Orbital: This is the Future of War (Future War Book 3)

by FX Holden

Well, Kozytsin had delivered his report on the American attack to Bondarev and his officers and he’d kept his command and he planned to keep on keeping it. He’d doubled the personnel on the defensive weapons stations, which hadn’t been easy because he hadn’t had enough trained personnel to start with. But he’d had them pulling double shifts, the new recruits shadowing the older hands until he was confident they knew what they were doing and weren’t going to shoot down a passing Chinese satellite in a fit of rookie enthusiasm.

  Alexei Kozytsin was doing everything a modern leader of the Russian Space Command had been trained to do.

  He had them drilling their recognition of the X-37C and RAF Skylon – visual and electronic – until he was sure they saw and heard it in their sleep.

  He had his target acquisition, systems and comms, offensive and defensive weapons teams working one shift, running simulations the next, and sleeping the third. They got every fifth day off and worked nights every third five-day rotation.

  He had told his people why they were pulling extra duty, explaining that Russia’s newest and most devastating weapons system, on which they should be proud to serve, had been surveilled by British forces, and attacked by US forces. Cowards, afraid to take on their Grozas with ground-based weapons so that the whole world could see, they had tried to sneak up on them in the dark of space and they had been repelled.

  He didn’t want to make a hero of that upstart Corporal Khan, so he told his troops a version of the story in which Sergeant Karas was the hero, running into the command center at just the right moment to save their Groza from destruction by ordering his squad to engage the Americans even though they were beyond normal weapons range.

  He led by example, sitting side by side with his personnel as they worked through the long nights, staying with the next shift until well into the morning. He ate standing up, he wrote his duty logs standing up, and once or twice he’d even slept standing up.

  Which might explain why he was a little terse with Sergeant Karas, who was tactical commander for the target acquisition and weapons teams on this shift.

  “Why are you only reporting this now?” he asked him.

  Karas knew why. It was because his usual target acquisition and situational awareness lead was Corporal Khan, but now the lucky shit had somehow become the brown-eyed golden boy he had been pulled away on some junket to Moscow. The man he had in his chair instead today was not as sharp. “Sir, we only picked up the Skylon matching orbit with the X-37 about five minutes ago,” the man explained.

  “You were supposed to be coordinating with 821st Recon. And they are supposed to be tracking that Skylon from the moment it takes off to the moment it lands again,” Kozytsin complained.

  “Do they know that, sir?” Karas asked innocently. “Because we had no reports of it launching. I checked the latest intel report from the 821st on the Skylon and it said it had landed eight days ago and was expected to be undergoing a standard six-week refit before redeployment.

  Kozytsin swore. “Show me.”

  Karas leaned over his desk and punched a few keys to bring up a tactical screen on his monitor. It showed the position of the Groza in orbit and, relative to it, the trailing X-37, which had been sitting on it like a tick on a bull since their last contact. Too far out to regard as threatening, but too close for comfort.

  “Here,” Karas said, pointing to a third icon moving slowly across the screen. “It appears to be moving to a position where it can also match orbit. At the range it is keeping, my people think it is conducting a reconnaissance mission.”

  “That bloody X-37 has been trailing our Groza for days, you don’t think they have enough images yet?” Kozytsin asked.

  Karas shrugged. “Maybe the US is not sharing, so the British felt they should get a look at it themselves. The pattern is similar to the last encounter between the RAF Skylon and one of our Grozas. Could be they’re building a library of images?”

  “Or it could be the cavalry has arrived, as they say, and they plan to blow us out of the sky.” Kozytsin stood. “The Skylon can be fitted with space to space missiles, Sergeant. Order your men to junk their assumptions and prepare for an attack from two quarters. Defensive systems should plan to counter an attack from either laser or missiles or both. Order your offensive systems squad to get the Shakti online.”

  Karas blinked at him, not picking up the urgency in Kozytsin’s tone.

  “Now, man!” Kozytsin shouted.

