Combat

by Stephen Coonts

  Space Forces Headquarters October 5 0430

  They’d scheduled the arrival carefully. You couldn’t count on overcast, especially in the California desert, so they’d chosen a satellite-free window after dark.

  They all got up early to see it. Ray, standing by the end of the runway with a cup of coffee, saw them start to stream out of the buildings, walking slowly over to the tarmac. The handling crews were ready, and General Norman had arranged for a “nighttime base security exercise” that filled the area with patrols. The base fire department had also sent their equipment. Ray approved, but the thought made a small knot in his stomach.

  Ray waited, impatient. They’d heard nothing, so everything should be fine. But nothing would be fine, not until it was all over.

  Admiral Schultz walked up with a civilian in tow. “Ray, meet Mr. Geoffrey Lewis, our new morale officer.” Seeing McConnell’s distracted look, he reminded Ray, “Your idea? The concierge?”

  Suddenly remembering, Ray shook the man’s outstretched hand. “Welcome to the Space Force, Mr. Lewis.” Lewis was a sandy-haired man, in his mid-thirties. Large glasses on his round face made his head seem large for the rest of his spare frame. While most of the civilians wore jeans and polo shirts, Lewis was dressed in khakis and a sport coat.

  “Thank you, Mr. McConnell. The admiral’s explained what you want done. I’m to take care of the people here. Run their errands, reduce their distractions. I’ve never had to sign a security form to be a concierge before.”

  McConnell grinned. “And you’ve never had Army quartermasters as your staff. But these people have all had their lives and jobs interrupted to work here. Do as much as you can to take care of their personal needs.”

  Lewis smiled. “I’ve already got a few ideas.”

  “Here she comes,” said Schultz softly.

  Ray turned as Schultz spoke, his attention drawn by the plane’s landing lights as they came alive. The 747’s white underside reflected the lights, but everything above the wing was in shadow.

  Instinctively, Ray stepped back, awed by the size of the four-engined monster. It looked a lot bigger from the ground than it did from an airport jetway. The noise of the jet engines also grew until it was almost unbearable.

  Ray began to fear that some terrible mistake had been made, that the jet had come in alone, but as it descended, the light finally caught the broad white wedge on top of the 747’s fuselage.

  The VentureStar was just half the length of the jumbo jet, and as wide as it was long. A smooth, blended shape, two short wings jutted out from the back, angling up and back. He knew it was huge, but it looked so fragile perched on top of the big jet.

  He was suddenly afraid, and his insides tightened as he watched the plane come down and touch the runway. The engines crescendoed and the noise washed over him as the pilot cut in the thrust reversers. He could smell jet exhaust and burnt rubber as the plane’s wake shook his clothing. He didn’t relax until the plane came to a stop, then turned to taxi over to the hangar.

  VentureStar was the prototype for a fleet of commercial single-stage-to-orbit space vehicles. In development since the early 1990s, an experimental small-scale version, the X-33, had successfully completed testing just after the turn of the century.

  Like the space shuttle, VentureStar carried its payload in a big cargo bay, fifteen feet wide by fifty feet long. It used the same fuel, as well, liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen. But the shuttle took months to prepare for a launch, and used expendable boosters that had to be reconditioned after each launch. VentureStar launched using her own aerospike engines, and landed conventionally like the shuttle. She could take fifty tons to low-earth orbit after two weeks’ preparation.

  The engineers were already preparing to lift VentureStar off the carrier aircraft. They had barely enough time before the satellite window closed. Teams also stood by to unload the 747, which carried instruments and spare parts. Some of them had strange looks on their faces, and Ray made a note on his pad to check with the security director. There was …

  “Thanks for the flowers, Ray.” A voice startled him, breaking his concentration. He turned to see Jenny smiling at him. She explained, “I came out to watch the landing and saw you over here.”

  “You’re welcome,” he replied automatically. Gathering his wits, he asked, “Are you okay with your job?”

