Silent star, p.23
Silent Star, page 23
Scooter started to reply but stopped. Then no one said a thing.
“Did you hear me? The Captain’s dead, but don’t blame them. We never tried to talk to them. We just started shooting. Everyone started shooting. It didn’t have to be this way.”
“Westbrook, can you get back to where you transported in?” Scooter repeated.
“I’m looking for the Captain. I’m not leaving until I know for sure.”
“We’re going to use the Interceptor to disable the UNOB. If we survive we’re coming after the ship you’re in,” Scooter said.
“It will just escalate,” Westbrook said. “It’s a mistake.”
“Then get back here and convince me,” Scooter said.
A long silence followed.
“What about the Captain?” Westbrook said.
“He’s in their hands,” Scooter said. “If he’s still alive, maybe they’ll try to talk to him.”
“Yes,” Westbrook said, excitement building. “They might, but not if we keep attacking them.”
“Gains is commanding now,” Scooter said.
“Tell him-“
“Tell him yourself,” Scooter said. “It’s all I can do to keep them from breaking back into the system.”
“I’m coming,” Westbrook said.
They heard him whispering a prayer for the Captain before he turned off his transmitter. Squeezing Scooter’s shoulder, Ramirez said, “Nicely done.”
“If Westbrook makes it back we’ll have to tie him up, you know,” Riley said, eyes fixed on the preparations of the insect-aliens. “Or kill him.”
“I’ll medicate him,” Gains said.
Suddenly, images replaced the scenes Scooter had called up. The largest was a large black circle sprinkled with three types of red runes. Incomprehensible alien-insect scrawls sprinkled the image.
“What the hell?” Riley said.
“It’s Earth’s response,” Scooter said.
“This is bad,” Ramirez said.
Scooter tapped furiously, trying to get control again. The screen segmented, the original images showing on part of the wall.
“How long before we get hit?” Gains asked.
“I can’t read any of the insect-language,” Scooter said. “Without some sort of reference point your guess is as good as mine?”
“No, your guess is better,” Gains said. “Now guess!”
“It looks like two, maybe three waves. Minutes to an hour for the first warheads to get here.”
“Assume minutes,” Gains said. “Westbrook! Westbrook!”
“Here,” Westbrook replied, out of breath.
“Are you there yet.”
“Almost. Something is going on here. There is a lot of activity.”
“The UNOB and the ship you are in launched weapons against Earth. Earth retaliated. Those weapons will be here any second.”
“It just won’t end,” Westbrook said, his voice cracking.
“Get to the transport cavern. We’re coming to get you. Be ready.”
Then Gains turned to Scooter.
“Can you get us there?”
“This is bad,” Riley said, pointing at the display showing the weapons from Earth.
The largest runes were quickly converging.
“Back to the ship,” Gains ordered.
“No, wait!” Scooter said. “There’s no time.”
“He’s right,” Riley said, holding up his fingers to show how far apart the runes were.
“Then seal as many doors as you can,” Gains said.
Scooter began typing in commands.
“No,” Ramirez said. “Open as many doors as you can.”
The men exchanged looks and then Scooter smiled.
“Yes, open the doors,” Scooter said.
“What?” Gains said. “Open the doors?”
“I’ll get the suits,” Riley said, running into the cavern with Ramirez right behind.
Scooter worked through the decks, opening hatches, locking them open, and then searching for any emergency overrides. As he worked he remembered Westbook.”
“Westbrook,” Scooter called.
“I’m ready,” Westbrook said.
“There’s a snag,” Scooter said. “Get as deep into the ship as you can.”
“I understand,” Westbrook said.
“You might say a prayer too,” Scooter said.
“Count on it,” Westbrook replied.
A rational man, steeped in science, Scooter never took religion seriously, seeing it as a delusion of the masses, perpetuated by the political class for the purpose of controlling the underclass. Now, however, Scooter understood what soldiers meant by the maxim “There are no atheists in foxholes” and he hoped Westbrook actually had some pull with the man upstairs.
