by Dale Brown
“I did, sir, but complying with that order means flying the spaceplane over the target base, and I believe it will be attacked if we do so. The only way we can protect the crew now is to deorbit the spaceplane to keep it as low as possible on the horizon until we can—”
“General, I don’t understand a word of what you just said,” Kordus said. “All I understand is that you have a strong hunch that your spaceplane is in danger, and you’re asking the President to countermand an order he just issued. Is this correct?”
“Yes, sir, but I need to stress the extreme danger of—”
“I got that part loud and clear, General McLanahan,” Kordus said, the exasperation thick in his voice. “If you start bringing the spaceplane down, will you be overflying anyone’s airspace, and if so, whose?”
“I don’t know precisely, sir, but I’d say countries in eastern Europe, the Middle East—”
“Russia?”
“Possibly, sir. Extreme western Russia.”
“Moscow?”
Patrick paused, and when he did he could hear the chief of staff say something under his breath. “I don’t know if it will be below the sixty-six-mile limit, sir, but depending on how fast and how successful we are at maneuvering the—”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Perfect, just perfect. Your spaceplane coming out of orbit right over the capital of Russia will look like an ICBM attack for damned sure, won’t it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “This is precisely the nightmare scenario the President was afraid of. He’s going to tear your throat out, McLanahan.” He paused for a moment; then: “How long does the President have to decide this, General?”
“About five minutes, sir.”
“For God’s sake, McLanahan! Five minutes? Everything is a crisis with you!” Kordus shouted. “But poor planning on your part doesn’t constitute an emergency on our part!”
“Lives could be at stake, sir.”
“I’m well aware of that, General!” Kordus snapped. “But if you had bothered to wait and have this plan approved by the White House and the Pentagon before launching the spaceplane, none of this would be happening!” He muttered something else under his breath; then: “I’ll take this request to the President right away. In the meantime, stay on the line because you will have to explain all this to the National Security Adviser so he can properly advise the President, because I doubt if you have the capacity to explain it clearly enough to him to his satisfaction—or that he would even listen to you if you tried. Stand by.”
“Crew, be advised, we’re doing a y-translation in preparation for deorbit. Stand by.” Using her multifunction display and her piloting skills, Moulain used the Black Stallion’s hydrazine thrusters to flip the spaceplane around so it was flying tailfirst. The maneuver took almost two minutes—a record for her. Everything felt exactly the same to the crewmembers in the passenger module, and even Macomber’s stomach didn’t complain. “Maneuver complete, Genesis. When do we start down? When can we fire the ‘leopards’?”
“We need to find out if you can reach a safe landing runway if you deorbited right now,” Dave Luger interjected. “We’re also looking for a tanker that can refuel you in case you can’t reach a suitable airport, and we need permission from the White House to bring you down over national boundaries.”
“You need what?” Macomber retorted. “You think the Russians are going to shoot at us with a fucking laser, and you need permission to get us the hell out of here?”
“We’re running the calculations, Major—put a sock in it and let us do our work,” Luger said sternly, unaccustomed to being yelled at by a field-grade officer. Still, the tone in his voice made it obvious he wasn’t all that happy about the circumstances either. “Stand by.”
“Do it, Frenchy,” Macomber said on intercom. “Get us the hell out of here.”
“I can’t do that without authorization, S-One.”
“The hell you can’t. You’re the spacecraft commander—you made that real clear to me, remember? Exercise some of your authority and get us the hell out of here!”
“I can’t just drop us out of the sky without knowing where we go once we re-enter the atmosphere,” Moulain said. “I need to know where we’ll be when we resume atmospheric flight, what our best range will be, which runway we’ll approach, what the terrain is, how long the runway is, what the political, diplomatic, and security situation will—”
“For Christ’s sake, Frenchy, stop asking questions and hit the damned button!” Macomber shouted. “Don’t wait for some politician to wave his hand or give us the finger—just do it!”
“Shut up and stand by, Macomber!” Moulain shouted. “We can’t just pull over and shut off the engine. Just hold your water, will you?”
“We’ll be crossing the target area’s horizon in about two minutes,” Terranova reported.
