Starfire

by Dale Brown

  As the spacecraft entered the upper atmosphere, the glow from friction burning the air changed colors until it became white-hot, and streams of superheated plasma trailed behind each vehicle. Tiny hydraulically controlled vanes and maneuvering thrusters on the tail of the OMV’s body helped the spacecraft make S-turns through the sky, which helped not only to increase the time they had to slow down through the sky but also to confuse any space tracking radars on their intended target. One of the steering vanes on the second OMV malfunctioned, sending it spinning wildly out of control, mostly burning up in the atmosphere, and what was left went crashing into the Siberian wilderness.

  At a hundred thousand feet altitude, the protective shrouds around the OMVs broke free, exposing a two-hundred-pound tungsten-carbide projectile with a millimeter-wave radar and imaging-infrared-seeker head in the nose. It followed steering signals from its weapon garage until the radar locked on to its target, then refined its aiming, comparing what it saw with its sensors with the target images stored in memory. It took only a fraction of a second, but the images matched and the warhead locked on to its target—the transporter-erector-launcher vehicle of an S-500S surface-to-air missile system. It struck the target, traveling almost ten thousand miles an hour. The warhead didn’t need an explosive warhead—hitting at that speed was akin to being armed with two thousand pounds of TNT, completely obliterating the launcher and everything else in a five-hundred-foot radius.

  “Target Golf-one destroyed, sir,” Christine reported moments later, her voice muted and hoarse—that was the first time she had destroyed anything in her entire life, let alone a fellow human being.

  “Good job,” Kai said stonily. “Trev, I want a two-person team to suit up and begin prebreathing, going on six-hour emergency standby duty. The rest of the off-duty crew can stand down from combat stations. Eyes and ears open, everybody—I think we’ll be busy. What’s the status of Starfire? How much longer?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Casey Huggins responded from the Skybolt module. “Maybe an hour, maybe two. I’m sorry, sir, but I just don’t know.”

  “As quickly as you can, Miss Huggins,” Kai said. He hit a button on his communications console. “General Sandstein, urgent.”

  THE KREMLIN

  MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  “Those American bastards struck my spaceport with a missile from space!” Zhou Qiang, president of the People’s Republic of China, thundered through the secure voice teleconference link. “I am going to order an immediate launch of a nuclear ballistic missile against Hawaii! If they kill a hundred Chinese, I am going to kill a million Americans!”

  “Calm yourself, Zhou,” Russian president Gennadiy Gryzlov said. “You know as well as I that if you launch an intercontinental ballistic missile, or anything that looks like one, anywhere near the United States or its possessions, they will retaliate with everything they have, against both our nations. They are on a hair trigger now, thanks to your attack on Guam.”

  “I do not care!” Zhou snapped. “They will regret the loss of one Chinese a thousand times, I swear it!”

  “My commanders on the ground say that your S-500S battery locked on to the space station with missile-guidance radar,” Gryzlov said. “Is that true?”

  “Then I suppose you know that the Americans locked on to the S-500 launcher with their microwave weapon?”

  “I know they scanned you with a simple synthetic-aperture radar, Zhou, the space-based radar mounted on the station itself,” Gryzlov said. “I have technicians and intelligence men on the ground there, remember? They know exactly what you were scanned with. It was not the directed-energy weapon. They obviously meant to goad you into responding, exactly like your stupid ill-trained men did.”

  “So are they now trying to goad us into widening the conflict, to turn it into a nuclear exchange?” Zhou asked. “If so, they are succeeding!”

  “Calm yourself, I said, Zhou,” Gryzlov repeated. “We will respond, but we must be patient and plan this out together.”

  “This is all because of your foolhardy attack on their spaceplane, is it not?” Zhou asked. “You tell me to be calm, but then you do an insane act like destroy one of their spaceplanes! We tracked those fighters and your antisatellite weapons. Who is the crazy one now? You want to prohibit unauthorized spacecraft from overflying Russia? That is even more crazy! What has gotten inside your head, Gryzlov? You are even more unstable than that idiot Truznyev before you.”