Chapter 42: Onslaught
Freedom Station
Earth Orbit
General Knox’s collapsible helmet hung from the back of his collar where it acted with a mind of its own, refusing to stay out of his way. With perfect randomness the helmet drifted up and down, left and right, rubbing against his ears and scalp. Like an annoying insect it tickled his left ear and he slapped it angrily, crushing his own ear. Oblivious of the pain, General Knox studied the radar and infrared displays, sensitive enough to track a golf ball. Optically, General Knox had witnessed multiple launches from the two UNOBs, but now the most sophisticated radar ever constructed on Earth gave only the faintest glimpse of what was coming.
“Even the damn warheads are stealth,” Captain Colson said, gripping the back of the chair next to General Knox.
“Hmmm,” General Knox mumbled, chewing on the nipple of a water bottle. “More likely they are non-metalic—awfully puny radar signature.”
“Ten seconds, sir,” a lieutenant called, counting down the first defensive detonations.
Some of Freedom Station’s early launches were offensive, others were defensive. Armed with nuclear warheads, the defensive missiles were programmed to detonate an optimal distance from Freedom Station. Since Freedom Station was the target, and the UNOBs close together when they launched, the incoming weapons were closely bunched, and as they converged on the station they would become a fat target. Driven by defense algorithms, each weapon system would come into play when the targets were at optimum range. The nuclear weapons were shaped, designed to send their lethal radiation and debris away from Freedom Station toward the targets.
Now the first of the defensive warheads detonated. Three thirty-megaton warheads vaporized. Widely spaced, the expanding clouds of plasma merged, creating a great defensive cloud. At Freedom Station the detonations were seen as one bright flash. Intent on the display, General Knox chewed the nipple vigorously, waiting for the computer to sort through the blizzard of particles, assessing size, speed and trajectory. Minutes passed.
“Taking its time,” Captain Colson said.
“Mmmm,” General Knox replied.
The blur on the screen resolved into distinct blips—many blips.
“Damn,” Captain Colson said.
“Mmmm,” General Knox concurred.
“Took out some,” Captain Colson said.
Space was a poor medium for traditional warheads. With no air molecules to compress, even a nuclear weapon could not create a pressure wave with the destructive force of an atmospheric nuclear detonation. Only the mass of the weapon itself could be ionized, and with the infinite volume of space, and no atmosphere to slow expansion, the plasma quickly dissipated.
“Took some, but not enough,” General Knox said, pulling the water bottle from his mouth.
Now the General’s attention shifted from the radar signatures of the incoming weapons to the next layer of defense systems. Tracking data from radar and infrared informed the satellite based lasers (SBL), the Barak missiles launchers, and the kinetic projectile launcher (KPL). The three space-based lasers orbited separately from Freedom Station and so far were not targeted by the UNOB. General Knox had little faith in the SBL systems. On Earth, the SBL’s could fire relatively rapidly, since they had a virtually unlimited power source, heating the fuel tanks of enemy missiles with three to five seconds of concentrated laser light and exploding fuel tanks. In orbit, SBL’s had the advantage of firing above the atmosphere, minimizing diffusion, and thus increasing the effectiveness of the lasers, but the space lasers depended on low capacity fuel cells and solar panels for energy. With a limited effective range, and targets traveling at supersonic speeds, even with fully charged capacitors the SBL’s would at best get one shot at their targets before Freedom Station was hit. If the UNOBs continued to Earth orbit, the lasers would be more effective—presuming they survived the onslaught.
The Barak missile system suffered from limitations of its own. Designed as an antimissile-missile system, Barak missiles were highly effective on Earth, able to track and maneuver to strike supersonic targets. In airless space the aerodynamic Barak missiles were reduced to point and shoot weapons. For that reason, Baraks were held back until the targets were well inside their effective range. Sixteen of these missiles were armed and ready.
