Space Station Down, page 8
She wrote a short routine that monitored various traditional and nontraditional sensors, then quickly isolated the LED screens, carbon dioxide monitors, temperature gauges, the zero-gee toilet, oxygen monitors, and a scad of other equipment.
There. She enabled the routine, then started pulsing the currents in the JPM by switching the lights on and off, hoping that someone at MCC would notice the modulation.
After cycling through her Morse code message she turned to watch the rest of the station’s electrical activity as it appeared on the schematic on her laptop’s display. She felt her heart rate speeding up as she found that the two terrorists had retreated away from the JPM and separated from each other. One of them appeared to be holed up in the U.S. lab, while the other was down at the Russian end of the station, moving back and forth between the control panel in the SM module and the FGB.
What on earth were they doing? Studying the drain on the station’s electrical circuitry, Kimberly deduced that they’d powered up most of the laptops in the modules. Probably trying to get around the administrative lock she’d put on accessing the thruster propellant lines. She assumed that although the two of them were crazy enough to want to deorbit the ISS, killing themselves and taking out who knows how many people, they were both sane enough—and probably competent enough—to hack into the ISS systems and retake control of their functions. Including the propellant valves, thrusters, and whatever other controls they needed to carry out their suicidal fantasies.
Her breath quickening, Kimberly tried to throw up some software barriers to prevent them from gaining any additional access to the station’s systems, then once again tried to bring up the comm links with Earth.
But almost as fast as she entered a new command her efforts were squashed, sometimes stopped cold before she could even see if the commands had been executed. It was as if Farid and Bakhet anticipated her every action, as if they could read her mind and thwart everything she tried.
Were they working from some sort of sophisticated, minutely detailed checklist that predicted all her possible countermeasures, or were they simply that much smarter and more competent than she?
After half an hour of being slammed in the one-sided cat-and-mouse game, Kimberly pushed herself away from the laptop in frustration. She was simply no match for the two of them. Or maybe, she thought, it was only one of them. Was Farid that much smarter than she?
She remembered that in graduate school at Princeton she’d known computer geniuses who had dropped out of college and forgone both academics and industry because they were bored with mediocre normal life, and instead lived on the edge, hacking or pursuing other illegal activities simply for the excitement. They weren’t idiot savants who excelled only in one narrow area and were deficient in everything else; they were truly intellectually superior people in every sense of the word, compared to ordinary human beings.
But she also recalled that more often than not, their superior intellects came with a lack of common sense. And if there was a flaw that she could exploit, that was it.
From the physical prowess, depth of computer knowledge, and even the precise diction that both Farid and Bakhet had displayed, Kimberly became convinced that the two intruders were dead ringers for this ultra-normal type of human being. With the exception that their motivation wasn’t based on boredom or game-playing, but was at fever pitch, inspired by misguided religious zeal.
Kimberly shared their religion and cultural background, and that frightened her even more, because whether they had common sense or not, she knew that they would stop at nothing to bring their vision to reality.
THE WHITE HOUSE: NATIONAL SECURITY COUNCIL
Scott Robinson stood in the narrow, carpeted hallway, waiting outside the Cabinet Room with a dozen other men and women. He’d been the last to arrive, but he’d traveled 1,400 miles farther than any of the high-level participants of the President’s National Security Council meeting.
He felt grossly out of place in his blue astronaut flight uniform, and wished he’d included a normal suit, or at least a sports jacket, in his go-bag. But he couldn’t picture himself wearing his comfortable khaki slacks and button-down shirts in a meeting of these dark-suited, cabinet-level officials, multistarred generals, and probably the President himself.
His only consolation was that at least his blue bunny suit, as the astronauts called their one-piece flight uniforms, exuded instant credibility that often bordered on veneration. The Secretaries of Defense and Homeland Security, plus the National Security Advisor had introduced themselves when Scott had arrived, recognizing him from his previous trip to the ISS just a few months earlier. No one quizzed him about the station, though: either because that was going to be the topic of the impending meeting, or they somehow remembered that his ex-wife, Kimberly Hadid-Robinson, was currently on board—and probably dead.
Scott self-consciously sipped his third cup of coffee and debated using the side bathroom for the second time since he’d arrived when a slim young man in a gray pinstriped suit and slicked-back light brown hair stepped through the door from the Cabinet Room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said softly, “the President is ready.”
Scott followed the others into the Cabinet Room and was directed to a seat along the wall while the others took the cushioned chairs around the long, gleamingly polished table, chatting quietly among themselves. Within moments the same young man appeared at the door across the room.
“The President,” he said.
Everyone stood and the President strode in. He looked grim, and didn’t greet anyone as he headed straight to his chair at the middle of the table’s far side. Scott thought that the President had aged, but he appeared laser focused. He dispensed with pleasantries as he took his seat.
