He lay on the earth, sucking for air. He felt wetness under his shoulder blades. He raised his head like a crippled horse attempting to rise. He felt impossibly heavy.
He tried to right himself, but it simply did not work. He almost rolled up onto one knee, but he found that his right arm would not cooperate. When he realized that the dangling object at the end of his limb was his own hand, a wave of nausea passed over him. There was blood all over his uniform, all over his flesh. He could not decide where it had originated. The world seemed extraordinarily intense, yet unclear at the same time.
He dropped the broken limb, hiding it from himself. The snow turned to rain.
He collapsed, falling flat on his back. Cold rain struck his face. He could see that it was still snowing up in the heavens. A white, swirling storm. The stars were falling out of the sky. He felt the cold wetness creeping in through his clothing, chilling his spine, his legs, even as the exposed front portion of his body caught the warmth of the spreading fires. He lay between waking and dreaming, admiring the gales above his head and blinking as the snow turned to rain in its descent and struck him about the eyes.
He waited for the pain, wondering why it would not come.
“I’m all right,” he told himself. “I’m all right.”
The sound of the bells had stopped. In fact, the world was utterly silent. Yet the flashes continued. The pink wall of firelight climbed so high into the heavens that it seemed to arch over the spot where Murawa lay.
What was wrong? Why couldn’t he get up? Why was everything so quiet?
The sky’s on fire, he thought.
What was happening?
The fuel dump, he decided lucidly. They’ve hit the fuel dump. The Iranians had been allowed to manage it themselves, and expecting no further threats from the Russians, they had been careless, neglecting to build earthen revetments or even to disperse the stocks.
It’s all burning, he thought resignedly. But why couldn’t he get up? It seemed to him that he had almost made it to his feet at his first attempt. But now his muscles would not pay attention to him.
It crossed his mind that they would have to send him home now. Back to Kyoto.
Where was the pain?
Gathering all of his will and physical strength, Murawa hoisted himself up on his good elbow.
Everything was on fire. It was the end of the world. There should have been snow. Or mud. But dust had come up from somewhere. Clouds and cyclones of dust, flamboyantly beautiful. The burning world softened and changed colors through the silken clouds.
He began to choke.
The world had slowed down, as if it were giving him time to catch up. As he watched, a tracked troop carrier near the perimeter of the repair yard rose into the sky, shaking itself apart. He could feel the earth trembling beneath his buttocks.
Ever so slowly, dark metal segments fell back to earth, rebounding slightly before coming to rest.
He was choking. Coughing. But he could not hear himself coughing, and it frightened him.
Yet, it was all very beautiful in the silence. With the universe on fire.
Where was the pain?
He saw a dark figure running, chased by fire. The man was running and dancing ecstatically at the same time, flailing his arms, turning about, dropping to his knees. Then Murawa’s eyes focused, and he saw that the man was burning, and that there was no dance.
Murawa collapsed back into the mud created by his own wastes. He wished he had not forgotten his pistol, because he wanted to be dead before the fire reached him.
ZERO-G
DOGFIGHT
FROM STORMING
INTREPID
by PAYNE HARRISON
To close this anthology of flying fiction we have chosen an excerpt from Storming Intrepid by Payne Harrison. Published in 1989, before the collapse of communism, this tale mixes high-tech warplanes and space fighters as the United States attempts to prevent a Soviet spy from stealing a space shuttle, the Intrepid, with its cargo of Star Wars components.
Once upon a time any tale with a spaceship in it was science fiction, but not anymore. As everyone on earth is well aware, the flying adventure that began at Kitty Hawk in 1903 has gone into space, so it is only fitting that fiction follows.
We join this tale immediately after the Americans have launched a top secret space fighter, the Kestrel, to pursue the Intrepid and destroy it. Meanwhile the Americans have launched an assault force of stealth bombers against the Soviet’s Baikonur Cosmodrome, Intrepid’s intended point of landing.
As I read Harrison’s tale, the thought occurred to me that Jules Verne and H. G. Wells would have enjoyed it, too.