More promising was the KPL system, commonly known as “Rods from God.” With no explosive warheads, the rail guns launched tungsten rods at 25,000 miles per hour. Originally designed to bombard Earth targets, the KPL was proven technology and thus modified and launched into orbit. Originally designed for stationary targets, the KPLs effectiveness was unknown.
Firing orders already given, weapons operators worked in teams, monitoring computers that tracked incoming targets. Ready to override the computers on command, the weapons teams hovered, eyes glued to the target tracks. The Baraks launched first from two pods, sixteen missiles loosed one after the other in quick succession.
“Baraks away,” Captain Colson said needlessly.
Through the port the flare of the Israeli built rocket engines lit up the control room, the General turning his head to protect his vision. Sixteen blue flashes and then the Baraks were away, their rocket flares quickly diminishing to pinpricks. Then, in quick succession, sixteen bright flashes.
“Damn, they are close now,” Captain Colson said.
“Mmmm,” General Knox replied, the nipple of his water bottle back in his teeth.
Again, a cloud of indistinguishable data filled the displays, as the computer made sense of the confused mass of particles and objects. A minute passed, the images resolved the reflections.
“Whittling them down,” Captain Colson said.
What had been a cloud of objects now had clear holes in it. Then the KPLs set to work, launching tungsten rods, targeting the largest incoming objects.
“Seal the suits,” General Knox said, knowing the remainder of the battle would happen in quick succession. “Close all hatches. Close the shutters.”
Captain Colson activated the microphone in the collar of his suit, giving the order for the crew to put on gloves and helmets and to seal Freedom Station. Hatches banged shut throughout the station, creating airtight modules, many with independent life support systems. At the same time, the view ports were covered with shutters to protect the vulnerable glass. Even if every alien weapon were destroyed—a faint hope--a rain of supersonic debris would still rip through Freedom Station.
General Knox put on his gloves, making sure they locked into place. Then he pulled his annoying helmet up and over his head, the sagging plastic plastering to his face until he got it sealed and inflated. When he finished, he was floating out of reach of his chair. Using the ceiling, he pulled himself back into position and tethered himself to the back of the chair.
Captain Colson checked the General’s seals and then the General returned the favor. Inside the suit, General Knox could only hear his own breathing. Turning on the systems, the heads-up display lit, showing all his seals were tight and his air supply read full. When the suit speakers came on the General was greeted by a cacophony of calls as stations reported ready status. Then the SBLs went off, two seven second burns of laser light. Angling so he could see the radar display through his faceplate, General Knox saw the Rods-From-God had broken up the cloud even further.
The first of the alien weapons were under a minute away now, and all attention was redirected to the last line of defense. A monitor showed the two Phalanx Gatling guns tracking incoming objects, its rotating barrels pointing into space. Another monitor showed the three six-barrel Metal Storm stacked projectile weapons waiting patiently for close-in defense. The Phalanx fired first, its barrels rotating to help cool the weapon. In the vacuum of space, there was no atmosphere to help dissipate the heat, the rotating barrels essential. Metal Storm fired next. With no moving parts, the multi-barreled weapon looked deceptively passive, but projectiles streamed from its barrels, sending a blizzard of supersonic metal into space. Metal Storm fired for twenty seconds, launching three-hundred-thousand projectiles. Phalanx continued to fire even as the first of the alien weapons struck.
Multiple impacts shook the station. His spacesuit muffling sounds and vibrations, General Knox listened to the voices coming over the speaker—no panic. Freedom Station was holed, but still functional. The weapons had been kinetic, some tearing clear through Freedom Station’s flimsy skin, exiting the backside. Crew hustled to plug holes. No reports of injuries came through but the crew would attend to the station first, wounded later. Another wave hit, with larger weapons. Warheads detonated in close proximity to Freedom Station, perforating the skin. Shrapnel shredded equipment and people. Mercifully, screams lasted only long enough for lungs to be emptied, as space suits spewed atmosphere into space.
