By the time all three scramjet engines were running, America was traveling at well over three hundred miles per hour and had already streaked down three of the five miles of launch track. The restraining clamps were then released, and the spaceplane lifted off the sled and shot skyward. If the three engines hadn't ignited, high-pressure steam jets on the last mile of the track would have automatically activated and begun slowing the spaceplane down below two hundred miles an hour, where arresting cables and hydraulic brakes could be applied.
As it was, America broke the sound barrier twenty seconds after lifting off from the takeoff sled. She was then pulled up into a forty-five-degree climb at six "g" s, racing skyward at over fifty thousand feet per minute. The craft went hypersonic past the Mach five mark-fifty seconds later as it passed forty thousand feet altitude, the ear-shattering sonic boom rattling across the Sierra Nevada mountains far below. By the time America reached the Canadian border five minutes later it was at Mach fifteen, still climbing on top of a column of hydrogen fire nearly a mile long. Her wings were retracted at that point because at two hundred thousand feet altitude there was not enough air to generate lift.
The louvers at the front of the scramjets engines automatically closed as the spaceplane climbed, so five minutes into the flight the aircraft had transformed itself into a liquid-fueled rocket. As the engine began to burn more pure internal liquid oxygen, the speed increased. Finally, ten minutes into the flight the crushing "g" forces began to subside as America completed its acceleration to orbital velocity.
Now several banks of orbital maneuvering jets were activated to begin matching America's orbit with that of the stricken space station. The climb to Silver Tower's altitude didn't take long: on the lowest part of its orbit the station was now down to only five hundred thousand feet — eighty-three miles — altitude, low enough to be clearly visible to observers on earth. Following tracking and steering signals provided by ground-based tracking stations — Armstrong had stopped transmitting a position and docking beacon weeks earlier — Saint-Michael and Hampton began to chase down the stricken space station.
"Digital autopilot slaved to Ku-band tracking signals," Hampton reported. "Mimic is estimating thirty minutes to rendezvous."
Saint-Michael was studying America's flight-profile readouts and environmental displays. "Eighty miles," he muttered. "We're barely above entry interface altitude" — where the spacecraft began to enter earth's atmosphere and decelerate on account of friction. "Check the radiator and coolant flow. It's already midway in the caution range."
"Coolant flow is maximum," Hampton said, checking another screen. "We can try partially closing the radiators to cut down on the friction. Or we can go to EMER on the cross-flow system to bring the temperature down to the normal range."
"How about that fuel back there?" Saint-Michael said. "We can't play around so close to the atmosphere like this. We may have to jettison the fuel in the tank when coolant temperature reaches the danger level. There's no sense holding onto it longer and endangering the ship."
"Can you power up the station or reposition it without a refueling?"
"I don't know. I don't remember how bad the solar panels the station were hit." Like Ann, Horvath and Schultz, Saint-Michael had kept his POS facemask on to continue prebreathing pure oxygen in preparation for their spacewalk into the station. As he spoke, he began massaging his temples. "You all right, General?" Hampton asked.
Saint-Michael quickly lowered his hands from his head. "Sorry, bad habit. Just thinking, believe it or not… That Russian spaceplane attack knocked out power in the command module, but I think the SBR and Skybolt were still running when I found Ann unconscious in the Skybolt control module. That may mean that the station is still functioning, at least partially."
"But Falcon Control lost the station's ID and TDRS tracking signal weeks ago. They've assumed all power is out."
"We'll assume the same." Saint-Michael pressed the button on his comm link. "Listen up, crew. We won't have much time, and we've got to assume that the station is completely dead. Our priority will be to boost the station to a safe altitude. After that we'll try to power her up, reposition her, set up SBR surveillance of the Indian Ocean and the Nimitz carrier group in the Arabian Sea and begin to make some structural repairs. In between we'll probably have to fight off another attack… Ann, you'll be in charge o setting up the PAM boosters on the keel. I know Marty's explained how and where they go. Any questions?"
"No," Ann said, still finding it hard to believe they were going to reactivate the station after all. "It's a lot simpler than disconnecting Skybolt would have been."
"Good. Marty, you'll be in charge of refueling the cells on the keel so we can get electric power back on. The cargo shovel appeared damaged so you'll have to do it the hard way: drag the fuel tank around to the cells with the MMU maneuvering unit and use the remote fuel-transfer system. Any problems with that?"
"I used to pump gas in Ohio when I was nine years old."
"Just be ready in case Ann needs help."
"Rog."
"Ken, you'll follow me into the station," he told Horvath. "The environmental and electrical controls are easier to work than a shuttle is, so you shouldn't have too much problem figuring them out. We'll try to get solar power on, followed by fuel-cell power. If you can find and patch up any holes in the command module, it'll make our work easier. Otherwise we'll just try to reactivate the station's attitude and environmental system… Jon, you take care of America and try to help anyone out that needs help. The PAM installation has priority. After that, refueling and repairs. Keep us advised of any messages from Falcon Control until we get communications going on Silver Tower."
"Right. "
Thirty minutes later, they had moved to within a few hundred yards of Silver Tower.
For a few long moments the sight of the station in the distance dampened everyone's enthusiasm… The damage was worse than any of them had imagined…
The station's spin had decreased in velocity but it was gyrating on at least three or four different axes at once, like some sort of unearthly multilegged monster with dozens of different appendages reaching out to grab the spaceplane and devour it. Ionization from frequent scrapes with earth's upper atmosphere had created a multicolored, undulating aura of energy around the station. Parts of the central open-lattice keel glowed like hot embers, and clouds of debris and frozen water, gases, and fuel hovered everywhere. Several large panels from the SBR arrays and solar collectors were missing or damaged.
Hampton looked uneasily at Saint-Michael. "Do you think it's safe to approach the station with all that junk and sparking out there?"
"No. But we've got to do it."
"Sir, wait." Hampton turned in his seat to face Saint-Michael. "The 'ifs' are really starting to pile up here. We'll be driving right into the middle of all that debris and heat ionization. Then we've got to try to match the moves the station is making… One mistake ark we've got another dead ship."
"You knew the risks, Jon. We all did."
Hampton paused, considered. Finally he shrugged and said, "Okay, General. We'll do it your way. Let's stick our noses into that beehive."
Saint-Michael nodded, wrapped a hand around the manual control stick. "Here we go…"
He had applied forward thrust for exactly two-point-one seconds when a terrific bang shook America from bow to stem. He glanced toward Hampton as they checked the computer monitors for damage indications. "Pretty big bees," Hampton said.