by Dale Brown
Brad felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders. “Not a bit, Bravo One,” he replied. “Welcome to the party.”
Beside him, Nadia saw a new com icon flashing on her left-hand display, indicating an urgent high-priority signal. She opened it.
Immediately, they heard a familiar voice come over their headsets. “Mr. Martindale may have talked about leaving y’all hanging out to dry if you ran into trouble,” President John Dalton Farrell drawled. “But I sure as hell never said any such thing.”
National Defense Control Center
That Same Time
“Our air defense radars at Rogachevo, Nagurskoye, Sredny Ostrov, and Zvozdnyy all confirm the same thing. Two American Space Force S-29Bs have just dropped out of polar orbit and are moving to intercept our MiG-31s,” Tikhomirov said grimly.
Marshal Leonov only nodded. “Recall your pilots, Semyon.” He shrugged. “There’s no point in tangling with those spaceplanes. Or in provoking an open military confrontation with the United States.” He smiled dryly. “Not yet, anyway.”
Tikhomirov looked relieved. “Yes, sir.”
Leonov cut the secure connection. He sat back, deep in thought. While the escape of one of the Scion spies was exasperating, Russia would still profit from these events. If nothing else, the rapid, aggressive response of his Spetsnaz troops and MiG-31 fighters should convince the Americans that his fake Firebird Project spaceplane program was genuine. Equally important, thanks to the trap he’d sprung at Kansk-Dalniy, he’d successfully crippled Scion’s espionage network inside Russia.
The Americans were now completely blind. He nodded in satisfaction. The timing was perfect. The first elements of Heaven’s Thunder—the true focus of his secret alliance with the People’s Republic of China—were only months away from launch. And by the time the United States and its allies realized what was really happening, it would be far too late.
Twenty-Three
U.S. Space Command Missile and Space Launch Warning Center, Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado
Several Months Later, in Early 2023
Space Force Lieutenant General Daniel Mulvaney surveyed his new domain with quiet pride. Just a few weeks ago, a Pentagon directive had finally transferred control over the launch warning center to his new outfit, the U.S. Space Command. Making that move was one of the last pieces of the intricate organizational puzzle involved in bringing the Space Force to full operational readiness. Now America’s newest armed forces branch had a clear chain of command from the earliest detection of possible hostile space action all the way up to the active-duty forces—Eagle Station and the S-29B spaceplanes—that would fight any battles in Earth orbit.
Sited two thousand feet beneath Cheyenne Mountain, the Missile and Space Launch Warning Center consisted of three stepped tiers facing several large screens—each currently showing digital maps of various parts of the world. Consoles with computers, displays, and secure communications links lined each level. Before the switchover to Space Command control, those consoles had been manned around the clock by officers and enlisted personnel from the Air Force, Army, Navy, and Marine Corps. Many of those same men and women were still here, performing the same duties. Only their uniforms, rank insignias, and unit patches were different, reflecting their lateral transfers to the Space Force.
Mulvaney ambled over to the desk belonging to the senior officer on watch, Major General Pete Hernandez. Hernandez, a former Marine Corps aviation wing commander, started to clamber to his feet in order to salute him.
“No need to make a fuss, Pete,” Mulvaney said, waving the other man back down. “I’m just prowling, not inspecting.” He took a seat. “How are things looking?”
“Pretty quiet so far today,” Hernandez said with a shrug. “SpaceX has a launch slated from its Boca Chica site down near Brownsville, Texas, in a couple of hours.”
“Anything interesting aboard?” Mulvaney asked.
“They’re carrying out some kind of orbital rendezvous test,” Hernandez replied. “As part of the president’s lunar mining initiative.”
Mulvaney nodded. A lot of private space companies in the United States, Canada, Europe, and Asia were ramping up their activity—hoping to snag some of the juicy contracts NASA was dangling. Based on what he was hearing, the tempo of space exploration and exploitation was set to increase exponentially. The historical analogy wrote itself. The Space Force was in much the same position as the old U.S. Army circa 1836, manning a few scattered frontier outposts just as the first wagon trains headed out on the Oregon Trail.
