“Sounds pretty cool,” Brad conceded. Then he shrugged. “But I still don’t see how you turn this stuff into an honest-to-God reentry vehicle.”
“ERO is really a fairly simple concept,” Boomer said. “Once you’re outside the spacecraft, you inflate the aerogel disk around you, filling it with a special, highly expandable polyurethane foam. That creates a conical dish shape that should remain stable at high speed when it hits the atmosphere. Then, when you’re ready, you fire off those handheld retrorockets… and away you go — falling toward the ground at seventeen thousand miles per hour.”
Brad felt his mouth fall open slightly in stunned disbelief. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” Boomer told him quietly. “We lost a lot of good people in orbit five years ago. I’m not willing to pass up anything that could save lives in the future.”
“But has anyone actually tested this thing yet?”
“Oh, hell no, Brad,” Boomer admitted with a laugh. “No one’s that crazy!”
Five
Cued by the roar of four powerful turbofan engines, the crowd of reporters and aviation enthusiasts clustered outside the fence swung round in unison, like marionettes pulled by the same string. There, silhouetted against the rugged brown slopes of the Shoshone Range, a large blended-wing aircraft finished its turn toward the airport — clearly lining up for a final approach to Runway Three-Zero.
Cell-phone cameras clicked away at high speed, snapping pictures as the S-19 Midnight came in low and touched down just past the threshold. Clouds of white-gray smoke billowed away from the spaceplane’s landing gear. Shimmering in the roiling heat haze, the S-19 rolled past the crowd with its massive underwing engines shrilly spooling down. Late-afternoon sunlight glinted off its twin-canopied cockpit.
Slowly, the big craft swung off the long runway onto a taxiway and headed toward a distant apron, already occupied by several other parked spaceplanes — ranging in size from the relatively tiny S-9 Black Stallion to the even larger S-29 Shadow. Gradually, once it was clear that nothing more exciting would be happening today, the crowd of onlookers started to dissipate.
Slipping easily through the chattering throng, Lieutenant Colonel Vasily Dragomirov headed toward the dark blue Buick SUV he had rented in Reno a few days ago. This was familiar ground to the veteran operative for Russia’s military intelligence service, the GRU. Last year, posing as an FBI agent, he had deceived one of Sky Master’s chief cybernetics engineers into handing over priceless secrets about the control interfaces used by the combat robots it built for the Iron Wolf Squadron — secrets that gave Russia the last pieces of the puzzle it needed to field its own Kibernetischeskiye Voyennyye Mashiny, cybernetic war machines.
For this espionage mission, he was posing as a journalist, with legitimate press credentials issued by Zukünftige Flugzeugberichte, a German digital magazine that specialized in aviation and space technology news. Most of its tiny staff and much larger group of freelance contributors remained blissfully unaware that the publication’s funding ultimately came from Moscow.
Major Eduard Naumov looked up from his laptop when Dragomirov climbed behind the wheel of the SUV. The heavyset, gray-haired man was a technical officer with the GRU’s Ninth Directorate — a specialist group tasked with analyzing advanced foreign military technology. “That was only an in-atmosphere supersonic test flight,” he declared. “My working hypothesis is that this was a shakedown flight designed to identify any unexpected problems with the spaceplane’s hybrid engines. That would be a sensible precaution for any complex machine after so long in cold storage.”
“The S-19 did not go into space?” Dragomirov asked, surprised.
Naumov shook his head. “Not this time, Vasily.” He turned his laptop so that the other man could see the map it displayed. Red dots blossomed like measles across a swath of the western and central United States. “I have gathered social media reports of sudden sonic booms — all of them occurring in the past hour. Plotting them out shows the S-19 flying a wide loop out as far as Kansas and then back here. To reach the speeds I estimate, between Mach six and Mach seven, it was undoubtedly flying at very high altitude, but definitely not above the atmosphere itself.”
“Which means the Americans have not yet succeeded in restoring any of their spaceplanes to full operational status,” Dragomirov realized.
Naumov nodded. “But I do not believe it will take them much longer. This successful test flight proves that.”
“Then we have information worth relaying to Moscow,” Dragomirov decided. He peered through the tinted windshield at the distant row of parked spaceplanes. His mouth tightened. “Somehow I doubt the news will be welcome.”
With a quick, irritable gesture, Gennadiy Gryzlov swept his hand over the slick surface of the computer built into his desk. In response, new images scrolled across the large LED monitor set into the same desk. The photographs sent by the GRU team at Battle Mountain were crisp and clear. They showed a row of Sky Masters spaceplanes parked out in the open, surrounded by fuel tankers and other vehicles. Glowering, he turned to Colonel General Mikhail Leonov. “It appears the Americans are waking up from their torpor.”
Calmly, Leonov nodded. “Dragomirov’s report confirms what their own trade press has been saying for some time. Their new president is determined to restart his nation’s manned space program. But he wants to send astronauts up in those reusable vehicles instead of NASA’s expendable rockets.” He shrugged. “The choice is sensible. When it comes to putting humans in orbit, the spaceplanes are much cheaper than any conventional space launch system. And their ability to fly from virtually any airfield also confers a significant operational advantage.”
Still scowling, Gryzlov stared back at the photographs on his monitor. “How many of those damned things do the Americans have?”
“Based on our intelligence, those six spaceplanes are effectively their entire inventory,” Leonov replied. “I count two of the older S-9 Black Stallions. Plus, the two surviving S-19 Midnights, and a pair of larger, considerably more capable S-29 Shadows.” He pulled at his chin. “There were some reports that Sky Masters considered building a third S-29 spaceplane some years ago… but our agents were never able to confirm its existence.”
“Why not?”
“Because even if those initial reports were accurate, I do not believe the spacecraft’s construction was ever completed,” Leonov said. “We know the Barbeau administration viewed the company as a political enemy and canceled all of its existing government contracts. Without federal appropriations, I doubt a private corporation like Sky Masters could afford the costs involved. Anyway, since the Americans abandoned manned spaceflight on President Barbeau’s direct orders, building another spaceplane would have been nothing but wasted effort.”
“Well, that’s all changed now,” Gryzlov growled.
Wisely, Leonov refrained from pointing out that Gryzlov himself was largely responsible for the recent shift in American space policy. The covert attacks he’d ordered against military and civilian targets inside the United States itself — culminating with an outright attempt to assassinate Stacy Anne Barbeau’s presidential election opponent — had tipped the outcome against her. Now they faced a very different American president, one with every intention of reversing her earthbound policies of drift, indecision, and isolationism.