As soon as the American antisatellite weapons were launched from Armstrong Space Station, Galtin’s Elektron’s fire-control radar had begun tracking them from a range of one hundred kilometers: six American interceptors—nothing but a steerable rocket engine with a seeker on it, but simple and effective as an antisatellite and antiballistic-missile weapon. That the interceptors were fired from the station itself was interesting: the report that President Joseph Gardner had destroyed all of the Kingfisher constellation’s weapon modules was not quite true. Apparently there were others, attached to the military space station and fully operational.
No matter. The Fates had placed him in perfect position to intercept the interceptors. Galtin marveled at the luck involved, marveled at the boldness and courage of his president, Gennadiy Gryzlov, to order this attack, marveled at the thought of what was going to happen. Russia was about to attack a spaceplane belonging to—arguably—the most powerful nation on Earth. They were attacking a $3 billion spacecraft with American civilians on board. That was ballsy. There was no other term for it: ballsy. To say that the ante had just been raised in the war for control of space was a vast understatement.
Galtin raised the red guarded cover of the weapon arming switch and moved the switch underneath from SAFE to ARM. The attack computer was in control now. In seconds, it would be over. Three spacecraft and six missiles, traveling at tens of thousands of kilometers an hour hundreds of miles above Earth, would intersect at this point in space. It was nothing short of breathtaking. The science, the politics, the sheer courage, and yes, the luck, was all on the side of the Russian Federation right now.
Attack.
ABOARD THE S-19 MIDNIGHT SPACEPLANE
THAT SAME TIME
As soon as she heard the “red Wasp” warning, Gonzo had fired the main rocket engines. “What is it? What happened?” Ann Page asked. “What’s a ‘red wasp’?”
“Russian antisatellite weapon,” Gonzo replied. “Our only hope is to outrun, outclimb, or outmaneuver it. Everybody, lower visors, lock them down, and make sure your oxygen is on. Sondra, check Agent Clarkson.” Gonzo and Ann began running checklists in preparation for a possible collision.
“Midnight, be advised, we’ve lost contact with four of the interceptors we launched at the Wasp,” Kai radioed. “Two are still tracking. We have an unknown pop-up target above and to your right, about forty miles, doesn’t look like it’s on an intercept course.”
“It’s a Russian spaceplane,” Ann said. “We were briefed that the Russians were using a laser aboard at least one of their Elektrons. It shot down a satellite and is probably attacking the Trinity interceptors.”
“Shit,” Gonzo swore. “Armstrong, this is Midnight. Our passenger said that bogey is probably an Elektron and it’s firing a—”
“Gonzo, maneuver!” Kai cut in. “Wasp on your tail! Maneuver!”
Gonzo immediately hit the maneuvering thrusters, throwing the spaceplane into a sharp sideways maneuver, then hit another set of thrusters that moved it “up”—away from Earth. She then began to translate backward, maneuvering to point the nose opposite the direction of flight to present the smallest possible profile to . . .
. . . and halfway through the maneuver, the Wasp antisatellite missile struck. It had a small ten-pound fragmentation warhead, which ignited jet fuel and BOHM oxidizer that leaked out of ruptured fuel tanks, creating an explosion that tore through the spacecraft.
“It hit! It hit!” Valerie shouted. “The first Wasp hit the spaceplane!” The command-module crew watched the electro-optical image of the stricken spaceplane in horror as the tremendous explosion filled the screen.
“Second Wasp missile intercepted and destroyed,” Henry Lathrop reported in a quiet voice on intercom. “Scope is clear.”
“Boomer?” Kai radioed.
“I’ll be off in five minutes,” Boomer said.
“Have you been prebreathing?”
“Yes, I have,” Boomer replied. “Not my MC.”
“Trev, find out if anyone on station is suited up and has been prebreathing.”
“Stand by,” Trevor Shale responded. A moment later: “Sorry, Kai. We’ve got three suited up but none were prebreathing.”
“Get them on oxygen right away,” Kai said. On the radio he said, “Looks like you’re the one, Boomer. We don’t see any survivors from here, but go take a look. Be sure to rig for towing.”
“Roger,” Boomer said. A few minutes later: “We’re ready to get under way.” As soon as he was detached from the station, he received vectors to the Midnight spaceplane’s last location and began to make his way toward it—luckily, because the S-19 was approaching Armstrong in preparation for docking, they were all in the same orbit, so it was just a matter of maneuvering laterally over to it rather than launching into a different orbit with a different altitude or direction.
“Valerie, get the Kingfisher constellation activated, and get Starfire online as soon as possible,” Kai said. “It’s time to do some hunting.” He called up U.S. Space Command headquarters from his console. “General, we lost the S-19 spaceplane,” he said when the secure channel was linked. “It had the vice president on board. We’re checking for survivors, but so far it looks like a total loss.”
“My God,” General George Sandstein groaned. “I’ll notify the White House immediately.”