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  After receiving PAM’s orders, every DEWSAT simultaneously updated the position of each orbiting threat. Within a fraction of a second, each threat was reclassified hostile. Inside the DEWSAT’s optical computer brain, the priority of each threat was increased and moved on the target list, nicknamed the kill stack. Once on the kill stack, the DEWSAT’s kill decision was complete and irrevocable. Only the kill remained and methodically executing the kill sequence was what each DEWSAT did best.

  Each DEWSAT was a brilliant-class weapon, a revolutionary leap in warfare technology comparable to stealth in that it completely changed the strategy and tactics of war. By making their own battlefield decisions, operating independently or as a networked team, DEWSATs forever altered the way future wars would be fought. During normal SDI operations, Cheyenne Mountain assigned target priorities, Centurion assigned targets, and the orbiting armada did the fighting. But now, PAM controlled it all.

  No one could control the DEWSAT armada once Free-doin' s communications were cut.

  The brilliant-class weapon—stand-alone, standoff, and unapproachable. A military and political dream now our worst nightmare.

  Shooting Star, 12/0912014, 161I Zulu, 8:1I A.M. Local

  Cockpit Of Cowboy’s EF-12 Dorito,

  On The South Facing Runway Behind Hailey’s Comet,

  Edwards AFB, California

  Gazing across the runway at Hailey’s Comet, Cowboy’s eyes were the size of quarters as he slowed his jet-black Dorito to a stop. Hailey’s Comet looked somewhat like a giant vacuum bottle or thermos, a giant engine built for sucking air. Painted matte black, much of the aircraft was covered with large sections of white frost. Clouds of condensation boiled off her nose, wings, underbelly, and air inlet. Identical to Hell Fire, Hailey’s Comet looked like a cloud machine, spewing a turbulent stream of cool fog downward across the runway, boiling as it vanished.

  From the side, the front of the aircraft looked like the head of a great white shark with its jaws stretched open wide. The Goliath-sized XR-30 dwarfed Cowboy’s Dorito.

  “Black monster,” observed Cowboy, looking up at the XR-30’s air-breathing underbelly.

  “Fastest flying hydrogen bomb ever built!” responded Cowboy’s back-seater. “I’d feel better with more distance between us.”

  “First one I’ve ever seen up close, Bulldog. Sit tight. I wanna get a good look.”

  “Expect departure delay due to technical problem onboard Freedom,” announced Edwards’ control tower.

  “That’s just great!” exclaimed Cowboy, pounding his fist against the canopy. “We really need another screwup.”

  “Dorito, your takeoff is delayed three zero minutes,” Edwards’ tower continued.

  “Roger, three zero minutes, tower.” Cowboy grimaced.

  “Dorito, will keep you ad . . . SQUEEEEEEEEP-WACCCK!”

  A shrill, ear-piercing racket pounded Cowboy’s eardrums. He yanked his headset cable out of the connecting jack, then killed his radio. After his ears quit ringing, he plugged his headset in and demanded: “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Working it,” snapped his back-seater. Bulldog frantically worked his radio detection equipment, searching the airwaves for the direction and frequency components of the electromagnetic noise. He couldn’t believe what he measured, but his measurements were undeniable. “Overhead EMP! Moving north at orbital velocity. Spectrum’s saturated !”

  Cowboy took Bulldog to mean an electromagnetic pulse (EMP) created by a nuclear detonation was jamming his radio.

  “Impossible! Look again. Let your analyzer warm up.”

  “Checked it twice.”

  “Check it again, dammit!”

  “I’ve never seen a blast, but this interference has it all— every EMP characteristic.” Bulldog’s heart raced from fear, his hands trembled adjusting his equipment. Noise saturated every band. “I could be wrong—dear God, I hope I am.”

  “Oh my Lord,” said Cowboy, gazing overhead. Against the deep blue sky, a bright, fiery white shooting star suddenly appeared racing north. Bulldog was right! His stomach balled up into an icy knot.

  This wasn’t a game anymore.

  Bed of Nails, 12/09/2014, 1611 Zulu

  Space Station Hope

  “Comrade, emergency!” squawked the speaker by Boris Ustinov’s ear. Boris, Depack’s computer analyst counterpart onboard Space Station Hope, had been asleep only two hours. “Come to the conn immediately!”

