Space Station Down, page 21
Almost immediately she felt better. Her breathing slowed. Her mind really had played tricks on her. She didn’t want to know how low her oxygen level had gotten; she hadn’t shown so much confusion even during her astronaut hypobaric training in NASA’s high-altitude chamber.
Instead of dwelling on that, she pulled Shep’s knife out of her equipment pouch and crouched to launch herself out of the ПρК. With her free hand she slowly cranked the lever at the base of the hatch, rotating it counterclockwise.…
She tensed as the hatch swung open, praying that they weren’t in Central Post; if they were, they’d only be fifteen or so feet away, just on the other side of the galley. Blood pounded in her ears as she readied herself for any type of response from Farid and Bakhet, from the two of them rushing her, to being hit on the head, even blindsided by some piece of heavy equipment. She pushed out with both legs as hard as she could, holding Shep’s knife in front of her as she shot out the instant the hatch swung fully open.
Nothing. She was alone in the far aft end of the SM, by the Russian toilet, and Central Post was deserted.
She soared down the axis of the module and prepared to swing around the side of the vestibule as she exited the SM. If the terrorists weren’t still down by the JPM, no telling where they were, but they’d still be trying to deorbit the station, and were probably furious because the thruster controls wouldn’t work. They wouldn’t have a clue that she’d physically prevented the hypergolic propellants from reaching the thruster motors. Most likely they’d be frantically combing through the software to see how she might have put another lock on the propellant control states.
So she’d have to start hunting them down, module by module, just as they did her when they first arrived.
She didn’t know if she’d encounter one or both of them, but she figured she’d have the element of surprise. Her breath quickening, she rotated around the metal edge of the vestibule and flew directly into DC-1.
Bakhet was peering out the viewport, maybe looking for Mecca, just as that Saudi prince had done years ago when he had visited the station. Bakhet turned his head as she entered, his eyes flashing wide with astonishment. He started to yell while simultaneously ducking away from her.
Kimberly slashed out as she flew over him, barely missing him with Shep’s knife. She spun around in midair by quickly jerking her hands and upper torso upward, forcing her legs to swing forward. Her feet struck Bakhet on the back of his skull, right above the neck. His head snapped against his chest and he cried out.
She spun forward from the hit and, unable to stop, sailed out of DC-1 and into the SM, straight into a large brown coarse fabric sack of supplies. As she tumbled she spotted the titanium prybar, wedged next to the laptop Bakhet had been using.
Could she reach the prybar before he did?
Bakhet came out of DC-1, holding a hand to his head. He lurched toward her, but with his inexperience in zero-gee he started to rotate forward. He reached out for the long Russian prybar; his hand swiped against it, causing the titanium tool to rapidly tumble away in a wobbly spinning motion.
Heading directly for Kimberly.
She tried to twist out of its way, but as she moved the bar’s pointed end slashed against the top of her hand. Blood spurted from a vein, spewing out a stream of bright red globules. Gritting her teeth, Kimberly smashed against the pile of bungee-cord secured supplies. Shep’s knife slipped out of her hand, spinning away in the opposite direction, toward the far end of the service module.
As she bounced, Kimberly reached out and grabbed one of the bungee cords, ripping it from its mooring. A mass of mee-shauks, large brown surplus Russian cloth sacks, floated out. She grabbed one by its back end and swung it at Bakhet, spilling out packets of nuts, buckwheat gruel, borsch, and tvorog Russian cottage cheese—creating a cloud of mini-asteroids in the center of the module.
Twisting in the air, she grabbed another bungee cord secured to the wall. With blood still pumping from her hand, Kimberly jerked the other end of the cord free, pulling out a heavy metal ring that fastened the cord to the module. The motion snapped her toward the wall. Hitting the module’s insulated side, she whipped around and swung the long cord and its oval fastener at Bakhet.
The heavy metal ring struck him in the face. He screamed in sharp pain and doubled over, hands to his head. Shrieking, he rotated end over end and drifted into MRM-2.
