He supervised their work, frequently becoming impatient enough to consider depressurizing his cockpit and going outside to urge them on. The only thing that restrained him was his lack of an EVA pack. He had only an emergency, thirty-minute supply of air in a portable cylinder.
They did not have the specialized tools and pumping equipment utilized by the Americans for loading and unloading the HoneyBee payload modules, and they were therefore forced into more violent disassembly methods. Following Maslov’s directions and using cutting torches, it took them nearly four hours to separate the rocket stage of the HoneyBee from the payload capsule. Once, they had to stop to refill their air supplies from the tank in the aft bay. With some effort, Bryntsev and Filatov were able to separate the two components of the rocket by several meters, allowing them access to the flexible bladder inside the payload capsule which contained the solid fuel pellets.
Another two hours were required to retrieve the equipment from the aft cargo bay pallet and connect hoses and pumps between the bladder and the MakoShark, then pump the pellets aboard the space craft.
“We are fortunate to have our own gasoline station, are we not, Boris?”
“It is not fast service, Aleks,” Nikitin replied.
“It will become much better with practice,” Maslov assured him.
Bryntsev disconnected the hoses from the MakoShark, but left them attached to the bladder, ready for the next use. He and Filatov had then worked their way back into their seats and strapped in.
“Have you pulled your tethers in, Yuri?” Maslov asked.
“A moment more, Aleks. There. It is clear.”
Maslov closed the bay doors.
Though he was frustrated at the loss of time, Maslov said, “A wonderful job, comrades.”
“It is awe-inspiring,” Bryntsev said. “Concentration is difficult, and I am sorry for the delays.”
“There is no rush. Are you now back on the craft’s air supply?”
“I am helping Filatov.” After a minute, Bryntsev added, “Yes, we are both connected. After so much infinity, Aleks, this compartment feels both secure and claustrophobic.”
“I know the sensation,” Maslov said, then tested the availability of his ordnance. At the lower edge of the Head-Up Display, eleven green lights appeared along with one red light.
“Boris, I show a malfunction of a Wasp II. Right inboard pylon, number two.”
“Yes, I see it, Aleks. We have probably burned the nose cone”
“It is supposed to be adapted for high temperatures.”
“But it has been subjected to orbital insertion or reentry three times,” Nikitin said. “Perhaps there is a limit to the lifespan of the nose cones.”
“Yes, you are probably correct, Boris. Perhaps we will leave our good Phoenix missiles in orbit before we return this time.”
“A good idea,” Nikitin said.
“Very well, Boris. Now, I need a course for our next objective.”
“I have had several hours in which to program it. We will require a reversal of our attitude, then a twelve-second retro burn in order to reduce velocity and decrease altitude to the proper orbit.”
Maslov used the OMS to back away from the HoneyBee, then said, “You may proceed, Boris.”
After a few seconds, the computer took over, inverted the MakoShark, and fired the rockets for twelve seconds. It all seemed to Maslov to be accomplished in slow motion and wonderful silence.
“Time to target?” he asked.
“Forty-two minutes,” the weapons system operator said.
They waited it out, saying little to each other. Maslov forgot about his two passengers.
Thirty-five minutes later, he armed all of his Wasp II missiles.
Thirty-nine minutes later, he saw the target, the sun glinting brightly off the silver sides of the space station.
Chapter Thirteen
“Marla says the closure rate is two-four-oh feet per second, Cancha,” Williams said.
Dimatta had already spotted the reflection of the sun off the space station, probably around forty miles away, but depth perception was deceptive in space.
“We ought to slow down just a tad,” Williams said, “or we’re going to end up in a higher orbit.”
They had taken the most rapid course into orbit that the computer could find, with a rocket burn that lasted over ten minutes.
“All right, Nitro, give me a solution.”
Dimatta scanned the HUD and instrument panel. Greens everywhere. As always, with any new edition of the same model, refinements and modifications had been made to previous systems, so that Delta Orange was not exactly the same as her sisters. She was supposed to be better. And maybe she was. In all of the flight trials, the only adjustments made were in the fine-tuning of control movement rates and the calibration of instruments.
He was beginning to like her.
An emotion which made him feel somewhat traitorous toward Delta Green.
“Any time you’re ready, Cancha.”
“Roger, activating.”
Dimatta punched the code into the keyboard and let the computer take over, following its calculations for course alterations that would align the craft with the space station’s celestial coordinates. Within seconds, the nose and tail thrusters ignited, the MakoShark went tail-over into an aft-facing attitude, and the rocket motors both fired for less than a second. As soon as the reduction in velocity was accomplished, Delta Orange again flipped over, her nose leading the way, and the message readout on the HUD flashed, “MORE INSTRUCTIONS?”
Dimatta tapped the keyboard cancel pad and took back control.
The DME indicated they were 32.4 miles from the station.
On the communications panel, he selected Tac Two, then said, “Delta Orange checking in.”
“That was quick,” Conover came back.
“Hey, Con Man, the cavalry always comes through. Who do we shoot?”
“No one, at the moment,” Conover said. “Take up a position five miles off Alpha, below her, and on your side. Country Girl, you want to move above Alpha now?”
“Roger that, Con Man,” Haggar said.
“Deltas, Alpha. As soon as you’re in position, give us a squawk so we know where you are.”
Dimatta deflected his course toward a point slightly below the approaching space station while Williams put a 360-degree radar sweep on the screen.
The station appeared on the screen, as well as a small surveillance satellite sixty miles above, but there was nothing else, threatening or not.
When he was in position, Dimatta used the nose thrusters to match velocity with the station, then flipped the MakoShark once again so they were facing away from the station. Back to the wall, so to say.
He activated the IFF for a second.
“Got you, Orange,” Overton said. “And Yellow and Red. Stay sharp, please.”
On the ICS, Williams said, “Radar passive; I’m going to video.”
The screen reverted to the video image, and Williams set the automatic scan. The lens began to slowly traverse in a 120-degree arc.
There wasn’t much to be seen: faraway stars, the curve of the Earth when the lens reached the far right side of its traverse.
Despite their protective coloration, the MakoSharks were visible in space to the eye at about seven to eight miles if the viewer was looking down on them. Without the diffusion of dirty atmosphere to blunt the sun’s rays, and if the craft were in the right attitude in relation to the sun, the skin surfaces gave off a warm sheen that clearly defined them. With the video lens at full magnification, they had a chance of picking up Delta Green when she was still thirty or thirty-five miles away. And if she was in the right position relative to the sun. There were a lot of ifs involved.