Brown, Dale - Independent 01 (36 page)

           
Govorov had
established contact with Soviet Space Defense Command shipbome tracking stations
just after Voloshin had disappeared. The ground-tracking stations were not as
sophisticated as the American Tracking and Data Relay Satellite system, TDRS,
or WESTAR, so voice and data contact with small, low-powered craft such as the
Elektrons was intermittent at best. They could not help with Voloshin’s
disappearance. They were also no help with a plan to dock with the
Soviet
Union
’s orbiting module. Besides, Govorov found he did not have
the fuel to risk a long, protracted hunt for
Mir
, so his only option was to deorbit.

           
“Elektron
One, this is Glowing Star Command Control.”

 
         
“Go ahead, Control.”

           
“Elektron
One, we are recommending another orbit to align in the slot for deorbit.”

           
What?
This was crazy… “Control, I don’t
have the reserves for another two hours in orbit. I need to deorbit on this
turn in the slot. What is your reason for the delay?”

           
“We are
showing a possible obstruction within ten kilometers of your computed descent
path, Elektron One.”

           
“An obstruction?
Another spacecraft?”

           
“Affirmative.
We predict that the object could be within
five kilometers of you when you begin your deorbit bum. Please state your
intentions.”

           
Govorov
took a firm grip on his control stick. It seemed the fight was not over. “Can
you identify the object, Control? Its point of origin?”

           
“Negative.
It is not a known orbiting spacecraft. It has appeared in your vicinity within
the hour, very close to your present flight path.”

           
“I want a
vector toward the object, Control, immediately.”

           
“Say again,
Elektron One.”

           
“I want a
vector toward the object. I intend to engage the... obstruction.”

           
“Yes, sir.
Stand by.” When Govorov received the range and
vector coordinates to the subject, sweat broke out on his forehead. It had
indeed moved very close to his flight path—dangerously close. It was less than
thirty kilometers away, no more than five thousand meters from his own
altitude.

           
He
activated his laser designator and opened his cargo-weapons bay doors once
again. He thought he knew what this oncoming spacecraft was. For several years
the Americans had had a fighter-based antisatellite missile in operation. Fired
from a high-performance F-15 fighter, the missile could seek out, track and
destroy many kinds of Soviet satellites. Enhancements to the American AS AT
weapon reportedly included a much higher altitude capability, a larger warhead
and a more maneuverable design. It was supposed to be as long as a Thor
space-based missile, perhaps ten to twelve meters long, but not as large in
diameter and aerodynamically shaped for carriage under an F-15: like a flying
torpedo.

           
It had to
be an American retaliatory response. The Americans were mounting their ASAT
attack at the one point in his mission when he was the most vulnerable: just
before deorbit. Low on fuel, maneuvering to enter the deorbit slot, busily
inattentive to everything else—a perfect time to strike. Well, the Americans
were going to get a surprise. He would be the hunter instead of the hunted....

           
“Elektron
One, spacecraft is at your altitude, inside twenty kilometers, slow moving...
now on collision course. Repeat, collision course. You are on an intercept
heading,
twelve o’clock
,
now
eighteen kilometers.”

           
Govorov put
his laser viewfinder on widest possible arc.... At the extreme magnification of
the laser designator appeared a large, bright object moving across the stars at
the very rim of the earth. As it came slowly into range he could make out its
smooth, oblong shape and a circular device on one end—an active radar-homing device
or infrared seeker? At first he worried that he might be engaging someone’s
low-orbiting satellite, or perhaps even a reconnaissance “ferret” satellite,
but this thing was unlike any satellite he had ever seen. It was not pointed
directly at him, but the laser rangefinder reported it was definitely moving
closer. He placed the aiming reticle directly on the nose sensor of the weapon,
received a READY beep in his headset, rechecked his weapons panel and at a
range of fifteen kilometers fired his last Scimitar missile.

           
The
hypervelocity missile tracked precisely on course, following the laser beam
directly to its target. Govorov watched it all the way to impact. The missile
plunged through the circular device at the nose of the spacecraft and sliced through
it like it was paper. No explosion, only a puff of metal and some escaping
gases. The spacecraft began to wobble a bit—obviously its directional control
now destroyed—
but otherwise it continued
on course.
Worried that the device wasn’t yet dead—perhaps it had some sort
of proximity detector or last- track-to-target capability—Govorov maneuvered
well above the spacecraft, then rotated around so he could watch it. The device
did not follow him. A few moments later it was safely underneath him, now noticeably
wobbling. Its altitude had already decreased—it would not be long before it
reentered the atmosphere.

           
There was
no proximity explosion, no terminal or kamikaze detonation. Govorov reminded
himself to inform Soviet intelligence of this new type of American spacecraft.
He wanted more information on it, wanted to know what its capabilities were.
Right now, though, he had to concentrate on the instructions the ground
controllers were sending him in preparation for deorbit. As he maneuvered to
begin his deorbit bum, he thought that even with the unexplained loss of
Voloshin and Elektron Two, the mission had been a success....

 
         
SPACE SHUTTLE
ENTERPRISE

 
          
Ann had been hanging in the same
place on
Enterprise
's
charred middeck for an hour.
Saint-Michael had passed by her several times during his grisly task, twice
from the middeck level and a few times from the flight-deck level. A bad cramp
had developed in her left thigh. She said nothing. Saint-Michael’s job would be
tough enough.