Freedom Station had two great expanses of solar panels, and one of these was torn away from an impact near the joint. A great swath of destruction cut through the other, sending pieces of shiny black panels spiraling in all directions.
The SBL’s fired again, this time the laser beams so close to Freedom Station that it seemed to be the target. One beam detonated something close to the station, the concussion blowing off one of Freedom Station’s modules with enough force to rotate the station. Nitrogen jets fired, fighting to stabilize the space station. External monitors were lost, the lights failed, the station plunged into darkens. Battery powered emergency lights snapped on, glowing dimly.
A great explosion in the next compartment created a floor to ceiling bulge, the shock knocking General Knox from his feet. Flying only as far as his tether, General Knox pulled up short, Colonel Colson dangling next to him. Projectiles punctured the shutter, shattering the thick view screen class. Through his suit, General Knox could hear the scream of atmosphere as it competed to escape through the small holes in the shutters.
More projectiles penetrated the station, one passing through the crewman seated in the chair where the General was anchored. Coming at an angle, the projectile tore a hole through the crewman’s upper chest, angled down, exiting his lower back, continuing through the webbing of the chair and piercing the floor plates. Blood oozed from the crewman’s wounds, forming into globs, and then floating toward the pierced port to exit into space.
“Plug the holes,” General Knox ordered, not knowing if anyone was listening.
Men and women pulled themselves back into position, studying ruined equipment, seeing what still functioned. One crewman disconnected, grabbed a tube of sealer and a stick of filler, and pushed off, floating to the pierced window and shutter. Using the calking gun, he filled hole after hole, breaking off pieces of the filler stick and shoving it into large holes, then filling the perimeter with the sealant.
Somewhere in Freedom Station, an explosion rocked the station, sending everyone and everything flying, ricocheting off walls and objects. The diligent crewman bounced off the far wall, filler stick and calking gun flying from his hands. Once again General Knox found himself at the end of his tether. What little atmosphere remained carried the creaking and groaning of stressed metal. Freedom Station shook violently, then the bulging wall tore free, and the last of the atmosphere rushed to open space. Snapped in the other direction, General Knox hung from his tether, watching half of freedom station floating away. The space station had been blown in two, taking the wall of the control room with it. A crewman floated by, waving arms and legs, his tether cut. The torque of the tear-away put General Knox’s section into a slow rotation, the two segments slowly moving apart in a gentle waltz. Then all was quiet.
“Captain Colson, get me a damage report,” General Knox said, realizing how foolish it must sound.
No reply. General Knox found Colonel Colson floating at the end of his tether, his suit holed in three places, blobs of blood popping from the holes.
“Damage report,” General Knox broadcast to all receivers. “Condition of all modules.”
Voices came back, at first speaking over one another. Shouting them down, General Knox called out module numbers, getting reports from four of the five modules in his section, and two of the modules in the section floating away.
“Weapons status?” General Knox called.
Reports came in fits and starts, as the dying finished dying, rescuers finished or gave up rescuing, and men and women slowly remembered their training. Piecing the reports together, it was as bad as General Knox feared. All long-range offensive weapons had been launched, the SBLs were unharmed but their capacitors were drained and recharging. All Barak missiles were expended, the launchers torn from the station. Phalanx was expended and destroyed. Metal Storm weapons had expended all available ammunition but two were functional, one in each piece of the bisected Freedom Station.
“Reload Metal Storm,” General Knox ordered. “Highest priority.”
Damage reports continued. Solar panels destroyed, dish receivers gone or destroyed, life support system damaged, although two modules in General Knox’s section of the station, and one in the section floating a hundred yards distant, could be repressurized. X-band radar was functional, ignored in the initial attack, but there was no way to receive the data. Enough fuel cells survived to power the functioning systems, but many power lines were severed. Calling for highest-ranking officers, General Knox discovered Captain Trang survived in the other segment, and he put him in charge, giving him independent command. With one of the functioning Metal Storms, Captain Trang’s segment would play dead, while General Knox drew the attention of the UNOBs.
