by Dale Brown
“Unfortunately I agree with Minister Hedrov, sir: nuclear weapons in space will not be seen as a defensive weapon by the world community,” Minister of National Defense Ostenkov said.
“The world community looks the other way and shuts its eyes and ears while the Americans orbit a nuclear reactor over their heads and fill the skies with satellites and spaceplanes — I really don’t give a shit about their opinions,” Zevitin said angrily. “The Americans can’t be allowed to freely go in and out of space as they please. Our mobile ground-based laser got one and almost got another of their spaceplanes — we almost took out their entire active fleet. If we can bring down whatever they have left, we can cripple their military space program and possibly give us a chance to catch up again.” He glared at Ostenkov. “Your job is to support the development and fielding of Fanar and Molnija, Ostenkov, not tell me what you think the world will say. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Ostenkov said. “The anti-satellite missile is ready for operational testing. It could be the most feared weapon in our arsenal since the Kh-90 hypersonic cruise missile which Gryzlov used successfully to attack the United States. It can be deployed quickly and easily anywhere in the world, faster than a spacecraft can be launched or repositioned in an orbit. We can transport Molnija anywhere and run only a small risk of discovery until it’s fired.”
“And then what?” Orlev asked. “The Americans will retaliate with everything they have. You know they consider space part of their sovereign territory.”
“That’s why we need to employ Fanar and Molnija carefully — very, very carefully,” Zevitin said. “Their usefulness as weapons depend more on quietly degrading the Americans’ space assets, not trying to outright destroy them. If it’s possible to make it look like their space station, spaceplanes, and satellites are unreliable or wasteful, the Americans will shut them down on their own. This is not an attack plan or a cat-and-mouse game — it’s a game of irritation, of quiet degradation and growing uncertainty. I want to bug the shit out of the Americans.”
“‘Bug the shit,’ sir?” Orlev asked. “What does this mean?”
“It means attack the Americans with mosquito bites, not swords,” Zevitin said in Russian this time, not realizing until just then that in his excitement he had switched to English again. “Americans have no tolerance for failure. If it doesn’t work, they’ll scrap it and replace it with something better, even if the malfunction is no fault of theirs. Not only will they scrap something that doesn’t work, but they’ll blame the failure on everyone else, waste billions of dollars indicting someone to take the blame, then spend billions more to try to come up with a solution that is oftentimes inferior to the first.” He smiled, then added, “And the key to this working is President Joseph Gardner.”
“Naturally, sir — he is the President of the United States,” Orlev remarked, confused.
“I’m not talking about the office, but of the man himself,” Zevitin said. “He may be the commander-in-chief of the most powerful military force in the world, but the thing he is not in command of is the most important path to success: control of himself.” He looked at the advisers around him and saw mostly blank expressions. “Thank you, all, thank you, that’s all for now,” he said dismissively, reaching for another cigarette.
Chief of Staff Orlev and Minister of Foreign Affairs Hedrov remained behind; Orlev didn’t even try to suggest to Hedrov that he and the president be allowed to talk privately. “Sir, my impression, one that I share, is that the staff is confused about your intentions,” Orlev said pointedly. “Half of them see you surrendering power to the Americans; the others think you are ready to start a war with them.”
“Good…that’s good,” Zevitin said, taking a deep drag of his cigarette, then exhaling noisily. “If my advisers leave my office guessing — especially in opposite directions — they don’t have an opportunity to formulate a counterstrategy. Besides, if they’re confused, the Americans certainly should be as well.” Orlev looked worried. “Peter, we can’t yet beat the Americans in a military confrontation — we’d bankrupt this country trying. But we have lots of opportunities to stand in opposition to them and deny them a victory. Gardner is the weak link. He needs to be niggled. Irritate him enough and he’ll turn on even his most trusted advisers and loyal countrymen.” Zevitin thought for a moment, then added, “He needs to be irritated right now. The attack on our fighter…he needs to know how angry we are that they downed our fighter with a low-yield nuclear device.”
