“Even doing that won’t achieve much,” Martindale pointed out quietly. “My people couldn’t penetrate Gryzlov’s security directly. We don’t have any written or other clear-cut technical evidence to confirm what this failed Russian cosmonaut candidate told them.”
“Which makes their report nothing more than hearsay,” Farrell said with a sigh. “So if we go public with this situation as things stand now, it’s just going to end up being my word against Gryzlov’s.”
Martindale nodded. “I’m afraid so. And that’s not enough to sway any of the nonaligned nations our way. Nor can I see many of our allies thanking us for provoking a new confrontation with Russia without better proof.”
“Poland will stand with you, Mr. President,” Nadia said fiercely. “As will the other countries of the Alliance of Free Nations. I am sure of it.”
Somberly, Farrell inclined his head to her. “I do thank you for that, Major.” Then he shrugged his big shoulders. “But I’m not ready yet to ask anyone to go all in with us. Not when we’re holding such a weak hand.” He looked them all over. “At the same time, I’m sure as hell not inclined to sit back passively and wait for Gryzlov’s next move. Whatever it might be.”
“No, sir,” Brad agreed, a sentiment instantly echoed by Nadia, his father, and the others.
“So our top priority is getting solid data on this space station. And muy pronto,” Farrell told them firmly.
Brad saw his father frown.
“That could be difficult,” the older man said. “Ground-based telescopes and conventional reconnaissance satellites probably won’t provide enough information. The Russians aren’t stupid. It’s likely that they’re using a mix of external camouflage and antithermal and radar-absorbent materials to shield many of their systems and capabilities from distant snooping.”
From his seat on the other side of Nadia, Boomer nodded. “That matches up with our observations so far, General. The radar and thermal signatures of those converted fuel tanks are significantly weaker than they should be, given their estimated size and mass.”
“Which is why we need to take a closer look,” Nadia said flatly. “Close enough to pierce through the Russian maskirova, their disguise.”
Martindale raised an eyebrow. “And just how on earth do you propose to arrange that, Major Rozek?”
“Not on Earth at all,” she replied with the faint hint of a mischievous smile. “Naturally, we will use one of our spaceplanes for the mission.”
At her nod, Boomer pulled up another piece of 3-D animation. This one showed a green icon marked as an S-19 Midnight spaceplane climbing steeply on an intercept course to the orbiting Russian space station. Shortly before it flew on by, a cloud of other, smaller icons detached from the S-19 and angled toward the station — passing it on all sides at very close range, a matter of mere miles.
“We began developing this plan for a close reconnaissance as soon as we concluded Moscow was building a military platform in orbit,” Nadia said, quite seriously now. “During its flyby, the S-19 will deploy a constellation of tiny spy satellites around the Russian station. These satellites will collect the information we need.”
Farrell leaned forward, openly curious now. “Tiny spy satellites?”
“After the destruction of Armstrong Station, Sky Masters did some crash R&D work on a new class of very small recon satellites,” Boomer explained. From the enthusiasm in his voice, it was pretty clear who had been the project lead. “We designed them to be equipped with a range of sensors, including high-resolution cameras, infrared sensors, and even an experimental low-powered 35.75 gigahertz Ka-band radar.”
“How small are these satellites of yours exactly, Dr. Noble?” Martindale asked. “Microsatellites in the fifty-to-one-hundred-kilogram range?”
“Much smaller,” Boomer told him proudly. “The prototypes we built are classed as nanosatellites. Each weighs less than five kilograms, around ten pounds, and they’re only about a foot in diameter.”
“Like the CubeSats so many colleges and small companies launch as science experiments,” the president realized.
Boomer nodded. “Yes, sir. But ours are shaped to reduce their radar cross section — which makes them much more suitable for covert intelligence-gathering and military missions.” He shrugged. “We figured the Pentagon and other agencies might be interested. But no such luck.”
“Let me guess,” the president said dryly. “Stacy Anne Barbeau’s administration slammed the door in your face.”
“Hell, they’d have had to open the door first,” Boomer said with a pained look. “None of her people ever even answered my e-mails.”
Farrell nodded slowly. His predecessor had a lot to answer for. Her lack of vision and obsession with settling petty political scores had cost the U.S. government dearly. Then he frowned. “Okay, but one thing bothers me. Why not simply launch these spy satellites into orbit using a conventional unmanned rocket? Wouldn’t that be safer than flying one of the spaceplanes so close to this Russian space station?”
“Safer for us, maybe,” Brad said. “But sending the nanosats up on an unmanned rocket would almost certainly guarantee a mission failure.”
“Why?”
“Because Boomer’s nanosatellites have very limited thruster power and communications capabilities. It’s part of the trade-off between size and sensor power. Deploying them properly around the Russian platform is going to require some seriously intricate flying, well beyond the capability of any existing autonomous system.” Brad shrugged. “Basically, trusting the nanosat’s dinky onboard computers to handle the mission entirely on their own would be risky — possibly even leading to unintended near misses the Russians could mistake for a deliberate attack. No, sir, to pull this off, we need a man in the loop.”
“Or a woman,” Nadia said stubbornly.
Brad shook his head with a lopsided grin. “Not this time, O Queen of the Skies. Boomer and I won the toss, remember? Besides, you and Constable Vasey are going to have your hands full managing that beast of an S-29 Shadow while we gas up.”
Seeing the puzzled look on the president’s face, he went on. “We actually need to fly two spaceplanes to pull this off, sir — not just one. There’s only one way to put an S-19 Midnight into an orbit four hundred miles up with enough fuel for maneuvers and a powered reentry. We need to do a preliminary in-space refueling from an S-29 Shadow we’ve converted to a tanker first.”
Farrell stared at him first and then at Nadia. “Refueling one spaceplane from another? Is that something that’s ever been done before?”
“Oh, yes, many times,” Nadia assured him blithely. She smiled broadly. “Well, at least in simulations.”
“And in real life?” the president asked quietly.
“This will be the first time.”
“Sweet jumping Jesus,” Farrell muttered in astonishment. He glanced at Patrick McLanahan. “Do I have any alternative here?”
Although his own worries about this proposed flyby were plain on his lined face, Brad’s father doggedly shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. President. Not unless you’re willing to wait for Gryzlov to act first — in his own sweet time and according to his own plans.”
“Hell no,” Farrell said tightly. He sighed. “So there it is. I don’t like it. I don’t like it much at all.” He looked out of the screen at Brad, Boomer, and Nadia. “All right. I’ll give my blessing to this little jaunt of yours. But y’all just be damned careful up there, comprende?”
Brad and Boomer both nodded gravely.
“Tak, Panie Prezydencie. Yes, Mr. President,” Nadia said with equal gravity.