“Did you hear me? The Captain’s dead, but don’t blame them. We never tried to talk to them. We just started shooting. Everyone started shooting. It didn’t have to be this way.”
“Westbrook, can you get back to where you transported in?” Scooter repeated.
“I’m looking for the Captain. I’m not leaving until I know for sure.”
“We’re going to use the Interceptor to disable the UNOB. If we survive we’re coming after the ship you’re in,” Scooter said.
“It will just escalate,” Westbrook said. “It’s a mistake.”
“Then get back here and convince me,” Scooter said.
A long silence followed.
“What about the Captain?” Westbrook said.
“He’s in their hands,” Scooter said. “If he’s still alive, maybe they’ll try to talk to him.”
“Yes,” Westbrook said, excitement building. “They might, but not if we keep attacking them.”
“Gains is commanding now,” Scooter said.
“Tell him-“
“Tell him yourself,” Scooter said. “It’s all I can do to keep them from breaking back into the system.”
“I’m coming,” Westbrook said.
They heard him whispering a prayer for the Captain before he turned off his transmitter. Squeezing Scooter’s shoulder, Ramirez said, “Nicely done.”
“If Westbrook makes it back we’ll have to tie him up, you know,” Riley said, eyes fixed on the preparations of the insect-aliens. “Or kill him.”
“I’ll medicate him,” Gains said.
Suddenly, images replaced the scenes Scooter had called up. The largest was a large black circle sprinkled with three types of red runes. Incomprehensible alien-insect scrawls sprinkled the image.
“What the hell?” Riley said.
“It’s Earth’s response,” Scooter said.
“This is bad,” Ramirez said.
Scooter tapped furiously, trying to get control again. The screen segmented, the original images showing on part of the wall.
“How long before we get hit?” Gains asked.
“I can’t read any of the insect-language,” Scooter said. “Without some sort of reference point your guess is as good as mine?”
“No, your guess is better,” Gains said. “Now guess!”
“It looks like two, maybe three waves. Minutes to an hour for the first warheads to get here.”
“Assume minutes,” Gains said. “Westbrook! Westbrook!”
“Here,” Westbrook replied, out of breath.
“Are you there yet.”
“Almost. Something is going on here. There is a lot of activity.”
“The UNOB and the ship you are in launched weapons against Earth. Earth retaliated. Those weapons will be here any second.”
“It just won’t end,” Westbrook said, his voice cracking.
“Get to the transport cavern. We’re coming to get you. Be ready.”
Then Gains turned to Scooter.
“Can you get us there?”
“This is bad,” Riley said, pointing at the display showing the weapons from Earth.
The largest runes were quickly converging.
“Back to the ship,” Gains ordered.
“No, wait!” Scooter said. “There’s no time.”
“He’s right,” Riley said, holding up his fingers to show how far apart the runes were.
“Then seal as many doors as you can,” Gains said.
Scooter began typing in commands.
“No,” Ramirez said. “Open as many doors as you can.”
The men exchanged looks and then Scooter smiled.
“Yes, open the doors,” Scooter said.
“What?” Gains said. “Open the doors?”
“I’ll get the suits,” Riley said, running into the cavern with Ramirez right behind.
Scooter worked through the decks, opening hatches, locking them open, and then searching for any emergency overrides. As he worked he remembered Westbook.”
“Westbrook,” Scooter called.
“I’m ready,” Westbrook said.
“There’s a snag,” Scooter said. “Get as deep into the ship as you can.”
“I understand,” Westbrook said.
“You might say a prayer too,” Scooter said.
“Count on it,” Westbrook replied.
A rational man, steeped in science, Scooter never took religion seriously, seeing it as a delusion of the masses, perpetuated by the political class for the purpose of controlling the underclass. Now, however, Scooter understood what soldiers meant by the maxim “There are no atheists in foxholes” and he hoped Westbrook actually had some pull with the man upstairs.
