Martindale laid a hand on Patrick’s metal-reinforced shoulder. “I’ll take this one,” he murmured. “Put bluntly, Mr. President,” he said, “we need to seize and hold that Russian space platform because it’s painfully obvious that Moscow has leapfrogged us in certain key technological areas — including sophisticated energy weapons and, probably, fusion power generation. Unless our scientists and engineers get a good solid look at some of these devices, we’re likely to lag behind the enemy for years… with disastrous consequences.”
Coolly, he swept his gaze around the crowded table, watching as his arguments hit home. Then he turned back to Farrell. “Gryzlov isn’t likely to back off, no matter what happens to his first military station. Even if we destroy Mars One, we may face the beginning of a prolonged struggle in space, one that will be fought with ever-more-sophisticated weapons. To have any chance at all of winning this conflict, we simply must capture Mars One intact.”
Farrell considered his words and nodded slowly. “You’ve made your point, Mr. Martindale.” He frowned. “I don’t like it one goddamned little bit, but I’m not going to make the same mistake as some of my predecessors by assuming I can ignore reality in favor of my own hopes and dreams.”
He swung around to face Patrick squarely. “If I give the go-ahead, when can you set your operation in motion?”
“Speed is absolutely critical,” the older McLanahan said. “But to have any chance at all, our assault has to be timed very precisely to meet certain key requirements.”
“Which are?” Farrell asked.
“First, we’ve got to launch our spaceplanes at a moment when the enemy station’s solar arrays aren’t generating power.”
Admiral Firestone shrugged. “Mars One passes through the earth’s shadow on every orbit, doesn’t it?”
Patrick nodded. “Yes, but we also need to select a period of darkness that won’t expose our spaceplanes to salvos by Russia’s S-500 SAMs and MiG-31-launched missiles during their boost phase. That narrows the range of suitable orbits considerably.” He looked at Farrell. “Plus, if it’s at all possible, I want to time our attack to minimize the number of important American and allied targets Mars One could strike with its ground-attack weapons before we capture or destroy it.”
“So, not when that space station is passing right over Washington, D.C., for example?” Farrell suggested with a quick, wry smile.
“Or Warsaw. Or London. Or any number of other places,” Patrick agreed. Then he motioned toward the screen showing Brad and the others watching intently. “And, maybe most important of all, it will take time to train our assault force in simulators… and to jury-rig the weapons and other equipment they’ll use in this mission.”
He brought his attention back to the president. “With all that in mind, our first window to go opens in less than two hundred hours.” Impatiently, he overrode the sudden babble of protest from around the room. “I know that isn’t much time,” he said flatly. “But that’s also likely to be our only window. The clock is ticking. Right now new intelligence from Scion strongly indicates the Russians are already prepping a replacement fusion reactor for launch from the Vostochny complex.”
Patrick leaned forward, fixing his eyes on Farrell. “Either we go before that reactor is operational,” he said grimly, “or we don’t go at all.”
Live feeds from around the complex were displayed on the control center’s wall-sized screens. One showed the inside of the huge Energia assembly building. Technicians wearing red hard hats and blue-and-black uniforms clustered around the massive rocket’s still-separate engine and payload stages. They were inspecting each with care — checking for even the slightest signs of any mechanical or electronic glitches. Only when those checks were complete would they begin the intricate task of mating each stage to its companions to form a finished space vehicle. No one at Vostochny wanted to see a repeat of the disastrous launch from Plesetsk.
Launch director Yuri Klementiyev checked the digital timer displayed above that screen. It was counting down the time toward the new Energia-5VR’s planned lift-off. He glanced at his deputy, who was standing beside him. “Well, Sergei?”
“We’ll make it,” the other man said confidently. “Our assembly team is on schedule, maybe even a little ahead. Even if the preflight inspection turns up problems, we have a built-in margin.”
“Not much of one.” Klementiyev felt like his nerves were frayed. Moscow seemed to think he could run this launch complex as though it were a commuter railroad — firing off rockets into space on order, to a timetable dictated by the Kremlin.
To hide his worries, he turned his attention to the other two wall screens. They were focused on Pads 5 and 7, seven and nine kilometers respectively from the control center. Floodlights illuminated the Soyuz-5 rocket on each pad. They were already surrounded by gantries and fueling towers. The top stage of each Soyuz contained a single-seater Elektron spaceplane, with its wings and tail folded inside a protective shroud.
Gennadiy Gryzlov and Colonel General Leonov were not taking any chances this time. When the new fusion reactor reached orbit, it would be escorted by armed Russian spacecraft all the way to Mars One.
Forty-Two
Brad McLanahan showed his ID to the group of armed security officers on duty. They checked it carefully against the list of approved personnel and then waved him on toward Hangar Three. Before going in, he turned back briefly to look across the empty airport runway. Anyone surveying the Sky Masters complex around the airport, whether through binoculars from the nearby mountains or from a satellite in space, would see no unusual activity. There were no aircraft lined up on the tarmac or parked outside any of the hangars. Everything seemed quiet.
This early in the morning, the sun rising over the mountains of the Shoshone Range sent long shadows stretching westward. He shivered slightly. Nights on the high deserts of Nevada were chilly, even in the summer, and it would be another couple of hours before temperatures would climb back to their usual searing midnineties.
Which meant that faint shimmer he saw drifting across the tarmac was not a heat mirage. It was one of the three Cybernetic Infantry Devices assigned to protect the Sky Masters facility against possible Russian attack. The patrolling war machine was using both of its advanced camouflage systems to full effect. Hundreds of hexagonal thermal adaptive tiles covered the robot’s armor, made of a special material that could change temperature with astonishing speed. Computers could adjust them to mimic the heat signatures of the CID’s surroundings, rendering it effectively invisible to enemy IR sensors. The machines also had thousands of paper-thin electrochromatic plates layered over those thermal tiles. Tiny voltage changes could alter the mix of colors displayed by each plate, giving the CIDs a chameleonlike ability to blend in with their environment. By using both systems in tandem, the robots could essentially hide in plain sight when they were stationary or moving slowly.
Their presence was a sign of just how seriously Martindale and Brad’s father took the Russian threat and the need for tighter security around Battle Mountain — especially now that their handful of Sky Masters spaceplanes represented America’s only real hope to conduct a counterattack against Mars One. If Gryzlov decided to carry out a preemptive strike against them, using one of his space-based hypersonic warheads, the three CIDs permanently on guard might be able to block the attack with a well-aimed rail-gun shot.