“But…the fighter was not downed,” Orlev reminded him, “and the general said the weapon was not a nuclear T-Ray weapon, but a—”
“For God’s sake, Peter, we’re not going to tell the Americans what we know, but what we believe,” Zevitin said, irritation in his voice but a smile on his face. “My reports state that they shot down our fighter with a T-Ray nuclear device, without provocation. That is an act of war. Get Gardner on the phone immediately.”
“Should Minister Hedrov make contact and—?”
“No, I will make the protest directly with Gardner,” Zevitin said. Orlev nodded and picked up the phone on Zevitin’s desk. “Not the regular phone, Peter. Use the ‘hot line.’ Voice and data both.” The emergency “hot line” between Washington and Moscow had been upgraded after the conflicts of 2004 to allow voice, data, and video communications between the two capitals, as well as teletype and facsimile, and also allowed for more satellite circuits that gave the leaders easier access to one another. “Minister Hedrov, you will file a formal complaint with the United Nations Security Council and the American State Department as well. And I want every media outlet on the planet given a report of the incident immediately.”
Orlev made the call to the foreign ministry first, then contacted the Kremlin signal officer to open the “hot line” for the president. “Sir, this could backfire,” Orlev warned as he waited for the connection. “Our pilot certainly initiated the attack by firing on the American bomber—”
“But only after the bomber launched their hypersonic missile,” Zevitin said. “That missile could’ve been headed anywhere. The Americans were clearly the aggressors. The pilot was fully justified in firing his missiles. It turns out he was correct, because the missile the Americans fired into Tehran carried a chemical warhead.”
“But—”
“The first reports may be proved inaccurate, Peter,” Zevitin said, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t protest this incident now. I believe Gardner will act first and then check out the facts. You wait and see.”
Alexandra Hedrov looked at Zevitin silently for a long moment; then: “What is this all about, Leonid? Do you just want to harass Gardner? What for? He is not worth the effort. He will more likely self-destruct without you constantly…how did you say, ‘niggled’ him. And certainly you cannot want Russia to align with and support the Iranians. As I said before, they are just as likely to turn on us after they retake their country.”
“This has absolutely nothing to do with Iran, Alexandra, and everything to do with Russia,” Zevitin said. “Russia will not be encircled and isolated any longer. Gryzlov was a megalomaniac, sure, but because of his insane ideas Russia was feared once more. But in their absolute fear, or pity, the world began to give the United States all it wanted, and that was to encircle and try to squash Russia again. I will not allow that to happen.”
“But how will deploying these anti-spacecraft weapons accomplish this?”
“You don’t understand, Alexandra — threatening war against the Americans will only serve to increase their resolve,” Zevitin explained. “Even a spineless fop like Gardner will fight if his back is forced against the wall — at the very least, he’ll turn his junkyard dog McLanahan loose on us, as much as he resents his power and determination.
“No, we must make the Americans themselves believe they are weak, that they must cooperate and negotiate with Russia to avoid war and disaster,” Zevitin went on. “Gardner’s hatred — and fear — of McLanahan is
the key. To make himself look like the brave leader he can never be, I’m hoping Gardner will sacrifice his greatest general, dismantle his most advanced weapon systems, and retreat from important alliances and defensive commitments, all on the altar of international cooperation and world peace.”
“But why? To what end, Mr. President? Why risk war with the Americans like this?”
“Because I won’t stand to see Russia encircled,” Zevitin said sharply. “Just look at a damned map, Minister! Every former Warsaw Pact country is a member of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization; almost every former Soviet republic has a NATO or American base of some kind on it.”
Zevitin went to light up another cigarette, but threw them across his desk in blind anger. “We are wealthy beyond the dreams of our fathers, Alexandra, and yet we can’t spit without the Americans complaining, measuring, analyzing, or intercepting it,” he cried. “If I wake up and see that damned space station shooting across the sky—my Russian sky! — once more, I am going to scream! And if I see another youngster on the streets of Moscow watching an American TV show or listening to Western music because he or she has free Internet access courtesy of the American domination of space, I will kill someone! No more! No more! Russia will not be encircled, and we will not be smothered into submission by their space toys!