  “Setting up communications for an entire space program?” She laughed. “I could have waited ten years for that big a job, if I ever got it at all.” She knew what he wanted to ask, and told him before he could. “I can do it. I’ve had to expand my consciousness a little, but I’ll get it done.”

  She looked up at the huge spacecraft, perched on the even larger carrier plane. “This makes it real, doesn’t it?” Her tone was half pride, half pleasure.

  Ray caught himself about to say something stupid, about to brag about it all being his idea. But it only took one man to have an idea. It had taken a lot more to get it going, and would take that many more to bring it to life.

  “It’s starting to be real, Jenny.” He wanted to stay, and talk, and he could see she would if he wanted to, but that wasn’t why they were there.

  Wishing each other good luck, they went to work.

  Space Force Headquarters October 1

  His phone rang while Ray was inspecting the hangar. He’d been waiting all day. It was Schultz’s voice, sounding resigned. “They’ve done it again. Check your pad.”

  McConnell activated his data pad. “ … have confirmed the latest Chinese claim, made less than fifteen minutes ago. Another ‘American targeting satellite’ has been destroyed, and the Chinese renewed their promise to do the same to every American satellite unless they ‘acknowledge Asian territorial rights.’”

  The correspondent’s face was replaced by a press conference, while his voice added, “In response to growing pressure to act, U.S. defense officials today announced a new program.”

  Ray’s heart sank to the floor. Has some fool decided to take them public? Automatically, he started walking, while still watching the pad.

  The official at the podium spoke. “To deal with this new threat to American commerce and security, an Aerospace Defense Organization has been established under the direct command of General David Warner, Chief of Staff of the Air Force. The other services will also take part. Its mission will be to defend American space assets against any aggression. Here is General Warner, who will take a few questions.”

  By now Ray was walking quickly, still watching the pad. He made it to Schultz’s office just as the general was assuring the press that he had no intention of taking over NASA.

  Ray’s data pad was echoed by Schultz’s wall screen. The admiral saw Ray and waved him in, with one eye on the screen. The rest of the admiral’s attention was on the phone. “I appreciate the need for security, Mr. Secretary, but the effects on staff morale should have been considered. A little warning would have let us brief them. And I must have your assurance this will not affect our resources. Thank you. I’ll call tonight, as always, sir. Good day.”

  Schultz hung up, almost breaking the little handset as he slammed it into its cradle. “Peck assures me this new organization is a blind, designed to distract attention away from us.”

  “And get rid of some of the heat DoD’s been taking,” Ray added.

  “For about one week, I’ll bet,” Schultz agreed. “As soon as the Chinese shoot down another satellite, they’ll be all over the general, asking him why he hasn’t done something.”

  “And what about resources?” Ray asked, concerned.

  “Well, he’s going to need people, and money, and I have a hunch

  Warner’s going to take his charge seriously. I’d have to agree with him, too. I’m a belt-and-suspenders kind of a guy. So he might get people or gear we need.”

  Ray suggested, “Well, can we draw on his program? Use it as a resource?”

  Schultz sharply disagreed. “No way. We don’t want any links with
them. Any contacts might get traced back. And if we start poaching, we’ll make enemies. We have the highest possible priority, but we can’t throw our weight around. There are people in every branch of the government who would love to see us fail, if they knew we existed.”

  Ray sighed. “I’ll put a notice on the local net, and I’ll speak personally to every department head, especially Security.”

  Schultz’s attention was drawn to the wall display. A new piece, labeled REACTION, was on. A congressman was speaking on the Capitol steps to a cluster of reporters. Schultz turned up the volume. “ … done the math, this new Aerospace Defense Organization will have to act quickly or we’ll have nothing left to defend.”

  Space Force Headquarters October 13

  Barnes knocked on McConnell’s open door, then stepped in almost without pausing. Everything was done quickly, Barnes thought, with the formalities honored, but only barely.

