Executive Intent (19 page)

Kai was very surprised at the sergeant major's rather muted reaction—he said simply, “Please stand by, sir,” and the line went dead. “Alert Space Command and Air Force,” Kai said, “and put out a general warning to all MAJCOM headquarters in the clear, reporting a line of warships off the coast of Mogadishu heading west.”

A few moments later, General Thomas Greene, commander of U.S. Africa Command, came on the line himself. “Greene, AFRICOM, secure,” he said breathlessly, as if he had run a very long distance to answer the phone. “Raydon?”

“Raydon, Space Defense Force—”

“I don't give a damn who you are!” Greene thundered. “Did you tell my sergeant major there was a convoy of Chinese warships heading for Mogadishu?”

“Affirmative, sir. I just put out a warning to Space Command and—”

“Who the hell do you think you are spouting off with that nonsense?” Greene cried. “I'm looking at the CTF reconnaissance reports, and there's nothing out there! You'd better goddamned explain yourself, and quick!”

“Sir, you have no reconnaissance reports from the area because all of the patrol planes were grounded due to radio interference and poor datalink,” Kai explained. “The only other CTF vessels out there are Chinese, and they're reporting ops-normal—because they are engineering this whole diversion.”

“What diversion?”

“Whatever the Chinese are up to, sir, they've managed to blank out all reconnaissance in the area, turn the convoy west, and are closing on Mogadishu,” Kai said.

“If there's this big blackout like you said, how can
you
see it?”

“We used a small tactical satellite launched just days ago, which operates differently from other reconnaissance assets,” Kai said. “I think the Chinese didn't know about it, or couldn't do anything about it if they did. We just spotted the convoy minutes ago.”

“I want to see those pictures,
now
!”

“I'm going to have to route them to you through Space Command, since you're not on our network. That'll take a bit—”

“‘Not on your network'? What in hell does
that
mean?”

“It means my higher headquarters has to give you the pic
tures—I can't do it directly,” Kai said. “But until then, may I suggest you get some eyes up there to verify this sighting, sir. If the Chinese are still jamming all transmissions in the area, they may have to—”

“I don't need your suggestions, Raydon!” Greene shouted. “I want those pictures, and I want them
now
! And don't be blabbing about this contact to anyone except your bosses until I get it confirmed! That's an
order
!” And the connection went dead.

O
FFICE OF THE
P
REMIER
, B
EIJING
, C
HINA

T
HAT SAME TIME

“You asked me to notify you when China is about to act,” Premier Zhou Qiang spoke.

“This Operation Lightning you messaged us about earlier?” asked Russia president Igor Truznyev, speaking on the secure direct “hotline” between each president's office.

“Yes. It is under way. We have another mission under way as well. A clever officer in our Strategic Defense Forces corps calls it Operation
Zu-qiu
—Operation Soccer, what the Americans call ‘football.'”

“May I inquire as to what you intend to do with this Operation Soccer?”

“You will learn more soon, Mr. President,” Zhou said. “But I will tell you this: We shall see how the Americans take a kick.”

“Very clever.”

“We anticipate that Operation Lightning will be on station for seven days,” Zhou said, “after which time they will cycle in to Aden for refueling and replenishment.”

“We will be ready.”

“Very well. It is nice to be working with Russia again, Mr. President.”

“I would feel better about our new relationship if you would give me more details about this Operation Soccer,” Truznyev said.

“It is merely another attempt to dissuade President Gardner from expanding this space-weapon constellation,” Zhou said. “You will detect more shortly. Oh, and Mr. President?”

“Yes?”

“Please disregard any launch warnings coming from central Myanmar. Classify it as a petroleum plant explosion and fire.” He terminated the connection, then dialed another number on a different secure phone. “Minister Zung, you may give the order to proceed with Operation
Zu-qiu
.”

11
TH
S
TRATEGIC
D
EFENSE
F
ORCES
O
PERATIONS
C
ENTER
, H
AINAN
I
SLAND
, C
HINA

A
SHORT TIME LATER

General Hua Zhilun picked up the phone himself. “Operations.”

