Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (125 page)

“We made it,” Patrick breathed, quickly regaining his composure. “Station check.”

“In the green up here, General,” Boomer said. “You okay up there, sir?”

“I'm in the green.” He moved his arms and shoulders experimentally, then took a couple deep breaths. “Everything seems OK. How did the Stud do?”

“Another typical suborbital insertion,” Boomer said casually. “Altitude seventy-four point two-one miles, velocity Mach twelve point one-two-eight. Fuel flows looked a little high on number
four—I'll give that a check when we get back. Good job, General. You just earned your astronaut wings—any flight above sixty miles is considered a space shot.”

“Thanks, Boomer.” He tore his eyes away from the beauty and grandeur around him and checked all of his instruments, flipping quickly through all of the different display pages on the supercockpit screen. “On course, on speed,” he reported. “Fuel levels in the green.”

“Always the navigator, eh, General?” Boomer chided him. “Sit back and enjoy the ride, sir—you're in space. Only a handful of humans have ever done this.”

The air inside the cockpit was filled with tiny bits of floating dust and dirt and the occasional tiny washer, which Patrick collected and put into a plastic bag. He then took a pencil from a storage compartment near his right elbow and let it go in front of his face to watch it hover in mid-air. He had done that a few times in terrestrial aircraft, putting it in a gentle dive so the object fell at the same speed as the aircraft, making it seem “weightless.” But that had lasted only seconds, and the windscreen had been filled with clouds or the ground coming up to meet him. This would last for a lot longer period of time, and his windscreen was still filled with clouds and Earth, but at this rate he wouldn't hit it for quite some time.

“Feeling OK up there, General?” Boomer asked.

“No problems so far,” Patrick said. That wasn't quite true, but he wasn't going to admit anything else.

He had been fortunate in his Air Force career and had only been airsick a couple times, during really violent maneuvers or disorienting, smoky, tense situations as in combat, but he never suffered from plain motion sickness. Right now there were no violent maneuvers going on; there was stress, certainly—they were over seventy miles in space, cruising at almost seven thousand miles an hour—but in microgravity, with no real sense of up or down, he could feel that creeping queasiness building in the pit of his stomach. The shoulder and lap belts helped to maintain his
sense of weight and orientation, and he had to turn his attention to his assigned tasks instead of stare out the windscreen and think about how high up he was—or even try to determine which way was up. Despite Boomer's rakish tone and the immense beauty outside, it was not hard for Patrick to turn his mind to the task at hand. This was not simply a joyride: they had work to do.

Patrick made several radio calls and entered commands into his computer terminal. “We're ready for payload release,” he announced a few minutes later. “Range reports clear. Bomb doors coming open…Meteor away. Doors closed.”

The BDU-58 Meteor was a simple orbital delivery system designed specifically for the XR-A9. It was nothing more than a large heat-shielded container fitted with a liquid-fuel rocket booster, guidance system, datalink communications system, and payload release mechanisms. Once the BDU-58 was released, the first stage rocket motor pushed the weapon down and away from the Black Stallion, then up on a tongue of fire into its own Earth orbit. Once in orbit, the Meteor's rocket engine could push the spacecraft out of orbit, change course, or propel it to a higher or differently shaped orbit, depending on the payload. After releasing its payload, the Meteor could be deorbited and allowed to burn up in the atmosphere, or it could be retrieved by another spacecraft, brought back to Earth, and reused.

On this mission, the Meteor carried three inert test articles, each weighing about twelve hundred pounds. The Meteor would be deorbited at a particular point in its orbit, penetrating all the way through the atmosphere in order to protect the test articles inside; then each test article would be released at different altitudes above the target area. Each test article had a triple-mode guidance system that would locate targets using millimeter-wave radar, infrared, and satellite steering signals, but then each test article would “tell” the other which target it was tracking and the quality of its target identification and lock, so the other test articles could locate and attack other targets. The test articles had tiny winglets that allowed it to home in precisely to its target or glide long distances if
necessary to locate targets. When released from extremely high altitudes, the test articles could glide for as far as two hundred miles, or loiter over an area for several minutes searching for targets.

