“No, not the missiles—the S-500 radar and control truck,” Kai said. “Maybe that will take out the missiles.”
Valerie hurriedly called up the last-known S-500 site at Chkalovsky Air Base northeast of Moscow and used Armstrong Space Station’s powerful radar and optronic sensors to scan the area. The S-500 transporter-erector-launchers had moved to the south side of the airport in three widely separated emplacements, but the radar truck, command vehicle, and power and hydraulic generator truck were in the same location as previously cataloged. The trucks were located in a vacant area of the large aircraft parking ramp, where long lines of Antonov-72, Ilyushin-76, and -86 transport planes were lined up; farther down the ramp were two rows of five MiG-31D antisatellite-missile launch planes, each with a 9K720 antisatellite missile waiting to be loaded aboard. “Target acquired!” Christine shouted.
“Combat, shoot!” Valerie ordered.
“Starfire engaged!” Henry shouted . . .
. . . and just seconds later, all power in the command module went completely out, leaving only emergency exit lights. Kai hit a button on his console, and an alarm bell sounded, along with the computerized words, “All personnel, report to lifeboats immediately! All personnel, report to lifeboats immediately!”
The maser beam from Armstrong Space Station fired for less than two seconds . . . but traveling at five miles every second, the beam was able to sweep across almost the entire length of Chkalovsky Air Base before extinguishing.
The S-500 command, power, and radar trucks sparkled as the beam swept across them, and moments later their fuel tanks exploded, setting all of them afire. Next were the transport planes, which one by one burst open like overripe melons, transforming hundreds of thousands of gallons of jet fuel instantly into huge mushroom clouds of fire. The same fate awaited the MiG-31D fighters, fed by ten exploding 9K720 solid rocket booster motors that launched several of the missiles spinning through the sky for miles—and spreading radioactive material from two of the missiles’ micronuclear warheads. The beam shut down the base operations building, destroyed several more parked and taxiing aircraft, and then detonated several aircraft inside their maintenance hangars, obliterating each hangar in a spectacular fireball.
Casey heard the alarm and hurriedly began unstrapping herself from her seat in the Skybolt module. There was no lifeboat in the Skybolt module, but she knew that the closest one was in the Engineering module just “above” hers. She donned her emergency oxygen mask, then looked up and saw Larry Jessop the life-support guy looking through the window in the hatch waiting for her. She smiled and was about to unlock the hatch . . .
. . . when a tremendous explosion rocked the station. The destruction of the S-500 command and control vehicles at Chkalovsky had nullified guidance to all of the 9K720 missiles . . . except for the first four that had been launched and had locked on to Armstrong Space Station with their own terminal guidance sensors. All four made direct hits, and the fourth missile hit squarely on the Skybolt module.
Casey turned and saw nothing but planet Earth beneath her through the gaping, sparking hole that seconds ago was her Starfire microwave cavity and Skybolt. She smiled and thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life. As she watched, the spectacular blues and whites of the spinning planet below her feet slowly faded into shades of gray. It was not as beautiful as before, but she still marveled at her home planet right there—she even thought she could see her home, and she smiled, thinking of the next time she would go home and see her parents and her brothers and sisters and tell them about this incredible adventure. She smiled, her mom and dad’s faces smiling back at her, and felt happy and a little euphoric, until her vision tunneled closed into blackness seconds later as the last of her oxygen seeped out of her body.
The S-500S missiles tore into Armstrong Space Station. Boomer and Brad watched in absolute horror as modules were either hit or ripped off when the station started to cartwheel through space. “Midnight, this is Shadow,” Boomer radioed. “Hold on, guys. I’ll be over there in a minute. We’ll transfer you out through the cockpit and through the hole in the fuselage.”
There was no reply for several long moments; then, a sleepy, tired voice radioed, “I don’t think . . . even . . . the great spaceplane pilot . . . Hunter ‘Boomer’ Noble could . . . could match this spin,” Vice President Ann Page said. “Save your fuel. Retrieve the lifeboats. I’m . . . I’m hypoxic, I don’t see . . . see any lights on Gonzo’s suit . . . save your fuel and . . . and retrieve the lifeboats, Boomer. That’s an . . . an order.”
“I’m not in your chain of command, Miss Vice President,” Boomer said. “Hang on. Stay with me.”
“Brad?” they heard. “Brad, can . . . can you hear me?”