  McConnell, in the middle of a phone call, waved him into a folding chair, the only other seat in the office, then said into the phone, “I’ll call you back.” He hung up and turned to face Barnes.

  Expecting to be questioned about the technology survey, Barnes started to offer his data pad to McConnell, but Ray waved it back.

  “You’re close to done, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” agreed Biff. “We’ve already started to receive some material. But there’s a lot of follow-up to be done.”

  “That’s old business, Biff. I need you to turn it over to someone else as soon as you can.” McConnell paused, but kept looking at him. “We need you to be mission commander for the flight.”

  Biff didn’t say anything. He absorbed the information slowly. Although he’d wondered in his few spare moments who would get to fly the mission, he’d assumed NASA would supply rated astronauts.

  Did he want the job? Well, hell yes. Biff suddenly realized how much he wanted to fly in space again, and on what would be a combat mission. He knew he could do it. He was a fighter pilot, after all.

  McConnell pressed a key on his data pad. “Here’s a list of the prospective flight-crew candidates.” Biff heard his pad chirp and saw the file appear. He opened it and scanned the list as Ray explained.

  “Most are already here, a few are not, but all met the criteria Admiral Schultz and I came up with. You’ll need six: A mission commander, a pilot, a copilot and navigator, a weapons officer, a sensor officer, and an engineer. We listed all our requirements. If you disagree with any …”

  “Your name isn’t here,” Biff interrupted.

  “What? Of course not. It’s not the whole team, just the …”

  “No,” Barnes insisted. “You’re flight crew. You should be the engineer. You’re putting her together. You know her best.”

  McConnell was as surprised as Barnes had been. “What?”

  “Articulate answer, Ray.” Barnes grinned. “Look at it this way. It’s the ultimate vote of confidence. You build it, you fly it.”

  McConnell couldn’t say no. “This only fulfills one of my lifelong ambitions,” he answered, a little lightheaded.

  “One of mine, too. I get to boss you around.”

  Five

  Exposure

  INN News October 26

  Mark Markin’s backdrop for his scoop was an artist’s animation of the Chinese ASAT weapon, the Dragon Gun as it had been dubbed in the Western press. The artist had added a hundred-foot-long tongue of flame emerging from the barrel as a projectile left the muzzle. Markin didn’t know if it was accurate, but it looked dramatic.

  “With the crisis now into its second month, and seven GPS satellites destroyed, continued inaction by the United States has been taken as proof of their helplessness. Their refusal to act to protect these vital assets has been puzzling.

  “But the situation may not be as it seems. Presuming that the administration would not stand idle, I was able to find hints that they may be acting after all. Residents surrounding the Miramar air base east of San Diego have reported heavy traffic at the front gate and cargo aircraft arriving at all hours.”

  The image shifted to a picture of Miramar’s front gate. “On a visit to the base yesterday, we noticed increased security, and we were not allowed to take photographs on the base. There are also portions of the base we were not allowed to visit at all. All these provisions were blamed on an increased terrorist threat, but the Marine spokesman could not tell me the source of that threat.

  “There have also been stories of hurried requests at defense contractors for personnel and equipment, but these could not be verified.

  “All this could be attributed to activities of the Air Force’s new Aerospace Defense Organization, but why at a U.S. Marine base? And why did this activity start weeks before the ADO was announced?”

  Gongga Shan Mountain October 28

  The smoke was still swirling out of the muzzle when they left the command bunker. The group was small, just the general, Secretary Pan, and their aides.

  Pan Yunfeng was First Party Secretary, and General Shen continually reminded himself of that as he answered the same questions he’d answered dozens of times now.

  It was impossible to speed up the firing rate. The ablative lining inside the barrel had to be replaced after each launch. In tests, two-thirds of the projectiles had been damaged when the lining was reused, and there had been one near burn-though. Better lining would be more durable, but required exotic materials that were unavailable in sufficient quantity.