  The Shakti kill vehicle deployed on the Groza was an export version of the Indian anti-satellite missile of the same name. Cylindrical in shape with vectoring thrusters situated around its base, it was mounted at the bottom of the Groza hub holding the tungsten warheads and had an advanced terminal guidance system which included an imaging infrared seeker and ring-laser gyroscopes for detecting and tracking its targets. Once fired, it directed itself to its target using solid propellant thrusters and destroyed its objective by ramming it at such speeds that if it struck an enemy satellite, the two objects behaved like fluids and the Shakti passed straight through its target, its fuel detonating as it did so, leaving nothing behind but two clouds of debris speeding in different directions.

  The US intelligence services knew Russia had sourced a number of Shakti kill vehicles from India and was trialing them atop its Nudol missile system. They did not know the Shakti had already been fitted to Groza.

  “Skylon, Bertha. We are ready to begin radiating,” O’Hare said over the interservice channel.

  “Bertha, Skylon. We are in position and clear to launch. Good luck, Captain,” Meany replied.

  Luck is for losers, mate, O’Hare nearly said out loud, then remembered Rodriguez was riding shotgun inside the virtual cockpit, and bit her tongue. The two attacking spacecraft were in position, and Meany had reported he was weapons hot and ready to engage as soon as Bertha locked the Groza on radar.

  “Light it up, Minnesota,” O’Hare said.

  “Locking target,” Albers said, hands flicking across his input panel. A tone sounded in the control center and he nodded. “Target locked, data streaming.”

  O’Hare had not planned to watch the engagement with Bertha just sitting still in space. (‘Still’ being a relative term when you were orbiting at 17,000 miles an hour. But if she wasn’t maneuvering, then it was a predictable orbit, which made her a sitting duck for an anti-sat missile.)

  “Lighting main thruster,” she told Albers, pushing forward on the main throttle with her left hand as her right hand sat loosely on the side-stick that controlled roll, yaw and pitch. She had the glass in front of her left eye showing a VR ‘cockpit’ style view of space ahead of Bertha that panned as she moved her head. Her longer vision was focused on the large panoramic cockpit display that showed avionics, mission and theater data, operational status, VR to 2D, and spacecraft parametric data. “Vectoring to…”

  “Thermal bloom,” Albers called out. “I’ve got a thermal bloom at the base of the hub, and it’s rising fast.”

  A hundred thoughts flashed through O’Hare’s mind. A sudden thermal bloom could mean an energy weapon powering up. Missile launch? Vectoring thrusters?

  “Skylon. Fire!” O’Hare said quickly. “Prepare for evasive action.”

  “Bertha, Skylon. Engaging,” Meany’s voice shot back immediately.

  Meany’s VR rig was not identical to O’Hare’s. His was a full-head helmet, and he had it set up to simulate a panoramic cockpit view across the width of the top half, and four systems and status screens across the bottom half that followed his view as he turned his head. Neither did he have manual flight controls. He was more like the commander on the bridge of a ship, shouting orders at his executive officer, who in this case was the AI with the Scottish brogue, Angus.

  Target locked, launcher powered and set to staggered volley, all systems nominal, ready to fire, the AI said in Meany’s ears.

  Meany blanked his VR vision and dropped into the real, turning his head to look quickly at Squadron Leader B
ear who was standing beside him. Bear simply nodded.

  Meany brought his screens up again. “Volley two, Angus. Reposition. Prepare to evade and re-engage.”

  Firing missiles.

  A half world away and 900 miles up in the sky, the RAF Skylon fired the first space-space missile ever fired in combat between nations. The box launcher for the Skylon’s advanced short-range multispectral seeker missiles extended out of its payload bay in the middle of the spacecraft ready to fire a broadside at the Groza. At Meany’s command, two missiles were punched mechanically from their tubes and then accelerated toward the Russian satellite fifty miles away. Immediately, the Skylon began moving to a new firing position in case a second volley was needed.

  A warning tone sounded and Angus’ voice filled the command center. Possible incoming missile. Target has deployed chaff and flare countermeasures and is maneuvering. Engaging evasion protocols.

  “Missile target?” Meany asked quickly.

