other two pilots. “This is Wolf One, communications check,” he said.

  “Wolf Two copies,” Nadia Rozek said calmly.

  “Wolf Three has you loud and clear,” Peter Vasey replied.

  “Passing three hundred and sixty thousand feet, engines spiking,” a calm female voice reported. “Spiking complete. Scramjets indicate full shutdown. Shadow Two-Two is go for rocket transition.”

  Brad sighed. So far at least, Shadow Two-Two’s computer had performed perfectly, taking off from Battle Mountain and handling the required air-to-air refueling rendezvous without a hitch. But understanding that the S-29 they were riding in was capable of fully autonomous, computer-controlled flight was one thing. Being comfortable with that as a passenger was quite another. Still, he had to admit feeling relieved that those first two Russian plasma rail-gun shots hadn’t killed anyone . . . since both the S-9 Black Stallion and the S-29 refueling tanker they’d sent into orbit first had been flown by computers, not human pilots.

  “Good ignition on all five engines. Throttling up to full power,” the computer announced.

  Instantly, high G-forces slammed Brad deeper into the haptic interface gel around him. He gritted his teeth against a sudden wave of pain from his damaged shoulder and knee. Hold it together, McLanahan, he thought. He’d assured everyone that he could handle this mission. Well, he’d be damned if he made a liar out of himself by losing consciousness on the trip into space.

  “Now we find out . . . if your father . . . was right . . . or if he was wrong,” Nadia said. Beneath the clear physical effort required to speak under acceleration, she sounded completely calm.

  “How’s that?” Brad forced out past the pressure on his chest.

  “Can the Russians fire that plasma weapon of theirs twice . . . or three times?” she replied.

  Despite the G-forces acting on him, Brad felt a wry smile cross his contorted face. “We’ll see, I guess. But I feel . . . lucky,” he grunted. “Even if I am a . . . punk.”

  Mars One

  That Same Time

  “Sir!” Konnikov rapped out. “The enemy has launched a third spaceplane into orbit! It appears to be another S-29 Shadow and the time to intercept is twenty minutes.”

  Strelkov froze. The Americans know about our missing reactor, he thought bitterly. Somehow, the Mars Project’s unprecedented security measures had been breached. The method of this attack was proof of that. They’d forced him to use up his long-range firepower first. Now, instead of killing his enemies while they were still hundreds or even thousands of kilometers away and unable to strike back, this battle would be fought out within tens of kilometers of the space station.

  “Colonel?” Konnikov asked uncertainly. “What are your orders?”
>
  Strelkov shook himself back to the present. He punched the intercom button, opening a general channel to everywhere on Mars One. “Attention, all crew, this is Command. Get into your pressure suits immediately! You have eight minutes before we vent atmosphere.”

  Wearing bulky space suits would make it more difficult for his cosmonauts to work their displays and controls, but if the Americans scored hits, depressurizing the station would at least avoid the twin dangers of explosive decompression and fire. “Major Romanenko! Don your special-action armor and await further orders.”

  “Understood, sir,” Romanenko replied. “I’m heading for the KVM bay now.” As the station’s engineering officer, he could do nothing more until they crossed back into sunlight and had electrical power to spare to recharge Thunderbolt’s supercapacitors. So now it was time for him to prepare to defend Mars One in close combat.

  Moscow

  That Same Time

  Leonov’s eyes narrowed as he watched the unfolding tactical situation. The defensive measures Strelkov and his cosmonauts had initiated were sound—but they might not be sufficient. Too much depended on what the Americans intended, and that was still unclear. Mars One’s twin lasers and Scimitar missiles were formidable against targets within one hundred kilometers . . . but what if that Sky Masters spaceplane rocketing into orbit carried longer-range weapons? If so, it would be able to stand off at a distance and pound the space station into scrap.

  He opened a new window on his display, one that showed a wider view of Earth orbit around Mars One. Their recently launched reactor module was still nearly six hundred kilometers behind and sixty kilometers below the station. Green triangles showed the positions of its two armed escorts—one thirty kilometers ahead and the other the same distance behind. Their assigned mission was to protect the replacement fusion generator from American attack. Then again, he thought, of what use was that power plant if Mars One itself was destroyed?

  Leonov made up his mind. He opened an encrypted voice link to the leading Russian spaceplane. A simple text message would not suffice, not for what he was about to order. “Elektron One, this is Warlord One.”

  “Go ahead, Warlord One,” the pilot, Lieutenant Colonel Ilya Alferov, said.

  “You will execute an immediate emergency burn,” Leonov told him calmly. “I want you to close the gap with Mars One and be in position to engage that enemy S-29 before it is too late.”

  “Wait one, Warlord,” Alferov radioed. There was a short pause while the cosmonaut, another of his carefully trained cadre for the Mars Project, ran the necessary calculations through his computer. When he spoke again, his voice held a strong undercurrent of concern. “Warlord One, the only feasible burn will consume all of my available fuel. I will be unable to dock with the station . . . or deorbit and return to Earth.”

  “I understand that, Elektron One,” Leonov said patiently.

  This time there was an even longer pause. “Sir, what you’re asking is . . .”

  Leonov’s patience cracked. “Follow your orders, Alferov!” he growled. “If necessary, we will retrieve you from orbit.”

  And if that proves impossible, at least you will die a beloved hero of the Motherland, he thought with weary cynicism. That might be small consolation to the cosmonaut’s young family, but war created many widows and fatherless children.

  “Affirmative, Warlord One,” he heard the other man say at last. “I am maneuvering now. Elektron One out.”

