Strike Force

Although designed for six passengers, the Black Stallion’s passenger module was loaded to capacity with supplies and equipment, so Benneton and Page had absolutely no room to move about even if they wanted to do so. The rear of the module contained all their supplies, and they were seated in the middle row. The front of the module was mostly occupied by a large flexible tube attached to the top of the module. This was the docking adapter and transfer tunnel. Like many of the systems and procedures they would use on this flight, the adapter had never been operationally tested either. It was definitely going to be a day full of firsts.

“I can’t wait, sir,” Boomer said moodily. “Really, I can’t.” He checked his readouts when an alert tone sounded. “Computer’s started the pre-engine start checklist, crew,” he announced. Things happened quickly after that, and before long the Black Stallion was airborne.

Because this was going to be a different kind of mission, the insertion into orbit was anything but typical. After refueling over the Pacific Ocean as normal, Boomer flew the Black Stallion on a steep climb and descent across the North Pole, then over the Norwegian Sea and North Sea just off the coast of Scotland, where they rendezvoused with another modified KC-77 tanker and refueled once again. They then turned north and cruised off the coast of Norway as directed by the flight computers, awaiting the proper time for orbital insertion. At the proper moment, the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System engines flared to life, and the Black Stallion propelled itself once again into space.

It was soon obvious that this was not another typical orbital insertion mission — the boost burn lasted several minutes longer than normal, and the view from the cockpit was completely different. The difference in altitude was striking. “Well, this looks weird,” was all Boomer could say. The sense of altitude and the sight of so much more of the Earth was unnerving, like looking down from a very tall bridge while standing on the edge of a very narrow catwalk.

“Coming up on the last normal orbital abort point,” Dave Luger said.

“Everyone okay?” Boomer asked, forgetting for the umpteenth time that the aircraft commander called for checklists to be completed, not the “Guy In Back. Station check and give me a green light to continue.” At this point if there was some sort of problem they could execute a deorbit burn, come out of orbit, and still have enough fuel to make a normal landing at a good variety of airports. If they went past this point with the main engines still boosting them higher, their options quickly decreased. But everyone reported all systems normal, so they continued.

It happened with amazing speed: five minutes past a normal burn period, Boomer got a flashing warning message on his supercockpit display. “Cripes, just fifteen minutes to bingo fuel,” he muttered. “Normally we’d be getting ready to land by now — we haven’t even completed our insertion burn yet.”

“It’s going to be a close one, crew,” Dave Luger said. “We’re watching the burn curve carefully, and so far we’re just a few percent under it. About ten minutes to the emergency abort point.”

“Too much information, General,” Raydon said. “We’re committed — there’s no emergency abort.” Everyone knew he was correct: they could make it back to Earth intact, but exactly which runway they’d land on — or even if there was a runway nearby — was unknown. Their best — and soon their only — hope was to make the trip as planned.

It seemed to take forever, but soon the “leopards” engines shut down, and the ship went from a sustained, loud roar to complete silence within milliseconds. “Two hundred and fifteen miles up,” Boomer breathed. “I didn’t think it would make that big a difference, but it does.” He looked at the fuel readings, then told himself not to bother looking any longer — they were dismal. Their fuel was nearly exhausted, and they still had one large LPDRS burn to do to slow the Black Stallion down from its current “chase” speed to a speed slow enough for the crew to use maneuvering thrusters to position the spaceplane.

The telemetry readouts showed them exactly how far they had to go and how long it would take to get there, so there were absolutely no surprises, but Boomer found himself staring out the canopy side windscreens for their objective. The glare of the Earth against the darkness of space made scanning the horizon difficult. “Man, it’s easy to see the station at night — I’ve even seen it at late afternoon,” he said, “but I can’t see it now.”

“Be patient, Boomer,” Raydon said. “Don’t anticipate. If we start chasing it, even subconsciously, we’ll run out of fuel. Relax.” It was easier said than done, but Boomer forced himself to close his eyes and recite his Transcendental Meditation mantra to help calm him down.