"Page here. Engineering is secure. I'm on POS."
Saint-Michael looked over at Walker, who was standing over a space-suited crewman. "What's the problem, Jim?"
"Looks like Sergeant Wallis's intercom is out, Skipper."
Saint-Michael threw his notebook toward Walker — it actually arched a bit in the tiny amount of gravity still lingering instead of floating in the usual straight line. "Pass a message to him with that. Tell him to start deploying the rescue balls, then have him help Davis and Montgomery into the lifeboat and switch places with Bayles. Have him fix his intercom in the lifeboat. Sergeant Bayles, come up here to the command module."
Wallis acknowledged Walker's hastily scribbled note with a thumb's up and started to unpack the station's rescue balls — large man-sized sealable plastic and canvas bags. In an emergency a crew-member could seal himself inside a rescue ball and pressurize it with his portable oxygen system. The ball could then be transported by a space-suited crewman from a depressurized or contaminated module to the lifeboat, another safe pressurized module or the space shuttle or other rescue vessels. Wallis had a rescue ball open and Velcroed near each person in the command module by the time Bayles had made his way to the command module, and then helped the two injured crewmen toward the hatch to the connecting tunnel.
"Station integrity check, A sections," Saint-Michael ordered by loudspeaker.
"Atmosphere checks okay everywhere on the station except for main transfer tunnel and docking bay. No contamination, just a heat build up…"
"General, I think I see the problem," Wallis reported. He was holding the stationwide address-system microphone to his helmet glass and screaming at the top of his lungs, but his voice sounded as if his head were inside a tin bucket. "I'm in the connecting tunnel between the research and sleep modules. I can see the keel. The radiators look as though they've been ripped apart by a… a giant lawn mower. Almost nothing—" And then only a muffled scream.
"Wallis? Christ, what—?"
At that instant the lights dimmed again in the command module. Control panels flickered, then returned to normal. The computer monitors began to fill with error and warning messages. The air in the module became stagnant, near unbearable.
"Skipper…"
"Wallis? You all right?"
"I'm… okay. We got tagged by some kind of laser beam, sir. I saw the damned thing. It hit the heel, then passed over the pressurized modules. There's sparks flying out of the keel… I think it might be one of the SBR antennas—"
"Can you make it to the lifeboat?"
"I think so… Sir, it's the number-one SRB antenna for sure. The antenna looks chewed up and the control box is sparking—"
"All right, good job. Now get to the lifeboat and have someone look you over. Baker, Page, report to the lifeboat. Ann, you'll have to use the connector between Skybolt and the storage module. Do a double-check before you open the hatches, all of you. Now move."
Saint-Michael turned to Walker, who was checking the status and control panel with Jefferson. "Checks, General. We've lost the number-one SBR antenna."
"How about the system?"
"The other antenna wasn't touched," Jefferson said. "It's working. I can reprogram it, okay. It may not have quite the resolution or power but I think we'll still be on-line."
"Any other faults?"
"We may have lost a thruster," Walker said and moved quickly from panel to panel, scrolling through the seemingly endless lists of error messages on the screens. "The number-one negative-Y thruster is showing zero chamber pressure. The number-two thruster is firing full-time now to compensate. We're sucking fuel pretty bad."
"And with a lost fuel cell, we'll be in trouble — fast. I'll need endurance figures as soon as possible."
"Yes, sir," Walker said, giving the general a worried look. "Skipper, could it be the laser at Sary Shagan? Is it possible…?"
"Possible? It happened, Jim. They hit us with their chemical laser. The pressurized modules survived because of the silver armor, but we all know the systems mounted on the keel are vulnerable—"
"We're back on the horn with the Nimitz, General," Jefferson reported.
Saint-Michael returned to his seat and strapped in. "Nimitz, this is Armstrong. How copy?"
"Weak but readable, Armstrong, " a radio operator replied. "Stand by for Admiral Clancy."
"Sir," Walker cut in, "I've got Enterprise on the VHF. They're asking for instructions."
"Good. Tell them to stay at least five hundred yards from the station and be ready to retrieve the lifeboat. Also tell them to keep their open cargo-bay pointed away from earth in case that damn laser fires at us again."
"Rog."
"Armstrong, this is Clancy. What the hell happened up there?"
"We were attacked, Admiral. I've got half the crew in the lifeboat. Three injuries, two may be serious. Possible serious damage to our attitude-control system. One ruptured fuel tank, other collateral damage. Our SRB still shows operational. We're going to try to make repairs."
"What attacked you, Jas?"
"We figure it was our friends at Sary Shagan. I'll get back to you when we have a full damage assessment."
"Okay, Jas… Listen, Jas, I'm afraid I've got some very bad news…"
Saint-Michael held his breath. He had an idea what was coming. "It's the California… so far we count six hundred men dead… Matt Page didn't make it."
Saint-Michael didn't reply for a moment, then clicked the microphone back on. "I'll let his daughter know, Admiral. Thanks for getting us word."
"He was hell on wheels, Jas. Did a great job. The men loved him, and that's no B.S. Tell her."
"Yes, sir. I will. Armstrong out."
Saint-Michael scanned the command module. Of the other crewmembers only Walker seemed to have heard. He looked at the general and shook his head. Saint-Michael told himself to put Captain Page's death out of his mind for now. Somehow he'd deal with it, with Ann… later. Right now he had this station to command. He looked to his right and saw Jefferson giving his master SBR console an affectionate pat.
"Good news, Chief?"
"Yes, sir, SBR is back on-line. Only a slightly narrower scan area-maybe a hundred miles less, plus a bit reduced resolution."
"That news might be academic if we take a few more hits from that laser…"
Jefferson nodded and turned back to his screens, trying to assimilate the mountains of data that had been received in the short time since the SBR became operational. Less than two minutes later he called out another report. "Several slow-moving jet aircraft over Tehran, General. Swarms of them. Extensive fighter coverage."
"God, the Russians must be taking Tehran," Walker said, looking at the display. "Three Condor transports already on the ground at Mehrabad Airport. Could be as many as six hundred troops. The Iraqis have almost reached Abadan."
Saint-Michael tried to assess possible implications. He had just finished calling Bayles and Moyer forward to help with the data transmissions and analysis when the Nimitz broke radio silence once again. "Looks like the shit has hit the fan for real, Jason," Admiral Clancy was saying. "A coordinated attack. Fighters from the Brezhnev have chased away all the Hawkeye surveillance planes that we'd sent up to patrol the area. They're mounting another air attack on Tehran, and Iraqi forces are moving across the border towards Abadan. The Soviets have got the whole northern gulf sewn up tight."
Bad news, no question, Saint-Michael thought. Tehran was important, of course, but there was one place that was even more critical now. He keyed his microphone. "Looks bad over Tehran and Abadan, Admiral. But those guys have left themselves a little too open over Bandar-Abbas, do you agree?"
"On the nose, Jas. That's where we push. I'm going to need your help on this one. Maybe even use that trump card we talked about. How much time left on your orbit?"