As he thought about the bandits and raiding parties who had preyed on those early settler caravans, Mulvaney’s gaze slid to the large central display. It showed a map of Russia, its Central Asian neighbors, and the People’s Republic of China.
Suddenly, a blinking red icon flashed onto the screen, centered about five hundred miles north of Moscow.
“Sir! SBIRS has detected an undeclared launch from the Russian Federation!” one of the junior watch officers reported.
With Mulvaney looking over his shoulder, Hernandez pulled up a data download from the Space-Based Infrared System’s satellites. “Looks like a rocket launch from the Plesetsk Cosmodrome,” he commented.
“Some kind of missile test?” Mulvaney asked. Plesetsk was often used to test new Russian ballistic missile designs.
Hernandez shook his head. “No, sir. The heat signature’s enormous, much larger than that of any likely Russian ICBM.” More information scrolled across his computer display. He whistled softly. “That’s got to be one of their big heavy-lift rockets, one of the Energia-5VRs. And based on its current trajectory, it’s heading into orbit.”
Mulvaney frowned. He checked the boards, looking for Eagle Station’s current position. It was high over the Western Pacific, just approaching the coast of Mexico. This suggested the Russians had deliberately timed their launch so that the U.S. space station was too far around the curve of the earth to see or engage the Energia’s payload as it reached orbit.
What was Moscow up to?
Only minutes later, another red icon blinked into existence, this time over an island off the southern coast of the People’s Republic of China.
“New launch! This one’s lifting off from the PRC’s Wenchang complex on Hainan Island,” another watch officer reported.
Quickly, Hernandez studied the tracking data supplied by their satellites. “From the thermal signature, that’s a Long March 5. And it’s going into orbit, too.”
Mulvaney’s frown deepened. The Long March 5 was a large two-stage rocket, roughly in the same class as the American Delta IV Heavy. Though not as powerful as SpaceX’s Falcon Heavy or Russia’s Energia-5VR, it could still boost a serious amount of payload mass into low Earth orbit—somewhere around twenty-seven tons.
And then a third icon flashed onto the map. This one was in southwest China, near the southern tip of the PRC’s Sichuan Province. “SBIRS confirms another Chinese Long March 5 launch,” Hernandez said. “This time from the Xichang Space Center.”
“From Xichang? That’s supposed to be an inactive launch complex, isn’t it, at least according to our goddamned intelligence reports?” Mulvaney growled.
“Yes, sir,” Hernandez agreed. “The Chinese claimed they were shifting most of their civilian space operations to Wenchang, because launches from Xichang were too dangerous.” He smiled wryly. “Apparently, the possibility that spent rocket stages might come crashing down on inhabited areas was seen as bad public relations, even in a communist dictatorship.”
Mulvaney snorted. “Well, so much for that bullshit about bad PR.” He stared at the screen, watching as the projected tracks for all three newly launched rockets curved across the large digital map. One undeclared Russian rocket launch was potential trouble. But three undeclared launches within a matter of minutes? One of them from a Chinese space complex U.S. intelligence had said was mothballed? There was no way what they were seeing was just coincidence, he decided. This was c
oordinated enemy action.
He donned a spare headset and plugged in. Then he reached for Hernandez’s keyboard and entered a series of codes, activating a secure link to the White House. “This is Lieutenant General Mulvaney at USSPACECOM. We are observing multiple non-ICBM launch events in both Russia and the People’s Republic of China. I need to speak to the president.”
Scion Secure Videoconference
Several Hours Later
“You guys ready?” Brad McLanahan asked quietly, with a glance at Nadia and Hunter Noble. They were in one of Sky Masters’ Battle Mountain conference rooms, waiting for their satellite connection to the White House and Scion’s Utah headquarters to go live. They nodded seriously, just as the wall-sized LED display lit up.
On-screen, President Farrell seemed as vigorous and full of life as Brad McLanahan remembered from earlier meetings. That made him an exception to the rule that most men and women who occupied the White House aged faster than ordinary people. If anything, the tall, broad-shouldered Texan seemed energized by the burdens of the Oval Office.
