by FX Holden
She thought of Kennedy-Canaveral as a lioness would think of a nest of snakes it found hatching near her cubs. She wanted to crush it, to mangle it, to smash it out of existence.
She would soon hear whether she’d managed to do so.
In fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds.
Groza 4 initiating maneuver; we are fifteen minutes twenty-two seconds from release point, the simulation AI said in the virtual control room at Titov.
Maqsud Khan had moved into the second phase of the simulation cycle that Chief Scientist Grahkovsky had assigned him. Now the simulation AI was assuming the roles of systems, weapons and propulsion operator for the simulation of a full strike on Kennedy-Canaveral. These roles would usually be carried out by the other squads on a Groza shift, but Khan had always known that one day, all those bodies would be replaced by AIs. It was just a matter of when, and it made sense of course that at Titov they were already simulating that future reality.
He checked his watch. He had found the solution to the challenge of targeting Kennedy-Canaveral. The problem was the margin of error introduced by launching on the target from the standard Groza 4 orbit over the US East Coast, which was not optimized for a specific strike on the space complex. But by adjusting the orbit to take the Groza directly over Florida he could dramatically increase precision. It was not something he would get permission to do in real life, as by prioritizing the strike on Kennedy-Canaveral he was sub-optimizing the targeting of other potential targets. But he’d had to find a way to beat that witch Grahkovsky somehow. Now his simulated Groza was closing on Kennedy-Canaveral from a distance of … he checked quickly … 1,419 miles … which it would cover in just under 12 minutes, arriving over the space complex at 1538 in the afternoon.
“Target acquired,” Maqsud said into his headset. “Groza 4 on new track, orbit is stable and weapons are online. Groza system locked, coordinates entered and system is ready to fire. Fire order is full salvo. Weapons status please…”
Full salvo programmed, the AI responded. Groza 4 armed, spinning up.
“Systems check…” Maqsud intoned, trying for fun to imitate the gravelly bass voice of Sergeant Karas, but not really succeeding.
Hub green. Re-entry vehicles green. Tether locks green. No optical or electronic jamming detected. Systems go for release, the AI reported.
Maqsud had worked all through the night, tweaking and recalculating the strike footprint for this simulation. At first it seemed to him he had made little difference, reducing the number of projected dead by 720 and injured by one thousand three hundred. But then he told himself, every single one of those notional people could theoretically be a mother, with a child waiting at home. And one day his calculations might be used in a real attack. The thought was enough to keep him working until he was sure he could optimize it no further.
He set himself the goal of achieving the best possible combination of target destruction with the lowest possible loss of non-core civilian life. Grahkovsky had been right about Maqsud’s ability to shift his moral boundaries. He’d solved the challenge the witch had set him by subdividing the human capital at the space complexes into two categories – core and non-core. Core were the engineers, ground staff, scientists and military personnel, and buildings directly related to space operations. Non-core were purely civilian or administrative buildings and personnel such as those who worked in museums, libraries and administrative functions. The GRU data he had access to was specific enough that it allowed him to assign a core/non-core category to every single building in the Kennedy-Canaveral complexes and then optimize the strike footprint accordingly.
He knew it was a little like wielding a sledgehammer and trying to be precise about hitting a nail, but he had done the best he could.
“You are clear to fire when in range,” Maqsud told the AI, and lifted a pencil above a pad of paper, ready to start writing down casualty figures.
Theoretical casualty figures. From a single, simulated strike, of course.
Inside the mission center at the Xichang 27th Test and Training Base, Major Fan Bo watched the launch of the target Groza alter orbit with consternation. He had put his assets in place for a perfect interception of the Groza, and a masterful demonstration to the Americans of the capabilities of the Mao Bei weapons platform, and now … now all that work was possibly wasted. Wasted!