  “Do not talk to me about insane acts of war, Zhou!” Gryzlov retorted. “We are lucky we are not at war with the United States after that crazy General Zu attacked Guam!”

  “I could say the same about your father’s cruise-missile attack on the United States itself!” Zhou shot back. “Ten thousand, fifteen thousand Americans vaporized? One hundred thousand wounded? Your father was—”

  “Tread carefully, I warn you, Zhou,” Gryzlov spat menacingly. “Be careful of your next words if they even remotely concern my father.” There was complete silence on the other end. “Listen to me, Zhou. You know as well as I that the only American nonnuclear weapons that can reach our spaceports and other antisatellite launch sites are either cruise missiles launched from penetrating bombers or weapons launched from their military space station or weapon garages,” Gryzlov went on. “The military space station is the key because it controls all the weapon garages, uses its space-based radar for surveillance and targeting, and has the Skybolt laser, which is impossible to defend against. It must be disabled or destroyed before the Americans employ their weapons.”

  “Disabled? Destroyed? How?” Zhou asked.

  “We must pick the perfect time when the maximum number of Russia and China’s antisatellite weapons can launch simultaneously,” Gryzlov said. “The station has self-defense weapons, but if we can overwhelm them, we could succeed. My defense minister and chief of the general staff will inform me of when the American space station is in perfect position, and then we must attack at once. The station’s orbit is well known. They changed it recently for the Starfire microwave-laser test, and they may change it again, but we will watch and wait. When the orbit stabilizes, we attack with everything that is in range.

  “But I need your commitment, Zhou: when I say attack, we attack with every weapon in range, simultaneously,” Gryzlov went on. “That is the only way we can hope to disable or destroy the military space station so it cannot retaliate against us, because if it does, it can destroy any target on the planet at the speed of light.”

  There was a very long silence on the other end of the secure connection; then: “What is it you want, Gryzlov?”

  “I need the precise description, capabilities, status, and location of each and every antisatellite weapon system in your arsenal,” Gryzlov said, “including your antisatellite missile submarines. And I need to establish a direct secure connection to each site and submarine so I can launch a coordinated attack against the American military space station.”

  “Nĭ tā mā de fēngle?” Zhou shouted in the background. Gryzlov knew enough Chinese expletives to know he’d said “You fucking crazy?” From the interpreter, he instead haltingly heard, “The president strongly objects, sir.”

  “Russia has many more antisatellite weapons than China, Zhou—if I sent you a tiny bit of our data, you would be quickly overwhelmed,” Gryzlov said. “Besides, I do not think your military or your space technicians have the capability to coordinate the launch of dozens of interceptors spread out across thousands of miles belonging to two nations against a single spot in space. We are much more experienced in orbital mechanics than China.”

  “Why do I not just turn over all the launch codes to all of our nuclear ballistic missiles to you, Gryzlov?” Zhou asked derisively. “Either way, China is dead.”

  “Do not be a fool, Zhou,” Gryzlov said. “We have to act, and act quickly, before the Americans can place more weapon garages in orbit and reactivate the Skybolt laser, if that dri
vel about the college students’ microwave laser replacing the free-electron laser is to be believed. Give me that data—and it had better be accurate and authentic—and I will determine the exact moment when the maximum number of antisatellite weapons is in range to strike at Armstrong . . . and then we will attack.”

  “And then what, Gryzlov? Wait until American nuclear missiles rain down on our capitals?”

  “Kenneth Phoenix is a weakling, as are all American politicians,” Gryzlov spat. “He attacked that S-500 site knowing we would retaliate. The minute he fired that microwave laser from the station, he knew the station would become a target. He did both thinking we would not respond. Now I have responded by destroying his spaceplane, and he has a choice: risk intercontinental thermonuclear war over this, or forfeit the military space station for peace. He is predictable, cowardly, and sure to be emotionally crippled. He is nothing. There is no threat to either of our countries except nuclear war if Armstrong Space Station is destroyed, and I do not believe Phoenix or anyone in America has the stomach for any kind of war, let alone a nuclear war.”