  Ustinov rubbed his eyes, thinking he must be dreaming.

  Rolling over, he adjusted his blanket, loosened the bunk safety belt, and never woke up again.

  In the blink of an eye, Hope lost video contact with Cheyenne Mountain.

  Once Hope's, link to Cheyenne Mountain failed, Commander Pasha Yakovlev frantically threw a series of switches in an effort to get it back.

  Audio noise crackled and popped through his speaker in the control room while snow covered his TV display.

  Powerful interference, Pasha thought somberly. Better find an alternate route. Freedom—use Freedom as a relay station.

  Scrambling to establish a radio link with Freedom, he selected an audio channel. “Freedom, this is Hope. Over.”

  His radio crackled loudly with noise, but no reply. Pasha expected to hear either Jay, Depack, or Centurion. Centurion never slept—why didn’t he respond?

  Pasha looked at his monitor. A generic talking head identical to Centurion flashed on screen. “Guardian,” he barked. “Link with Centurion! Hail Freedom over all frequencies!”

  “Permission denied,” Guardian replied tersely. “We’re cut off.”

  “Centurion can’t do that!”

  “I sense you are upset, Comrade Pasha, but you are incorrect. Centurion has denied us communication and all access permission to Freedom. We are isolated.”

  “Any explanation?”

  “None.”

  “Freedom's, status?”

  “Unknown.”

  Identical to Freedom, Hope was designed to take control of the SDI network if Freedom was ever disabled. Pasha concluded the time was right—Centurion had gone belly-up. Without explanation, Centurion had isolated Hope, cutting her out of the armada. According to the book, Pasha classified Freedom as potentially hostile.

  Time for the big switch! thought Pasha as the muscles in his face tensed. Guardian must take control. Hope the master, Freedom the slave.

  He rotated an A B switch to Master position, but it didn’t work. An indicator light showed Centurion maintained full control over the satellite armada.

  Centurion won 7 let go!

  Pasha grimaced, rotated the switch back and forth several times, but it didn’t help. Guardian needed Centurion’s consent to take control, but he wouldn’t give an inch.

  Looking for a work-around to solve his communication problem, Pasha displayed a schematic drawing of Freedom's video and audio receiver circuits.

  Relax, Pasha. Take your time. You’ve trained all your life for the unexpected. Back off and examine your alternatives. Talk to the troops!

  Studying the drawings, he didn’t notice the ominous message suddenly appearing on Guardian’s output display. Guardian received PAM’s orders, expanded them into a longer form, then simultaneously executed each command.

  Tues Dec 09 16:11:32 z 2014

  To: Guardian From: Centurion set red airlock safety = off set red airlock inner door = open set red airlock outer door = open set yellow airlock safety = off set yellow airlock inner door = open set yellow airlock outer door = open set black airlock safety = off set black airlock inner door = open set black airlock outer door = open set white airlock safety = off set white airlock inner door = open set white airlock outer door = open

  As quickly as Guardian read the message, the deed was done. There was no time for discussion, no time for alternatives.

  Bright red emergency flood lamps suddenly illuminated The Problem Without Solution the control room while critical alarm indicators flashed on every control co
nsole.

  Instantly, Pasha heard doors slamming open all around him. Within the blink of an eye, airlock doors slid open on every face of Hope's, central core. Since Hope would automatically compensate for single point failures, Pasha could have recovered from a single open airlock. Four airlocks opening at once overwhelmed him. Paralyzed in disbelief, he struggled with what to do.

  No time to think, less time to react, but time enough to die.

  Air evacuated explosively—like popping a balloon. Instead of slowly deflating Hope's, pressurized bubble, PAM burst it.

  Before Pasha could move, the deafening roar of a cyclone engulfed him, an explosive blast of wind ripped at his clothes. Roaring into the vacuum of space, the cyclone sucked everything not tied down out of the ship. Fortunately, he’d strapped himself to his console chair.

  Boris was not so lucky.