He had taken the data provided by the Americans and fed it into China’s own surveillance network, moving a Yaogan spy satellite into an orbit that would allow it to track the Groza orbiting over the East Coast of the USA. It had obtained a good lock on the Groza via its electronic signal radiation signature and Bo had ordered his team to bring a Mao Bei 1.4 five-satellite swarm into position ahead of and parallel with the Groza.
But Mao Bei was made to lie in wait for its prey, like a trapdoor spider. It did not chase it like a farmer chasing a chicken. He picked up his comms handset and made a call he knew he would not enjoy.
“Comrade Colonel, this is Major Fan from Xichang,” he said. “Mao Bei satellites are in position, but the target is adjusting orbit. The attack window has been lost, sir.” He listened, and then straightened. “Yes, Colonel.”
Putting the phone down quickly, he snapped his hands behind his back and addressed the room, showing none of the emotion he was feeling. “Stand down!” He clicked his fingers toward his mission comms commander. “Get me a translator link to the American Colonel.”
Ambre watched carefully as the Russian, Sergei Grahkovsky, went through the shoulder bag she’d brought with her from the office. She’d gotten beyond fear, beyond terror. She’d tried begging to see Soshane. She’d tried crying. Now, she was burning with anger. This guy was keeping her from her daughter. Soshane was somewhere in some dark office out back, drugged, oblivious. She had to get to her.
“Ambre Duchamp,” Sergei said, turning her driver’s license over in his hand. “Wow, you got a self-drive permit? Don’t see many of those where I come from.” He put her license back in her purse, closed it and put it back in her bag. “Nice name, Ambre. Is it French? You from New Orleans or something?”
Should she reply? She was in no mood for small talk with a killer. “What did you mean, the end of the world?”
“No, no, no,” he said. “That’s not how this works Ambre.” He dropped her bag on the floor and leaned forward in his chair. “I ask you something, you answer me. And then you get to ask something, and I answer. Conversation, chit and chat, okay?”
Oh, God. He was crazy. But if she kept him talking, maybe someone would come. The whole station should be in lockdown by now. How long had passed since they left to pick this guy up? An hour? Two? The Cape Canaveral Station was huge, thousands of visitors, hundreds of personnel, staff of civilian operations like SpaceX, dozens of buildings, big and small … but a Defender, patrol car and two civilians missing? Security Force must be out in strength, searching every damn building. She looked down and saw she was still wearing her staff ID badge. It was chipped. Didn’t the patrol cars have GPS chips on them too? He’d sounded like some kind of hacker, the way he talked about killing the CCTV feed. Could he have disabled the GPS locator system too?
Keep the guy talking. She could do that.
“OK,” she said. “Yeah, my ma was from New Orleans. Her grandma was called Ambre. It’s French for Amber.”
“Amber, I like that better,” Grahkovsky said. “More American. Can I call you Amber?”
“You can call me what you like, Sergei,” Ambre said, unable to contain herself. “Sergei? Is that Russian for jerkoff?”
Grahkovsky just smiled. “Was that your question? Or do you want me to answer the first one, about the end of the world?”
She just glared at him so he settled back in the chair. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a bonus round and answer both. Sergei means ‘protector,’ not jerkoff. Ironic, right?” He laughed. “You have no idea how ironic. The other one, well, I don’t mean the actual end of the whole world.” He looked aroun
d the inside of the fire station parking bay. “Just this part of it.” He looked at his watch. “In about twelve minutes to be precise.”
As he spoke, a klaxon sounded outside. Not just one. Several. Ambre’s head jerked up. She’d heard it before during drills. It was the alarm that sounded when there was a terrorist incident; an ‘active shooter.’ The klaxons kept blaring. She could imagine the scene outside, people looking up in confusion and fear. The attack at Kennedy a couple years ago fresh in their minds. Entrance and exit doors across the station would be automatically closing as the station went into lockdown. No one in, no one out. First responders including Verge’s Defenders, hitting their vehicles, rushing to the scene of … whatever it was.
“Hear that? You don’t have six minutes, Sergei,” Ambre spat. “That’s because of you. You’ve probably got about two minutes before a special operations team busts through that door and shoots you dead. Stick your head outside, why don’t you? The street is probably full of cops, and they’ll all be looking for you.”
