by Dale Brown
“I’ve got the aircraft.”
“You got the leopards. Ready anytime you are.”
“Here we go.” Patrick pressed the voice-command button: “Computer, orbital burn.”
“Ready for orbital burn, stop orbital burn,” the computer responded. “LPDRS engines reporting ready…engines firing in three, two, one, now.”
Patrick had steeled himself for the push, but he never expected the punch he received as the high-tech rocket engines fired off. Because there was less atmosphere to let airspeed build up more gradually as before, the shove was ten times worse than takeoff. Patrick used every ounce of strength he possessed to keep his legs and stomach taut, forcing every milliliter of blood to stay in the upper part of his body. Soon he found doing the H-maneuver wasn’t that necessary, because soon he had to pressure-breathe against the regulators forcing oxygen into his helmet—in a reversal of the normal breathing mechanism, he had to carefully sip the high-pressure oxygen into his lungs, then forcibly push carbon dioxide out. If he tried to breathe normally, the high-pressure oxygen would pop his lungs like overfilled balloons.
“General McLanahan.”
“I’m…okay…Boomer,” Patrick grunted. He strained to look out the side of the canopy toward Earth, but he couldn’t see anything, and the G-forces pressed painfully on his neck and vertebrae.
“Keep your head and back still, sir. The boost isn’t a good time for sight-seeing.”
“I figured that out real quick, Boomer.”
“Ninety seconds left. How are you doing?”
“O…kay.” Even saying one letter was difficult, like talking while facing into a hurricane. “No sw…” And then Patrick felt his chest shudder, and his vision tunneled and spun. He grunted out the bad air even harder, then had to fight to keep the pain down as he slowly, carefully let the high-pressure oxygen refill his lungs.
“General! Can you hear me?”
“R…og…er…”
“I’m going to cutoff…”
“No…no…keep…go…ing.” Patrick wasn’t sure if he meant it, but he did hear the words come out of his gritted teeth…and the pressure and the pain remained, so Noble must’ve heard him.
It seemed to take an hour, but in fact it was over in less than sixty seconds. Patrick barked out a breath, forgot to reverse-breathe, and was surprised when he took a deep breath and the pain didn’t come back. “Sta…station check,” he snapped.
“MC’s in the green, sir,” Boomer replied.
“AC’s in the green,” Patrick said before checking his oxygen, cockpit pressurization, and mission displays.
“That was a hairy one, sir,” Boomer said. “I hope it was worth it. Take a look.”
He looked…and he gasped in surprise despite himself. The horizon was no longer flat in any direction—it was all curvature now. Out the right side he could see all of the New England states and beyond almost to Nova Scotia, and out the left he thought he could see all of the Great Lakes to the very western tip of Lake Superior. The ground was sliding under them at an amazing speed. “Are we…?”
“Seventeen thousand one hundred miles an hour…Mach twenty-six point zero-two-one, altitude crept up a little to eighty-seven point eight-nine miles,” Boomer said. “Welcome to low Earth orbit. You’ve really earned your astronaut’s wings now.”
“How did I do?”
“A little worse than last time, although you kept on pressure-breathing—instead of screaming, you were grunting like Atlas lifting the weight of the world onto his shoulders,” Boomer said. Patrick silently thanked the aerospace medical and life support technicians for repeatedly drilling the pressure-breathing routine into him while preparing for this mission—he doubted he was lucid enough to consciously do the drill. “The G-forces hit hardest going from Mach fifteen to Mach twenty-six. Sit back and relax for a few minutes, sir, and then I’ll brief the re-entry procedures.”
The coast of Canada slid underneath them, and minutes later Greenland came into view. The scenery changed with amazing speed. It seemed every time Patrick did a computer check or read a procedure, then looked up again, he was in a completely new corner of the globe. He could see the southern coast of Ireland, with the British islands and the coast of Europe already in view on the horizon. He could see London, Brussels, Paris, and all the way to Hamburg to the north. Soon they were over Eastern Europe, with Moscow on the very horizon to the east and the Black Sea stretching out before them. “I’ll bet the Russkies don’t appreciate us flying over their territory like this,” Boomer said.
