Boomer laughed. “Only the good parts, I hope, Mr. President.”
Farrell’s grin grew wider. “Son,” he said with an even more pronounced twang, “I was riding herd on wildcatter oil drilling crews before you were out of middle school. Trust me, there ain’t nothing I haven’t already heard about loose women, fast cars, and cardplaying.”
Brad heard Nadia choke back on a sudden amused snort. The scuttlebutt around Sky Masters was that Boomer’s idea of a long-term romantic commitment was dinner and a movie… with breakfast in bed to follow.
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere now, Mr. President,” Boomer shot back, not abashed in the slightest. “I already voted for you last November.”
Brad saw a pained look cross Martindale’s face. The former president occasionally regretted the easy informality with which some in the Iron Wolf Squadron and Sky Masters approached those in authority.
“Perhaps we can dispense with any further recitation of Dr. Noble’s extracurricular exploits, impressive though they are?” Martindale said, mildly exasperated. “And move on instead to recent events in outer space?”
Boomer glanced at Brad, saw his tiny nod, and shrugged. “Sure thing, Mr. Martindale.” His expression grew more serious. “For the past twenty-four hours or so, we’ve been closely monitoring the situation since the Russians launched those seven rockets. Several things are now clear. First, despite the loss of one of their big Energia-5VR vehicles, the Russians have successfully put an enormous amount of material in orbit — something close to four hundred tons of payload, maybe even more.”
“But not just material,” Farrell interjected.
“That’s correct, sir,” Boomer said. “Reports from Baikonur suggest the supposedly ‘unmanned’ Federation orbiter actually launched with up to six cosmonauts on board. Since then, we’ve picked up radio transmissions between the spacecraft and a control center in Moscow which confirm the presence of at least one cosmonaut.”
“Could there be just one man flying that thing?” Farrell asked. “As a sort of test pilot?”
“I doubt it, Mr. President,” Boomer said. “If it were up to me, I’d want a minimum of two crew for any test flight. Even on a mature spacecraft, too many things can go wrong too fast for one man to handle. And from my experience, the Russians tend to think in terms of three-man or larger crews for anything except their rocket-launched Elektron spaceplanes.”
Patrick McLanahan frowned. “It’s pretty clear that Gryzlov isn’t just testing this new spacecraft. This is a full-on operational flight. I bet that Federation is fully crewed, with all six seats occupied.”
Boomer nodded. “That’s our bet, too, General.”
Using the laptop computer in front of him, he brought up a series of computer-generated 3-D visuals to illustrate his next points as he spoke. The images were mirrored in a corner of their screens. “Approximately twelve hours ago, six separate Russian spacecraft — which appear to be three large Energia third-stage fuel tanks with smaller payload modules attached, two Progress-MS cargo ships, and the manned Federation orbiter — successfully rendezvoused in orbit.” Half a dozen red icons spiraled around a digital representation of the earth, drawing closer to each other with each successive orbit until they merged into a single glowing dot.
“Rendezvoused? Do you mean all those spacecraft docked with each other?” Farrell asked.
Boomer shook his head. “Not quite, Mr. President. Or at least not yet. Instead, they entered a tight formation… tight by the standards of space travel, I mean. Not the kind of wing-tip-to-wing-tip flying you’d see in a jet-fighter air show.” He zoomed way in until the icons representing the six Russian spacecraft were again visible as distinct and different shapes. They were all traveling in the same orbital plane, separated by no more than a few miles. “They held this formation over the next several orbits. At that altitude, it takes them a little more than ninety-seven minutes to circle the earth.”
“But now those Russian spaceships are on the move again?” the president guessed.
“Yes, sir.” Boomer tapped a key. Five of the vehicles began adjusting their positions and orientations, apparently slowly closing in on a common center point. “Four hours ago, our ground- and space-based radars and telescopes picked up the start of what appears to be an intricate series of automated maneuvers. Our analysis indicates these maneuvers are designed to create a single, multicomponent structure in orbit. For now, the cosmonauts in that Federation orbiter are holding position a few miles off to the side — probably preparing to dock when it’s safe to do so.”
Farrell rocked back in his chair. His expression was pensive. “So Gennadiy Gryzlov is building himself a brand-new space station. And in a mighty big hurry.”
It was Brad’s turn now. “Yes, sir,” he agreed. “We think the Russians are pulling the same stunt we used to build Skylab back in the 1970s and then Armstrong Station after that. We strongly suspect they’ve converted those Energia third-stage fuel tanks into modules containing living quarters and all the other hardware needed for an operational orbital platform.”
Farrell nodded his understanding. America’s first space station, Skylab, had begun life as an empty Saturn V third-stage fuel tank before its conversion into an orbiting habitat and science outpost. “Do you have any evidence to back up your suspicions?”
“We do, sir,” Brad said. “We spotted each of those tanks intentionally venting gases after they reached orbit. And spectroscopic analysis confirms those gases were liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen.”
“They were dumping unneeded fuel,” Martindale said slowly.
Brad nodded. “Yep. But here’s the kicker. Our guys at both Sky Masters and NASA say the amounts involved were way too low. So either those big-ass fuel Energia tanks are going to dock with tons of liquid hydrogen and oxygen still sloshing around—”
“Or there’s no fuel left on board any of them… because the vast majority of that tankage space has already been reconfigured for other purposes,” his father said.
“That’s our assessment,” Brad confirmed.
“What about the rocket the Russians lost on launch?” the president asked. “Do we know what its payload was?”
“Beyond the probability that it was another of those converted fuel-tank modules? Not really,” Brad said doubtfully. He highlighted the graphic representation Boomer had created again. It showed the five surviving unmanned spacecraft still firing thrusters — slowly pirouetting through space as they maneuvered into docking positions. “Though we might be able to make some educated guesses once we have a clearer picture of the Russian station’s design architecture.”
For a long moment, Farrell watched the computer-generated imagery play out across their screens. Then he shook his head with a frown and turned his attention back to Brad. “Which leads straight to the big question, Captain McLanahan,” he said bluntly. “What the hell is Moscow up to?”
Brad looked him straight in the eye. “Considering the intelligence Mr. Martindale’s agents picked up on Gryzlov’s cosmonaut training program, we think there is only one reasonable conclusion: the Russians are building an armed orbital platform.”
“Can you prove that?” the president demanded.
“In a court of law? Or in the court of international public opinion? No, sir.” Brad nodded toward Martindale. “Not without blowing Scion’s intelligence operation in Russia sky-high.”