“Are your forces ready, General?” Minister of National Defense Zung asked.

“Yes, sir, we are ready.”

“Status of the target?”

“The launch window is open for another eighty-seven minutes, sir,” Hua replied. “No change in orbital path.”

“Operation
Shan-dian
is under way,” Zung said. “Based on radio traffic, we believe the convoy has been discovered, but the attacks are already under way. You are authorized to proceed with Operation
Zu-qiu
. Good hunting, General.”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” Hua responded. He hung up the phone, then put on a headset and keyed a button at his console: “All stations, this is
Yi,
authorization received, operation will commence immediately, repeat, authorization received, commence operation.”

Eight hundred miles west of Hainan Island in the nation of Myanmar, also known as Burma, a petroleum-gas storage tank located outside a refinery near the city of Taunggyi suddenly exploded, creating a massive fireball that ignited several other tanks and pipes and eventually became so hot that some trees in the nearby hardwood forest began to sway from waves of heat washing across them. Pipes containing pressurized petroleum gas with open check valves continued to feed fuel to the inferno.

At the very same time, three miles away, a rocket shot from an upraised launch tube, flew on a cushion of compressed gas for a dozen yards, then ignited its solid-fuel motor and streaked into the sky, heading almost straight up. Compared to the hot glow of the petroleum-gas fire, the DF-21's motor exhaust plume was a tiny dot, and because the rocket continued to climb straight up, it did not create a very long streak in the sky when viewed from above. The first stage burned out within three minutes, and the second stage accelerated the rocket to ten times the speed of sound. A protective nose cap prevented any heat damage to the sensitive seeker in the nose as it rose through the atmosphere.

At Mach 10 and an altitude of 150 miles, the second stage burned out and the payload section began its hypersonic unpowered cruise, following its inertial guidance commands with refinements provided by datalinked steering commands from a Chinese radar site in Myanmar. The payload section continued its climb to 400 miles altitude.

Soon, the chase would be on.

A
RMSTRONG
S
PACE
S
TATION

T
HAT SAME MOMENT

“Nuts to that, General Greene,” Kai said half aloud after he broke the connection to AFRICOM. “Seeker…?”

“A warning has gone out to Space Command and U.S. Strategic Command with all the pics, sir,” Seeker said, “and a general alert has gone out via secure instant message to all major commands' ops centers on our list, including AFRICOM. The alert reports detection of a convoy of Chinese ships apparently bound for Mogadishu, Somalia, escorted by four Chinese warships, detected by TacSat-3 but not backed up by any other electronic or visual data.”

“Good enough for now,” Kai said. “How's our sensor coverage of the area around that convoy?”

“Stand by, sir.” Seeker entered numerous requests into her console; then: “Averages only eleven minutes per hour, sir. High of eighteen minutes. Look angles are no better than nominal.”

“That's better than anyone else, but still pretty poor,” Kai said. “Weapon-status report?”

“Stand by.” A few moments later: “Self-defense interceptors on all garages and Armstrong are all reporting green except for Kingfisher-Eight, which is reporting a launcher continuity failure,” Seeker said. “ABM interceptors are reporting in the green except for Eight and Four, whose ABMs were downloaded for routine maintenance. All Mjollnirs are reporting in the green on Kingfishers Two, Four, Six, and Ten, still down on Eight until we can restore continuity. That'll take an EVA.”

“I want Eight back up and running right away,” Kai said. “Boomer…”

“My Stud can be ready to go in one hour once I swap out the payload, General,” Boomer said.

“Seeker…?”

“I'm getting it now, sir,” Seeker said, again typing furiously on her console. This took a bit longer than the other calculations, but soon: “If we can position in thirty minutes, we can rendezvous with the fuel load already on the Black Stallion. It'll take three orbits in the transfer to catch up with Kingfisher-Eight. If we miss it, it'll take another twenty hours to get into position from Armstrong.”

“Boomer…?”

