The clatter of a helicopter drawing closer broke into Boomer’s dazed thoughts. Blearily, he raised his head to look up. A white-and-yellow UH-60J Seahawk swept across the waves at low altitude — undoubtedly homing in on the emergency radio beacon he’d activated the moment he splashed down. Beyond the helicopter, he could make out the long, sleek shape of a warship as it steamed toward his position at high speed. The Rising Sun ensign of Japan’s Maritime Self-Defense Force streamed proudly from its mast.
Later, safely aboard the Atago-class destroyer Ashigara, Boomer took the headset offered by the ship’s communications officer. Unsure of the formalities, he bowed slightly. “Dōmo… er, arigatōgozaimashita. Thank you very much.”
The Japanese naval lieutenant grinned back at him. “No sweat,” he answered in flawless, colloquial English. He spoke into his own mike. “Wait one, Washington. I have Dr. Noble standing by.”
Feeling sheepish, Boomer donned the headset. “This is Hunter Noble. Go ahead.”
“I’m really glad to hear your voice, Boomer,” Patrick McLanahan said. They were on an encrypted satellite radio link between the Ashigara and the White House. “Are you okay?”
Boomer shrugged. And then winced as his battered muscles protested. “I’m fine, General,” he said. “Just a little banged up and bruised is all. My hosts gave me a head-to-toe exam almost as soon as they hoisted me on board. And I’ve got a clean bill of health from the ship’s medical officer.”
“Good,” the older McLanahan replied after a short pause. “Because we’ve asked the Japanese to fly you to shore ASAP. We’ll have a jet standing by to bring you back to the States for a mission debrief.”
“Yes, sir.” Boomer nodded tightly. It made sense for him to walk them through his side of this disaster while it was still relatively fresh in his mind. But that wouldn’t make the process any more pleasant. He’d better try to grab some decent shut-eye on the flight home, because that might be his last real chance for a long time. He frowned. “Look, do you guys know yet what the hell hit us up there?”
“We have a working hypothesis,” Patrick said quietly. “That’s part of what we want to go over with you.”
“Well, Brad got a closer look at that Russian space station and its armament than I did.” Boomer grinned wryly. “And knowing your kid as well as I do, sir, I bet he’s already worked up a few theories of his own. Some of them may even be in the right ballpark.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence on the other end.
Oh, shit, Boomer thought. He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling nauseous again. “Jesus, General. Brad did make it down okay, didn’t he?”
“We don’t know,” the older McLanahan said at last. “His emergency radio beacon did activate. But then it went dead after just a couple of minutes.” Now his voice openly betrayed the deep anxiety he felt. “We are sure of one thing, though, Boomer. Even if Brad survived reentry, he is still in very grave danger.”
Colonel Vadim Strelkov listened intently to the instructions Leonov was issuing. Through the inevitable visual and audio distortions created when an encrypted signal bounced through a network of communications satellites, it was clear that the other man had misgivings about the president’s command to commence full-scale offensive operations now — before they were fully ready. For what it was worth, he shared those reservations. But orders were orders, and neither of them was in any real position to disobey Gennadiy Gryzlov.
“I understand, sir,” he said. “You can count on us to do our duty.”
Leonov nodded gravely. “I am well aware of that, Vadim.” He looked closely into the screen, obviously studying Strelkov’s demeanor. “Maintain your station’s defenses at the highest possible effectiveness, even when conducting an attack. I do not believe the Americans will give up so easily.”
“Yes, sir. We will be watchful,” Strelkov assured him.
“Then get to work, Colonel,” Leonov said laconically. “Moscow Control out.”
The screen blanked.
For a moment longer, Strelkov floated in front of his console, considering his options. Leonov’s suggested precautions were justified. Without the massive amounts of electric power their lost fusion reactor would have provided, his most sensible course was to maintain a deliberate, carefully regulated tempo of attacks — conserving as much of their stored battery and supercapacitor energy as possible. Most obviously, that meant he and his cosmonauts should fire their Thunderbolt plasma rail gun offensively only when Mars One was in full sunlight and its solar arrays could recharge the weapon efficiently.
At last, he nodded to himself. The tactical situation might not be ideal, but any commander who dreamed that real war would match his picture-perfect plans was a simpleton. And when it mattered most, his crew and the station’s weapons systems had passed the test of actual combat with flying colors.
Strelkov pushed the intercom control on his console. “Attention, all crew,” he said calmly. “This is Command. Prepare for offensive operations. Repeat, prepare for offensive operations. Report when ready.”
One by one, the other five cosmonauts confirmed their readiness. Except for Konnikov, their duty posts were in other compartments scattered throughout Mars One. That made it more difficult for him to judge their demeanor under pressure. Nevertheless, the cool professionalism he heard in their voices now was reassuring — a stark contrast to the undercurrent of panic he’d sensed during their frenetic, no-notice, short-range engagement against the American S-19 Midnight spaceplane and its stealth weapons.
Satisfied, Strelkov rotated toward Konnikov. “Time to the solar terminator, Georgy?”
The younger man checked his computer. “We will be in sunlight for another seventeen minutes, sir.”
“Very well,” Strelkov acknowledged. They had enough time to conduct at least one Thunderbolt attack before Mars One crossed back into darkness on its orbit around the earth. He opened a circuit to Major Pyotr Romanenko. “Solar array status?”
“We are currently generating seventy-two kilowatts,” the engineering officer reported. “All surplus capacity is on standby to recharge Thunderbolt’s supercapacitors.”
Strelkov pulled up their targeting list on one of his console displays. It was a compilation of all known military and civilian satellites whose orbits lay within reach of Mars One’s main armament. It took only seconds to winnow the list down to those currently in range. He highlighted one of them, already identified by the planners in Moscow as a top-priority target, and relayed it to Konnikov. “Georgy, designate Topaz-Four as target Alpha-One.”
The sensor officer entered the necessary information with unruffled precision. “Target Alpha-One is designated, sir.” He opened a new window. “Our secure data link to the Altai Optical-Laser Center is open. Confirming Alpha-One’s current orbital parameters now.”
Sited high in the Altai Mountains a few hundred kilometers south of Novosibirsk, the center’s powerful one-hundred-ton telescope was a key component in Russia’s optical space tracking network. Its constantly updated databases included observations of hundreds of satellites as their orbits brought them within view. Cross-checking them against computer predictions based on earlier observations would reveal if a given satellite had recently altered its orbit… and if so, what its new parameters were. Absolute accuracy was essential for a weapon firing on rapidly moving targets at very long ranges.