  On his display, Leonov saw the icon tagged ELEKTRON ONE break away from its position ahead of the reactor module. The armed spaceplane was accelerating hard to enter a new transfer orbit, one that would bring it within one hundred kilometers of Mars One around the same time as the American S-29 Shadow.

  He sat back, still pondering the situation he saw developing high over the earth. All of his available forces were moving into play, far out of his direct control for the moment. Not quite all, he realized suddenly. There was still one more precaution he could take.

  Carefully, Leonov entered a new series of commands into his computer and hit the button—transmitting them through a network of Russian satellites to a secondary communications antenna on Mars One. Ostensibly, he had just queried the status of a water storage tank in the central command module. In reality, this seemingly innocuous request triggered one of the hidden fail-safe protocols Arkady Koshkin’s programmers had inserted into the station’s operating software.

  Seconds later, a response scrolled across his screen: RAPIRA SEVEN ON STANDBY. READY FOR TARGET SELECTION.

  Leonov took his hands off the keyboard and sat back. Now, like everyone else on the ground, he would watch . . . and wait.

  High over the North Atlantic

  A Short Time Later

  “Engine cutoff in five seconds . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one. Shutdown,” the S-29’s flight computer announced.

  All five rocket motors cut out.

  Cocooned inside his COMS cockpit, Brad felt the G-forces that had pressed him deeper into the robot’s haptic interface gel suddenly vanish. They were replaced by the floating sensation that marked the onset of weightlessness. Gingerly, he rolled his aching shoulder, being careful not to dislocate it a second time.

  “Good burn,” the computer’s calm female voice said. “No residuals.”

  He checked the data for himself and confirmed that the S-29’s autonomous programs were correct. The spaceplane had entered an elliptical orbit that would intercept Mars One eight minutes before the Russian space station crossed back into daylight. Now they were coasting upward at more than seventeen thousand miles per hour.

  Aboard Mars One, Konnikov saw the heat signature of the American spaceplane’s engines fade abruptly. Awkward in his thick Sokol pressure suit, he tugged on the tether connecting him to his sensor console, spinning slowly to face Strelkov. “The S-29 has completed its burn!”

  From his own console, the colonel looked up. His expression was impossible to read through the visor of his helmet. “Are you sure of that, Georgy?”

  Konnikov nodded. “Yes, sir. The enemy spacecraft is still on a trajectory to intercept us with a low relative velocity. My computer estimates it will be within the effective range of our Hobnail lasers in approximately ten minutes.”

  “Right,” Strelkov said decisively. “Let’s see if we can dodge this bastard now that he’s committed.” He opened an intercom channel to Anikeyev. “Take us into a higher orbit, Pavel,” he ordered. “Burn every drop of fuel that we have!”

  “The target is maneuvering,” the S-29’s computer said calmly. “Calculating the parameters for a new burn. Engine relight . . . now.”

  Brad felt himself shoved backward again as the spaceplane’s five powerful rocket motors fired for a second time. The flight computer was using its last remaining stores of JP-8 and BOHM oxidizer to match Mars One’s new orbit. From this moment on, the Shadow and its passengers were fully committed. There was no longer any way to abort this mission and reenter the earth’s atmosphere before the Russian space station flew back into full sunlight and recharged its plasma rail gun.

  Forty-Five

  In Orbit

  A Short Time Later

  Maneuvering thrusters fired in sequence, pitching the S-29 Shadow spaceplane “downward” so that it was now flying toward Mars One with its nose pointed to the earth below and its upper fuselage aimed straight at the Russian space station.

  “Range to target now ninety miles. Closing velocity is eleven hundred feet per second,” the S-29 reported. “Opening cargo bay doors. Doors are unlatched.”

  Through his COMS sensors, Brad saw a thin, almost impossibly black line appear down the length of the cargo bay’s ceiling. Slowly, the twin clamshell doors opened wider, revealing the star-filled infinity of space. And suddenly the realization of what they were about to attempt hit him with full force. We must be absolutely batshit crazy, he thought in amazement. “Wolf One to Wolf Two and Three,” he said. “I suppose it’s too l
ate to come up with another plan?”

  “I wondered that myself,” Vasey replied dryly.

  Nadia laughed quietly. “Come now, boys. This should be fun.”

  Almost against his will, Brad smiled. “Remind me to go over the precise American English definition of ‘fun’ with you when we’re back home.”

  “It is a date,” she said.

  The voice of the S-29’s computer intruded. “Propulsion systems and electronics are go for all nanosatellites. Guidance systems initialized and final navigation data downloaded.” Moments later, it said, “Range to target now eighty-two miles. Launching nanosatellites.”

  Brad held his breath as spring mechanisms ejected the cloud of twenty-four tiny Sky Masters–built machines out into space—releasing them from separate points around the forward section of the bay at quarter-second intervals to avoid any collisions. Once the nanosats were clear of the doors, short bursts from their small chemical engines sent them flying on ahead of the spaceplane in a carefully calculated constellation.

  “Good launches on all nanosatellites,” the S-29 reported, sounding almost smug . . . for a collection of electronic circuits and computer chips.

  Brad exhaled. That was one hurdle down. Now they would see how the ingenuity and hard work of Jason Richter’s engineers and technicians stacked up against Mars One’s array of high-powered radars, IR sensors, and telescopes.

  “Activating ECM constellation,” the spaceplane’s computer said.

  Konnikov bent over his console, paging through displays from his different sensors at a rapid, controlled pace. “Our X-band radar has a solid lock on the enemy S-29 Shadow. Range is one hundred thirty kilometers and closing. I’m transferring the tracking data to the laser fire-control computers.”