“We can leave the payload in the bay, suit up, and do an EVA from the Stud's cockpit,” Boomer said. “As long as the tech can fit his tools in the cockpit, we can do it. He might have to strap them on his lap.”

“Get on it. I'll have a tech meet you in the locker room.”

“On the way.” Boomer detached himself from his anchor position and propelled himself toward the spaceplane service module.

“Seeker…”

“Already got Lieutenant McCallum on his way to spaceplane servicing, sir.” A moment later: “Sir, SBIRS reports a large thermal event in south-central Myanmar.”

“Any tracking data yet?”

“None, sir. Signature is still very hot and not moving. Could be a ground fire.”

“Any launch sites nearby?”

“The only known ones are considerably farther south: a Chinese antiship site at Henzada and Mergui, and a suspected Chinese antisatellite site under construction north of Rangoon.”

“They could have built a new site and we haven't spotted it,” Kai said. “Let's report it to STRATCOM and SPACECOM, keep an eye on it ourselves, and start surveillance of that area for any signs of new construction.” He thought for a moment. A little voice in his head reminded him that he did not believe in coincidences—but Myanmar and Somalia…? “Are we going to pass over that area soon, Seeker?”

“Negative, sir, not for another…” She entered commands into the computer, then: “…fourteen hours.”

Kai nodded, but something was still nagging at him. “Still no track data on that event?”

“None, sir. Still large and stationary. Looks like an industrial fire—it's just as hot as it was when it was first detected.”

“Did SBIRS-Low pick anything up?”

“No SBIRS-Low spacecraft are in range.”

“How about our sensors?”

“The closest one is Eight, and it's shut down. Six will be in range in four hours.”

“Let's get some good images of that area when Six flies by,” Kai said. The little voice in his head was still bugging him, but preparing to launch the Black Stallion spaceplane, get his fleet of satellites as fully operational as possible, and be prepared to participate in whatever response the United States was going to make to the unexpected Chinese move in Somalia occupied his mind for the time being.

When Boomer arrived at the spaceplane servicing module, Air Force spacecraft technician First Lieutenant Jeffrey McCallum was already there. He was donning a Compact Moonsuit–style space suit, specially designed for working during space walks with added micrometeorite and radiation protection but compact enough to allow him to squeeze into the Black Stallion's rather tight cockpit. He was already on an oxygen mask, prebreathing pure oxygen to begin flushing nitrogen out of his system in preparation for working in space—although the entire space station was set on a lower atmospheric pressure to help purge nitrogen from the system, for safety's sake all astronauts preparing to do an EVA were required to prebreathe oxygen before suiting up.

“How you doing there, McCallum?” Boomer asked. McCallum gave him a thumbs-up and a muffled “Good, Boomer” as he continued to suit up.

Since Boomer wasn't planning to do a space walk, his suit was of totally different design. While prebreathing oxygen, he donned a suit of thick elastic material, resembling a full-body leotard, with wires leading to a small control device. The material covered his entire body except for his head. When he nodded to the tech that he was ready, the tech flipped a switch. Fine computer-controlled elastomeric filaments in the suit contracted, compressing the material. Boomer let out a little grunt as the material pulled skintight.

Boomer's suit, called an Electronic Elastomeric Activity Suit, or EEAS (which most wearers say resembles the sound they make when the filaments tighten up), was a simple but very effective alternative to a heavy, bulky pressurized space suit. Humans can actually survive in the vacuum of space, because the skin and vascular system is already pressure-tight—as long as the human has oxygen at the right pressure, no space suit is really needed. But in a vacuum, human tissue expands because the absence of air pressure causes gases in the tissues to painfully expand, like a balloon in an airliner. So a way was needed to keep pressure on the body to prevent the tissues from expanding.

Most space suits, like McCallum's, used a compressor to pressurize the breathing oxygen inside the suit to keep pressure on the entire body. A skintight rubber suit would work, but it was almost impossible to don such a suit in zero-g, and any folds in the suit would cause muscle deformation. So the EEAS was developed to allow the suit to be easily donned and then re-formed so it became skintight. The electronic control system would keep pressure on the entire body even when moving but allow the limbs to move as necessary. For spaceplane pilots, the EEAS was a great alternative to bulky pressurized suits because it was easier to move around in, easier to manipulate controls, and didn't require a tech to help strap the pilot into the cockpit.