Chapter 42: Onslaught
Freedom Station
Earth Orbit
General Knox’s collapsible helmet hung from the back of his collar where it acted with a mind of its own, refusing to stay out of his way. With perfect randomness the helmet drifted up and down, left and right, rubbing against his ears and scalp. Like an annoying insect it tickled his left ear and he slapped it angrily, crushing his own ear. Oblivious of the pain, General Knox studied the radar and infrared displays, sensitive enough to track a golf ball. Optically, General Knox had witnessed multiple launches from the two UNOBs, but now the most sophisticated radar ever constructed on Earth gave only the faintest glimpse of what was coming.
“Even the damn warheads are stealth,” Captain Colson said, gripping the back of the chair next to General Knox.
“Hmmm,” General Knox mumbled, chewing on the nipple of a water bottle. “More likely they are non-metalic—awfully puny radar signature.”
“Ten seconds, sir,” a lieutenant called, counting down the first defensive detonations.
Some of Freedom Station’s early launches were offensive, others were defensive. Armed with nuclear warheads, the defensive missiles were programmed to detonate an optimal distance from Freedom Station. Since Freedom Station was the target, and the UNOBs close together when they launched, the incoming weapons were closely bunched, and as they converged on the station they would become a fat target. Driven by defense algorithms, each weapon system would come into play when the targets were at optimum range. The nuclear weapons were shaped, designed to send their lethal radiation and debris away from Freedom Station toward the targets.
Now the first of the defensive warheads detonated. Three thirty-megaton warheads vaporized. Widely spaced, the expanding clouds of plasma merged, creating a great defensive cloud. At Freedom Station the detonations were seen as one bright flash. Intent on the display, General Knox chewed the nipple vigorously, waiting for the computer to sort through the blizzard of particles, assessing size, speed and trajectory. Minutes passed.
“Taking its time,” Captain Colson said.
“Mmmm,” General Knox replied.
The blur on the screen resolved into distinct blips—many blips.
“Damn,” Captain Colson said.
“Mmmm,” General Knox concurred.
“Took out some,” Captain Colson said.
Space was a poor medium for traditional warheads. With no air molecules to compress, even a nuclear weapon could not create a pressure wave with the destructive force of an atmospheric nuclear detonation. Only the mass of the weapon itself could be ionized, and with the infinite volume of space, and no atmosphere to slow expansion, the plasma quickly dissipated.
“Took some, but not enough,” General Knox said, pulling the water bottle from his mouth.
Now the General’s attention shifted from the radar signatures of the incoming weapons to the next layer of defense systems. Tracking data from radar and infrared informed the satellite based lasers (SBL), the Barak missiles launchers, and the kinetic projectile launcher (KPL). The three space-based lasers orbited separately from Freedom Station and so far were not targeted by the UNOB. General Knox had little faith in the SBL systems. On Earth, the SBL’s could fire relatively rapidly, since they had a virtually unlimited power source, heating the fuel tanks of enemy missiles with three to five seconds of concentrated laser light and exploding fuel tanks. In orbit, SBL’s had the advantage of firing above the atmosphere, minimizing diffusion, and thus increasing the effectiveness of the lasers, but the space lasers depended on low capacity fuel cells and solar panels for energy. With a limited effective range, and targets traveling at supersonic speeds, even with fully charged capacitors the SBL’s would at best get one shot at their targets before Freedom Station was hit. If the UNOBs continued to Earth orbit, the lasers would be more effective—presuming they survived the onslaught.
The Barak missile system suffered from limitations of its own. Designed as an antimissile-missile system, Barak missiles were highly effective on Earth, able to track and maneuver to strike supersonic targets. In airless space the aerodynamic Barak missiles were reduced to point and shoot weapons. For that reason, Baraks were held back until the targets were well inside their effective range. Sixteen of these missiles were armed and ready.