  Zhou said nothing. Gryzlov waited a few moments, then said, “Decide now, Zhou, damn you! Decide!”

  TEN

  The God of War hates those who hesitate.

  —EURIPIDES

  IN EARTH ORBIT, THIRTY MILES FROM ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  From about a mile away, all Boomer and Ernesto could see was a dense cloud of white gas, as if a cumulus cloud had broken free of Earth’s atmosphere and decided to float around in Earth’s orbit. “Still can’t see anything, Armstrong,” Boomer reported. “Just a very large cloud of frozen fuel, oxidizer, and debris.”

  “Copy,” Kai replied. “Get as close as you can, but mind the fuel and oxidizer—don’t get close enough to ignite it. Even one spark of static electricity in that mess could set it off.”

  “Roger.”

  It took several minutes to close the gap, but the cloud still obscured the scene. “I’m about fifty yards away,” Boomer said. “This is about as close as I dare get. I can’t make anything out. Ernesto, you see anything in there?”

  “Negative,” Ernesto said. “It’s a pretty dense— Wait! I see it! I see the Midnight! It looks like the right wing and part of the tail have been torn off, but the fuselage and cockpit look intact!”

  “Thank God,” Boomer said. “I’m going over there to take a look.” He unstrapped and went back to the airlock. For a long-exposure spacewalk, in addition to wearing the EEAS for more protection against micrometeors and debris and for better temperature control, Boomer put on a lightweight unpressurized space suit resembling coveralls, then donned a large backpacklike device called a Primary Life Support System, or PLSS, and plugged his EEAS and environmental umbilicals into it. The backpack contained oxygen, power, carbon-dioxide scrubbers, environmental controls, communications gear, and a device called a “SAFER,” or Simplified Aid For EVA Rescue, which was a smaller version of the Manned Maneuvering Unit device, which allowed tethered and untethered astronauts to move unassisted in space. SAFER was only supposed to be used in an emergency, in order to return an untethered astronaut to the spacecraft—well, this was definitely an emergency. “How do you hear, Ernesto?” he radioed.

  “Loud and clear, Boomer.”

  “Cockpit hatch is secure,” Boomer said after checking the readouts. “Depressurizing the airlock now.” A few minutes later: “Opening cargo-bay hatch.” He unlocked and opened the hatch and stepped inside the cargo bay, secured himself with a tether, then closed and sealed the hatch behind him.

  The cargo bay was still mostly full, because they were carrying all of the supplies for the International Space Station and still had some untransferred supplies for Armstrong. Boomer brought out a one-hundred-yard length of cargo strap used for transferring items to a space station, made sure the end of the strap was secure to the spaceplane, attached the strap to a clip on his backpack harness, and unhooked himself from the cargo-bay tether. “Leaving cargo bay,” he reported, then maneuvered himself up and out of the cargo bay and headed for the Midnight spaceplane, the cargo strap unreeling itself behind him.

  A few minutes later he entered the fuel-oxidizer cloud—thankfully the jets on SAFER used inert gases for propulsion, so there was no danger of creating an explosion—and he could clearly see the spaceplane. The damage looked worse from up close, but the fuselage and cockpit looked intact. “I’m about twenty yards from Midnight,” Boomer reported. “I’m going in.” Using tiny puffs from SAFER, he moved in toward Midnight’s cockpit . . .

  . . . and through the cockpit canopy windows, he saw Jessica Faulkner and Vice President Ann Page, still seated, upright, and strapped in, heads bowed as if napping in an airliner seat, but not moving. “I see Gonzo and the vice president,” Boomer said. “They’re strapped in and upright. I can’t see if their eyes are open.” He took out a flashlight and tapped gently on the Midnight’s cockpit canopies—no response. “Their suits look undamaged, and I can see LEDs on their suits’ status panels—hot damn, they might be—”

  And just then, Vice President Ann Page raised her head, then her right hand, as if waving. “The vice president is alive!” Boomer said. “I think she’s waving at me!” He realized it could just be the motion of the spacecraft, but he had to cling to any drop of hope he possibly could. “Gonzo’s still not moving, but the vice president is conscious! Power is out. The airlock hatch and cockpit look secure—no sign of damage or decompression. We’ve got to get them back to station.”