“Good. Now we’re talking,” Grahkovsky said. He stood and walked behind her again and returned carrying a tablet. He sat down again, turned it on, and tapped the screen. “You mean this street?” He turned the screen around to face her so she could see a view down Scrub Jay Road. He tapped again, flipping the view to the Industrial Road crossroads and showed her. “While you were asleep I put my own cameras up outside, so we could watch the show.” Ambre’s eyes fixed on the view out the side of the building. Scrub Jay, no doubt about it. As she watched, two civilians ran past on foot, and then a fire truck sped through the intersection, followed by a Security Force patrol car. They didn’t stop.
“Don’t worry about the ‘active shooter,’ there isn’t one,” Grahkovsky said, turning the tablet back toward himself and tapping the screen again to shut the tablet off. “Right now there are about 15,000 personnel and 5,000 visitors across Kennedy Space Center and Cape Canaveral Station locked inside their offices and labs and workshops. Waiting for someone to decide what the hell is going on and get them out or call it a false alarm and let them get back to work. Twenty thousand contractors and visitors, looking out windows, wondering what the hell is happening.” He grinned. “She said it would work, and it is. I wish I had a camera inside your Security Force HQ. They must be going, how do you say, ape shit? Alarms screaming and no way to find out why or even turn them off once they realize it’s a false alarm.” He tapped his fingers on the tablet in his lap, and smiled. “So I’m pretty sure that looking for you, me and a missing cop is the least of their worries right now.”
“You did this?” she asked, aghast. “Why?”
“Nuh uh,” he said, wagging a finger at her. “It’s my turn to ask. Let’s change the subject to something more personal.” He settled back on the chair, hands behind his head. “You know, I never went to Disneyland? I was going to go there tomorrow, but now I never will. What’s top of your bucket list, Amber?”
Ambre didn’t feel like playing his game. Her head fell back against the pole behind her and she stared up at the ceiling as the klaxons kept wailing. If he was telling the truth, no one was coming. He was right – the standard procedure during a critical incident with an active shooter was for military personnel to hit their emergency stations and for civilians to remain in their buildings, under lockdown. The Security Force would be trying to identify the source of the alarm, scouring the base to work out if it was real or false, and they’d be taking it seriously with a Defender already missing.
No one was coming for her.
When she didn’t answer, he crossed a leg and continued conversationally, “No, I didn’t do this,” he chuckled. “My sister did: my very clever, very resourceful sister. She has been planning this a long time. She persuaded a Cyberwarfare coder to make the code I used to trip the terrorist alarms. And she made this herself, at home, in her kitchen.” He held up the pump spray bottle Ambre had briefly glimpsed in his hand before she was knocked out. The label said, ‘Hand Sanitizer.’ “I tried it on a stray cat. It’s good stuff. Anything she does, my sister, she does well.”
Ambre looked at him blankly. What should she say? Did he expect sympathy? “Please, my daughter…”
He put the spray bottle down by his feet but didn’t move from his chair. “Family is important, no? I would do anything for my sister. I nearly killed her, you know.” His face contorted. “If I had stayed home like I was supposed to, got her up earlier for breakfast, she wouldn’t have been sitting at the window. If I had come home earlier from school, found her earlier, they might have been able to save her eyesight.”
Ambre had no idea what he was rambling about.
“All my life, every time I look at her, I see what I did,” he said. “Now, she has asked me this special favor. It is my absolution, yes? You know that word?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t understand,” Ambre said, speaking softly and slowly. “I just want to see my baby.”
He looked at his watch again, and cocked an ear as though listening to the blare of the klaxons outside. “You will know what I mean. In about … five … minutes.”
“What the hell is that noise?!” O’Hare said, ripping her VR headset from her head.
Albers did the same. Outside, all hell was breaking loose. They heard klaxons sounding, raised voices, feet running.
