All that changed the moment he crossed the Kármán line and hit the tenuous upper fringes of the atmosphere. As the aerogel-and-Nomex “sled” tore deeper and deeper into thicker and thicker air, it decelerated fast. G-forces slammed into Brad’s chest, squeezing down harder and harder the farther he fell. Despite his training and pressure suit, the Gs kept piling up with crushing force. It grew more difficult to breathe. Desperately, he contracted his stomach, thigh, and shoulder muscles, fighting to keep enough blood in his brain to stay conscious. Colors started to leach out of the world at the far corners of his vision.
Superheated filaments of electrically charged plasma streamed past him in a dazzling light show. Gradually, the sky above him changed color, shading from the black of space to a rich blue hue. Rivulets of sweat stung his eyes. It was getting hotter now… much, much hotter.
Down and down Brad plunged — blazing across the sky like a meteor… or a fallen angel cast out of the heavens.
Twenty-Four
President John Dalton Farrell watched the last few seconds of nanosatellite imagery through narrowed eyes. His jaw tightened angrily when the screen froze on a blinding flash from one of the Russian space station’s weapons and then went black. “Those sons of bitches,” he growled. “So much for Foreign Minister Titeneva’s public-relations horseshit about the peaceful uses of outer space.”
He turned his head toward the two other men in the room, Kevin Martindale and Patrick McLanahan. “What type of weapon was that?”
“It was definitely a directed-energy weapon… and a remarkably powerful one,” Patrick said tiredly. He seemed to have aged at least ten more years in the last few minutes. “Brad and Boomer’s spaceplane was more than one hundred and fifty miles from Mars One when it was hit. But we lost all telemetry from the S-19 within milliseconds of that flash. No conventional missile or projectile could possibly have covered that kind of distance so rapidly.”
Farrell nodded. “Was it a laser? Like the ones we saw knock out our recon nanosatellites?”
“I don’t believe so,” Patrick replied. “A laser weapon of sufficient power could definitely destroy one of our spaceplanes, but not so quickly. At a minimum, we should have received telemetry from Midnight Zero-One indicating a rapidly rising hull temperature. But that is not what we observed.” Using a small, palm-sized computer linked to the White House network, he sent more images to one of the Situation Room’s large screens. “This is tracking data collected by the Globus II space surveillance radar at Vardø, Norway, right on the Russian border.”
The radar images showed the S-19 as it started to move away from Mars One. A green line depicted its projected orbital track curving northward to enter an even more inclined orbit. “Seconds before they were fired on, Boomer had initiated a significant plane-change maneuver.”
“To open the range fast,” Farrell said.
Patrick nodded. “Yes, sir. By lighting up those undeclared military-grade radars, the Russians were demonstrating potential hostile intent. Boomer’s reaction was exactly correct.” He looked down for a moment, obviously trying to control his emotions. “I would have made the same move if I’d been in the pilot’s seat.”
“But they didn’t get far,” Farrell said carefully.
“No, sir.” Patrick tapped an icon on his computer, advancing the radar footage. “This shows the precise moment of the attack.”
On the screen, the blip representing the S-19 suddenly veered off its projected track—“falling” away from the Russian space station on a wildly eccentric trajectory.
“Everything we know now suggests the spaceplane sustained significant impact damage, probably coupled with intense electromagnetic pulse effects,” the older McLanahan said bluntly. “That would explain why we immediately lost contact with both the crew and the S-19’s computers… and why they haven’t been able to regain control over the spacecraft yet.”
“Assuming they’re even still alive,” Martindale said delicately, plainly aware that he was treading on painful ground.
Patrick nodded without speaking. He brought up a new map. This one showed the current trajectory of the crippled Sky Masters spaceplane. If nothing changed, it was on course to hit the earth’s atmosphere somewhere over the Western Pacific. A digital readout showed the estimated time remaining before catastrophic reentry. It was down to less than twenty minutes. His lined face showed little emotion, but his eyes were full of sorrow. “If Brad and Boomer are still alive, one thing’s certain… they’re running out of time fast.”
Farrell winced. What could he possibly say to a father about to watch his son die? Nothing useful, he supposed. Horrible though it was, however, he needed the other man’s experience and knowledge right now. Expressions of shared grief and sympathy would have to wait. “Okay, so the S-19 wasn’t hit by a laser,” he said slowly. “Then what could have caused this impact and EMP damage you mentioned?”
“Probably a plasma cannon,” Martindale said.
Farrell stared at him in surprise. “You’re joking.”
Martindale shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m not.” He nodded toward the screen. “It’s the only thing I can think of that would explain what we just saw.”
“You actually believe the Russians have built themselves an honest-to-God real live plasma weapon?” Farrell said dubiously. “Like something out of Star Wars?”
“Yes, but not Star Wars the movie,” Martindale told him. “More likely, one of the advanced weapons concepts we explored decades ago as part of President Reagan’s original Strategic Defense Initiative.”
“Which were never developed,” Farrell said. “Right?”
Martindale nodded. “True. But we learned enough to know plasma weapons were probably technologically feasible — at least given a huge investment of time, scientific and engineering resources, and money.”
“And you think Gennadiy Gryzlov has gone ahead and done just that,” Farrell said slowly.
“I do.” Martindale’s mouth turned downward. “Though, I admit, much to my deep regret. Because if the Russians really have managed to put a working high-powered plasma weapons system in orbit, this country is in a great deal of danger.”
Patrick’s computer pinged suddenly. He read the alert and then looked up at them. His eyes now showed a tiny flicker of hope. “That was Mission Control at Battle Mountain. Several minutes ago, one of our space surveillance satellites detected two small objects separating from the S-19 Midnight.”
Martindale looked wary. “That might just be debris breaking loose from the wreck,” he cautioned.
“It could also be the crew bailing out,” the older McLanahan countered sharply.
“Bailing out?” Farrell didn’t bother hiding his confusion. “How the holy hell can anyone bail out in space, for Christ’s sake? I mean, even ignoring the fact that there’s no air… how could anyone hope to survive reentering the atmosphere wearing just a space suit?” His perplexity cleared slightly. “Or do you mean Brad and Boomer are clear of the S-19 and can stay in orbit long enough for us to send up another one of the spaceplanes to rescue them?”