“I’d surely like to know just how we got caught with our drawers down . . . again,” Farrell remarked dryly. “How in the hell did we miss the Russians and the Chinese prepping those rockets for launch?”
From Utah, Kevin Martindale shrugged. “It’s the old story: too much ground to cover and not enough people, or, in this case, not enough space-based sensors, to do the job.”
Beside him, Patrick McLanahan nodded. “We still only have a handful of reconnaissance satellites operational, Mr. President,” he explained. “And they’ve been primarily tasked with tracking Russia’s Firebird spaceplane program.”
Though with slim results, Brad knew. In the months since the destruction of Scion’s Russia-based intelligence network, America’s spy satellites and Eagle Station’s Space Force crew had captured a few images of what appeared to be spaceplane prototypes at airfields around Moscow and other sites. But so far none of those prototypes had been observed in flight—either inside the atmosphere or in orbit. So it was still impossible to get a handle on how much progress the Russian Firebird program had made since its first test flight at Kansk-Dalniy.
But even if Eagle Station’s high-powered telescopes had been available to carry out other intelligence missions, they could not have spotted Russia’s massive Energia-5VR rocket moving out to the pad. The Plesetsk Cosmodrome was too far north of the space station’s orbital track—which probably explained why the Russians had chosen to launch from there, rather than the newer, more modern, and better-sited Vostochny space complex.
Reluctantly, Farrell nodded his understanding. Russia and China were still closed authoritarian societies, with their most vital secrets guarded by legions of secret police. Over the past several decades, American presidents and their national security teams had grown used to relying on satellite-driven intelligence. Robbed of the easy ability to peer down from orbit, and without the invaluable material provided so often by Scion’s human agents, they were all wandering in the dark.
“All right, then,” the president said grimly. “Let’s cut to the chase. Now that we’ve found out the hard way that Beijing and Moscow are in cahoots: What’s their plan? Are these surprise rocket launches aimed at building another armed space station?”
Brad understood his concern. A new Mars One circling Earth wouldn’t give Russia or China unchecked dominance in space, not as long as Eagle Station was still intact—but it would restore a balance of terror in orbit . . . and greatly complicate America’s ambitious plans to reach out to the moon and beyond.
He glanced sideways at Nadia and Boomer. They nodded encouragement. Bracing himself, Brad spoke up. “No, Mr. President,” he said firmly. “Whatever the Russians and the Chinese are doing, they are not building a station in Earth orbit.”
“You seem mighty confident about that, Major,” Farrell commented.
“Yes, sir, I am.” Brad shook his head. “For one thing, their spacecraft are not maneuvering for an Earth-orbit rendezvous. In fact, it would be completely impossible for them to dock now.” He opened a file on his laptop. It was synched to their video link. Instantly, several 3-D visuals were mirrored for the president, his father, and Martindale. “For example, here’s the current orbit of the Energia’s third-stage booster and its payload.” An image of the earth appeared, with a red line depicting the Russian spacecraft’s path around the planet. It was a wildly elongated oval—almost seeming to brush against the earth on one side, while curving far out into space on the other. “As you can see, it’s in a highly elliptical orbit, with an apogee nearly twenty-two thousand miles above the surface.”
“And what’s the perigee?” his father asked from Utah. “The lowest point of its orbit?”
“Just one hundred and twenty miles,” Brad told him. He looked back at Farrell. “There’s no way a severely elliptical orbit like that works for any kind of permanent manned military space station, sir. Apart from purely tactical considerations, any spacecraft in that orbit is yo-yoing up and down through both the inner and outer Van Allen radiation belts. No human crew could escape unharmed very long in those conditions, not without a hell of a lot more radiation shielding than would be practical.”
“What about the two Chinese rockets?” the president pressed.
“They’ve also entered elliptical orbits,” Brad answered. “Both Long March 5s carried Yuanzheng-2 upper stages with additional payloads. But given their present positions, neither Yuanzheng-2 booster has the delta-V necessary to achieve a rendezvous with the Russian spacecraft. At least not in any useful Earth orbit.”