“I’ll get straight to the point. I’m extremely concerned about the damage the space station will inflict before and after it hits the ground. Patricia Simone tells me that although eighty-five to ninety percent of the ISS’s one million pounds will burn up in the atmosphere, in addition to releasing a significant amount of radioactivity on its way down, there could be more than fifty tons of metal that will survive reentry. Isn’t that right”—he glanced down at a single sheet of paper lying on the table in front of him—“Lieutenant Colonel Robinson?”
Scott hadn’t sat down yet. He stiffened into attention, stunned that the President would call on him so quickly. “Yes, sir, that’s correct. The RTGs won’t survive the fall, so we can expect as much as three hundred sixty pounds of plutonium released along its trajectory. But the station’s tankage, solar panels, skin, and much of the equipment are made of aluminum, so they’ll most likely burn up before it hits the ground.”
The President nodded and started to speak, but Scott interrupted and added, “However, Mr. President, as you correctly noted, approximately fifty tons of metal will survive reentry and will cause damage if it hits a populated region. But that’s an extremely small probability, as the debris will most likely be spread out over a wide area.”
“I see,” said the President. Without taking his eyes off Scott, he asked, “Is there anything else, Colonel?”
“No, sir.” Scott could feel his face growing warm. He quickly took his seat. “Sorry, sir.”
“Excuse me, Colonel.” The Secretary of Defense leaned forward in her chair. “Just how certain is NASA that this fifty tons of metal that survives reentry will miss a populated area?”
Shooting to his feet again, Scott replied, “Very likely, ma’am. Although it’s almost impossible to predict where the space station will reenter the atmosphere, there’s a great chance that it will be over an unpopulated area. The world is two-thirds water, so the probability of it even hitting solid ground is only one in three. And when you consider that most of the dry part of the Earth is unpopulated, then the odds of it not contaminating anything or causing significant damage is very high.”
The head of Homeland Security turned in his chair to look at Scott, standing behind him. “It’s not the physical damage the impact would cause, it’s the psychological terror I’m worried about.” He turned to the President. “NASA may give only a small chance to the probability of damage, and they may be right. But perception is reality. And if this leaks out, the perception will be that a million-pound space station will hit New York City, contaminate the east coast, and cause incredible damage. Our analysts envision newscasters reporting that an equivalent impact by a one-million-pound asteroid could potentially be hundreds of times more devastating than the Hiroshima blast—”
Scott blurted, “But, sir, that’s impossible!”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s impossible or improbable,” Homeland Security continued, his voice edged with irritation. “All it takes are a few misspoken comments and it becomes real. It will spiral out of control. Public reaction can instantly turn into a bonfire, driven by momentum, fueled by the news media and the Internet. And it doesn’t matter if it’s incorrect or misguided. Once this hits the media it’ll cause a panic that will dwarf anything we’ve ever seen. Rioting, mayhem, breakdown in authority—our civil law enforcement personnel routinely have their authority challenged now; can you imagine what they’ll experience if they try to keep order when it’s reported that the entire eastern seaboard may be at risk?”
A half dozen murmured conversations broke out around the table. The President rapped his knuckles on the polished wood and the room plunged into silence.
“Any other comments?” he asked tartly.
Scott’s stomach was turning sour. He felt annoyed that these decision-makers were allowing the possibility of people overreacting to the threat cloud their judgment. It was obvious to him that just by looking at the facts, the chances of anyone getting hurt by the station’s impact were pretty close to zero. You were more likely to die in an automobile accident or get hit by lightning than be killed by a piece of the space station.
But the Homeland Security secretary did have a point, Scott reluctantly admitted to himself. People’s fear for the worst would drive their behavior, not any calm, logical assessment of what would really happen. Fear would spread like an unstoppable disease. Truth would become the first casualty of the crisis and distorted reality would become fact in the minds of millions.
The President looked around the room and asked simply, “So what are our options?” It was a demand, not a question.
The Secretary of Defense cleared her throat and looked at Scott. “Lieutenant Colonel Robinson, so it’s possible the ISS could impact the eastern seaboard, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am, it’s possible, but extremely improbable. It would more likely miss the U.S. entirely in an uncontrolled deorbit. But if the terrorists were to keep thrusting until the station is deep in the atmosphere, I suppose it could hit somewhere along the east coast. But as far as targeting New York”—Scott shook his head—“that’s out of the question.”
“But the Homeland Security secretary’s point is valid,” Defense insisted. “And if perception is reality, then the solution is to mold public perception to a new reality.”
Scott sank back onto his chair, flustered at where the Defense secretary was heading. But the others around the table were obviously on her same wavelength.
The President picked up her line of reasoning. “You’re saying we need to make the reality of the ISS deorbiting no longer a threat. The media is already speculating about what happened up there, and our silence is only making matters worse.”
“Yes, sir,” Defense said. “Which means going public that the U.S. intends to bring down the International Space Station so that it’s no longer a threat.”
“By deorbiting it?”
“No, sir.” She shook her head. “By shooting it down with an antisatellite weapon.”