“I want Russian skies cleared of American spacecraft, and I want our airwaves cleansed of American transmissions, and I don’t care if I have to start a war in Iran, Turkmenistan, Europe, or in space to do it!”
ABOARD ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
A SHORT TIME LATER
“Stud Zero-Seven is ready to depart, sir,” Master Sergeant Lukas reported.
“Thanks, Master Sergeant,” Patrick McLanahan responded. He flipped a switch on his console: “Have a good trip home, Boomer. Let me know how the module release experiments and new re-entry procedure works.”
“Will do, sir,” Hunter Noble responded. “Feels weird not having you on board flying the jet.”
“At least you get to pilot it this time, right?”
“I had to arm-wrestle Frenchy for it, and it was close — but yes, I won,” Boomer said. He got an exasperated glance in his rear-cockpit camera from U.S. Navy Lieutenant Commander Lisette “Frenchy” Moulain, an experienced F/A-18 Hornet combat pilot and NASA space shuttle mission commander and pilot. She had recently qualified to be spacecraft commander of the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane and was always looking for another chance to pilot the bird, but none of her arguments worked this time on Boomer. When Patrick flew to and from the station — which was quite often recently — he usually picked Boomer to be his backseater.
Minutes later the Black Stallion detached from the docking bay aboard Armstrong Space Station, and Boomer carefully maneuvered the craft away from the station. When they were far enough away, he maneuvered into retrorocket firing position, flying tailfirst. “Countdown checklists complete, we’re in the final automatic countdown hold,” he announced over intercom. “We’re about six hundred miles to touchdown. Ready for this one, Frenchy?”
“I’ve already reported my checklists are complete, Captain,” Moulain responded.
Boomer rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “Frenchy, when we get back home, we need to sit down at a nice bar somewhere on the Strip, have an expensive champagne drink, and talk about your attitude — toward me, toward the service, toward life.”
“Captain, you know very well that I’m engaged, I don’t drink, and I love my work and my life,” Moulain said in that same grinding hair-pulling monotone that Boomer absolutely hated. “I might also add, if you haven’t realized it by now, that I hate that call-sign, and I don’t particularly care for you, so even if I was unattached, drank alcohol, and you were the last man on earth with the biggest cock and longest tongue this side of Vegas, I wouldn’t be seen dead in a bar or anywhere else with you.”
“Ouch, Frenchy. That’s harsh.”
“I think you’re an outstanding spacecraft commander and engineer and a competent test pilot,” she added, “but I find you a disgrace to the uniform and I often wonder why you are still at Dreamland and still a member of the United States Air Force. I think your skill as an engineer seems to overshadow the partying, hanging out at casinos, and the constant stream of women in and out of your life — mostly out—and frankly I resent that.”
“Don’t hold back, Commander. Tell me how you really feel.”
“Now when I report ‘checklist complete,’ Captain, as you fully well know, that indicates that my station is squared away, that I have examined and checked everything I can in your station and the rest of the craft and found it optimal, and that I am prepared for the next evolution.”
“Oooh. I love it when you talk Navy talk. ‘Squared away’ and ‘evolution’ sound so nautical. Kinda kinky too, coming from a woman.”
“You know, Captain, I put up with your nonsense because you’re Air Force and this is an Air Force unit, and I know Air Force officers always act casually around each other, even if there’s a great difference in rank,” Moulain pointed out. “You’re also the spacecraft commander, which puts you in charge despite the fact that I outrank you. So I’m going to ignore your sexist remarks during this mission. But it certainly doesn’t change my opinion of you as a person and as an Air Force officer — in fact, it verifies it.”
“Sorry. I didn’t catch all that. I was busy sticking pencils in my ears to keep from listening to you.”
“Can we follow the test flight plan and just do this, Captain, without all the male macho bullshit nonsense? We’re already thirty seconds past the planned commencement time.”
