Sergei tried his luck at gaining access to the warheads’ directory. He got the message:
SYSTEM LOCKED BY OTHER USERS PLEASE TRY AGAIN IN 167:58:42
Frowning at his own stupidity, but grateful that at least he could defend himself and prevent anyone from getting near the station, Sergei deactivated the system and floated back to the Habitation Module, where he prepared a coded message that he sent to a mobile tracking station in Chechnya ten minutes later, when the International Space Station flew over the Caucasus Mountains.
The reply from his controller was very clear: hold your ground. Regain control of the warheads and advise when Sergei was in a position to launch. He would be provided with a priority list of targets at a later time. Right then control of the ISS played a significant role in the ongoing discussions with Russia, providing Chechnya with bargaining leverage against the Russian armored divisions gathered at its border. He was also told that the hearts of the Chechen people were with him at this time.
Afterward, Sergei dragged the bodies of the four astronauts across Unity and into the hyperbaric airlock, which provided an effective and safe mean for the transfer of crew and equipment between pressurized and unpressurized zones.
He gave the interior of the compartment a visual check to verify that all airlock equipment—including the two AMEX AX-5 EVA hard suits and all power tools—were safely secured, before floating back up into Unity. Closing the hatch, he used the small control panel next to the hatch to depressurize the airlock from the normal atmosphere inside the station of 14.7 pounds per square inch (PSI) to 0.5 PSI. As Sergei remotely opened the airlock’s exterior hatch, the pressure differential between the vacuum of space and the low pressure of the airlock sucked the four astronauts out of the airlock and into free space.
Sergei closed the exterior hatch, repressurized the airlock, and headed back to the Habitation Module. Although he felt partially victorious for coming so close to accomplishing his lifelong goal of seeking revenge against the enemies of Chechnya, the cosmonaut couldn’t help a wave of guilt. After all, this had been the very first time that he had taken another human life. As much as his mind tried to justify his actions, the plain fact remained unchanged. He had killed four innocent astronauts—people that he knew well after training together for over two years.
Sergei stared at his brown eyes in the small mirror by the module’s personal hygiene station. There is no turning back now.
Closing his eyes, Sergei saw Nikolai Naskalhov’s round face. He remembered Nikolai as he told Sergei of the pain inflicted on the Chechen people by the Russians. The rapes, the killings, the abuses, the humiliation, the agony his people had endured for so long while the Americans stood by, while the rest of the world stood by. But Sergei also remembered the feeling of retribution that radiated from Nikolai’s burning stare. The presidential aide had suffered as much as many Chechens but was willing to sacrifice everything to strike back, to stand up for his people.
Filling his lungs with the purified air of the Habitation Module, Sergei Viktor Dudayev watched his reflection in silence.
Two
Wearing one-piece blue coveralls, Mission Commander Diane Williams sat in the rear of one of three firing rooms on the third floor of the Kennedy Space Center’s Launch Control Center (LCC), a four-story building located south of the Vehicle Assembly Building, where shuttles were mated to External Tanks and to Solid Rocket Boosters prior to their rollout to Launch Complex 39.
Running a hand though her short, brown hair, the forty-five-year-old astronaut of three previous shuttle flights watched the start of her flight’s countdown, initiated with a Call to Stations at T minus twenty-four hours. The retired Marine aviator crossed her arms, which looked as thin as they had been when she was in the military, but without the firmness of daily exercise.
She watched LCC technicians run orbiter checkouts from their workstations by using complex algorithms that monitored and recorded the prelaunch performance of all electrical and mechanical systems and subsystems aboard Endeavour. The workstations, linked to the large-scale Honeywell computers one floor below, sent an array of commands to thousands of sensors inside the orbiter. The sensors measured specific parameters and relayed the information back to the workstations for comparison against safety limits stored in the Honeywell’s memory banks. The cycle of information and checks would continue nonstop until seconds after liftoff, when control of the mission would be handed off to Mission Control in Houston, Texas.