  In less than two seconds, he’d been hurled over thirty feet across the room—from his bunk, through the airlock, into the absolute vacuum of space. Moving through the airlock with the wind was like being expelled from a torpedo tube.

  Increasing the wind velocity like a nozzle, the inner airlock door restricted the airflow with a deafening roar while the corridor leading to the outer door provided an enormous acceleration lane, like being shot out of a gun.

  The screaming roar silenced instantly as Boris hurled like a bullet through the outer door. As he catapulted through the airlock, his blanket snagged on an emergency exit handle causing him to spin along his long axis like a rifled projectile. Once outside the core, his arms extended from the centripetal force, his spin slowed, and he accelerated straight into the red antenna face. Covered with thousands of spikes, the antenna face was a triangular-shaped flat surface made of wire mesh, looking like a bed of nails. Mercifully, he never fully regained consciousness.

  * * *

  Pasha figured he had maybe thirty seconds till he’d black out. There was nothing he could do for Boris. He had to save himself.

  Brought back to reality by a sharp pain in his ear, he slammed his fist down on each airlock control switch.

  The switches didn’t work. Centurion had control of his ship.

  Near delirium, he read the computer screen, then understood what must be done.

  The hurricane force winds quickly diminished, the terrifying roar hushed.

  Pasha heard the silence of vacuum, the stillness of death. His chest heaved like he was in labor, his remaining energy wasting away with senseless breathing.

  Air pressure zero, quiet dominated the control room. Banks of red alarm lights gave the room an eerie, darkroom like glow, reminding him of hell.

  Pasha knew what he had to do—override Centurion’s control.

  Rushing across the room, he found it easy to move. Turning a pistol grip handle, he watched an indicator light change from remote control to manual override.

  Yes! he thought. Finally, is working as advertised!

  Free from Centurion’s control, Guardian evaluated every input signal. Pasha expected Guardian would run a cabin recovery sequence, automatically sealing and pressurizing the cabin, but he was wrong.

  Five long seconds passed. No change. Pasha flinched.

  Overrun with critical errors, each demanding immediate action, Guardian could not do everything first, so he did nothing. He’d continue doing nothing, hung in a do-nothing loop, until every airlock shut.

  Pasha took one giant leap to his console and slammed his fist down on every airlock switch. He couldn’t hear anything—there was no air—but he could feel the ship vibrate as electric motors turned worm screws sliding each door shut.

  He felt he might make it. Once the doors shut, Guardian would automatically repressurize the cabin.

  Watching the airlock indicator lights transition from open, shut, to safe, Pasha froze motionless, transfixed as the black face sealed first, followed by white, then yellow. Three out of four airlocks showed safe.

  Pasha pounded the red airlock switches. After pounding it the second time, his heart sank. The airlock fault indicator light began blinking. The airlock on Hope's red face was jammed open, stuck on debris snagged in the blanket Boris left behind.

  Pasha’s peripheral vision faded as colors blended into black and white. He knew they would. Feeling dizzy, he moved to his chair, and strapped himself in. Out of time, he leaned forward, lowering his head onto his control console.

  Trapped in a body that wouldn’t work, he could still think. Why don’t I pass out? Why don’t I just die? He couldn’t see to type a help message into Guardian. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t speak—no air.

  Then it happened. God allowed Pasha a few final seconds of clear, uncluttered thought. Somehow, must raise Hell Fire.

  He could feel, he could touch, but his fingers were swollen the size of hot dogs. He felt his wrist, found his watch and removed it. After keying his mike, he scraped his watch over the microphone’s head to get Scotty’s attention, then he began tapping. He tapped out a series of dots and dashes:

  dot dot dot dash dash dash dot dot dot

  SOS in any language.

  Pasha tapped off his SOS message three times, then began losing his sense of touch. The feeling in his fingers was going, they felt on fire. Finally, he couldn’t keep time, dots slurred into dashes. His sense of rhythm was the last thing to go before he completely blacked out.

  Moored to a platform on Hope's yellow face, Hell Fire floated through space suspended in dry dock. Working as a team, Scott, Mac, and Gonzo had temporarily repaired Hell Fire's antenna and were ready to test it.

  Suddenly, Scott heard something.