“All right, all right, Frenchy,” Boomer said. “I was just trying to act like we’re part of a crew and not serving on separate decks of a ship in the nineteenth-century Navy. Pardon me for trying.” He pressed a control stud on his flight control stick. “Get me out of this, Stud Seven. Begin powered descent.”
“Commencing powered descent, stop powered descent…” When the computer did not receive a countermanding order, it began: “Commencing deorbit burn in three, two, one, now.” The Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System engines, or LPDRS, pronounced “leopards,” activated and went to full power. Burning JP-7 jet fuel and hydrogen peroxide oxidizer with other chemicals and superheated pulses from lasers to increase the specific impulse, the Black Stallion’s four LPDRS engines produced twice as much thrust as all of the engines aboard the space shuttle orbiters combined.
As the spacecraft slowed, it began to descend. Normally at a certain velocity Boomer would shut down the main engines and then turn the spacecraft using its thrusters to a forward-flying nose-high attitude and prepare for “entry interface,” or the first encounter with the atmosphere, and then use aerobraking — scraping the shielded underside against the atmosphere — to slow down for landing. This time, however, Boomer kept it flying tailfirst and the LPDRS engines running at full power.
Most spacecraft could not do this for long because they didn’t carry enough fuel, but the Black Stallion spaceplane was different: because it refueled while on Armstrong Space Station, it had as much fuel as it would have when blasting into orbit, which meant it could keep its engines running for much longer periods during re-entry. Although aerobraking was much more fuel-efficient, it had its own set of hazards — namely, the intense heat of friction that built up on the underside of the spacecraft — so the crew was trying a different re-entry method.
As the Black Stallion slowed even more, the descent angle got steeper, until it seemed as if they were pointed straight up. The flight and engine control computers adjusted power to maintain a steady 3-G deceleration force. “I hate to ask,” Boomer grunted through the G-forces pressing his body back into his seat, “but how are you doing back there, Frenchy? Still optimal?”
“In the green, Captain,” Frenchy responded, forcing her breath through constricted throat muscles in order to keep her abdominal muscles tight, which increased blood pressure in her h
ead. “All systems in the green, station check complete.”
“A very squared-away report, thank you, M. Moulain,” Boomer said. “I’m optimal up here too.”
Passing through Mach 5, or five times the speed of sound, and just before reaching the atmosphere at approximately sixty miles’ altitude, Boomer said, “Ready to initiate payload separation.” His voice was much more serious now because this was a much more critical phase of the mission.
“Roger, payload separation coming up…program initiated,” Moulain responded. The cargo bay doors on top of the Black Stallion’s fuselage opened, and powerful thrusters pushed a BDU-58 container out of the bay. The BDU-58 “Meteor” container was designed to protect up to four thousand pounds of payload as it descended through the atmosphere. Once through the atmosphere the Meteor could glide up to three hundred miles to a landing spot, or release its payload before impacting the ground.
This mission was designed to show that the Black Stallion spaceplanes could quickly and accurately insert a long-duration reconnaissance aircraft anywhere on planet Earth. The Meteor would release a single AQ-11 Night Owl unmanned reconnaissance aircraft about thirty thousand feet altitude near the Iran-Afghanistan border. For the next month, the Night Owl would monitor the area with imaging infrared and millimeter-wave radars for signs of Muslim insurgents crossing the border, or Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps or al-Quds convoys smuggling in weapons or supplies from neighboring countries.
After the Meteor container was away, Boomer and Frenchy continued their powered descent. The atmosphere made the spaceplane slow down much more quickly, and soon the LPDRS engines were throttling back to maintain the maximum 3-G deceleration. “Hull temperatures well within the green,” Moulain reported. “I sure like these powered descents.”
Boomer fought off the G-forces, reached out, and patted the top of the instrument panel. “Good spaceship, nice spaceship,” he cooed lovingly. “She likes these powered descents too — all that heat on the belly is not nice, is it, sweetie? Did I tell you, Frenchy, that those ‘leopards’ engines were my idea?”
