Farrell swung back to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Is there any way we can defend our spacecraft and satellites against this weapon?”
“No, sir,” Firestone replied somberly. “Not with our existing technology.”
“So the only way to stop the Russians is to blow that space station of theirs to kingdom come,” Farrell said bluntly.
Slowly, the admiral nodded. “That’s the way I see it, Mr. President.”
“Using our missile defense interceptors?”
“Correct, sir.” Firestone signaled an aide, who pulled up a map of the United States on one of the Situation Room’s wall screens. Two red icons depicted the antiballistic-missile silos on the California coast at Vandenberg Air Force Base and at upstate New York’s Fort Drum. A bright yellow line, showing the projected ground track of Mars One, arced across both places. “Approximately ten hours from now, the Russian space station’s orbit will take it almost directly over both of our missile defense sites. This presents us with an opening to attack. The next such opportunity will not occur for another seventy-two hours.”
Dawson cleared his throat. “Given Mars One’s orbital velocity, those launch windows must be very small, Admiral.”
Firestone nodded. “They are.”
“How small?” Farrell asked.
“We would have time to launch two interceptors from each site,” the admiral told him.
“But not simultaneously.”
“No, sir,” Firestone agreed. “The launch window at Fort Drum won’t open until roughly nine minutes after the one at Vandenberg has closed.”
Farrell studied the map in silence for a few moments. Then he looked carefully at the admiral. “Considering what we already know about that space station’s armament — which includes at least two high-powered lasers and this plasma gun — what are the odds of success?”
“Slim,” the other man said quietly.
Farrell nodded. “Let me think on this, Admiral,” he said. “Make the necessary preparations, but y’all will not launch any of our interceptors against Mars One without my direct authorization. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Very clear.”
“Now, do you have any other recommendations?” Farrell asked.
Firestone sat forward. “Yes, sir. I’ve spoken to the other members of the JCS. We unanimously recommend moving to DEFCON Two immediately.”
Farrell frowned. DEFCON, or Defense Readiness Condition, was a graduated system for increasing the readiness of U.S. military forces for nuclear war. He had already ordered an increase to DEFCON Three shortly after the Russians attacked the Sky Masters S-19 spaceplane. Moving to DEFCON Two would mean bringing America’s nuclear-armed and nuclear-capable air and naval forces to a much higher alert status — one that was just short of signaling an intention to wage all-out nuclear war.
“Are there any signs that the Russians have increased their own alert status?” he asked carefully.
“No, sir,” Firestone admitted. “Not yet.” He looked worried. “But that is precisely the problem, Mr. President. Right now Moscow seems determined to destroy our space-based reconnaissance capabilities. The Russians are systematically stripping away our ability to keep tabs on the deployment and readiness of their bombers, strategic rocket forces, naval units, and ground forces. Put simply, we are being blinded.”
“We still have the SBIRS satellites,” Dawson pointed out.
“Which can only alert us to a missile attack that is already under way,” Firestone said tightly. “At which point, it will be too late to increase the readiness levels of our armed forces.”
Farrell considered that. There was no doubt that the recommendation by the Joint Chiefs made a lot of military sense. On the other hand, openly ratcheting up to DEFCON Two would also spook many of America’s European and Asian allies, especially if the Russians were holding tight everywhere but in space. According to Andrew Taliaferro, some of them weren’t even sure whether they should believe Washington’s story about the clash between the S-19 and Mars One… or Moscow’s. He looked at Firestone. “We’ll split the baby on this one, Admiral,” he said firmly.
“Mr. President?”
“Officially, we’re going to hold at DEFCON Three,” Farrell told him. “But I want all of our ballistic-missile submarines to put out to sea as quickly as possible.” Those submarines represented the bulk of the U.S. nuclear deterrent force anyway. He smiled wryly. “You can announce the move as a short-notice fleet-readiness exercise.”
“That won’t fool Gryzlov,” Taliaferro warned.
Farrell shrugged. “No, I don’t expect it will.” His mouth was a hard, thin line. “Right now, though, that asshole thinks he can stomp all over us without any pushback. Well, I want him — and the generals and government officials around him — to know he’s playing with fire.”
As soon as the conference in the Situation Room broke up, Farrell headed back upstairs to the Oval Office. For what it was worth, he’d set the official forces of the U.S. military and government in motion. Now it was time to do the same with Scion and Sky Masters.
Kevin Martindale and Patrick McLanahan stood up when he entered. Impatiently, he waved them back down and sat at his desk. “Let’s get to it. We’re burning daylight while that bastard Gennadiy Gryzlov is burning satellites.”
Martindale frowned. “I assume that is not simply a colorful Texanism.”
“Hell no,” Farrell said, with a sigh. They listened intently while he brought them up to speed on recent events in orbit. “We’ve lost two more satellites during just the last sixty minutes,” he concluded. “A second Topaz radar sat and one of our Trumpet electronic intelligence satellites.”
Patrick stared at him. “A Trumpet ELINT satellite? Those birds are in highly elliptical Molniya orbits to get maximum coverage over Russia and the northern hemisphere. Most of the time they’re way up high, close to twenty-five thousand miles at apogee.”
“The key phrase there being ‘most of the time,’” Farrell said gloomily. “Mars One nailed this one on its way back down toward perigee. That plasma rail gun of theirs blew our Trumpeter satellite to pieces from three thousand miles away.” Unable to sit still any longer, he kicked back his desk chair and got up to prowl around the room. “At this rate, we won’t have a single working spy satellite in orbit by the end of the week.”
Martindale pursed his lips. “There are a few hidden backup satellites, disguised as civilian platforms or even space junk.”
“Sure,” Patrick said with a shrug. “And as soon as we start maneuvering them into useful orbits, the Russians will knock them out.”
“We could launch replacements while the space station is on the other side of its orbit,” Martindale said slowly. “Its crew can’t shoot what they can’t see.” Then his face darkened. “But by the same token, any new satellite would have to precisely mirror Mars One’s orbit to stay safe—”
Patrick nodded. “And that particular orbit sucks for spying on Russia. Satellites inclined at fifty-one point six degrees can check out targets in the southern part of the country… but we’d have zero coverage over most of their ICBM fields, strategic bomber bases, and the Northern Fleet’s ballistic-missile submarine pens.” He shrugged. “And after Gryzlov launches his second armed space station, all bets are off.”
Farrell swung around at that. “You really think he’s planning to launch another Mars-class platform?”
“No question about it,” Patrick said firmly. “I’m only surprised he sent the first one up on its own. There’s no doubt Gryzlov is now determined to seize and hold the high ground. He’s obviously figured out that dominating outer space will yield enormous military, commercial, and political advantages to Russia. And putting one or two more space stations armed with those plasma cannon into orbit would make it practically impossible for us to shake loose of Moscow’s grip.”