“Ask me if I care,” Patrick said. He motioned toward the horizon. “Ever get shot at, Boomer?”
“Shot at?” he asked. As if on cue, a warning tone blared and the computer reported, “SEARCH RADAR ACTIVE.” The computer did not identify the radar signal or even attempt to classify it except as a “search radar.”
“The Russians have a pretty good anti-ballistic missile base on the Kola Peninsula that has the capability of reaching us,” Patrick said. “The SA-21 ‘Boa’ missile is Russia’s version of our Ground-Based Interceptor—the ‘Star Wars’ missile defense anti-missile system. It’s supposed to be in initial deployment testing right…there.” He pointed at a spot on the ground. “It has a max altitude range of one hundred and twenty miles.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“You guys in Dreamland need to get more intelligence briefings before you take these things for a ride,” Patrick said. He pointed at the threat display on their computer screens. “Your software needs to be updated too—because I’ll bet that’s their ABM tracking radar we’re picking up. They’re tracking us and probably the Meteor as well.”
“I’ve flown this track at least three times and no one’s ever said anything to me!”
“That’s because no one officially knows what you’re doing,” Patrick said. “NORAD can see and track you of course, and they may even suspect you’re a Dreamland bird, but they’ll never start an inquiry except at the very highest levels, and it’ll stop right away once they confirm who you are. It’s up to you to get the intel you need.”
“Yes, sir,” Boomer said. “You get to feel pretty safe up here.”
“You can’t afford to—not in this day and age,” Patrick said. “I’ll start sending you a daily file on global threats, and I’ll get the techs at Air Intelligence Agency to get you the software to update your threat receiver. You may have to replan your missions accordingly, depending on the geopolitical situation.”
“We don’t need to get permission to fly in space over Russia—do we?”
“Legally space is open to all nations,” Patrick said. “Russia usually doesn’t squawk when a new spacecraft flies overhead—they would certainly like nothing more than to bring down an XR-A9, or at least study it—but since we can go in and out of orbit so easily, they may complain. If they complain loud enough, we’ll stop. Maybe.” Both crewmembers were on high alert for any sign of danger until they were well past the area.
Things were quiet for several minutes; soon, Patrick heard through his subcutaneous transceiver: “Luger to McLanahan.”
“Go ahead, Dave.”
“You received a ‘go.’”
“Roger that.” On intercom, McLanahan said, “Give me payload command, Boomer.”
Noble hit a key: “Transferring payload command, now. I’ve got flight command.”
“Thank you.” McLanahan’s multifunction displays now showed the status of the BDU-58 Meteor device. He hit a few keys, then casually announced, “I’m having a problem with the Meteor. It’s not responding to commands. Everything looks normal—relay network, datalink, orbital control computers—but it’s not responding.”
“Want me to look at it, General?” Boomer asked.
“I’ll give my command override one more try, then turn it over to you.” But a few moments later: “Still no good. I’ll take flight control, Boomer, and you take payload control. I’ve got the spacecraft.”
“You’ve
got the spacecraft.” Noble checked the payload control displays. Sure enough, the Meteor was just completing its deorbit push burn and was quickly losing altitude. He tried to command the device to stop its burn, translate around, and boost itself back to its correct orbit, but nothing happened. “No response,” he said dejectedly. “It almost looks like your command override is locking out any other attempts to change trajectory.”
“I know, but I never entered my override code,” Patrick said. “It already locked me out, and my code can’t override it.”
“I can try to recycle the payload control computers…”
“Go for it,” Patrick said. Noble switched off both payload control computers, then turned them back on again and let them boot up. As soon as they were back and running, Noble tried again. “The computers look like they’re fine, but your override command is still not letting any other commands to be entered. Should I try to have Elliott send an override command?”