  Skylon is the target, Angus confirmed. Twenty-three seconds to impact.

  “Missile launch from the Groza,” Albers called, his voice flat and even now. “Target is firing anti-radar, anti-laser chaff and flares. Target is maneuvering.”

  O’Hare had already seen it and reacted. The heat bloom at the base of the Groza’s cylindrical hub had risen in hue to iridescent green on her visor and a missile had blasted off from the main body of the satellite in a blaze of iridescent green. The Russians had mounted a missile inside the hub, and it had launched.

  It wasn’t aimed at Bertha.

  Her tac monitor showed two missiles arcing out from the Skylon, which was accelerating away from the Groza. And whatever the projectile was that had just been fired by the Groza was looping around on an intercept course for the Skylon.

  O’Hare knew exactly what she needed to do, and she knew she was not pilot enough to do it. No human was. She locked up the big Russian missile, quickly hit a two key combination on the keyboard in front of her to tell the combat AI what to do, and sat back in her seat, gripping the sides of the seat as though she was on a roller coaster ride.

  “AI has flight control,” she announced.

  “I’m locked out,” Albers said, turning to her. “Losing laser lock. Ma’am, what…”

  “Kamikaze code, Lieutenant,” she told him. “Something that saved my ass once before. We’ll see if it can save the Skylon now.”

  Rodriguez knew better than to second guess O’Hare, but unless she was very much mistaken, the pilot had just issued an order that would cost her B for Bertha.

  “Speak to me, O’Hare,” she ordered.

  “Ma’am, that projectile, whatever it is, is on an intercept course for the Skylon. There is zero chance they can evade it. And zero chance we can take down this Groza on our own. We were already accelerating. We can intercept that projectile before it reaches the Skylon.” O’Hare turned around. “We will lose Bertha, but the Skylon is still in play if we need a second volley of missiles to take the Groza down.” O’Hare held a hand over her keyboard. “I can still recall Bertha, ma’am, give me the word.”

  “Groza firing close-in weapons,” Albers announced. “We are being engaged by 30mm. It won’t tag us if we stay on this…”

  Rodriguez thought fast, took a deep breath and gripped O’Hare’s chair hard. “Stay with your call, Captain.”

  Nine seconds to incoming object impact. Space Force X-37 is maneuvering to intercept. Our missiles are tracking… Angus said, keeping up a running commentary.

  Which was necessary for Meany and Paddington because they didn’t know where to look.

  Their Skylon was extending away from the Groza, chased by the Russian missile or whatever it was, which was closing fast. There was no way they could evade it from a standing start. Their own missiles were headed for the Groza, which had fired clouds of reflective foil and iridescent flares to scatter the X-37’s laser and confuse any radar or infrared guidance. But Angus also had an optical lock on the huge Groza and the missiles were still tracking, not fooled by the Russian countermeasures. The Groza was vectoring too, pulling away behind the flimsy shield of the chaff clouds it had fired, trying to force his missiles to make course adjustments that would cost them precious fuel.

  It was a flat-out footrace between the British missiles and the Russian, the only question was whose would strike first. As though he was up there himself, Meany winced and prepared for his machine to go fatally dark.

  Then, from the side of his tac screen, he saw the icon for the X-37 suddenly appear, and curve toward the incoming Russian projectile.

  Although he was half a world away, the panoramic VR cockpit view made Meany feel like he was right there, like it was his life on the line, not just Angus. He stood up, his exoskeleton whirring with the sudden movement, forcing Paddington to step away in alarm.

  Enemy missile impact in five seconds… Angus said, calmly counting down to his own death.

  “Go, Bertha!” Meany yelled.

  Inside his helmet, Meany saw the flaming rockets of the Russian kill vehicle heading straight for him from his upper forward quarter. Turned. Saw the fast-moving white blur that was the US Space Force X-37 striking upwards from his lower rear quarter. Felt his stomach heave in sympathy with Angus as the AI fired all of its forward thrusters at the same time as it fired decoy flares in a desperate and completely futile attempt to trick the Russian missile into overshooting.