DAY 5, 1243 HOURS ZULU
THE KESTREL
Mad Dog felt a vibration as he checked the control panel. “Liquid booster has separated,” he radioed. “We’re clear. Lining up orbit insertion burn now.” The Kestrel was completely free of its Titan booster and would now rely on its own orbital maneuvering system (OMS) engines.
“Roger, Kestrel,” said the Cap Com from CSOC. “You are go for insertion burn.”
Monaghan checked his attitude direction indicator to confirm it was in the inertial mode and that the digital autopilot was engaged. The NavComputer was wired into the autopilot and would execute the firing of the OMS engine to insert them into orbit. Mad Dog kept his hand off the pitch and yaw controller and let the computers take over. “Here we go, Hot Rod.”
“I’m with you,” replied Lamborghini.
The flight plan called for the Kestrel to be inserted into the same orbital vector as the Soyuz and Intrepid, but the space fighter’s initial position would be two hundred miles behind and fifteen miles below its target. The strategy was to initially keep some distance, in order to guard against any ASAT weapons the Soyuz might have brought along. From two hundred miles away, Lamborghini would scan the Intrepid with the long-range radar and engage it with the Phoenix missiles. Then the space fighter would close the gap to inspect the damaged shuttle, or finish it off with the Sidewinders.
Because the Kestrel was traveling in a lower orbital plane, it could catch up to the Intrepid like a sprinter who had the inside track around a curve.
No attempt would be made to disable or board the Intrepid. Monaghan and Lamborghini were to simply blast it out of the sky.
DAY 5, 1253 HOURS ZULU
THE SOYUZ-INTREPID RENDEZVOUS
“They what?” cried Iceberg.
“Just as I told you, Intrepid,” explained Lubinin patiently. “We have received word from our Flite Centre that the Americans have launched a vehicle from your Vandenberg cosmodrome. It is approaching our position on this same axis of advance. Flite Centre wants to know if you have any idea what it could be.”
Iceberg began sweating as his mind raced. What could it be? Not an ASAT missile. Those had been destroyed under the treaty. Besides, they were launched from an airborne F-15 fighter, not from a launch facility like Vandenberg. Another shuttle? No way. They couldn’t possibly have prepped another shuttle in just a few days. And it couldn’t be a manned vehicle. The shuttle was the only manned launch vehicle in the U.S. inventory. What could it be, then? Some ASAT improvisation? Or a photorecon bird? Yeah. Recon. Now that made more sense.
“Tell your Flite Centre I don’t know for sure, but it’s my guess it’s some kind of reconnaissance satellite coming up to take close-up pictures of what’s going on.”
Lubinin wasn’t convinced, but said, “Very well,” and informed Kaliningrad.
Iceberg was impatient. “How much time until we try your retro engine again?”
“Eleven minutes,” replied Yemitov.
“Good,” said Iceberg. “I’ll be out of here before they can do anything with that Vandenberg vehicle, whatever it might be.”
“Yes,” observed Lubinin. “You will be.”
DAY 5, 1258 HOURS ZULU
THE KESTREL
After the OMS engines shut down, Monaghan jettisoned the launch shrouds cover
ing the Phoenix missiles on the topside wing pylons. Then he activated the reaction control thrusters so he could maneuver the space fighter.
The three spacecraft were now orbiting on a roughly common ground track in single file, heading south above the South Pacific. The Intrepid was in the lead, followed closely by the Soyuz. The Kestrel was 217 miles behind.
“Take a look, Hot Rod. See what you can find.”
“Roger,” said Lamborghini, and he turned on the powerful AWG-14 Doppler-pulse radar. Using the hand controller, he rotated the slotted planar antenna in the nose cone to search for the rogue spacecraft. Around and around he went, peppering the target space with electromagnetic pulses from the LTV radar, but his tactical information display (TID) screen remained blank. “I’m not getting anything, Mad Dog.”
Monaghan’s earphones crackled. “Kestrel, this is CSOC. Please advise on your status.”
“Nothing yet,” replied Monaghan. “We’re still scanning with the radar. Anything you can tell us?”