Following him, Kimberly grabbed at a large white American MO bag that had been staged in the Russian airlock. She yanked open its zipper, emptying its contents. Clothing and blankets spilled out as she turned in the air. She hit the side of the airlock again and, holding the empty MO bag wide open in front of her, kicked off straight for Bakhet, still bleary and wailing from his injuries, floating in the middle of MRM-2. She hit Bakhet’s head as she wrapped him in the bag.
He started to kick, rotating them both in the center of the module.
Ignoring her hand’s bleeding, Kimberly rapidly closed the bag as Bakhet punched fruitlessly against the heavy cloth he was enclosed in. Dark red stains grew on both sides of the white fabric—on the inside from his blood, on the outside, hers.
Bakhet yelled hoarsely, frantically kicking and punching the sides of the MO bag, trying to escape. The bag looked as though a series of random eruptions was jabbing it from the inside.
Kimberly heard Farid shouting from the far end of the station, down by the JPM. She didn’t have much time. She kicked off the wall and hit the pulsating bag with her outstretched hands, roughly shoving it toward the far end of MRM-2. The bag careened off the metal wall, further inciting Bakhet, as Kimberly coolly moved out of the open Russian airlock.
She slammed the hatch closed, trapping him in MRM-2, where the Soyuz craft was docked. Then she pushed off for the titanium prybar that was still slowly bouncing from wall to wall as it tumbled through the air. Grabbing the long metal bar, she pulled up and used it to pin the hatch shut, locking Bakhet inside. Although injured, she now had one terrorist down, trapped in the Russian airlock.
She kicked back for Command Post to find Shep’s knife as Farid’s yelling grew louder. He sounded as though he was almost at Node 1. As she flew through the air she grabbed one of the Russian shirts that floated in the module and wrapped it around her hand, slowing the bleeding. She felt incredibly weak and she didn’t know if it was from the exertion or the loss of blood. In any case she had to keep moving, get to Shep’s utility knife—
Farid soared into the module, screaming, his face red as he hurtled through the air.
Kimberly instantly grabbed her knees and ducked her head, balling up as small as she could. Farid’s hand whacked her side as she sailed past, knocking her into the insulated wall.
She bounced off at an angle, spinning into the FGB. Extending her body, she grabbed at the vestibule leading to Node 1 and spun off into the module, toward Node 3, leaving Shep’s knife somewhere behind her.
She had to find something else to fight with, but what? She had to search one of the tool pouches stored near the Joint Airlock, find one of the long screwdrivers or heavy wrenches to use as a weapon.
She heard Farid behind her. He must have been able to change his momentum before hitting the end of the SM. His curses reverberated throughout the station.
She didn’t have time to change her own direction for the Joint Airlock. She careened off the side and kicked as hard as she could, entering Node 3 and flying toward the exercise equipment moored to its side.
Reaching down, she grabbed the handrail that ran across the treadmill. She rotated around, stopping her motion. She quickly scanned the module, but couldn’t see any tools, or even extra equipment that might have been stored in one of the bungee-cord jails set against the wall. What could she use? There wasn’t even a VAJ pressure hose she could use to evacuate the air in the vestibule and barricade herself inside, as she’d done in the JPM.
She felt her heart rate start to skyrocket. Maybe there was something she could use in the Bigelow module. At only ten and a half feet in diameter and accessed through a small hatch in Node 3, the experimental inflatable module was well past its mission life and was now used for overflow storage. The hatch was loosely held in place with only two hand-tightened bolts to guard against the module suddenly developing a leak; she felt a rush of cold air tumble out of the small, dark module as she opened it. The Bigelow was not powered or heated. Could she hide in there, hoping Farid might miss her?
Too late. Farid flew through the vestibule, arms outstretched, heading straight at Kimberly. His face was contorted with rage, his eyes blazing with the sole purpose of killing her.