Severin came bursting through the door. “Active shooter!” he called. O’Hare rose. “No, you two stay put until we know what it is. We’ve got armed security on the doors…” He pulled out his cell phone. “I need to get…” Then he stared at it, fumbled with the screen and cursed. “Network is jammed, dammit…”
O’Hare was pulling her VR headset back on and indicated to Albers to do the same. “This is NOT a coincidence,” she muttered, pulling her virtual instruments back up. “Lieutenant Albers, we still online to Skylon?”
“Yes, ma’am. We are moving back to our previous holding position.”
“Noted.” O’Hare keyed the channel to her CO. “Colonel, Bertha 2. We are showing the target is maneuvering to a new orbit. We need an estimate from NORAD as soon as they have a track they can predict…”
Rodriguez’s voice came over the speakers in the control center. “Bertha 2, I was just about to page you. NORAD has already done the analysis. The target is now headed directly for this facility. We are expecting a strike. I’ve just been on the line with the Chinese commander. They are now out of position to intercept. If the Skylon cannot engage, you must do so. Patching intercept coordinates through now, initiate immediate full burn.”
“Ma’am, the active shooter alert…”
“Let the Defenders worry about that. It’s too late to evacuate the base anyway, the thing will be in range in a matter of minutes.”
Data flowed across a tactical screen and Albers quickly did the math as O’Hare watched the distance between them and the target increase.
He put his hand over his headset mike. “It’s going to be close. And to reach the Groza, we will have to deal with that Shakti…”
O’Hare punched in the intercept coordinates and firewalled her throttle with a grimace. “Don’t give me problems, Lieutenant, give me solutions.”
“No Chinese attack,” Meany frowned, looking at the data showing the Groza was on the move and was still radiating signals energy. He opened a channel to Paddington in the Lossiemouth situation room. “Colonel Rodriguez, are you seeing this? That Groza appears to be maneuvering to a new orbit, and I see no Chinese…”
“Skylon, Bertha 2, sending you new targeting data.” O’Hare broke in before Paddington could answer. “That Groza is moving in on Kennedy-Canaveral. We may also have a terrorist attack underway. All hell is breaking loose here, Flight Lieutenant, let me know if you can make the intercept.”
Before he could react, an alert sounded in his helmet. Missile alert. Missile alert, initiating evasion protocols.
His VR view out of the virtual cockpit of the Skylon canted radically
as Angus automatically spun the Skylon 180 degrees and pointed it away from the Groza again.
“Angus!” Meany yelled. “What’s happening?”
The Shakti kill vehicle is again on an intercept trajectory for this spacecraft, Angus said.
Meany thought fast. He furiously plugged the data O’Hare had just sent him into his nav system and plotted an intercept. It would be close. “Angus, ignore the Russian attack. New target. Maneuver to intercept.” Meany hit his local comms channel again. “Colonel Paddington, do you concur?”
Bear’s voice in his ears said simply, “I concur, pilot.”
“Angus, execute.”
The VR cockpit view canted wildly again as the Skylon slewed onto a new heading at full boost.
Angus’ voice was preternaturally calm. Course correction initiated. I estimate we will reach optimal missile range two minutes before the target reaches the Florida coast. But to do so, we will need to deplete main booster fuel reserves to below bingo fuel state. I also estimate a 92 percent likelihood that the Shakti kill vehicle will be able to intercept us before we reach optimal missile range.
Chaos lived in the spaces between Angus’ words. In space, a missile theoretically had unlimited range. But it needed fuel to maneuver and every small course correction had a cost. That cost was as relevant for the Shakti arrowing in at them as for his chances of knocking the Groza out. He needed to get his Skylon within optimal range so that if the Groza changed course again, his missiles would have fuel enough to correct their trajectory. He needed to hope that O’Hare could intercept the Shakti before it hit the Skylon. And in making the intercept, he would burn his own fuel reserves, below the ‘bingo’ limit required for him to safely deorbit the Skylon.