           
Finally she
heard the more familiar whine of circulating pumps and electronic equipment,
and through the vinyl and canvas surrounding her she could see a few lights
wink on. Just the sound of
something
operating
made her hope.... “Jason?”

           
“Power is
back on,” he said. “We still have half our air supply left—two weeks’ worth.
Not as much as I’d hoped for but. .. plenty of thruster power, except for the
nose RCS.”

           
“What
about....”

           
“They’re
all in the docking module on the station.”

           
“I’m sorry,
Jason.”

           
She could
imagine the pain in his face. Armstrong Station, Skybolt, the
Persian
Gulf
,
Iran
—even
the earth seemed so very far away. What was left was a burned-out space
shuttle. Seven charred bodies— “I found something,” Saint-Michael said after a
moment. “There was an extra spacesuit on board that wasn’t damaged in the fire.
I can still pressurize
Enterprise
's
airlock. You’ll be able to change in
there.”

           
He carried
her into the airlock and soon after that the airlock was pressurized enough so
that she could unzip the rescue ball and climb out.

           
“Now I know
what a butterfly feels like getting out of the cocoon.”

           
“I think
you’ve set a record for sitting in a rescue ball.”

           
When he
spoke she noticed that his breathing seemed to be a bit heavier, labored.
“Matter of fact, I don’t think a rescue ball has ever been used for real....”

           
“Jason, are
you all right?”

           
He seemed
not to have heard her. “Hang on, I’m going to disconnect from Armstrong. The
automatic system is out, I’ll have to do a brute-force disconnect.” She felt a
shudder and heard a loud metallic popping sound as
Enterprise
broke free of the docking clamps.

           
Five
minutes later Ann emerged from the airlock in her spacesuit and made her way to
the upper flight deck, where she found Saint- Michael strapped into the
left-hand commander’s seat punching instructions into the digital autopilot. He
motioned for her to sit in the right-hand pilot’s seat. As she passed the
center console and began strapping herself in, she looked out the front cockpit
windows and caught a glimpse of Armstrong Station.

           
“My...
God....”

           
“They did a
job on her, that’s for sure,” Saint-Michael said. “They hit almost everything
mounted on the keel—radiators, comm antennas, fuel cells, fuel storage.... One
of the SBR antennas seems okay. Good, they didn’t get
everything.
But they put holes in all the modules except for the
laser module and the MHD reactor. Looks like they got the Skybolt electronics
module, too.

           
“Well,
there’s a hole in it, but there may not be extensive damage —Jason, are you all
right?”

           
Saint-Michael
was shaking his head, blinking his eyes, and licking moisture from his upper
lip. “I’ve got a headache, is all.. .. ”

           
“Check your
oxygen.”

           
“I did,”
but he rechecked it. “On and one hundred precent. Good blinker light.” He tried
not to notice her worried look. “I’ve got the lifeboat’s rescue transponder
tuned in but I’m not receiving it yet. We’ve got to try to contact someone on
the ground to arrange a linkup with the lifeboat and send up a rescue craft.”

           
“Okay
.. .
just tell me what to do.”

           
“Switch
over to air-to-ground frequency one and keep trying to raise someone. Try both
air-to-ground channels. That Soviet missile ripped out most of the antennas on
the bottom of the
Enterprise
,
but the ones on top should work. I’ll try the satellite network again.” The two
worked apart for several minutes until a hiss of static and a faint, heavily
accented voice made Ann jerk upright. “Jason, I’ve got someone.”

           
“Which
channel?”

           
“It’s...
air-to-ground two. I’ve got it set to UHF.” Saint-Michael quickly reset his
comm switches to the same settings.

           
“Any
station, any station. This is United States Space Shuttle
Enterprise
.
Repeat, this is United States Space
Shuttle
Enterprise
.
Come in.
Emergency.
Over.”

           
Through
waves of squeals and static they heard: “Space Shuttle
Enterprise
,
this is NASA Dakar. Repeat, this is
NASA Dakar. We read you.
Over.”

           
“
Dakar
,
this is Lieutenant General Saint-Michael. Request a kilo- uniform-band
satellite data link with any available network. This is an emergency.
Over.”

 
         
“Copy,
Enterprise
came the heavy accent. “
Requesting
Ku-band data link.
Dakar
is not
Ku-band capable. Stand by.”

           
A few
moments later a different controller came on, this one with a definite American
accent: “General Saint-Michael, this is Kevin Roberts, GS-17, senior
communications officer. Sorry, sir, but we weren’t expecting a UHF call from
any American spacecraft. We’re triangulating your position. We should have a
Ku-band link with TDRS East in a few minutes. Can you tell us the nature of
your emergency?” “Yeah... Armstrong Station has been attacked. Nine fatalities,
repeat, nine fatalities. Shuttle
Enterprise
with two on board is damaged
and unable to deorbit. Space-station lifeboat with four on board is in orbit. I
want to join with the lifeboat and wait for rescue shuttle sortie.”

           
“Copy,
Enterprise
The signal was getting
stronger.
“
Enterprise
,
w'e
have
triangulated your position. TDRS link in progress. Stand by.”

           
“Have you
heard anything from our lifeboat,
Dakar
?”

           
“Negative,
Enterprise
.
We were pretty lucky to hear
you
in this backwater joint. I’ll relay
your query to
Rota
for immediate reply. Understand you
want immediate linkup with the lifeboat.” “Affirmative,
Dakar
,
Enterprise
standing by.”