  No, more men would not get the tubes relined more quickly. Although a kilometer long, it was just three meters in diameter, so only a limited number of men could work inside. All the old lining had to be removed, then each section of new lining had to be anchored and tested before the next section could be added.

  Unlike many of China’s leaders, Pan was relatively young, in his late fifties. His hair was black, and there was an energy about him that was missing from some of the other men Shen had dealt with. His impatience personified the feeling of the entire Chinese leadership. Why was it taking so long?

  Now Pan stood on the side of the mountain, nudging one of the used liners with the toe. The ten-meter section was one quarter of a circle, and several inches thick. The outside was smooth, marked with attachment points and dimples, which Shen explained allowed for some flexing as the projectile passed.

  The inside curve of the liner told the real story. The concave metal surface showed hints of the former mirror polish, but the heat and gun gases had pitted the lining, some of the pits deep enough to fit a fingertip. The different layers that made up the lining were visible, a mix of metal and ceramic and advanced fibers.

  “Dr. Bull came up with this solution,” Shen had explained. “The best steel in the world can’t withstand the forces inside that barrel when it fires. Instead we just replace the liner after each launch.”

  “Which takes a week,” the Secretary remarked with a sour face.

  “It’s not wasted, First Secretary. We use the time to upgrade the control system, test the breech, even improve the antiaircraft defenses.” He pointed to a nearby hilltop, a new excavation on the side holding a massive billboard radar antenna.

  “That radar is part of a new bistatic system designed to detect stealthy aircraft. We’ve also increased the depth of the antiaircraft belt and added more standing fighter patrols.”

  Later, in the general’s office, Pan had questioned Shen even more, looking for ways of shaving a few days, even a few hours, off the interval between launches.

  “We’re concerned about the time it’s taking, General. In any campaign of several months, we have to assume the enemy will take some action to counter our plans.”

  Shen listened respectfully. “I’ve seen the intelligence reports. I’m expecting, of course, that the Americans will do something eventually, but by then we will have won the first battle. And in a few months, we will have our advanced version of the T’ien Lung ready. And when you approve the construction of the second launcher, we w
ill be even less vulnerable.”

  “But what measures have you taken in the meantime?”

  “You know about the Long March booster modifications. You know our intelligence services are blanketing America and her allies.”

  Shen tried to reassure the official. “All we have to do is deny them the use of space. It’s easier to shoot spacecraft down than it is to put them up. Have the Americans tried to replace any of the lost satellites? Have they launched any satellites at all since we started our campaign?”

  The Secretary didn’t answer, but Shen knew they both saw the same data.

  Shen wanted to make his point, but was careful to keep his tone neutral. It didn’t pay to argue Party officials into a corner. “The Americans have no choice. They’ll either lose their valuable satellites, or publicly acknowledge our rights in the Pacific region. I think they’ll wait until the last minute, refusing to accept the inevitable for as long as possible. When they do see they’re backed into a corner, they’ll give in. Either way, America is weaker, and we are the new champion of the countries opposing imperialism.”

  Space Force Headquarters, Miramar November 5

  They all looked at the wall display in Schultz’s office. It showed a spiderweb of lines linking boxes. One box at the left was labeled “Begin Construction,” and a dozen lines angled out of it. All the lines eventually led to a single box at the end that said “Launch.” A dotted line with that day’s date ran vertically across the diagram. Colors indicated the status of a task, ranging from deep red to grass green. Over half the chart was red, and a lot of the red was on the wrong side of the line.

  Ray McConnell had called the meeting, officially to “brief” Schultz, unofficially to ask him to make a decision Ray couldn’t.

  “We’ve made tremendous progress.” Ray hated the words as soon as he’d said them. Trite, Ray. Be specific. Using his data pad, he started to highlight boxes on the chart.

  “The kinetic weapon rack will be installed this week, and the mounts for the laser are being installed right now. Sensor integration is timeconsuming, but we’ve got good people on it.”