“Wait one,” ordered the Cap Com. “The Intrepid is already being scanned by the NASA tracking ship. We’re waiting for you to come into range. Yeah. Okay they’ve got you! We mark you two-one-seven miles behind the Intrepid and one-seven miles below. Also, your ground track is slightly west of the target. You copy that?”
“Roger, CSOC,” said Monaghan, and he yawed the space fighter a bit to the right. “Try it now, Hot Rod.”
Again, Lamborghini swept the ether with his planar antenna. “I’ve got something!”
Mad Dog whooped. “That’s gotta be them. CSOC, we got ’em in our sights.”
“We copy, Kestrel,” replied the Cap Com in Colorado. “Eagle One says take the shot as soon as you can.”
“Roger,” said Lamborghini as he began powering up the electronics in the Phoenixes. “It’s hard to say for sure at this range, Mad Dog, but the TID screen says we’re picking up two signatures.”
“You probably are,” said Monaghan. “A big one and a smaller one, I bet.”
“Yeah. Very little separation between them, though.”
“I figure the big one is Iceberg,” speculated Monaghan, “and the small blip is that Russian Soyuz. Better take ’em both out to be sure.”
“Roger,” said Lamborghini. “Seems a shame to blast the Soyuz, too. Those Russian cosmonauts are probably just following orders.”
“Yeah. That’s a shame,” agreed Monaghan. “Now nail the fuckers.”
Lamborghini flipped on the Phoenix AWG-14 fire-control system, then punched in some keystrokes on the armament panel, which assigned a target, and a target priority, to each missile. He set both Phoenixes for dependent guidance, so they would be guided by the Kestrel’s radar for most of their death journey. Lastly, he popped open the safety cover on the red arming switch and flipped it to ENGAGE. The two blips on his TID screen started blinking, indicating the missiles were locked onto their targets in the priority sequence he had assigned. All Lamborghini had to do now was press the red button on the hand controller. “We’ve got lock-on, Mad Dog.”
“Take ’em!” ordered Monaghan.
There was a white flash as the first Phoenix leapt off the left pylon. Monaghan instinctively blinked, and the Kestrel wobbled slightly from the missile’s release. But the fire-control computer quickly readjusted the spaceplane’s attitude so it would regain its stability for the next shot. A few moments elapsed, and with a second flash, the final Phoenix raced into the night sky.
As Monaghan watched the two white dots streak off in the distance, he said, “God, Hot Rod, that was weird. I didn’t hear a thing.”
Lamborghini watched his screen. “The TID’s readout says five minutes, thirty seconds to impact.”
DAY 5, 1300 HOURS ZULU
THE SOYUZ-INTREPID RENDEZVOUS
“Five minutes to retrofire,” radioed Lubinin. He and Yemitov were a mere sixty feet from the tail of the Intrepid, and as close to the Progress retro engine as they dared be. They could only hope their backup trigger transmitter would function properly. “If the device works this time, Intrepid, the American spacecraft will be too late to prevent your escape.”
“Just make sure it does work this time,” replied Iceberg. “I don’t want to have to ride down with you guys in that Soyuz capsule.”
Lubinin didn’t tell the American that if they failed, they’d all be better off just staying in orbit.
As the seconds dragged by inside the Intrepid, Iceberg found himself perspiring again, and the little droplets of sweat remained suspended around his face. It had to work this time. The success of his lifetime mission now rested on a silicon chip inside a hand-held device. Would it work or wouldn’t it? He cursed, but whispered no prayer. If an atheist could be devout, then Iceberg was devout. His god had become the mission—the final, complete obedience to his mother.
DAY 5, 1305 HOURS ZULU
THE KESTREL
Lamborghini was glued to his TID screen now. The range to target was rapidly shrinking as the Phoenix missiles homed in on their targets at 2,500 miles per hour. “Sixty seconds to impact,” he said in a tight voice. “Switching to independent guidance now.” He punched the appropriate button on the armament panel, and the missiles’ on-board planar antennae became active. From this point, the Phoenixes would guide themselves in for the terminal kill phase.