“What do you think of our new passengers, Diane?” asked Gary McGregor, the thirty-seven-year-old astronaut of one previous shuttle flight scheduled to be Diane’s Mission Pilot. McGregor, a former Air Force captain and F-16 pilot, was a short man, almost four inches shorter than Diane’s five-ten, with black hair, a carefully clipped mustache, and brown eyes that widened as he grimaced, something McGregor had been doing a lot since the change in mission plans two days before.
Diane glanced at the four “Space Marines,” the term adopted by astronauts when referring to the selected team of UN Security Council forces trained to operate in zero gravity.
“Look like your average tough hombres,” Diane replied with a shrug, her slim brows rising a trifle. “I hope they can handle it up there.”
McGregor nodded.
The four soldiers, wearing all-black uniforms, stood roughly thirty feet to Diane’s left. Their eyes were trained on a sixty-inch projection screen on the left wall of the firing room, displaying a Titan-IV rocket slowly lifting off Pad 40. The Titan carried a large segmented mirror left over from the Strategic Defense Initiative days. Diane’s first priority after reaching orbit would be to chase and rendezvous with the Titan’s payload and connect the large mirror to the end of two Remote Manipulator System arms—the fifty-foot-long shuttle robotic arm used to deploy satellites—to protect Endeavour from a potential laser discharge by the Russian terrorist aboard the ISS.
Timing was of the essence to complete the mission successfully, before the Russian regained control of the warheads. Diane had to deploy the mirror before the terrorist realized that Endeavour had been launched, and he used the laser to destroy the shuttle just as he had the Russian Cosmos satellite. There was a risk of detection, but NASA had minimized it by programming the mission software aboard Endeavour to achieve an orbit 180 degrees out of phase with the space station, meaning that the orbiter and the station would be on the same circular orbit, but at opposite ends, with the Earth in between, until Endeavour was properly shielded. In addition, to prevent the terrorist from destroying any other satellites, NASA, in conjunction with the Department of Defense, had disabled the mirrors in geosynchronous orbit, and also the Brilliant Eyes search-and-tracking satellites used by the laser’s tracking system to zero in on a target. The laser’s range of operations had been reduced to detecting and engaging objects within the station’s visual horizon.
The UNSC had also considered firing AntiSatellite (ANSAT) missiles at the ISS to distract the terrorist while Endeavour dropped off the Space Marines. That approach, however, carried the risk of a missile slipping through and destroying the station. The ANSAT option then became a last resort if the shuttle mission failed to prevent the terrorist from gaining access to the warheads.
But by the time we get that close, the mirror will protect the shuttle, she thought, as the Titan broke through the sound barrier and continued its ascent undisturbed.
Diane glanced back at McGregor, who for the past day had began to show signs of stress. “You okay?” she asked.
The native of Tulsa, Oklahoma, brushed a finger over his mustache as his eyes stared in the distance. “I’ll be fine.”
Diane tilted her head toward the UNSC soldiers. “We just have to get those guys close enough to the station. The rest is up to them. Pretty straightforward.”
McGregor didn’t respond right away. The current mission plan, after attaching the mirror to the robot arms, called for Diane and McGregor to pilot the shuttle to a concentric orbit
six miles above the ISS during the night portion of the orbit, when the station’s large solar panels were idle and the laser system drew its power from its backup batteries. The terrorist would probably detect the incoming shuttle and most likely blast away with the laser against the shielded orbiter until it ran out of power. Afterward the UNSC soldiers would use a prototype Lockheed boarding vehicle, currently being loaded into Endeavour’s payload bay, to reach the hyperbaric airlock of the ISS, neutralize the terrorist, and regain control of the station. It was a simple plan, but the Marine in Diane knew that military missions didn’t always go as planned. And McGregor knew it too.
