The Olympus 6-F8 oceanography studies satellite continued its low-Earth orbit of 150 miles with an inclination of eighty-two degrees while performing a surface-imaging survey of the water off the Venezuelan coast. Its central processing unit temporarily switched tasks in response to a priority-one signal sent from a tracking station in French Guiana.
The signal ordered the processor to run a one-time algorithm, which would erase itself from memory after execution, programmed to jettison a cylindrical-shaped white object that had remained concealed since the satellite’s launch several months back.
The five-hundred-pound cylinder did not house any of the infrared and microwave imaging gear that filled most of the parent satellite. Aside from six tubular solid-propellant rockets around its one-foot diameter, a homing sensor, and a transponder radio, the five-foot-long object contained three hundred pounds of HEP, High Explosive Plastic, connected to a fuse with a brief time delay. The radar-absorbing fluorocarbon resins coating the entire cylinder made it nearly invisible to its creators as well as to the Russian tracking stations controlling Progress VI.
The rockets fired, propelling the cylinder into a highly elliptical two-hundred-by-three-thousand-mile orbit, but the cylinder never reached its apogee. It never even came close. As the accelerating object reached its maximum velocity, its homing unit detected Progress VI in its own orbit one thousand miles away.
The high-speed chase did not last long. Traveling at nearly thirty thousand miles per hour, the cylinder closed the gap in minutes and struck the rear section of the Russian craft with a relative velocity of five thousand miles per hour. On hitting the target, the cylinder fractured and its explosive filling spread like a pancake around the Russian craft, detonating a split second later. Stress waves propagated along the length of the craft, sending hundreds of metal fragments traveling around the interior of Progress VI at lightning speed, and puncturing the liquid oxygen and kerosene fuel cells housed in the rear.
On-board impact sensors registered the attack but were unable to transmit the data to Earth. The blast that followed dwarfed the initial explosion. Thousands of gallons of propellant and liquid oxygen ignited creating an inferno that lasted only a few seconds, but long enough to destroy Progress VI.
The operator sitting behind the green CRT display read the Orbital Termination message flashing on the top left-hand corner of the screen. The message marked the end of the drone satellite’s transponder radio signal, indicating that the drone had been successful in reaching its target and detonating.
The operator shifted his gaze to the circular radar screen to his left and verified that the Russian craft had disappeared from the display. Satisfied, he continued processing the surface images collected by the Olympus satellite.
CHAPTER ONE
NEW BEGINNINGS
There can be no thought of finishing, for ‘aiming at the stars,’ both literally and figuratively, is a problem to occupy generations, so that no matter how much progress one makes, there is always the thrill of just beginning.
Gleaming and pristine, Lightning stood quietly perched above her concrete stand, pointing at the heavens. Expectant, waiting, she seemed to be a mighty bird of prey poised to rise into the air on pillars of flame produced by her powerful twin Solid Rocket Boosters. Her external fuel tank was an unsightly but necessary blemish on her otherwise perfect white skin, composed of over 21,000 thermal protection tiles individually placed in their unique spots on the orbiter — a multimillion-dollar jigsaw-puzzle task.
The furnacelike late-morning Florida sun had already elevated outside temperatures well into the nineties. Mission Commander Michael Kessler glanced at the launch complex as he received permission from X68, the designator for the Shuttle Landing Facility, to taxi a Gulfstream II jet short of Runway 33, the fifteen-thousand-foot-long runway of the Kennedy Space Center’s landing facility. The Shuttle Training Aircraft, or STA, as the Gulfstream was known, had been extensively modified by NASA to simulate a space shuttle orbiter for practicing “dead stick” landings.
After reaching the runway hold lines, he spoke in his voice-activated headset, “X-ray Six Eight, STA holding short of 33 ready for take-off.”
“STA you’re clear for take-off Runway 33. Maintain runway heading.”
Kessler read back the instructions and nudged the throttle to steer the Gulfstream onto the runway. He gently applied full power the moment he aligned the nose with the runway’s center line. The dual Rolls-Royce Spey 511-8 turbofans came to life unleashing nearly twenty thousand pounds of thrust, propelling the fifteen-year-old jet down the sizzling concrete surface. Kessler kept the aircraft aligned with the center line as airspeed increased. One hundred knots… One-ten… One-thirty.
Kessler pulled up when he read 150 knots and put the jet on a steep climb.
“STA, climb and maintain three five thousand.
Kessler acknowledged and then began making wide circles over the water while climbing to his designated altitude. During STA approaches, air traffic control would close down the area around Kennedy Space Center to other air traffic, meaning the Gulfstream would be the only aircraft in the vicinity until completing the approach.
“Hate doing spiral climbs and simulated dead-stick landings,” Mission Pilot Captain Clayton Jones complained from the copilot seat. “Can you spell BORING?”
Kessler smiled. Jones, an old friend from the days when Kessler was stationed aboard U.S.S. Constitution in the Persian Gulf, was Air Force, but Kessler didn’t mind that. He considered Jones the last of the down-to-earth American officers. “I doubt you’d say that during the real thing, CJ. Based on what I’ve been told, Earth re-entry is hardly child’s play and-”
“Blah, blah, blah. Haven’t been afraid of anything all my life, Mike. Not about to start now.”
“We’ll see.”
Ten minutes later Kessler eyed the altimeter as it reached thirty-five thousand feet.
“X-ray Six Eight, STA. Starting our approach.”
“Roger STA.”
With Florida coast behind him, Kessler dropped the main landing gear and placed both engines on reverse thrust to create that “falling brick” feeling of a returning orbiter after reentering the atmosphere.
The reverse thrust pushed both astronauts forward against their restraint harnesses. The feeling was similar to what passengers experienced aboard a commercial jet when landing.
Jones suddenly perked up in his seat.
“Still bored, CJ?”
Jones didn’t reply as he scanned the instruments and the picture beyond the windscreen.
The STA reached the 180-degree position, meaning its left wingtip pointed straight towards the touchdown point on the runway at precisely twenty-eight thousand feet. He maintained that heading until the altimeter read twenty thousand feet. Then he made a 90-degree left turn and held that course until reaching twelve thousand feet. A final 90-degree left turn, and Kessler rolled wings-level on final approach six miles from his touchdown point. He checked the control panel. Speed, 220 knots. Kessler adjusted with slight backward pressure on the control stick. The hydraulically powered elevators in the T-tail responded by forcing the tail down and the nose up. Kessler watched the airspeed decrease. From the time the dead-stick approach began, changing speed could only be achieved by adjusting the rate of descent, not by working the throttle.