“Payload released successfully, bay doors closed,” Patrick reported. “It'll make two orbits, then attack its targets inside the White Sands Missile Test Range.”

“I'd hate to be under those bad boys when they come in,” Boomer remarked. “Okay, sir, we'll alter course slightly southeast, then in exactly eleven minutes and nine seconds we'll start our descent for Washington. Let me brief you on the descent procedures…”

“I've got a better idea, Boomer,” Patrick interrupted. “How about we take her up?”

“Up? You want to go to a higher altitude?”

“No. Let's take it up…into orbit.”

“Are you sure, sir? That wasn't on the flight plan.”

“I'm sure.”

“But during takeoff…”

“I'm okay, Boomer—really. Maybe I blacked out a bit, but I feel fine now.”

“I'm thinking about re-entry, that's all,” Boomer said. “The g-forces are heavier and more sustained.”

“I'll be fine…Captain,” Patrick said, adding the formal title “Captain” again to signify his desire to terminate the discussion.

“Yes, sir.” There was only a slight hesitation as Boomer considered whether or not to use his prerogative and not do this, but he decided that the required phase of this flight had been accomplished—if the general became incapacitated, it wouldn't affect mission completion. Besides, what aviator wouldn't want to fly into orbit if he had the chance? “Ready when you are, General,” Noble responded. “Let me make a few changes to the flight plan and get them entered into the computer…” It took only a few minutes, with Patrick carefully monitoring Boomer's inputs and the computer's responses. “Done. Isn't there anyone you need to call first? Don't we need to get permission from someone?”

“Nope. Let's do it.”

“You got it, sir. I've got computer control and engine monitoring.”

“I've got the aircraft.”

“You got the leopards. Ready anytime you are.”

“Here we go.” Patrick pressed the voice-command button: “Computer, orbital burn.”

“Ready for orbital burn, stop orbital burn,” the computer responded. “LPDRS engines reporting ready…engines firing in three, two, one, now.”

Patrick had steeled himself for the push, but he never expected the punch he received as the high-tech rocket engines fired off. Because there was less atmosphere to let airspeed build up more gradually as before, the shove was ten times worse than takeoff. Patrick used every ounce of strength he possessed to keep his legs and stomach taut, forcing every milliliter of blood to stay in the upper part of his body. Soon he found doing the H-maneuver wasn't that necessary, because soon he had to pressure-breathe against the regulators forcing oxygen into his helmet—in a reversal of the normal breathing mechanism, he had to carefully sip the high-pressure oxygen into his lungs, then forcibly push carbon dioxide out. If he tried to breathe normally, the high-pressure oxygen would pop his lungs like overfilled balloons.

“General McLanahan.”

“I'm…okay…Boomer,” Patrick grunted. He strained to look out the side of the canopy toward Earth, but he couldn't see anything, and the G-forces pressed painfully on his neck and vertebrae.

“Keep your head and back still, sir. The boost isn't a good time for sight-seeing.”

“I figured that out real quick, Boomer.”

“Ninety seconds left. How are you doing?”

“O…kay.” Even saying one letter was difficult, like talking while facing into a hurricane. “No sw…” And then Patrick felt his chest shudder, and his vision tunneled and spun. He grunted
out the bad air even harder, then had to fight to keep the pain down as he slowly, carefully let the high-pressure oxygen refill his lungs.

“General! Can you hear me?”

“R…og…er…”

“I'm going to cutoff…”

“No…no…keep…go…ing.” Patrick wasn't sure if he meant it, but he did hear the words come out of his gritted teeth…and the pressure and the pain remained, so Noble must've heard him.

It seemed to take an hour, but in fact it was over in less than sixty seconds. Patrick barked out a breath, forgot to reverse-breathe, and was surprised when he took a deep breath and the pain didn't come back. “Sta…station check,” he snapped.

“MC's in the green, sir,” Boomer replied.

“AC's in the green,” Patrick said before checking his oxygen, cockpit pressurization, and mission displays.