Fortunately for everyone, the Lockheed boarding vehicle, a topsecret Air Force project that was being readied for space at the processing facilities of Cape Canaveral Air Force Station (CCAFS), was scheduled for launch in six weeks aboard Atlantis. Now CCAFS personnel were working in conjunction with the Launch Complex 39A team to swap payloads. Endeavour’s original payload, two commercial satellites and one Department of Defense (DOD) satellite, had already been loaded back into its payload canister and returned to the Vertical Processing Facility. CCAFS personnel now transferred their secret cargo from the payload canister to Endeavour’s payload bay. The operation was scheduled for completion in another two hours.
McGregor shook his head. “I’m Air Force, Diane. I know how these last-minute missions usually go …” He lowered his voice a few decibels. “I mean, we had no dry runs here. No simulation time on this type of approach. We’re banking everything on being able to connect that damned mirror to the RMS arms, and also on being able to control the arms and the shuttle attitude verniers to keep that mirror shielding us. What if something goes wrong? Do you know what that laser can do to the orbiter? And how about that classified Lockheed vehicle we’re carrying? Do you know how to use it? And what’s that special cargo labeled UNSC CLASSIFIED in the lockers of the crew compartment? Do you know?”
Diane shook her head slightly while giving McGregor a slanted glance, pushing out her lower lip in a resigning pout.
“Neither do I.”
“That’s not our concern, Gary. We’ve been given a mission. Those guys have theirs. Period. You served in the military, didn’t you? What we’re doing’s called following orders.”
McGregor frowned. “How do you manage to keep it all straight in your head?”
Diane shrugged and looked away. Her mind had already formulated the answer: California. Many years ago. During a training exercise outside the Marines’ El Toro Air Station, her F/A-18D Hornet had flamed out, sending her jet into an uncontrollable spin. She had managed to eject in time but injured her back when a gust of wind swung her parachute into the side of a hill.
Diane closed her eyes. She remembered the base’s doctor, a petite woman with a heart-shaped face, a pointy nose, and enormous round black eyes wearing a white lab coat and a stethoscope hanging from her neck. She introduced herself as Dr. Lisa Hottle, a physician assigned by the base’s commander to look after her. Dr. Hottle explained to Diane the crippling consequences of her spinal-cord injury and the possibility of walking again but only after undergoing extended physical therapy. The Marine aviator immediately withdrew into the tears. Life had dealt her a cruel hand. For the weeks that followed Diane fell into a state of depression. The Marine Corps sent a battalion of psychiatrists to help her cope with the drastic changes in her life, but nothing helped.
Late one evening, Dr. Hottle came into Diane’s room to check on her condition. Diane, barely acknowledging the doctor, gazed at the stars through the window next to the dresser. Instead of taking Diane’s pulse, Dr. Hottle simply stood at the foot of her bed staring at Diane. So, you’re feeling sorry for yourself? Dr. Hottle asked. Before Diane could reply, the petite doctor unbuttoned her blouse and reached behind her back, lowering her padded brassiere. The sobering revelation struck Diane with the force of a jet on afterburners as she stared at her breastless chest, a pink scar traversing Dr. Hottle’s upper chest from armpit to armpit from a double mastectomy. You simply go on, my dear Diane. You simply just … just fight with all you’ve got and go on with your life.
Diane had not only learned to walk again, but within six months of the accident she was back on a Hornet. A year later she had joined NASA and became a shuttle astronaut.
As the Titan rocket shot high above the clouds, Diane Williams let the memories fade. Although she considered this mission the most important of her life, that experience long ago had given her a new perspective in life.
Diane checked her watch. “Looks like the Titan is going to make orbit, and that means we’re going up, too. See you in a few.”
Diane headed toward the entrance of the firing room, walking by the Space Marines.
“All set, Commander?” asked the senior UNSC officer, a black ex-Army colonel by the name of Frank Ward, his booming voice matching his six-foot-three height and 240 pounds of solid muscle. Ward had been in a bad mood ever since NASA got news of the killings aboard the station. His man aboard the ISS had apparently failed to prevent the terrorist from gaining control of the station. The UNSC had come down hard on Ward, drilling him on every aspect of his operation, questioning his team’s capabilities to carry out the assignment for which the UNSC spent over twenty million dollars per year in equipment and training. Now Ward and his team were under extreme pressure to recover the station and save whatever was left of their reputation.