“I already tried that, but let’s try it again now that we’ve recycled the computers,” Patrick said. But nothing happened. The master command code radioed from mission command at Elliott Air Force Base did no good.
“Looks like the master override command was received, but the payload command system is still locked up,” Noble said. He tried several more times but was still unsuccessful. “That’s a bummer, sir,” he said. “It’s coming down and there’s nothing we can do about it. Sorry about that.” He checked some more displays. “Looks like it’s going to hit in central Iran. That’s pretty uninhabited territory—I don’t think it’ll hurt anyone. The Iranians will probably find it, though.”
“If they do, all they’ll find are hunks of metal,” Patrick said woodenly. “You take flight control again and get us ready for deorbit and landing. I’ll report this incident to the Pentagon.”
“You got it, General,” Noble said, and he got to work on entering and checking the computer routine for deorbiting the spacecraft.
SOUTH-CENTRAL IRAN, NEAR ZARAND,
KERMĀN PROVINCE
THAT SAME TIME
“Ninety seconds to launch, sir,” the launch control officer announced. “Launch pads are clear. All weapons reporting fully functional.”
“Very well,” Brigadier-General Kamal Zhoram, commander of the Second Rocket Brigade of the Pasdaran-i-Engelab, or Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps, responded. He smiled and nodded resolutely as he monitored the pre-launch procedures from the command vehicle. Ever since taking command of this operational test unit, he had been driven to succeed, and his vision was finally taking shape. The Shahab series of ballistic missiles represented the cutting edge of Iranian military technology, even more than its fighter aircraft, air defense systems, and submarines. After years of pleading, arguing, and cajoling his superiors for additional funding, the fruits of his labor were ready to be demonstrated this morning.
This missile was the most advanced of the Shahab series now in operation: the Shahab-5, code-named “Takht,” or “throne.” The model being tested today was a three-stage rocket, with two liquid-fueled boosters stacked upon one another plus a small solid-motor third stage. Although Iran never officially discussed details about its military arsenal, when launch tests were scheduled the Shahab-5 was described as a space launch vehicle, and it certainly had the capability of placing a satellite into orbit. But more importantly it was also capable of carrying one thousand kilograms to any target in Israel, the Persian Gulf, half of Africa, most of Europe, and even western China. It was extremely accurate and reliable, thanks to improvements made over the original North Korean Taepodong-2 missile technology.
Although this was an above-ground pad launch, the other three mission-ready Shahab-5 missiles operated by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards arsenal were housed in below-ground hardened silos, which gave them added security and protection from attack…
…which was necessary, because the three ballistic missiles carried nuclear warheads. Iran had purchased Chinese 350-kiloton nuclear warheads from North Korea years ago, along with a variety of test rockets and anti-ship missiles, in exchange for generous oil and natural gas shipments, and had worked for over five years to fit the warheads on the North Korean–derived missiles. With today’s successful test—this missile carried two independently targeted dummy re-entry vehicles—Iran’s intermediate-range nuclear ballistic missile could be declared fully operational, making it the first Islamic country with a nuclear strike capability.
Zhoram glanced up at the last security zone report: it was ten minutes old. A good commando squad could move two kilometers in ten minutes—it was unacceptable. “I want all security zone officers to update their security status immediately.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Update guidance system alignment at zero minus sixty seconds.”
The clock ticked by—it seemed to get slower and slower every second. Finally: “Inertial measuring units updated, alignment is well within Class One tolerances.”
Zhoram went over to the guidance control officer’s console and hit the button that told the difference between the inertial navigation system’s position, heading, and velocity values versus those of the last fix—they were indeed well within tolerances. He checked the master target coordinates and verified them against the flight plan—good, all was in order.