More promising was the KPL system, commonly known as “Rods from God.” With no explosive warheads, the rail guns launched tungsten rods at 25,000 miles per hour. Originally designed to bombard Earth targets, the KPL was proven technology and thus modified and launched into orbit. Originally designed for stationary targets, the KPLs effectiveness was unknown.
Firing orders already given, weapons operators worked in teams, monitoring computers that tracked incoming targets. Ready to override the computers on command, the weapons teams hovered, eyes glued to the target tracks. The Baraks launched first from two pods, sixteen missiles loosed one after the other in quick succession.
“Baraks away,” Captain Colson said needlessly.
Through the port the flare of the Israeli built rocket engines lit up the control room, the General turning his head to protect his vision. Sixteen blue flashes and then the Baraks were away, their rocket flares quickly diminishing to pinpricks. Then, in quick succession, sixteen bright flashes.
“Damn, they are close now,” Captain Colson said.
“Mmmm,” General Knox replied, the nipple of his water bottle back in his teeth.
Again, a cloud of indistinguishable data filled the displays, as the computer made sense of the confused mass of particles and objects. A minute passed, the images resolved the reflections.
“Whittling them down,” Captain Colson said.
What had been a cloud of objects now had clear holes in it. Then the KPLs set to work, launching tungsten rods, targeting the largest incoming objects.
“Seal the suits,” General Knox said, knowing the remainder of the battle would happen in quick succession. “Close all hatches. Close the shutters.”
Captain Colson activated the microphone in the collar of his suit, giving the order for the crew to put on gloves and helmets and to seal Freedom Station. Hatches banged shut throughout the station, creating airtight modules, many with independent life support systems. At the same time, the view ports were covered with shutters to protect the vulnerable glass. Even if every alien weapon were destroyed—a faint hope--a rain of supersonic debris would still rip through Freedom Station.
General Knox put on his gloves, making sure they locked into place. Then he pulled his annoying helmet up and over his head, the sagging plastic plastering to his face until he got it sealed and inflated. When he finished, he was floating out of reach of his chair. Using the ceiling, he pulled himself back into position and tethered himself to the back of the chair.
Captain Colson checked the General’s seals and then the General returned the favor. Inside the suit, General Knox could only hear his own breathing. Turning on the systems, the heads-up display lit, showing all his seals were tight and his air supply read full. When the suit speakers came on the General was greeted by a cacophony of calls as stations reported ready status. Then the SBLs went off, two seven second burns of laser light. Angling so he could see the radar display through his faceplate, General Knox saw the Rods-From-God had broken up the cloud even further.
The first of the alien weapons were under a minute away now, and all attention was redirected to the last line of defense. A monitor showed the two Phalanx Gatling guns tracking incoming objects, its rotating barrels pointing into space. Another monitor showed the three six-barrel Metal Storm stacked projectile weapons waiting patiently for close-in defense. The Phalanx fired first, its barrels rotating to help cool the weapon. In the vacuum of space, there was no atmosphere to help dissipate the heat, the rotating barrels essential. Metal Storm fired next. With no moving parts, the multi-barreled weapon looked deceptively passive, but projectiles streamed from its barrels, sending a blizzard of supersonic metal into space. Metal Storm fired for twenty seconds, launching three-hundred-thousand projectiles. Phalanx continued to fire even as the first of the alien weapons struck.
Multiple impacts shook the station. His spacesuit muffling sounds and vibrations, General Knox listened to the voices coming over the speaker—no panic. Freedom Station was holed, but still functional. The weapons had been kinetic, some tearing clear through Freedom Station’s flimsy skin, exiting the backside. Crew hustled to plug holes. No reports of injuries came through but the crew would attend to the station first, wounded later. Another wave hit, with larger weapons. Warheads detonated in close proximity to Freedom Station, perforating the skin. Shrapnel shredded equipment and people. Mercifully, screams lasted only long enough for lungs to be emptied, as space suits spewed atmosphere into space.