Martindale nodded his agreement. “Major McLanahan is right about all of that.” He smiled thinly. “Nevertheless, as a precaution, Colonel Miller’s S-29B is fully fueled and on standby at Eagle Station—ready to enter a fast-burn transfer orbit that will bring it within attack range if any of these spacecraft—Russian or Chinese—demonstrate hostile intent.”
“Glad to hear that,” Farrell said bluntly. “Now, I’d just as soon not start a new war in space. But if war comes, we’re going to be the ones to finish it. Clear?”
“As crystal,” Martindale said, speaking for all of them.
Brad’s computer buzzed loudly, signaling an urgent message from the team of combined Scion–Sky Masters analysts assigned to keep tabs on those space vehicles. He heard Boomer’s laptop making the same noise. His finger swiped across the screen. Instantly, a solid block of text and numbers popped open, accompanied by several blurry photos captured by ground- and space-based telescopes. He leaned closer, reading fast. His eyes widened in surprise.
“Holy shit,” Boomer muttered out loud.
Farrell frowned. “Is there a problem, Dr. Noble?”
“We’ve just received new tracking data, Mr. President,” Boomer answered. “Both of those Chinese Yuanzheng-2 boosters have restarted. And based on preliminary analysis, it looks like they’re making translunar injection burns. If so, they’re going to the moon.”
“Carrying what?” Patrick asked.
Boomer shrugged. “We can’t tell yet. Both payloads are still concealed by their fairings.” Seeing their surprise, he nodded. “Yeah, that’s pretty fucking weird right there.”
Payload fairings, sometimes called shrouds, were thin metal shells intended to protect delicate satellites and other spacecraft from aerodynamic pressures and high temperatures during launch. They were ordinarily jettisoned once a rocket safely climbed out of the atmosphere and reached orbit. Usually, if those fairings failed to separate, the entire mission was doomed. But in this case it seemed likely that the Chinese were purposely retaining their payload fairings as a crude form of camouflage.
“The Russians are on the move, too,” Brad reported. “The Energia third stage has just separated from its payload.” He tagged one of the telescopic images and put it up on their screens. It showed a roughly fifty-foot-long spacecraft assembled from three different components—a blunt-nosed, cone-shaped
capsule at the front, a larger cylinder in the middle, and what looked like nothing more than an egg-shaped fuel tank and rocket engine tied together by struts at the back. Solar panels extended off the central vehicle. “We’re looking at a Federation command module mated to its service module, with a Block DM-03 space tug attached aft. And the engine on that space tug just finished a six-minute burn.”
“Aimed where?” his father asked.
“Right where the moon will be in a little under three days,” Brad said quietly.
“Son of a bitch,” Farrell said in surprise. “So both the Russians and the Chinese are heading to the moon?”
Brad nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s about the size of it.”
“What the hell are they up to?”
Silence dragged on for several long moments. Without more information, no one felt able to provide a firm answer for Farrell’s question. At last, Nadia leaned forward. “Whatever our enemies have planned, Mr. President, I do not think it will be good news for the United States.” Her eyes darkened. “Or for Poland and the rest of the free world.”
Twenty-Four
Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Beijing, People’s Republic of China
A Short Time Later
China’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs occupied a large gray modern building right in the center of Beijing, about three kilometers east of the Forbidden City. Its curving, convex front and adjoining wings surrounded a large central courtyard, whose most prominent feature was a garden where carefully manicured bushes and flower beds formed the outline of a dove of peace.
An amusing piece of visual propaganda, Russian foreign minister Daria Titeneva thought cynically. In her experience, the leaders of both her country and the People’s Republic of China correctly saw diplomacy as a form of war waged through other means. In any negotiation between hostile powers, there would inevitably be winners . . . and losers. Those who proclaimed the virtues of mutually beneficial compromise were idealistic dreamers and fools. It was fortunate for Moscow and Beijing that so many of them held positions of influence in the West.