“We briefed several recovery, alternate, and emergency bases in eastern Europe, India, and the western Pacific,” Macomber persisted. “We know we have alternates. Just declare an emergency and land at one of them.”
“We’ve already passed most of the safe emergency bases,” Terranova said. “The alternate landing sites we had picked were designed in case of failure to insert into orbit, failure of re-entry burn engines, or alternate landing sites if we started deorbit but weren’t authorized to go into the target area. We’re past that point now. If we didn’t deorbit by now, the plan was to overfly the target area, transfer orbits if we had enough fuel, or stay in orbit until we could land back at Dreamland. We can’t just turn on a dime and head back the other way.”
“So we’re screwed,” Turlock said. “We’ve got to overfly the target area now.”
“Not necessarily, but the longer we delay firing the ‘leopards,’ the fewer options we have,” Terranova said. “We can always bleed off more energy and drop faster through the atmosphere to try to stay as low to the horizon as possible, then once we’re back in the atmosphere we can use the rest of the available fuel to fly away from the tracking radar.”
“Then do it!”
“If we bleed off all our energy and don’t have enough fuel to make it to a suitable landing site, we’re dead,” Moulain said. “This bird glides just a little bit better than a damned brick. I’m not going to throw away all our options unless there’s a plan! Besides, we don’t even know if there’s a Russian anti-satellite laser down there. This could all be just a bad case of paranoia.”
“Then there’s one more option…”
“No way, MC.”
“What’s the last option?” Macomber asked.
“Jettisoning the passenger module,” Terranova said.
“What?”
“The passenger module is designed to be its own re-entry vehicle and lifeboat…”
“I’m not releasing the module except in an emergency,” Moulain insisted. “Absolutely not.”
“There’s no way we can make it down by ourselves!” Macomber cried.
“The simulations say it can, although we’ve never tested it for real,” Terranova said. “The passenger module has its own reaction control system, high-tech heat shields better than the Stud, parachutes and impact attenuation bags for landing, a pretty good environmental system—”
“‘Pretty good’ isn’t good enough, MC—the captain doesn’t have any armor on,” Chris Wohl interjected.
“It’ll work, Sergeant Major.”
“I’m not jettisoning anything, and that’s that,” Moulain cut in. “That’s the last resort only. I’m not even going to consider it unless all this fearmongering comes true. Now everyone shut up for a minute.” On the command channel: “Genesis, Odin, what do you got for us?”
“Nothing,” Patrick responded. “I’ve spoken to the chief of staff, and he’s going to talk to the President. I’m waiting to talk to SECDEF or the National Security Adviser. You’re going to have to—”
“I’ve got it!” Dave Luger suddenly cut in. “If we deorbit now and use max-G maneuvers to lose altitu
de, we should have enough energy to make it to Baku on the Caspian coast of Azerbaijan. If not, you can make it to Neftcala, which is an Azerbaijan border and coastal patrol base. Turkey and the United States are expanding an airstrip there and you might have enough runway to make it. The third option—”
“Jettison the passenger module into the Caspian Sea, then ditch the Stud in the Caspian Sea or eject before hitting the water depending on how out of control we become,” Moulain intoned.
“Stand by, Stud,” Patrick said after a short pause. “Genesis, I’m studying the latest images of the target area, and I’m concluding that the trucks and setup at Soltanabad are virtually identical to the ones we saw in Kabudar Ahang in Iran. I believe the Russians set up their mobile anti-spacecraft laser in Soltanabad. Can you verify?”
“General, are you sure this Russian threat is for real? If we do this, there’s no turning back.”
“No, I’m not sure of any of this,” Patrick admitted. “But the signs are looking just like Stud One-One. Genesis?”
“I’m double-checking, Odin,” Dave Luger said. “Remember they faked the setup at Kabudar Ahang to suck in the Battle Force. They could be doing the very same thing again.”
“We’ll know in about sixty seconds, crew,” Terranova said.
“We can’t wait,” Patrick said finally. “Stud, this is Odin, I’m ordering you to deorbit, do a max-rate re-entry interface profile, and attempt an emergency landing at Baku or Neftcala, Azerbaijan. Genesis, upload the flight plan to the Black Stallion and be sure it’s executed. Do you copy?”
