Gryzlov broke in over the still-open satellite communications link to Moscow. “What are you waiting for? Why haven’t you already fired on this new target?”
When Strelkov hesitantly tried to explain his concerns, the president snapped, “Don’t be a fool! The Americans have almost certainly armed at least one of their spaceplanes already. If you don’t fire Thunderbolt now, you may never get a second chance.”
Helplessly, the colonel looked toward Leonov. “Sir?”
“The president is right,” the other man admitted. “We’ve analyzed radar data collected during the final stages of the successful American effort to rescue their downed astronaut. They seem to show the intervention of a large supersonic craft in the battle area shortly before the confirmed disappearance of one of our Su-35 fighters. If so, that S-29 Shadow headed your way may well be armed with weapons of its own.”
“Very well,” Strelkov said slowly. Unable to shake the premonition that he was making a tactical error, he looked across the command compartment at Konnikov. “Transfer your tracking data to Thunderbolt’s fire-control computer, Major.”
“Transfer complete,” the younger man reported seconds later.
“My computer has a solution, Colonel,” Filatyev announced over the intercom circuit. “Standing by to fire on your order.”
“Weapons release granted,” Strelkov said reluctantly.
“Firing.”
The plasma rail gun pulsed a second time.
“Good hit!” Konnikov exulted. He slaved the station’s powerful telescopes to its X-band radar and sent the light-intensified images they captured to Strelkov’s console. They showed the dead Sky Masters S-29 Shadow curving away with a ragged hole torn in its aft fuselage. It was surrounded by a dense fog of frozen fuel, oxidizer, and debris.
Strelkov studied the pictures intently. He frowned, puzzled by what he observed. “There is a lot more fuel in that debris cloud than I would have expected,” he noted.
On-screen, Gryzlov nodded sagely. “The spaceplane must have been carrying long-range missiles in its payload bay, Colonel. That would explain the extra fuel.” He smiled. “So you see, you were wise not to let that S-29 get any closer to Mars One before killing it.”
Forty-Four
Almost invisible from below against the night sky and from above against the darkened surface of the ocean fifty thousand feet below, a second S-29 Shadow streaked northeast at high speed. As the spaceplane’s airspeed reached Mach 3, its five hybrid LPDRS engines finished their transition to scramjet mode. Immediately the S-29’s nose pitched up and it climbed toward the upper edges of the atmosphere, accelerating at an ever-increasing rate.
The forward section of the spaceplane’s cargo bay contained two dozen Sky Masters — built nanosatellites. Each tiny satellite sat nestled in metal bracing. Power and data cables connected them to the S-29’s computers. None of the twenty-four nanosats were identical. Each carried a unique blend of antennas, other emitters, maneuvering thrusters, and power supplies.
In the aft cargo bay, seven large spheroid COMS — Cybernetic Orbital Maneuvering Systems — were packed in tight, held in place by a lattice of webbing. Three of the egg-shaped robots were occupied by human pilots. The other four were configured for a mix of autonomous and remote control. All seven one-man construction spacecraft had been hurriedly modified for combat use. Three of the unpiloted COMS were equipped with electromagnetic rail guns. The numerous mechanical limbs of the other four held a variety of tools repurposed for use as weapons — including drills, laser welders, explosive breaching devices, and powered cutting saws.
Secure inside the cockpit of his COMS, Brad McLanahan opened a channel to the other two pilots. “This is Wolf One, communications check,” he said.
“Wolf Two copies,” Nadia Rozek said calmly.
“Wolf Three has you loud and clear,” Peter Vasey replied.
“Passing three hundred and sixty thousand feet, engines spiking,” a calm female voice reported. “Spiking complete. Scramjets indicate full shutdown. Shadow Two-Two is go for rocket transition.”
Brad sighed. So far at least, Shadow Two-Two’s computer had performed perfectly, taking off from Battle Mountain and handling the required air-to-air refueling rendezvous without a hitch. But understanding that the S-29 they were riding in was capable of fully autonomous, computer-controlled flight was one thing. Being comfortable with that as a passenger was quite another. Still, he had to admit feeling relieved that those first two Russian plasma rail-gun shots hadn’t killed anyone… since both the S-9 Black Stallion and the S-29 refueling tanker they’d sent into orbit first had been flown by computers, not human pilots.
“Good ignition on all five engines. Throttling up to full power,” the computer announced.
Instantly, high G-forces slammed Brad deeper into the haptic interface gel around him. He gritted his teeth against a sudden wave of pain from his damaged shoulder and knee. Hold it together, McLanahan, he thought. He’d assured everyone that he could handle this mission. Well, he’d be damned if he made a liar out of himself by losing consciousness on the trip into space.
“Now we find out… if your father… was right… or if he was wrong,” Nadia said. Beneath the clear physical effort required to speak under acceleration, she sounded completely calm.
“How’s that?” Brad forced out past the pressure on his chest.
“Can the Russians fire that plasma weapon of theirs twice… or three times?” she replied.
Despite the G-forces acting on him, Brad felt a wry smile cross his contorted face. “We’ll see, I guess. But I feel… lucky,” he grunted. “Even if I am a… punk.”
“Sir!” Konnikov rapped out. “The enemy has launched a third spaceplane into orbit! It appears to be another S-29 Shadow and the time to intercept is twenty minutes.”
Strelkov froze. The Americans know about our missing reactor, he thought bitterly. Somehow, the Mars Project’s unprecedented security measures had been breached. The method of this attack was proof of that. They’d forced him to use up his long-range firepower first. Now, instead of killing his enemies while they were still hundreds or even thousands of kilometers away and unable to strike back, this battle would be fought out within tens of kilometers of the space station.
“Colonel?” Konnikov asked uncertainly. “What are your orders?”
Strelkov shook himself back to the present. He punched the intercom button, opening a general channel to everywhere on Mars One. “Attention, all crew, this is Command. Get into your pressure suits immediately! You have eight minutes before we vent atmosphere.”
Wearing bulky space suits would make it more difficult for his cosmonauts to work their displays and controls, but if the Americans scored hits, depressurizing the station would at least avoid the twin dangers of explosive decompression and fire. “Major Romanenko! Don your special-action armor and await further orders.”
“Understood, sir,” Romanenko replied. “I’m heading for the KVM bay now.” As the station’s engineering officer, he could do nothing more until they crossed back into sunlight and had electrical power to spare to recharge Thunderbolt’s supercapacitors. So now it was time for him to prepare to defend Mars One in close combat.