Kimberly kicked back, out of his path. Flying backward, she put out a hand to brace herself against the module’s side when she spotted one of the Portable Fire Extinguishers secured next to the hatch. She quickly rotated in midair by pitching forward and pulling her feet in. Kicking out, she hit the module’s side and bounced directly toward the oval-shaped orange PFE. She opened the metal door, ripped it from its mooring, flipped the safety switch, and turned the nozzle toward Farid. A sudden spray of liquid carbon dioxide spewed from the extinguisher, instantly turning into a frigid, white, smoky gas.
Farid screamed and clawed at his head, his face nearly flash-frozen. His eyes were squeezed shut as he shrieked, his fingers digging into his flesh as though he were trying to pull off his frostbitten skin as he spun, howling, toward the center of the module.
The momentum of the spray kicked Kimberly backward as she fought to keep the last few pounds of liquid CO2 focused on Farid. Her head hit the metal side of the vestibule and the PFE went tumbling out of her hands.
Kicking the Node 3 wall, she pushed off as hard as she could, heading straight for Farid. Ducking her head, she hit him squarely in the chest like a battering ram.
He gave an audible oof at the impact and snapped back violently against the Bigelow hatch, hitting his head against the edge of the metal entrance as he tumbled inside the Kevlar-sided inflatable module.
Kimberly quickly bolted the hatch cover shut, sealing him inside. She scanned Node 3 for something to secure the hatch. She couldn’t see anything she could use, but she knew that inside the dark, unheated module Farid wouldn’t be able to access any of the station’s controls, or unfasten the bolts and escape. Still, just to be safe, she needed to ensure that he’d never get out. She could depressurize the inflatable module by using the ISS’s graphical interface. Let him breathe vacuum, she thought grimly.
She felt drained, and couldn’t quite believe that she’d trapped the two terrorists in separate locations. She was dead tired from the exertion and lack of sleep, not to mention the stress. And now, though she’d bought a little time to try to re-boost the station, she knew she couldn’t stop to rest on her laurels. She wasn’t through yet, although she felt she could finally see the end of this nightmare.
Kicking off the side of the module, she left the Bigelow and pushed out of Node 3, heading toward Central Post. For the first time in days she moved without tensing up. Part of her wanted to look for Shep’s knife; merely holding it gave her a feeling of confidence. But the logical part of her mind insisted that she first needed to ensure that the two terrorists couldn’t escape. What she really needed was something else to make sure they stayed locked in. And after that she’d have to go EVA again to de-crimp the thin propellant line so she could boost the ISS to a higher altitude.
The station had already lost significant altitude, and now that it was in a lower orbit it was encountering more atmospheric drag. Kimberly knew that normally the ISS lost more than a hundred meters per day, mainly from drag created by the big, ungainly solar panels. If she had time, she’d pull up the mission control numbers on the ISS system to see how much altitude they’d already lost, but every minute she waited, the lower the station would drop.
At least this time when she went EVA she’d be in one of the old, self-contained spacesuits that didn’t need an umbilical cord for oxygen. And there’d be no pressure from the terrorists.
She glided past the MRM-2. Glancing at the airlock she saw that the titanium prybar was still pinning the hatch shut. She’d love to evacuate the air in there as well as the Bigelow, but the controls were on the inside of the airlock and there was no way she was going to risk opening the hatch.
She tried the prybar; it was secure. Now to ensure that Farid would never get out of the Bigelow.
SOUTH PACIFIC OCEAN, NORTHWEST OF THE SOLOMON ISLANDS
The cruisers USS Lake Erie, USS Decatur, and USS Russell positioned themselves for an optimal launch of their Aegis antisatellite missiles. Their captains coordinated their movements so that no debris from the launch, or an unexpected missile malfunction, would threaten the ships of the small armada.
The ocean had calmed considerably since they’d arrived on station: clear visibility, fair winds, and following seas gave them near-optimal conditions.
The cruisers ran drills using the military’s space-sensing network, a chain of radar and optical telescopes spread across the world that provided them with precise timing and aiming coordinates for the ISS. Awaiting the command to launch, the crews were trained, well rested, and ready to launch their ASAT weapons.