  “Listen up!” Scott motioned to Gonzo and Mac. She paused, concentrating on the scratching click-clack noise coming in over her headset. “Morse?”

  Mac and Gonzo agreed.

  Looking at Gonzo, she added: “SOS.”

  “Trouble!” Gonzo acknowledged. “Raise Guardian.” Scott set her handheld transmitter to Guardian’s frequency, then keyed her mike. “Guardian, this is Scott. Over.”

  “I receive you clearly.”

  “What’s your situation?”

  “Critical, Comrade. Rapid decompression. Cabin pressure absolute zero. Red airlock jammed open.”

  “Pasha? Boris?”

  “Boris is dead. Pasha is near death, blacked out, bleeding. Check your display.”

  Scott checked the picture on her palm-sized flat screen display. Pasha lay still, looking waxen as a dead man, while the control room, flooded with red light and long black shadows, looked like hell.

  Broken wires dangling in space pointed toward the airlocks—the connecting wires torn from equipment sucked out during decompression.

  “How long does he have?”

  “Three to four minutes.”

  Whatever you do, do it fast! Scott thought.

  “What’s causing the fault?”

  “Debris lodged across the airlock doorway.”

  ‘Tell me more. Give me percent closure.”

  “Outer door is ninety-five percent closed. Inner door is ninety-eight percent closed.”

  “Can you hold pressure?”

  “Negative, but I anticipate where you are leading.” “Running wide open, can you build pressure with an emergency blow?”

  “Yes, for a short time, that is possible. I can release air faster than it leaks out. Estimate forty minutes of air reserve.” “Good. Execute an emergency blow, but watch the oxygen mix. Looks like a lot of electrical damage. Don’t want an explosion.”

  The sides on Hope's central core began to flex from the inside out as pressure began to rise.

  “Scotty,” Mac said, watching Pasha on his flat screen. “Don’t forget the decompression chamber. Cycle it. That’s his only hope.”

  “You’re right, Mac!”

  Scott keyed her mike, transmitting on Guardian’s frequency. “Is the decompression chamber operational?”

  “Yes, fully operational.”

  “What chance does Pasha have?”
<
br />   “The sooner he’s in the chamber, the better his chances.” “Equalize the pressure chamber. We’re on our way.” Scott looked at Mac and Gonzo. Without words, they knew what to do.

  Mac clipped on an oxygen cylinder for Pasha, then raced hand over hand across a ladder to the yellow face airlock. Gonzo strapped on a toolbox and hurried to clear the jammed airlock.

  “Boris?”

  “Boris is dead, impaled on the red face.”

  Scott saw a haunting picture of Boris she would never forget.

  “Closer,” instructed Scott.

  Guardian focused the camera on Boris at maximum zoom.

  A horrible way to die.

  Spikes ran through his neck, head, and torso, but his arms and hands were free. Even after death, Boris offered a final farewell. As the muscles in his arm contracted, he waved his last good-bye.

  Cloud Box, 12/09/2014, 1611 Zulu, 11:11 a.m. Local

  Roaring Creek Earth Station,

  Roaring Creek, Pennsylvania

  A winter wonderland! thought a communications technician driving the narrow, winding mountain road up to the Roaring Creek Earth Station. Rolling down his pickup truck window, he inhaled the smell of balsam fir trees.

  Smells just like Christmas! he thought. Life doesn 7 get any better than this!

  Six inches of fresh snow had fallen the night before, blanketing the hilltop and surrounding farms with a glistening white sparkle that shimmered against the blue Pennsylvania sky.

  After rounding a tight bend in the road, the technician reached a clearing. He glanced up the hill, expecting to see the silhouette of several thirty-five-meter satellite dishes.

  Stomping his brake to the floor, the pickup skidded to a stop. Grabbing his binoculars, he jumped out of the cab and stood on the truck bed for a better look. After studying the hilltop, he still couldn’t figure it out.

  He’d seen clouds engulf the hilltop often enough, nothing unusual about that. Clouds sure, but the day was picture-perfect. A front had passed through the night before, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky—except for the dense ground fog completely engulfing the earth station. Funny thing was the fog bank looked more like a fog block. A block of fog with side walls running vertically maybe one hundred feet tall.