His targets were sets of geographical coordinates in the northern Indian Ocean, about two thousand kilometers downrange. The target area was surrounded by Iranian patrol vessels and warships that would document the test package’s accuracy as well as to keep out any spy ships. But the general secretly hoped that an Israeli or American submarine or spy satellite would be on hand to witness the results of this important test flight, because he knew it was going to be a successful one—and then the world would know that Iran had a powerful, fast-response weapon that could threaten any enemy.
“Very well,” Zhoram said. “Prepare to release batteries on my order.”
There was a brief flurry of activity on another console as the master launch crew ran their checklists, then waited for ready indications from the individual controllers. Normally a Shahab-5 launched via commands issued from the master control vehicle, transmitted by radio with a hardwire fiber-optic cable backup, but each launcher was able to launch independently as well, and they had to be prepared to do so in an instant if communications were cut or jammed. Zhoram watched carefully, making sure all proper procedures were being followed. “Standing by, sir.”
“Send to all units, stand by for launch.” Zhoram picked up the phone datalinked directly via satellite to Pasdaran headquarters at Doshan Tappeh Air Base in Tehran. He listened for the encrypted satellite link to connect, then spoke: “Faraz, Faraz, this is Heydar, Sorush, I say again, Sorush.”
“Reza,” the reply came. “Reza. Acknowledge.”
“Heydar copies Reza,” Zhoram responded. “Out.” He turned to his command-post controller. “Send to all units…”
At that instant there was a loud “BANG!” like a car accident, but ten times as loud, reverberating the walls of the command vehicle. “Sir, lost connectivity with unit…!” There was another loud crunch of metal, followed by a tremendous explosion that shook the command vehicle on its tires.
“Stay at your posts!” Zhoram shouted. “Secure all systems and prepare to move immediately!” The general dashed out of the command vehicle, knowing that it was a violation of procedures to open the pressurized cab, but he had to see for himself what was going on. He stepped into the airlock, sealed the door behind him, donned a chemical weapon protective mask and gloves, un-dogged the outer door, and stepped out…
…into the midst of a raging inferno. The Shahab-5 missile launch pad to the northwest was ablaze, with thousands of liters of burning rocket fuel spreading quickly across the ground in all directions. He picked up the phone inside the airlock: “Move the command vehicle one kilometer to the northeast, and do it now, or you will all roast to death within sixty seconds. Go!” He sealed th
e outer door to the command cab and jumped clear of the vehicle just as the hydraulic legs began to retract.
How in hell could this happen? Zhoram shouted to himself. They were at least twenty kilometers from the nearest bit of civilization, and they had three hundred security personnel deployed all around this area. It was impossible for any commando to…
…and out of a corner of an eye, he saw it—a flash of dawn sunlight in the sky, directly overhead. He stood, transfixed, as his eyes scanned, then saw another glint of light, even closer this time…headed right for him.
The command vehicle had moved no more than fifty meters away when the object from the sky slammed into it, directly in the center. The metal top of the vehicle splintered and collapsed like balsa wood, then blasted straight up into the sky as the power transformers, backup batteries, and high-pressure air conditioning units inside ruptured and exploded. In seconds, huge belching streams of fire were gushing from the top and bottom of his command vehicle. As he watched, he saw several more objects hit the vehicles again, but of course by that time they were consumed by the immense fireballs that were once his rocket and command post.
They were under attack! Zhoram screamed at himself as he watched his launcher and command vehicles ablaze. Someone had launched some sort of precision-guided weapon at them from above that destroyed them almost instantly.
Realizing immediately that there was nothing he could do to rescue any of his comrades from the twin infernos, his thoughts turned to the investigation that he knew would commence within hours. No one was going to believe him when he reported that it was an attack—his superiors would argue that it was some sort of malfunction or error in pre-launch procedures. He knew better—but he had to do his best to convince his commanders of it. If he survived the inquisition and punishment phase that he knew was going to begin very soon, he vowed he would find out who carried out this attack from the sky, and do everything he could humanly do to avenge himself on him. God willing, he was going to make them pay…