“That was a hairy one, sir,” Boomer said. “I hope it was worth it. Take a look.”

He looked…and he gasped in surprise despite himself. The horizon was no longer flat in any direction—it was all curvature now. Out the right side he could see all of the New England states and beyond almost to Nova Scotia, and out the left he thought he could see all of the Great Lakes to the very western tip of Lake Superior. The ground was sliding under them at an amazing speed. “Are we…?”

“Seventeen thousand one hundred miles an hour…Mach twenty-six point zero-two-one, altitude crept up a little to eighty-seven point eight-nine miles,” Boomer said. “Welcome to low Earth orbit. You've really earned your astronaut's wings now.”

“How did I do?”

“A little worse than last time, although you kept on pressure-breathing—instead of screaming, you were grunting like Atlas lifting the weight of the world onto his shoulders,” Boomer said. Patrick silently thanked the aerospace medical and life support
technicians for repeatedly drilling the pressure-breathing routine into him while preparing for this mission—he doubted he was lucid enough to consciously do the drill. “The G-forces hit hardest going from Mach fifteen to Mach twenty-six. Sit back and relax for a few minutes, sir, and then I'll brief the re-entry procedures.”

The coast of Canada slid underneath them, and minutes later Greenland came into view. The scenery changed with amazing speed. It seemed every time Patrick did a computer check or read a procedure, then looked up again, he was in a completely new corner of the globe. He could see the southern coast of Ireland, with the British islands and the coast of Europe already in view on the horizon. He could see London, Brussels, Paris, and all the way to Hamburg to the north. Soon they were over Eastern Europe, with Moscow on the very horizon to the east and the Black Sea stretching out before them. “I'll bet the Russkies don't appreciate us flying over their territory like this,” Boomer said.

“Ask me if I care,” Patrick said. He motioned toward the horizon. “Ever get shot at, Boomer?”

“Shot at?”
he asked. As if on cue, a warning tone blared and the computer reported,
“SEARCH RADAR ACTIVE.”
The computer did not identify the radar signal or even attempt to classify it except as a “search radar.”

“The Russians have a pretty good anti-ballistic missile base on the Kola Peninsula that has the capability of reaching us,” Patrick said. “The SA-21 ‘Boa' missile is Russia's version of our Ground-Based Interceptor—the ‘Star Wars' missile defense anti-missile system. It's supposed to be in initial deployment testing right…there.” He pointed at a spot on the ground. “It has a max altitude range of one hundred and twenty miles.”

“You're kidding me!”

“You guys in Dreamland need to get more intelligence briefings before you take these things for a ride,” Patrick said. He pointed at the threat display on their computer screens. “Your software needs to be updated too—because I'll bet that's their
ABM tracking radar we're picking up. They're tracking us and probably the Meteor as well.”

“I've flown this track at least three times and no one's ever said anything to me!”

“That's because no one officially knows what you're doing,” Patrick said. “NORAD can see and track you of course, and they may even suspect you're a Dreamland bird, but they'll never start an inquiry except at the very highest levels, and it'll stop right away once they confirm who you are. It's up to you to get the intel you need.”

“Yes, sir,” Boomer said. “You get to feel pretty safe up here.”

“You can't afford to—not in this day and age,” Patrick said. “I'll start sending you a daily file on global threats, and I'll get the techs at Air Intelligence Agency to get you the software to update your threat receiver. You may have to replan your missions accordingly, depending on the geopolitical situation.”

“We don't need to get permission to fly in space over Russia—do we?”

“Legally space is open to all nations,” Patrick said. “Russia usually doesn't squawk when a new spacecraft flies overhead—they would certainly like nothing more than to bring down an XR-A9, or at least study it—but since we can go in and out of orbit so easily, they may complain. If they complain loud enough, we'll stop. Maybe.” Both crewmembers were on high alert for any sign of danger until they were well past the area.

Things were quiet for several minutes; soon, Patrick heard through his subcutaneous transceiver: “Luger to McLanahan.”