“Odin, I copy, but are you sure about this?” Moulain asked. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Just do it, Frenchy,” Macomber said. “If he’s wrong and everything goes snafu, we might take a swim in the damned polluted Caspian Sea with the caviar. Big deal. Been there, done that. If he’s right, we’ll still be alive in an hour. Do it.”
“Flight plan uploaded,” Luger reported. “Awaiting execution.”
“Stud, advise when you execute deorbit procedures.”
“What are you waiting for, Frenchy?” Macomber shouted. “Start us down! Fire the rockets!”
“I don’t want to crash into the Caspian Sea,” Moulain said. “If we don’t make it, we’ll have no option but to ditch—”
“Dammit, Frenchy, get us down now!” Macomber shouted. “What’s with you?”
“I don’t believe General McLanahan, that’s why!” Moulain cried out. “I don’t believe any of this!”
“Stud, I’m sure this is a trap,” Patrick said. “I think we stumbled onto a Russian anti-spacecraft laser weapon site in Iran. If you don’t get out of there, any way you can, their laser will burn through your heat shielding and destroy the spacecraft. I don’t want to take that risk. Deorbit the spacecraft and get out of there.”
“Crossing the target’s horizon, now,” Terranova said.
“Stud, that was an order: deorbit the spacecraft,” Patrick said. “Your objection is noted. I take full responsibility. Now do it.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I copied valid and authenticated orders to the contrary from the national command authority: stay in orbit until we’re in a position to return to Groom Lake,” Moulain said. “Those orders supersede yours. We’re staying. MC, remove the deorbit flight plan and reload the previous one.”
“Frenchy—”
“Do it, MC,” Moulain said. “That’s an order. I’ll stay in this orientation to conserve thruster fuel, but we’re staying in orbit, and that’s final.”
The radios and intercoms got very quiet after that, with Luger and McLanahan feeding the crew and each other a steady stream of radar threat warnings and updated reconnaissance imagery. Time seemed to drag on forever. Finally, Macomber said, “What the hell is going on, Genesis, and how long until we’re out of the shit?”
“Four minutes ten seconds until we cross back below the target area horizon,” Dave Luger responded.
“I’m sorry, Odin,” Moulain said, “but I had to make a decision. I’m following orders.”
“I hope I’m wrong, SC,” Patrick responded. “You did what you thought was right. We’ll talk about it after you’re home safe.”
“How are we doing on that Baku landing site, Genesis?” Terranova asked.
“You’ll lose it in thirty seconds. You won’t have enough energy to make it to Forward Operating Base Warrior in Kirkuk, Iraq, after you re-enter the atmosphere—Herat, Afghanistan, is your best option, but you’ll still have to overfly Soltanabad. Another option might be the deserts of southern Turkmenistan—we can get a special ops team from Uzbekistan in to help you quickly.”
“You suggesting we land in Turkmenistan, sir?”
“I didn’t say ‘land,’ MC.”
Terranova gulped. Luger obviously meant for them to “jettison the aircraft”—let it crash-land in the desert. “What’s the next abort base?”
“Karachi and Hyderabad beyond that.”
“We’re ready to fire the ‘leopards,’” Terranova said. “Ten-second checklist hold. Should I set the re-entry for maximum deceleration?”
“We’re not going to deorbit,” Moulain said. “The Russians wouldn’t dare take a shot at us. Leonid Zevitin’s not crazy. The guy can dance, for God’s sake!” The radios sparkled with low chuckles. But she looked at her aft-cockpit camera and nodded to Terranova, silently ordering him to program the computers for a maximum-rate speed and altitude loss. “I mean, think about it, everyone: no male who knows how to dance would be nutty enough to—”
Suddenly they heard, “Warning, warning, laser detected…warning, warning, hull temperature increasing, stations two hundred fifty through two-ninety…warning, hull temperatures approaching operational limits…!”
“The Kavaznya laser!” Patrick McLanahan exclaimed. “They’re attacking from extreme range. Stud, get out of there now!”
