Energia One’s third-stage fuel tank and payload module coasted silently through space, on course to its intended orbit. Explosive bolts fired in quick puffs of vapor. Their task complete, the two spent RD-0150 main engines spiraled away, drifting lower on a trajectory that would eventually cause them to burn up somewhere over the South Atlantic. More explosive bolts detonated, jettisoning fairings — thin sheets of metal — which had protected the module’s special radar-absorbent coatings during launch.
Years ago, under Colonel General Leonov’s direction, Russia’s aerospace engineers had come up with several ingenious variations on the Energia-5VR’s original third-stage design. Its two large internal tanks — one for liquid hydrogen, the other for liquid oxygen — had been drastically reduced in size, leaving room for just enough fuel to reach the right orbit. The remaining space was now allocated to compartments containing deployable solar power arrays, military-grade radars and infrared sensors, retractable weapons mounts, crew living quarters, and life-support systems.
Seconds later, small valves opened. Plumes of liquid hydrogen and oxygen vented into space, instantly becoming clouds of glittering frozen gas. Once sensors confirmed the module’s internal fuel tanks were empty, the valves closed again. Now even those spaces could be used for additional consumables storage.
Hundreds of kilometers behind the Energia One module, five faint, moving specks of light glittered against the infinite blackness — rising slowly above the cloud-dappled curve of the earth. The surviving components of Russia’s Mars One space station were closing steadily, using energy-efficient Hohmann transfer orbits.
Bulky in his Sokol pressure suit, Colonel Vadim Strelkov reached up and tapped a glowing communications icon on the multifunction display fixed within inches of his helmet. “Moscow Control, this is Federation One. Posigrade transfer burn complete. The burn was nominal and the spacecraft is stable.”
“Copy that, Federation One,” one of their flight controllers radioed back. “Well done on the good burn.” There was a long, static-filled pause. “Ah, One, please switch your communications settings to Mode Six and then recontact us.”
“Roger, Control.” Frowning, Strelkov entered the necessary commands. Mode Six was the highest possible voice encryption setting. Routine radio transmissions between a spacecraft and its flight controllers were ordinarily broadcast in the clear. And to preserve the fiction that this was a civilian spacecraft for as long as possible, he had been ordered to follow regular peacetime procedures. Why was Moscow altering that plan now, so early in the mission?
He saw the communications icon change shape to that of a padlock. “Control, this is Federation One. Mode Six is enabled.”
“Copy that. Stand by for Colonel General Leonov.”
Strelkov glanced sideways at Major Georgy Konnikov, crammed into the next seat over, and got a slight shrug. Leonov had always been a hands-on commander. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t too surprising that he would involve himself early on.
Then Leonov’s deep voice boomed through his headset. “I congratulate you on a successful launch and insertion to orbit, Colonel. I hope the spacecraft is performing to expectations?”
“Perfectly, sir,” Strelkov assured him. In truth, their lift-off and ride to space had been much smoother and more trouble-free than he had thought possible in an untested vehicle. Only a couple of very minor systems had failed under the initial stress of flight, and both of them were back up now. “We expect to rendezvous with the other Mars One station components within twenty-four hours.” With a dry smile, he looked at Konnikov, who mimed closing his eyes. “In fact, things are going so well that some of my crew seem to be planning to catch up on their beauty sleep.”
“Unfortunately, you will have to disabuse them of this notion,” Leonov said heavily. “I’m afraid we are all going to be very busy over the next several days. Many of our existing Mars One construction and operations procedures must be significantly revised — literally, in this case, on the fly.”
Strapped snugly into the capsule’s command seat, Strelkov could not sit bolt upright in shock. That was probably just as well, since he would have only banged his helmet on a bulkhead. Compared to Russia’s old Soyuz spacecraft, the Federation orbiter was a technological marvel. But with six cosmonauts on board, it was still incredibly cramped. “What?”
“We’ve lost one of the Mars One modules,” Leonov said bluntly. “An Energia-5VR blew up in flight — approximately two and a half minutes after launch.”
Strelkov bit down on an obscenity. He took a couple of short breaths, trying to compose himself. Not that he would be fooling anyone, he knew. The doctors monitoring the telemetry of their vital signs would just have seen his blood pressure and heart rate spike. “What did we lose?” he asked at last.
Leonov’s voice was grim. “Your fusion power reactor, Colonel,” he said quietly.
Sixteen
“Your secure video link to the White House will go live in thirty seconds,” a Sky Masters technician announced over the conference room speakers. “Stand by.”
Brad McLanahan glanced at Nadia Rozek and Hunter “Boomer” Noble. “Everybody set?”
His voice sounded tighter than he liked. He had briefed senior government officials before, all the way up to Poland’s president, Piotr Wilk. For some reason, though, the prospect of performing this same task for his own country’s commander in chief, President John D. Farrell, had him even more on edge than he’d expected. Maybe it was because he’d just been getting used to focusing on flying again — gratefully leaving concerns about geopolitics and strategy to those at higher pay grades. Wrestling with technical aeronautical and astronautical problems and spaceplane crew training had been strangely restful. But now, suddenly, here he was back in the big leagues. With U.S. intelligence agencies still half crippled by years of neglect, the president wanted the joint Scion — Sky Masters team’s analysis of Russia’s surprise lunge back into outer space.
Coolly, Boomer nodded back.
“We are ready,” Nadia said, with complete assurance. Under the table, out of sight of the camera focused in their direction, she took Brad’s hand in hers.
For a second, he allowed himself to relax. As long as he had this amazing woman at his side, what was there to worry about? Naturally, the undisciplined little voice inside his mind started running through a litany: Well, let’s see… there are still the Russians out there and the inherent dangers of spaceflight and the chance that you’ll screw up your briefing and…
Mercifully, the video camera light blinked to red, indicating that it was live. In that same moment, the big LED screen on the conference room wall lit up. President Farrell, Kevin Martindale, and his own father looked back at them from the Oval Office. Instantly, Brad felt his twitchy nerves start to settle down. All the waiting was over. Now, finally, he had an important job to do and no more time to fret.
“Captain McLanahan and Major Rozek, it’s real nice to see y’all again,” Farrell drawled out around a warm, welcoming grin. It was a politician’s practiced expression, but no less real for that. For any truly successful elected official, a sincere liking for people was a fundamental requirement. Most voters could spot a phony a mile off — no matter how much “spin” a candidate’s PR team imparted. “And you too, Dr. Noble. We haven’t met before, but I can assure you that your reputation precedes you.”