  He floated above Midnight to look at the cargo bay. “The right side of the fuselage at the wing attach point looks badly damaged.” He maneuvered himself around to the right side of the cargo bay. “Shit,” he murmured a few moments later. “Looks like the passenger module was breached. Stand by. I’ll see if I can check the passengers.”

  Aboard Armstrong Space Station, Brad McLanahan held his breath. He knew Sondra was on that spaceplane and had switched to the passenger module to allow the vice president to ride in the cockpit.

  “Brad,” Jodie radioed from Cal Poly—no one on the Project Starfire team had left their station since Stacy Anne Barbeau’s explosive accusations. “I heard everything. Wasn’t . . . wasn’t your friend Sondra . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Brad said.

  “Prayers,” Jodie breathed.

  Boomer was able to look through the breach in the hull and passenger module. “There’s not enough room for me to get into the module,” he said. He shined his flashlight at Sondra and the Secret Service agent. “They are unconscious, but I see indicator lights on their suits’ status panel, and their visors are down and appear locked. We—”

  And at that moment, as Boomer swept his flashlight’s beam across her helmet visor, Sondra raised her head. Her eyes were open and wide with fear. “Holy shit, Sondra’s alive!” Boomer shouted. “The Secret Service agent is not moving, but as far as I can tell, her suit is intact! We might have four survivors here!”

  “Excellent!” Kai radioed. He and the rest of the crew had been watching Boomer’s progress on video and audio streamed back from cameras mounted on Boomer’s PLSS. “Get back here on the double. We’ll widen the breach to get into the passenger module, and then we can recover the passengers and then gain access to the cockpit through the airlock.”

  “Roger.” Boomer made his way to the front of the Midnight spaceplane, found a Reaction Control System nozzle on the nose, and hooked the cargo strap securely inside it. He then hooked a ring on his backpack harness to the strap and propelled himself back to the S-29 Shadow spaceplane, zip-lining down the strap. In minutes he was through the Shadow’s airlock, set the PLSS in its cradle to recharge and refill, and made his way back into the Shadow’s cockpit.

  “Nice job, comandante,” Ernesto said after Boomer had strapped in. They exchanged a fist bump. “Do you think we can get them out and transfer them to station, boss?”

  “Not sure,” Boomer said, t
aking a few moments to let his breathing and heartbeat start to return to normal. “The passenger module is definitely breached, but the cockpit looked intact. I saw LEDs on their suits, but I couldn’t tell if they were warning lights or what. We might be able to get messages to the vice president on how to open the airlock or cockpit canopies, and then we hope they can survive the transfer. Let’s get back to station.”

  It took them a half hour of careful maneuvering to tow the crippled S-19 Midnight spaceplane back to Armstrong Space Station. Crewmembers were already standing by with more cargo straps and cutters, and the remote manipulator arms were extended as far as they could to do whatever was necessary. Boomer docked the S-29 with the station.

  “Good job, Boomer,” Kai radioed as he studied the images of the stricken S-19 Midnight and the crewmembers working on gaining access to the passenger module. “I’ve ordered the S-29 refueled and as much cargo as possible unloaded. We can use one of the airlocks as a hyperbaric chamber. I’m going to have you and your MC stay with the spaceplane. We’ve got about three hours before we arrive at the next DB, so if you need to get out and use the ‘wicks,’ do it now.” Ernesto waved a hand, signaling that’s what he wanted. The “wicks,” or WCS, was the Waste Containment System, or space toilet, on Armstrong Space Station.

  “Roger,” Boomer said. “Which duck blind are we coming up on?”

  “The worst one,” Kai said. “Delta Bravo-One. Downtown. Right up the middle.” Boomer was very familiar with which ones they were: Moscow and St. Petersburg. They had overlapping kill circles from multiple antisatellite sites that extended coverage from the Barents Sea to the Gulf of Azov. “With the Russian Orbital Section detached and not having our own maneuvering module, we can’t reposition station for a less dangerous orbit.”