Scott went rigid on his chair, stunned that they would even bring up the option of shooting down the ISS. After ten years of engineering design, it had taken fifteen years to build the station, with more than thirty-five Space Shuttle launches and four Russian launches. It had cost more than 150 billion dollars; ten nations had contributed to the effort; more than a hundred astronauts, cosmonauts, and tourists had visited the international facility. It was a monument to human achievement, and would play a pivotal role in the next phase of the human exploration of space. Yet here they were callously thinking of blowing it out of the sky—all because two tin-pot terrorists had somehow managed to find their way on board the most exclusive place in the solar system!
“We’ve had an antisatellite capability since 2008,” the Defense secretary continued, “when we shot down one of our own satellites, USA-193, that was malfunctioning and threatened to crash in a populated area. Operation Burnt Frost publicly demonstrated that ASAT technology is real.
“If the ISS is truly in the hands of terrorists who threaten to deorbit that station into a populated area, then we have to be proactive. We have cruisers equipped with Aegis ASAT missiles already positioned in the Pacific theater as part of our defense against the North Korean missile threat. They can be quickly relocated to optimally target the space station.”
“And how long will that take?” asked the President.
“It depends on the ISS orbit,” Defense replied. “We can first decide where we want the station to impact and then work backwards to where to position the Aegis cruisers. But it makes the most sense to duplicate the Burnt Frost shoot-down and bring the ISS down over the Pacific Ocean, so that even if it has a large debris path it will all fall harmlessly in the water.”
She paused for a breath, then before anyone could comment, Defense added, “And it will probably take three, or even four, ASAT missiles to hit the ISS at various locations to break it up into small-enough pieces for a safe, quick reentry—disperse the plutonium over the Pacific.”
Looking at Scott again, the Secretary of Defense said, “Air Force Space Command has current ISS orbital parameters from its Space Fence suite of sensors, but it would help to also have NASA’s original astrodynamic models to aid in the calculation of where to optimally shoot down the station. Lieutenant Colonel Robinson, how soon can NASA transmit their astrodynamic models to the Air Force?”
Feeling light-headed, Scott struggled to his feet. This decision process was going much too fast, and in a direction far from what he’d been hoping for. “Ma’am, NASA can get that as soon as I have a contact point in DoD.” He wet his lips and turned toward the President. “But, sir, really, does it make any sense to do this, without first at least trying to mount a rescue mission? Launch one of our capsules and at least try to take back the ISS?”
The Defense secretary arched an eyebrow. “They’ve threatened to obliterate New York and contaminate the east coast in four days, Colonel. Which, according to the NASA Administrator, means they’ve already started the deorbit process. Can NASA even launch a manned capsule in four days, much less than four months?” She shook her head. “The only rockets that launch that quickly are our ICBMs.” She turned to the President. “I recommend that you immediately go public and nip this in the bud. The sooner the ISS is brought down, the less panic we’ll have throughout the country.”
Scott started to protest, but the Defense secretary stared at him and silently shook her head. Frustrated, he plopped back down on his chair while the discussion swirled around the table.
After ten minutes of listening to his advisors’ comments the President lifted his hands for silence. The chatter quickly stopped.
Looking weary but undefeated, the President said, “Generate a presidential directive. The danger is too great if indeed the ISS were to hit a populated area, and from this conversation I’m convinced the danger would be even worse once the public finds out that the ISS has been taken over by terrorists. And the public will find out. It’s only a matter of time before the news media takes the TV feed they already have and comes to that conclusion.”
Scott nodded agreement. The media saw the terrorists murder Vasilev before he’d had a chance to cut the feed from the space station. It was already being played around the world.
“Worse yet,” the President continued, “we’re running out of time. Pre-positioned or not, I don’t know how long it will take our Aegis cruisers to reach their launch points. But broadcasting this to the public would only give that much more time for panic and rioting to set in. We can’t let this go public and allow the terrorists to accelerate their timetable, so we need to make positioning our ASAT cruisers our top priority.” He nodded at the Secretary of Defense. “Activate the Burnt Frost option and keep the deployment classified.”
“Yes, sir,” the Defense secretary said. “I recommend making this an unacknowledged Special Access Program and call it Burnt Haunt. The less people that know about this SAP the better, and you can bring it out into the open as soon as the deorbit hits the press, show that we’re aggressively working to stop the ISS from injuring or contaminating anyone.”
“Good point,” the President agreed. He turned to the Secretary of State. “Inform our allies through SAP channels as soon as the cruisers reach their launch points. And before the launch is executed, work through classified channels to request that both Russia and China deploy their own ASAT capabilities as a backup, just in case our Burnt Haunt option fails. Any questions?”
Scott felt a sick queasiness growing in the pit of his stomach. This had really spiraled out of control. The Russian and Chinese ASAT weapons were going to be part of the mix. He suspected that their fail-safe systems for calling off a strike to bring down the ISS were nowhere near as reliable as the U.S.’s.
Which meant that the ISS was going to be destroyed one way or the other—either by the terrorists or by the U.S., Russia, or China.
Which left zero hope that if Kimberly had somehow managed to survive, she might get out of this alive.
Because the President of the United States had just signed her death warrant.
