A new set of green indicators flashed on his HUD. One careful tap activated thrusters arrayed around the S-19’s nose. They fired — canceling out the additional forward motion he’d imparted earlier.
“Good position. Zero relative velocity,” Brad confirmed after checking his own display.
Boomer breathed out. Unlike a regular air tanker, the S-29 Shadow they’d hastily converted for this mission didn’t have any of the visual guides — flashing director lights or painted lines — pilots relied on when maneuvering into position. To assist him, Sky Masters techs had done some very rapid coding to create a variation of the computer program used for docking with other spacecraft and space stations. He radioed Nadia. “Midnight Zero-One is stabilized in contact position. Over to you.”
“Roger, Zero-One,” Nadia replied. “I am maneuvering the BOHM refueling boom now.”
Brad peered up through the canopy into the S-29’s cargo bay. Directed by Nadia, a long, flexible boom unlatched from one side of the bay and slowly extended toward them. Tiny thrusters attached to the end of the boom fired in microsecond bursts.
Seconds later, he and Boomer felt a gentle CL–CLUNK as the nozzle at the end of the boom slid into the slipway and seated itself in their spaceplane’s refueling receptacle. “I show contact,” Nadia told them.
“Contact confirmed,” Boomer said.
Aboard the S-29, pumps whirred, using helium to “push” the thick borohydrogen metaoxide into the S-19’s fuel tanks in zero-G conditions. Brad watched the readings collected by sensors inside the tanks themselves. Steadily, their oxidizer reserves increased. For long minutes, the two spaceplanes flew in tandem above the blue, cloud-decked ocean far below.
“BOHM transfer complete,” Nadia radioed. “Detaching the first boom.”
With another CL–CLUNK, the boom’s nozzle slid back out of the slipway. Guided by thrusters, it retracted back into the converted tanker spaceplane’s cargo bay and latched.
Repeating the process with a second boom, this one pumping JP-8 jet fuel from a second tank, went faster. Even so, by the time the fuel transfer was finished, the linked spacecraft were approaching the solar terminator, the earth’s ever-moving dividing line between day and night. Ahead, city lights along the South American coast shone brightly, like diamonds against a black velvet backdrop.
Once the JP-8 fuel boom was clear, Boomer fired the S-19’s thrusters again. Aboard the bigger S-29 Shadow, Vasey did the same while Nadia closed their cargo bay doors. The two spaceplanes separated vertically and horizontally.
“Nice job, Shadow Two-One,” Brad radioed. “Midnight Zero-One is gassed up and ready to go.”
“Copy that,” Nadia replied. There was a slight pause. “We are beginning our powered reentry now. Good luck and stay safe!”
Brad saw a brief glow light up the other spaceplane as it fired its five LPDRS engines in rocket mode. Decelerating hard, it dropped lower on its way back down into the atmosphere and, ultimately, Battle Mountain. “Thank you, Two-One,” he said. “We’ll see you back at the barn in a few hours.”
Beside him, Boomer tapped their thrusters again, pitching the S-19’s nose up and away from the earth’s curving horizon. He glanced at Brad. “You ready to chase down that Russian space station?”
Dry-mouthed suddenly, Brad nodded tightly. “Yeah. But let’s make sure we don’t get too close, okay?”
“Amen to that,” Boomer said cheerfully. “Don’t sweat it, Brad. We’re just gonna mosey on up to within a hundred miles or so of our cosmonaut buddies and launch our nanosats… unobtrusive-like. Then we just kick back and wait while the little birds do all the hard work.” He brought their main engine controls back online. “Stand by for engine relight.”
“Affirmative. Standing by.” Brad checked his own displays. “Everything looks solid. No red lights. We are go for the burn.”
Cued by their flight computer, Boomer advanced the throttles. “Okay, here we go. Next stop, Mars One.”
With a muffled whummp, the S-19’s rocket motors relit. Instantly, G-forces slammed Brad and Boomer back into their seats. Accelerating fast, the spaceplane streaked higher — climbing almost vertically toward the still-distant Russian orbital platform.
Tethered comfortably in front of his sensor console, Major Georgy Konnikov fought to keep his eyes open. He yawned once and then again, even deeper. His jaw muscles ached with the strain. Between the hard labor involved in unloading supplies from the two Progress cargo modules and the frantic rush to bring their life-support, electronics, and weapons systems online, no one in the Mars One crew had gotten much sleep in the past twenty-four hours.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
The shrill warning tone warbling through his headset yanked Konnikov’s eyes wide open. Startled, he floated backward against the tether and then pulled himself hurriedly back within reach of the console.
He pulled up the alert on his display. Mars One’s passive IR sensors had just detected a major heat source — either a missile or a rocket launch. But which was it? And where the hell was it headed? His fingers rattled across a keyboard as he interrogated the station’s primary computer. Unnoticed, a droplet of sweat broke free from his furrowed brow and drifted off across the component-crowded compartment.
In response to Konnikov’s frantic queries, lines of text scrolled across the display. They were superimposed on a map that showed Mars One’s orbital track as a green line. Suddenly a red line appeared, arrowing across the map… on an intercept course with the station.
“My God,” the major muttered. Without any further hesitation, he punched a button on his console. Alarms blared in every compartment. “Action stations,” he yelled into the intercom. “All personnel to action stations. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill! Colonel Strelkov to Command at once!”
Colonel Vadim Strelkov reacted instantly to the ear-piercing shriek of the “action stations” alarm. He’d been dozing, half asleep and half awake, in a sleeping bag anchored to the wall of his small cabin. Now, before he even fully regained consciousness, his hands tugged the zipper down far enough so that he could worm free of its comforting embrace.
For a brief moment, floating free in the tiny space, he shook his head in a desperate bid to clear out the last cobwebs of fatigue. Then, hearing Konnikov’s urgent summons, he swept the curtain to his cabin aside and launched himself down a narrow, conduit- and storage-cabinet-lined corridor.
Seconds later, Strelkov glided through an open hatch into the command compartment. He could hear confused voices echoing through other hatches as the rest of the station’s crew struggled to wake up, comprehend what was happening, and maneuver in zero-G to their allotted posts. He gritted his teeth in mingled fury and humiliation. Years of rigorous training and drills and this… this disgraceful disorder… this was the result of the first real crisis?
Angrily, he shoved aside the pathetic excuse offered by his unruly subconscious, that his cosmonauts were simply exhausted and in serious need of rest. What did fatigue matter if Mars One was truly under attack? Would an enemy missile refuse to detonate out of pity because those it sought to kill were tired?