She grinned at the bald colonel with the powerful chest and equally strong arms and legs. A pair of piercing brown eyes stared back at Diane. “We’re ready, Colonel.”
“Are you certain? This mission is far too important.”
“We’re always ready, Colonel. Are you?”
Ward raised a brow and said, “We’ll be there.”
“Good. See you at the launchpad.”
Three
Fifteen minutes later, Diane peeked inside one of many windowless offices at the KSC’s headquarters. A medium-built man in his late forties sitting behind a desk typed on a computer. He wore a pair of dark slacks, a perfectly starched cotton white shirt, and a maroon tie. The keyboard clicking stopped, and he looked up above the edge of the brown monitor, studying Diane for a few seconds through rimless glasses. Narrow streaks of gray on his otherwise brown hair gave him a touch of elegance.
“May I help you?” he asked, returning his eyes to the screen. The clicking resumed.
Diane walked inside the ten-by-twelve office, closing and locking the door behind her. “As a matter of fact I need lots of help.”
He looked at her again, smiling. “Exactly what kind of help do you seek?”
Diane reached his desk and sat against the edge, her back now toward him. “Well, you see. I’m about to go on this long and dangerous journey, and I feel I need something else besides my training to help me make it through.”
He stood, walked around the desk, and stood in front of her. Standing almost six-foot and weighing 190 pounds, he removed his glasses and, tossing them over the desk, told Diane, “I’m sorry, miss, but I still don’t understand exactly what I can do to assist you on this journey.”
Diane pulled him toward her before throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him on the lips. A moment later she pulled away, staring into the eyes of Jake Cohen, and saying, “That’ll get me from liftoff to Solid Rocket Booster separation. After that I’m afraid I’m gonna run out of motivation.”
Jake smiled, taking her in with a greedy stare. He had always loved to play these little games. The businesslike, forty-eight-year-old veteran astronaut and now Capsule Communicator (CapCom) for the past dozen shuttle flights had a private side that never ceased to amaze Diane Williams. Not only was Jake Cohen a refreshing change in Diane’s otherwise very organized life, but Jake was also one of the very few men Diane had met who was never threatened by her profession. As a matter of fact, Jake once confessed to her that her brilliant mind and different past had attracted him to her just as much as her stunning look
s.
“I heard the Titan launch went clean,” Jake said.
Diane nodded while brushing her lipstick off Jake’s face. He intercepted her index finger and sucked it gently. She pulled it away. “Pervert.”
“Can’t seem to control myself around you … speaking of which, most everyone’s out to lunch, and you did lock the door, didn’t you?”
She quickly pushed him away. “You’re nuts, Jake.”
“Hey,” he said, pulling her close. “You only live once.”
“Stop it, Jake. Besides, we got a briefing in twenty minutes.”
“That’s plenty of—”
“No.”
“It’s gonna be a long and lonely week.”
She smiled. “Are you really going to miss me?”
“Yep.”
“Liar. But thanks anyway,” she said with an odd little glance at Jake, who had always enjoyed spending time by himself. Diane sensed that Jake probably looked forward to just a little space for the next few days. Since their relationship had gone into high gear six months before, neither of them had done much outside of work besides rolling under the sheets at his or her place. As it turned out, both Diane and Jake had not had a sexual partner for some time. So when Jake’s hands had ventured inside Diane’s cotton skirt after going through a bottle of Chardonnay late one evening at his apartment during their seventh date in three weeks, Diane had not resisted, figuring Jake not only was the most understanding, decent, and honest man she had ever known, but he also had a similar technical background, which gave them a lot more in common.
Jake suddenly turned businesslike. “Are you okay about this flight? You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I mean, there is a lot of risk on this one.”
Diane put a hand to his face and smiled. “And I love you too, darling.”
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