“Forty seconds,” announced Lamborghini.
DAY 5, 1305 HOURS ZULU
THE SOYUZ-INTREPID RENDEZVOUS
“Seven . . . six . . . five . . .” Lubinin read off the countdown one last time. “. . . Four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . fire!”
Yemitov mashed the red button, and the Progress engine erupted before them, silently belching out a tower of yellow flame.
“We have ignition!” shouted Lubinin as the Intrepid started moving away.
For Iceberg, the vibration from the jerry-rigged engine imparted an almost sexual feeling of release. At last—at long last—he was on his way. Yet instinctively, he peered out the window—as if he might be able to see the American bogie that had been sent up from Vandenberg.
DAY 5, 1306 HOURS ZULU
THE KESTREL
Lamborghini had become mesmerized by the TID screen.
“How’s it lookin’?” asked Mad Dog.
“Thirty seconds,” came the clipped response, then, “Hold on a minute—what is this?”
“What is what?” demanded Monaghan.
Lamborghini blinked a few times to make sure he was seeing it correctly. “Mad Dog, I’m picking up a third radar signature.”
“What? A third signature?”
“Yeah, a third image,” replied Lamborghini. “It’s moving away from the other two and becoming more distinct. Its range is increasing . . . and it’s descending.”
“What about the other two?” asked Monaghan.
Lamborghini was flustered now. “Still stationary. The first Phoenix will impact in five seconds.”
DAY 5, 1306 HOURS ZULU
THE SOYUZ-INTREPID RENDEZVOUS
Yemitov’s blue eyes watched the Intrepid grow smaller and smaller in the distance. “We did it, Vasili! We did it!” cried the cosmonaut in exultation.
Lubinin was about to echo his compatriot’s excitement when, over Yemitov’s shoulder, he noticed a white flash in the distance. Puzzled, he pointed with his gloved hand. “Sergei . . . I saw something over there.”
Yemitov was turning to look behind him when the nearby Soyuz silently exploded in a burst of light, sending fragments spinning in all directions.
DAY 5, 1306 HOURS ZULU
THE KESTREL
“We have impact on one!” shouted Lamborghini. “And two!”
“What about the third one?” demanded Monaghan.
Lamborghini watched the screen. “It’s still there . . . range still increasing . . . and descending. I don’t understand. Where could it have come from?”
The answer was painfully simple. One of Lamborghini’s targets—which the $128 milli
on Phoenix-VII prototype had destroyed—was the spent launch shroud that had covered the Progress engine and mating collar while they were transported on the Russian cargo booster. After being jettisoned, the launch shroud had drifted a mile from the other two spacecraft—reflecting a lovely radar signature.
At the same time, the Soyuz was poised directly between the Kestrel and the Intrepid, where the butterfly solar panels of the Soviet spacecraft blocked Lamborghini’s radar sweeps before they could strike the American shuttle. When the Intrepid retrofired and moved out from behind the “mask” of the Soyuz, the Kestrel’s AWG-14 radar picked it up—too late to assign it as a target for the Phoenix missiles.
“Range still increasing.” Lamborghini was reluctant to admit what was coming into focus as the bitter truth. “Mad Dog . . . I think that’s Iceberg getting away.”
Monaghan didn’t even take time to think. With his four thousand hours in jet fighter aircraft and his Irish chromosomes, nothing but distilled instinct governed him now. He spat, “My ass!” then disengaged the autopilot from the fire-control computer and quickly flipped the Kestrel so it was traveling upside down and backward. He checked the attitude direction indicator to make sure his alignment was correct, then without hesitation he mashed the trigger button to fire the OMS engines.
As the spacecraft vibrated, Lamborghini shouted, “Mad Dog! What the hell are you doing?”
Monaghan felt himself sink into his seat as the braking action of the OMS engine took effect. “I’m going after that son of a bitch!”
DAY 5, 1300 HOURS ZULU, 5:00 P.M. LOCAL
On Glorious Wings Page 38