Freedom Station had two great expanses of solar panels, and one of these was torn away from an impact near the joint. A great swath of destruction cut through the other, sending pieces of shiny black panels spiraling in all directions.
The SBL’s fired again, this time the laser beams so close to Freedom Station that it seemed to be the target. One beam detonated something close to the station, the concussion blowing off one of Freedom Station’s modules with enough force to rotate the station. Nitrogen jets fired, fighting to stabilize the space station. External monitors were lost, the lights failed, the station plunged into darkens. Battery powered emergency lights snapped on, glowing dimly.
A great explosion in the next compartment created a floor to ceiling bulge, the shock knocking General Knox from his feet. Flying only as far as his tether, General Knox pulled up short, Colonel Colson dangling next to him. Projectiles punctured the shutter, shattering the thick view screen class. Through his suit, General Knox could hear the scream of atmosphere as it competed to escape through the small holes in the shutters.
More projectiles penetrated the station, one passing through the crewman seated in the chair where the General was anchored. Coming at an angle, the projectile tore a hole through the crewman’s upper chest, angled down, exiting his lower back, continuing through the webbing of the chair and piercing the floor plates. Blood oozed from the crewman’s wounds, forming into globs, and then floating toward the pierced port to exit into space.
“Plug the holes,” General Knox ordered, not knowing if anyone was listening.
Men and women pulled themselves back into position, studying ruined equipment, seeing what still functioned. One crewman disconnected, grabbed a tube of sealer and a stick of filler, and pushed off, floating to the pierced window and shutter. Using the calking gun, he filled hole after hole, breaking off pieces of the filler stick and shoving it into large holes, then filling the perimeter with the sealant.
Somewhere in Freedom Station, an explosion rocked the station, sending everyone and everything flying, ricocheting off walls and objects. The diligent crewman bounced off the far wall, filler stick and calking gun flying from his hands. Once again General Knox found himself at the end of his tether. What little atmosphere remained carried the creaking and groaning of stressed metal. Freedom Station shook violently, then the bulging wall tore free, and the last of the atmosphere rushed to open space. Snapped in the other direction, General Knox hung from his tether, watching half of freedom station floating away. The space station had been blown in two, taking the wall of the control room with it. A crewman floated by, waving arms and legs, his tether cut. The torque of the tear-away put General Knox’s section into a slow rotation, the two segments slowly moving apart in a gentle waltz. Then all was quiet.
“Captain Colson, get me a damage report,” General Knox said, realizing how foolish it must sound.
No reply. General Knox found Colonel Colson floating at the end of his tether, his suit holed in three places, blobs of blood popping from the holes.
“Damage report,” General Knox broadcast to all receivers. “Condition of all modules.”
Voices came back, at first speaking over one another. Shouting them down, General Knox called out module numbers, getting reports from four of the five modules in his section, and two of the modules in the section floating away.
“Weapons status?” General Knox called.
Reports came in fits and starts, as the dying finished dying, rescuers finished or gave up rescuing, and men and women slowly remembered their training. Piecing the reports together, it was as bad as General Knox feared. All long-range offensive weapons had been launched, the SBLs were unharmed but their capacitors were drained and recharging. All Barak missiles were expended, the launchers torn from the station. Phalanx was expended and destroyed. Metal Storm weapons had expended all available ammunition but two were functional, one in each piece of the bisected Freedom Station.
“Reload Metal Storm,” General Knox ordered. “Highest priority.”
Damage reports continued. Solar panels destroyed, dish receivers gone or destroyed, life support system damaged, although two modules in General Knox’s section of the station, and one in the section floating a hundred yards distant, could be repressurized. X-band radar was functional, ignored in the initial attack, but there was no way to receive the data. Enough fuel cells survived to power the functioning systems, but many power lines were severed. Calling for highest-ranking officers, General Knox discovered Captain Trang survived in the other segment, and he put him in charge, giving him independent command. With one of the functioning Metal Storms, Captain Trang’s segment would play dead, while General Knox drew the attention of the UNOBs.