With the EEAS on and tight, Boomer put on a special flight suit that had a locking collar for his helmet, and continued pre
breathing pure oxygen. The space-suit technician then helped him into the standard flight vest, which contained pouches for survival equipment such as portable lights, carbon-dioxide scrubbers, location beacons, backup batteries, a knife, and a suit-repair kit, along with a control panel on his left wrist that showed oxygen saturation, carbon-dioxide levels, suit power, backup battery level, and EEAS control status. “How do you hear, Jeff?” he spoke into the intercom.

“Loud and clear, Boomer,” came the reply. “Good flying with you again.”

“Same here.” Boomer was amazed at how young these new guys were—McCallum looked as if he was twelve going on nine years old. “They brief you on what's happening?”

“I was prepared to go out to Eight later on this week to fix the continuity problem. I don't know why it's been pushed up.”

“We might need it soonest.” He took a moment to explain the Chinese convoy headed for Somalia. “They explain the toolbox issue?”

“If I can't do it with a soft-pack, it's got more serious problems than I suspect,” McCallum said. A “soft-pack” was a standard EVA toolbag, with an assortment of zero-g wrenches, screwdrivers, testers, and other commonly used tools suited for working in space, plus room for replacement circuit boards, fuses, circuit breakers, software keys, and other system-specific necessities. “But I've got a bunch of circuit boards and components to fix fifty percent of the problems. Anything else will require a cargo run.”

“Very good,” Boomer said. “I'll plan on staying with the Stud, but if you need me I can hop on over. Just say the word.”

“I should be okay,” McCallum said, “and I'd feel better if you stayed near the plane anyway.”

“I hear that.” They continued to go over details about the flight while they finished dressing, and then made their way to the air lock to board the spaceplane.

The S-9 Black Stallion, nicknamed the “Stud,” was the smaller
of America's two models of single-stage-to-orbit spaceplanes. It was never designed for extravehicular activities or even docking with a space station, so there was no way (unless a passenger module and transfer tunnel were loaded in the cargo bay—this Stud was still loaded with cargo) to get from the station to the ship when it was docked except by spacewalking to the two separate tandem cockpit hatches and clambering inside.

Boomer stepped over to the air-lock inner hatch, but the docking technician stopped him. “My watch says five more minutes for prebreathing, minimum, sir.”

“My clock says I'm good to go.”

“Give it five more minutes, sir.”

“Time's a-wastin', Chuck,” Boomer said. “China is stirring up the shit Earthside, and we need that garage back online.” He could see the technician hesitate. “It's just a couple minutes shy, Chuck, and you know there's always a safety factor built into the calculations. Let's go.” Reluctantly, the technician nodded and floated aside.

While McCallum waited outside—safety dictated only one crewmember could use the air lock at a time, although it could fit two—Boomer entered the air lock. While it was depressurizing, the technician extended a fabric tunnel from the air lock to the spaceplane, which was docked outside on the station's docking beam. When the air lock was ready, Boomer undogged the outer hatch, stepped into the transfer tunnel, and closed and locked the hatch behind him. “Outer air-lock door closed, ready to equalize,” he reported.

“Roger. Air lock pressurizing,” the technician reported.

“I wish we didn't have to use the tunnel,” Boomer radioed. “I've made the jump to the spaceplane lots of times.”

“Not everyone is a lean mean space-faring fool like you, Boomer,” McCallum radioed back. “Besides, I don't want to go out and retrieve you in case you missed.”

Boomer used handholds to effortlessly pull himself the twenty feet from the air lock to the Black Stallion's cockpit. At the end of the transfer tunnel on the side of the Stud, he could see Earth spinning below him, and he resisted the urge to sightsee—he didn't have the time to waste. “C'mon over, Jeff,” Boomer said. “I'll have the aft cockpit ready by the time you get here.”