Eight thousand four hundred miles away, in Washington, D.C., and fifteen hours’ time difference from the Solomon Islands, the U.S. State Department finished coordinating a top-secret agreement with China for the Chinese to provide a backup with their own state-of-the-art ASATs, Dong Neng-3s, only if the U.S.-launched Aegis missiles failed.
Russia would not guarantee that its own antisatellite weapon would work, because unlike the U.S. and Chinese, the Russians had never tested their ASAT system—high-powered, ground-based iodine lasers—against active satellites. But the Kremlin did agree not to interfere with whatever actions the U.S. or China undertook.
Once the agreement with China was reached, the State Department sent confirmation over classified channels to the National Security Council that the Chinese were ready to step in and help—but only if officially asked by Washington.
The stage was set, and the results were presented to a Principals Only meeting in the White House Situation Room, where all NSC members at the Cabinet level were present—with the notable exception of the NASA Administrator.
Reading the updates, the President relaxed slightly, thinking perhaps he had finally found a path for preventing massive loss of life because of the ISS deorbit. Things were already escalating wildly with the news being leaked that terrorists were trying to crash the space station somewhere along the U.S. eastern seaboard, and contaminate the entire east coast with plutonium.
The President realized that all he had to do was to pull the trigger … or not. There were pros and cons for acting immediately, as well as for waiting. He glanced at the clock hanging on the Situation Room’s rear wall, irritated that the NASA Administrator was still hung up in traffic. He’d give her a few more minutes, but whether she was present or not, he didn’t have time to wait. No one did.
At least now, with everyone else in the NSC assembled, within minutes he’d have the best advice his most trusted and senior advisors could give.
Yet, despite all the fail-safe plans, the President couldn’t escape the nagging feeling that he was about to give carte blanche to a process that could quickly spiral out of control.
CENTRAL POST, INTERNATIONAL SPACE STATION
Kimberly floated in front of the laptop that accessed the ISS’s graphical interface. Although she felt pressed for time, she concentrated on ensuring that there was no way that Farid could escape from the inflatable Bigelow module, for once she went EVA she’d be completely vulnerable. And with no one on board to help her, this was her last chance to re-boost the station.
As she called up the schematic of the Bigelow to depressurize the inflatable, she heard a faint thud, as if something heavy had hit the side of the station. Looking up from the screen, she felt a sudden chill as she saw the Russian prybar float through the SM. It slowly tumbled through the air, hitting the metal edge of the vestibule with a clang as it drifted across the Service Module.
It no longer pinned the MRM-2 hatch! Bakhet had somehow freed himself from the MO bag and had gotten loose! Since the airlock was not depressurized, there was nothing to prevent the terrorist from kicking against the airlock handle and dislodging the titanium bar.
Kimberly reacted instantly, knowing that Bakhet would appear any second.
She kicked away from the laptop, toward the prybar, still tumbling slowly in the middle of the module. Reaching the four-and-a-half-foot-long bar, she grabbed it out of the air. Her momentum took her past Central Post and she hit the bungee-cord-secured supply bags.
She heard crashing sounds from outside the module. Bakhet must be searching through MRM-2, looking for something to overpower her. He’d be wary of getting too close to her, so she wouldn’t be able to use another bungee cord as a bola-like weapon. And when he saw that she had the prybar he’d certainly keep his distance. But, she thought, she could impale him with the rod’s pointed end, nail him with it like an ancient warrior pinning an enemy with his spear.
With her injured hand, though, she wasn’t sure she could throw the massive bar with enough velocity to transfix him, but she had an idea of how to do it.
Keeping an eye on the hatch, she rummaged through the bungee cords and rapidly untied three of the rubbery, elastic lines. Kicking back down to the laptop, she removed the small computer from its U-shaped base, then she swiveled the stand and looped the ends of the bungee cords around the U-shaped metal poles.
Her hand still hurt from being slashed earlier as she placed the curved end of the prybar against the cords. Then gaining purchase with her feet, she pulled back on the bungees as hard as she could, using the elastic lines and the U-shaped laptop stand as a makeshift crossbow for the prybar bolt, aiming the pointed end at the hatch.
