They were still crossing high above the pitch-black Atlantic. There, in the distance, he could see the orangish glow of city lights along the fast-approaching coastline of Europe.
“Wolf One to Wolf Two and Three,” Brad radioed. “Ready all weapons. This is going to happen awfully fast.”
Listening to their affirmative replies, he fed power to the mechanical limbs attached to his robot and to the improvised weapons they held. Information flowing through his neural link confirmed that all of the limbs were online, ready to respond as though they were his own arms. Then he powered up the CID electromagnetic rail gun held by Cub One. Using the data link between the two robots allowed him to “see” through the remotely piloted COMS’ sensors just as well as he could through those of his own. Carefully, he aimed the rail gun at the center of the bright green brackets that showed where the Russian station should be.
Keenly aware that their lives now depended entirely on him, Major Georgy Konnikov kept working to penetrate the enemy’s jamming. His gloved fingers stabbed at different controls on his console, commanding both his X-band and L-band radars to change their operating frequencies as randomly as he could. For far too long, nothing worked. His displays still showed only a glowing splotch of green-tinged static across the projected track of the inbound American space weapons.
He blinked hard at a droplet of sweat that had somehow wormed its way out from under his communications cap. It floated away and clung to the visor of his helmet, slightly distorting his vision through that small section. “Der’mo,” he muttered. “Shit.”
Suddenly the static cluttering his radar displays thinned and then rolled backward — revealing a large cluster of small distinct blips. They were within forty kilometers of Mars One. The area behind the oncoming formation was still hazed by jamming.
“Burn through!” Konnikov said loudly. The approaching cloud of American weapons had reached the point where the effective radiated power of his radars was sufficient to overwhelm that of their jamming systems. His hands swept across his controls, selecting different contacts and locking them up. “Transferring targeting information!”
“Data handoff complete,” Revin reported from his post in the forward weapons module. “I have fire-control solutions.”
“Open fire!” Strelkov ordered.
Immediately both of Mars One’s Hobnail lasers went into action. One- and two-second bursts were sufficient to destroy individual American weapons, reducing them to clouds of half-melted scrap metal shoved onto trajectories that would not impact the space station.
“Ten targets destroyed. Battery packs down to sixty-eight percent,” Revin reported. “Continuing to engage.”
Konnikov kept his gaze fixed intently on his displays. Every laser hit tore another hole in the enemy’s ECM “screen.” Already, the hash of green static that had blinded his radars was much thinner. At any second now, he should be able to get a fix on that American spaceplane.
“Eighteen targets destroyed. Six remaining. Battery power down to forty-two percent.”
Across the command compartment, Colonel Vadim Strelkov winced. Revin was doing his best, firing his lasers only long enough to confirm the destruction of each enemy weapon or jammer. But even so, this battle was consuming their energy supplies at an alarming rate. The supercapacitors for the station’s Thunderbolt plasma rail gun were already drained, rendering the weapon useless. Soon the same would be true of the Hobnail lasers… which would leave only the short-range, hypersonic Scimitar missiles available to defend Mars One. He spoke over the intercom to Major Filatyev. “Viktor, activate your missile launcher.”
“At once, sir,” Filatyev replied.
Strelkov felt the deck of the command module vibrate as a hatch opened, allowing the Scimitar rotary missile launcher to elevate into firing position.
Only half listening to this exchange, Konnikov saw a new blip appear on his X-band radar display, emerging out of the now-faint haze of enemy jamming. “New contact at thirty-five kilometers!” he announced excitedly. “It’s the S-29. The spaceplane has changed its trajectory to pass below us at a distance of approximately ten kilometers.”
“Revin! Destroy that spaceplane!” Strelkov snapped.
As Revin obeyed his order, both Hobnail lasers swung round, locked on to the S-29 Shadow, and fired. Each burst was much longer this time, nearly five seconds. “Solid hits by both lasers,” Revin reported. Then he warned, “My battery packs are below twenty percent. I have enough remaining energy to attack the S-29 again… or to destroy the surviving American space weapons. I cannot do both.”
Strelkov stared down at his own display, which showed the American spaceplane continuing on without any observable deviation from its plotted course. Why wasn’t their radar picking up traces of debris? Had the enemy spacecraft somehow survived those laser shots? He swiveled toward Konnikov. “Get me a visual on that target!”
Quickly, the other man tied one of the station’s telescopes to the tracking data supplied by its X-band radar.
Strelkov frowned at the pictures as they appeared on his screen. The American pilot had maneuvered to present the S-29’s underside to Mars One’s lasers — evidently hoping the spaceplane’s heat-resistant thermal tiles would offer some protection. The gamble had paid off, at least to the extent that neither Hobnail burst seemed to have penetrated the spaceplane’s outer hull. On the other hand, he could see significant damage to those thermal tiles in two separate places, large areas where they had been deeply scored and cracked all the way through. Damaged as it was, there was no longer any possibility the S-29 Shadow could survive reentry.
“The six remaining American space weapons are now within twenty-five kilometers and still closing,” Konnikov pointed out carefully.
Strelkov nodded. He made his decision. “Shift your fire back to those weapons, Captain,” he told Revin. “We’ll finish that spaceplane off with a Scimitar missile instead.”
The Hobnail lasers spun back to their first targets and opened fire again.
“All targets destroyed,” Revin said with evident satisfaction several seconds later.
“What is your battery status?” Strelkov asked.
“Hobnail One has no stored power remaining. Hobnail Two has enough left for a single one-second shot.”
Strelkov opened a channel to Filatyev. “Prepare to engage the S-29 with a single missile, Viktor.” He smiled, feeling a wave of relief sweep over him. If the enemy spaceplane had mounted other weapons, it would already have used them. Now it was just a question of mopping up. The American attack had come closer to success than he would have thought possible, but in the end all of their cleverness and suicidal willingness to spend lives had fallen short. And by the time they could organize another assault on Mars One, the station’s replacement fusion reactor would be operational.
“Sir! This isn’t over,” Konnikov blurted out. He looked down in dismay at his radar displays. “I’ve detected seven new bogeys on a direct trajectory to intercept us! They’re within thirty kilometers and closing at three hundred meters per second!”
Strelkov felt the blood drain from his face. “Show me!”
Konnikov sent him the light-intensified images captured by their telescopes.
For a long moment, Strelkov stared at the pictures in horrified silence. They showed seven spheroids headed straight for Mars One, each bristling with several limbs and what appeared to be hand weapons. They looked eerily like some sort of ancient predatory sea creatures rising out of the abyss. He shivered. What kind of new Sky Masters devilry was this? He swallowed hard, fighting down the urge to vomit. “Major Filatyev,” he rapped out. “Stand by to fire the Scimitar launcher. I want those… things… dead.”