“Initiate deorbit procedures!” Moulain shouted. “Crew, stand by to deorbit immediately! ‘Leopards’ engines throttling up!”
“…hull temperature rate warning, stations two-seventy through two-ninety…warning, warning…!”
The crew was slammed back into their seats as the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System engines fired at full power. The immense power of the hybrid rocket engines immediately and dramatically decelerated the Black Stallion aircraft, and it quickly began its fall to Earth. Macomber cried out as the G-forces quickly increased, far past anything he had previously experienced. Soon he could no longer muster the strength to make any noise at all—it took all of his concentration to inflate his lungs enough to keep from passing out.
“Passing twenty-eight thousand feet per second,” Terranova said amidst the almost-constant warning messages. “Passing ninety miles’ altitude…‘leopards’ at ninety percent power, three point zero Gs…”
“Go to one hundred and ten percent power,” Moulain grunted through the pressure.
“That’s over five Gs, SC,” Terranova said. “We’ll have to sustain that for—”
“Do it, MC,” Moulain ordered. “Crew, SC, it’s going to get real uncomfortable for a few minutes. Keep ahead of it the best you can.” A few moments later, her words were cut off by a feeling that her chest was going to implode as the G-forces nearly doubled. Cries of anguish and surprise were evident. “Hang…on…crew…”
“Five point three Gs,” Terranova gasped. “Jesus…passing twenty-five K, passing eighty miles…”
“Oh God, how much longer?” someone murmured—it was impossible to tell who was speaking now.
STRATEGIC AIR FORCES ALTERNATE OPERATIONS COMMAND CENTER, POLDOSK, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
THAT SAME TIME
With the destruction of Engels Air Base near Saratov and the bombing of R’azan underground command center by the Americans, air forces chief of staff General Andrei Darzov had reactivated and modernized an old civil defense shelter and reserve forces reconstitution center southwest of Moscow called Poldosk for use as his evacuation
and alternate command post. It didn’t have an air base or even room for a large helicopter landing pad, but it had underground rail lines adjacent to the facility, plenty of freshwater supplies (as fresh as could be expected in the Greater Moscow area)…
…and—more importantly, Darzov believed—it was sufficiently close to large numbers of city dwellers that even someone as crazy as the American bomber commander Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan might think twice about bombing the place.
Because of its mostly modern high-speed data and communications upgrades, Poldosk today served yet another purpose: as the monitoring and command center for the Molnija anti-spacecraft air-launched missile and Fanar anti-spacecraft laser systems. From a simple room with a bank of four computers, Darzov maintained contact with his forces in the field via secure high-speed Internet and voice-over-IP connections. The command center was completely mobile, could be packed up in less than an hour and set up elsewhere in about as much time, and in an emergency could be run from a single laptop computer and secure cellular or satellite phone anywhere on the planet.
This evening, the focus was on Soltanabad. It was unfortunate that the Americans found Fanar so quickly—it had to be blind luck, or maybe some Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps members turned traitor and informed on them to the coup leader Hesarak Buzhazi or to the Americans. But he had set up Fanar at Soltanabad precisely because so many American spacecraft overflew the area so often. It was, as the Americans put it, a “target-rich environment.”
Darzov scowled at a new readout and hit the TRANSMIT button on the computer keyboard: “Striker, this is Keeper. Say status. You terminated the attack…why?”
“We had full optronic lock on the target and opened fire as ordered, General,” the chief engineer and project officer at Soltanabad, Wolfgang Zypries, replied. “But seconds after we initiated the attack we lost contact.” Zypries was a German laser engineer and scientist and formerly a colonel in the German air force. Unknown to him, Zypries’ longtime girlfriend was a Russian spy, hacking into his computer at home and transferring volumes of classified material to Moscow. When his girlfriend informed him of who she was and that the German Militärischer Abschirmdienst, or Military Screen Service’s counterespionage group, was on his tail, he allowed himself to be whisked off to Russia. Darzov immediately plied him with everything he desired—money, a house, and all the women he could handle—to work on improving and mobilizing the Kavaznya anti-spacecraft laser system. After over five years’ work, he was more successful than even Darzov dared to hope.
