That little piece of theater drew a smattering of appreciative applause from the more sycophantic journalists present. Well done, Daria, Titeneva congratulated herself silently. Her riposte to Turner’s insulting suggestion should make every newscast and front page around the world.
With a graceful wave, she turned on her heel and left the stage.
As ordered, she’d just bought Gennadiy a little more breathing room. She only hoped he and Colonel General Leonov would make good use of it.
From the Federation orbiter’s station-keeping position a short distance from Mars One, Colonel Vadim Strelkov had a good view of the large structure. Russia’s new space station now consisted of a thirty-five-meter-long command module and two comparably sized weapons and sensors modules. Together they formed a shape that looked a little like a capital I turned on its side, with the command module in the middle. Strelkov had already heard some of the younger members of his crew jokingly comparing the station’s basic silhouette to that of a TIE fighter from the American Star Wars movies.
Large rectangular solar panels extended off each of the three modules. Without the missing fusion reactor, they were now Mars One’s sole source of electricity. The two Progress-MS cargo ships were docked at ports on the command module’s upper side. Blinking green and red position lights in the center of the station indicated the docking port for their orbiter.
Looking at the station up close, at zero relative velocity, gave one the odd sensation of hanging motionless in space, Strelkov thought. Only turning one’s gaze toward the sunlit world as it spun past below revealed that both spacecraft were speeding along in tandem at well over twenty-seven thousand kilometers per hour.
“Moscow Control, this is Federation One,” Strelkov radioed. Their communications with the ground were being relayed through a network of Russian satellites — a vast improvement over the old Soyuz models, where contact was only possible while over Russia itself. They were once again broadcasting in the clear, under orders to maintain the charade that the station was designed as a civilian science outpost. “We are in position and ready to dock with Mars One.”
“Acknowledged, Federation One,” a controller answered. “Your position and readiness are confirmed. Proceed with the maneuver at your discretion.”
“Docking now,” Strelkov said. He tapped the proper icon on his multifunction display, initiating an automated docking sequence. His screen changed, now showing an aiming reticle centered on the station port. Numbers appeared, indicating their relative distance, orientation, and closing rate. He heard a succession of soft hisses as thrusters fired and saw the port grow larger. The orbiter’s sophisticated flight computer was now in full control.
Nevertheless, as a precaution, he kept both hands on the two controllers fixed below his MFD — the left for translation maneuvers and the right to rotate their spacecraft as needed. If something went wrong with the computer, he would dock manually. It was a maneuver he and the other cosmonauts had practiced hundreds of times in their preflight training.
From the seat beside him, Major Georgy Konnikov kept up a running commentary on their progress. “Closing at twenty centimeters per second. Range one hundred meters. We are slightly low and to the left.” New thrusters fired briefly. “Closure rate now eighteen centimeters per second. Range eighty meters. Good position and angle.”
Minutes passed, slowly at first, and then all in a rush as they drew nearer to the space station.
“Closing at ten centimeters per second. Range four meters. In the groove,” Konnikov intoned.
Less than a minute later, the Federation’s docking probe slid perfectly into the Mars One port’s cone-shaped receptacle.
“Contact!” Konnikov reported. A tiny vibration rippled through their spacecraft as latches closed around the probe and retracted — pulling the Federation orbiter tightly against Mars One’s port. “And capture.”
Suddenly aware that his hands ached from tension, Strelkov let go of the manual controls and radioed. “Moscow Center, this is Federation One. We have arrived.”
Through his headphones, he heard muted cheers from the mission control center. “Acknowledged, Federation. This is a great day for Russia.” There was a brief pause before the controller remembered they were broadcasting to an as-yet-unsuspecting international audience. “And, of course, a great day for all of humanity, too.”
One hour later, after completing a series of pressurization tests to make sure they had a good seal, Strelkov ordered the hatch opened. He was the first one through, floating nimbly through the airlock and into his new command. It was time to bring Russia’s new military space station to life.
Colonel Vadim Strelkov hooked his feet beneath an electronics console to hold himself in place and looked around the crowded compartment. The five cosmonauts who made up his crew hovered nearby, clinging to footholds or handholds of their own. “Very well, gentlemen,” he said briskly. “Now that you’ve had some time to check things over, I need your status reports.”
Intense training had rendered every one of them a jack-of-all-trades, intimately familiar with every piece of hardware and electronics aboard Mars One. But each cosmonaut still had a specialty — a weapons, station support, or sensor system on which he was the acknowledged expert.
“The environmental control and life-support systems in all three modules are functioning within the expected parameters,” Lieutenant Colonel Pavel Anikeyev said crisply. Besides being the station’s designated second in command, the short, round-faced cosmonaut knew more about the carbon-dioxide scrubbers, water-reclamation systems, and other life-support equipment than anyone else aboard. “The consumables stores aboard our Progress cargo ships appear intact. Off-loading those should be our next priority.”
Strelkov nodded in agreement. Shifting and stowing several tons of rations, drinking water, and other supplies would be grueling, time-consuming work. Better to get to it while they were relatively fresh.
Georgy Konnikov was the next one to speak. “I’ve run diagnostics on our X-band and L-band radars,” he reported. “They appear to be in excellent condition.” The younger man’s mobile mouth quirked upward in a wry smile. “Pursuant to our new orders from Moscow, I have refrained from carrying out full-power tests.”
Strelkov nodded somberly. It would not yet do to reveal that Mars One was equipped with military-grade radar systems. “What of our other detection systems?”
“Our IR sensors are working perfectly,” Konnikov said. “As a test, I was able to pick out the thermal signature of the American MENTOR 9 signals intelligence satellite at a range of thirty-six thousand kilometers.”
Strelkov was impressed. The geostationary MENTOR-series satellites, used by the Americans to collect a wide range of electronic signals — everything from rocket and missile telemetry to cell-phone calls — were enormous, with main antennas well over one hundred meters in diameter. While that made them relatively easy to detect visually, zeroing in on their small thermal output at such a long range was still a remarkable feat.
“Our data links to other ground- and space-based sensors are also fully functional,” Konnikov continued. “We are already receiving data from our Persona and Razdan electro-optical, EKS ballistic early warning, and Kondor radar imaging satellites.”
Strelkov nodded. That was good news indeed. Even while they were orbiting at six hundred and forty kilometers above the earth’s surface, their visual and radar detection ranges were limited to some thousands of kilometers. Data links to other space-based and ground-based radars, cameras, and infrared sensors significantly improved their situational awareness — making it virtually impossible for the Americans to sneak anything past them.