  Saw the US X-37 slam into the side of the Russian kill vehicle with a silently unreal violence that felt like it should have shaken his teeth from their sockets. Both vehicles dissolved into gaseous balls of fuel and a million shards of shrapnel, and Meany felt himself hunching his shoulders, expecting to see the Skylon fly straight through them until he remembered it had frantically reversed thrusters and was slowly gathering momentum away from the debris of the collision.

  Skylon missile one, detonation. Missile two still tracking. Missile two … detonation, Angus announced, reporting on the progress of their own attack, ignoring his own near death. Target hit.

  Meany spun his head around to where he last saw the Groza.

  On Cape Canaveral station, every screen in the X-37 virtual cockpit went blank and O’Hare ripped off her VR rig, snapping her fingers at Albers. “Pull up the feed from the Skylon.”

  He leaned forward, frantically hammering keys. They no longer had a direct data link between their X-37 and the Skylon, but they could pull data from a shared feed between Lossiemouth and the Cape that had been set up as a backup.

  A series of instrument and status screens came up first. O’Hare’s eyes scanned across them, saw they were still receiving data, real-time data.

  She raised a fist in the air. “Yes. They’re still in the fight!” she whooped. She punched Albers’ arm. “Bring up their virtual cockpit.”

  She and Albers had six multifunction screens on the panels in front of them, three in front of each officer, and they all wiped clean and then showed a panoramic view of what Meany was looking at, at that moment. O’Hare took it in at a glance and grabbed for her throat mike.

  “Skylon, Bertha. You still mission capable, Lieutenant?”

  Static came back, and then a strained voice. “All systems online. We were peppered with missile debris. No idea about external damage. But yes, Captain, we are still here, thanks to you.”

  “De nada. Give me a status on the Groza,” she said.

  “One missile was spoofed by countermeasures, one hit the main body of the Groza. We appear to have knocked it into an eccentric roll, but I can’t say we have successfully compromised its orbit.”

  “You are still tracking, still got a missile lock?” O’Hare asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  O’Hare flipped up her eyeglass and looked to Rodriguez for a steer.

  “Fire another salvo, Lieutenant,” Rodriguez said. “Send that thing to hell.”

  Karas was speaking in a loud panicked voice to his propulsion squad. “I want you to get that roll
back under control.” And to his defensive weapons team. “Status on the 30mm?”

  “One down, one still operational,” the corporal in charge reported.

  Dammit, Karas cursed to himself. If they hadn’t been engaging that crazy American spacecraft at the time, they could easily have taken down the incoming RAF missiles with their autocannons. With only one still operable, he doubted they could survive a second attack.

  “Where is the American?” Kozytsin demanded, confused by what had just happened. “What the hell is going on, Karas?”

  “Comrade Captain, the American was destroyed by the Shakti kill vehicle. We successfully decoyed one missile but took a hit from the other. I am assessing damage and trying to keep the satellite in orbit.”

  “The Skylon?” Kozytsin asked.

  “Appears undamaged. I expect it to attack again.”

  Kozytsin thought quickly. “Defensive systems?”

  Karas ran a finger across a screen in front of him. “Jamming online. Chaff and flare launchers online. Blinding laser offline. One 30mm offline, one online. But we’re in an uncontrollable roll and…”

  A corporal two rows of desks further down the control room raised two arms in the air. “We have stabilized the roll!”

  Karas looked at a situational screen. Yes, the Groza had stopped twisting on its long axis, but its gun was not in the right position relative to the Skylon. “Get that cannon oriented toward the enemy so we can get an infrared lock dammit,” Karas yelled at him.

  “Fire at long range, Sergeant,” Kozytsin said. “There’s no reason to let him sit still and take pot shots at us.”

  “Sir, I recommend we set the autocannon to close-in defense mode and attempt to engage incoming missiles, not waste ammunition on a long-range engagement with…”

  “You have only one cannon, Sergeant,” Kozytsin told him, almost hissing at him. “You aren’t going to intercept the enemy missiles. But you may be able to score a hit on that Skylon. All you need to do is chip a heat tile and we will never have to worry about it again.”