Look Down

Look Down

by G. Ernest Smith

Copyright © 2013 by G. Ernest Smith, All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

First print edition: July 2013

Chapter 1

June 12, 2079

Earth Orbit

USS Macon, OSP 422

Two point two miles, said the maneuvering officer, Lieutenant McClusky. His eyes were riveted to his instrument screens. It was filled with graphs and messages in green, blue, yellow and red. To an average person this was a screenful of confusion, but to McClusky it detailed exactly where the Macon was and how fast it was approaching the tango. Any unknown object was a tango until it was identified.

The USS Macon was performing a delicate ballet as it closed the distance to the unknown object. The Macon was 449 feet long and 2159 tons. It looked very much like a dark gray submarine in space. It was long and oblong shaped with her hull number, OSP 422, and an American flag on each side of the bow and the name USS Macon on her stern. There were a few important differences. It had no conning tower and where there should be a propeller and shaft, there were three large rocket bells. It had two large dishes, two small ones, and it also bristled in every direction with antennae, poles and robotic arms which held sensors, cameras and detection instruments. It had navigation lights: red port, green starboard, white dorsal strobe and white belly strobe. And one more difference...there was a large span of windows across the front and rows of portholes running down each side.

The nine other people in Macon's control room sat at multi-monitored control stations. Only Commader Eric Nyland stood in the center of the room. Well, one didn’t exactly stand in zero gravity. He was anchored with his feet hooked through two stirrups and the backs of both knees were braced against his command chair. His arms were crossed, his eyes on the overhead screen.

What do you think, Mary? he asked. He was talking to Commander Mary Considine in Naval Space Command’s ground control. The ground control center had monitors slaved to the Macon's. They could see what the Macon saw.

From here it looks like a standard MV-34. A TRW or a Hughes. Her voice came to him from overhead speakers in Macon's control room.

One mile, closing 50 feet a second, intoned McClusky. He had his hands on the two black wriststicks which controlled the maneuvering thrusters.

This might be another wild goose chase, said Considine from the overheads.

Yeh, Get us to within 200 feet of it and hold position, McClusky, said Nyland.

200 feet. Aye, sir.

Nyland turned to his Chief of Boat, Dockery Ingersol, and asked, What do you think, chief? Does that look like a weapon to you? Nyland looked out of the starboard hemispherical window, and took in the beautiful, breath taking view of earth, so large it blotted out everything else on the starboard side, so bright it almost hurt the eyes. It was azure and indigo and aquamarine with small amounts of tan and olive-colored land masses. And across most of it, nature had thrown brilliant, ragged, snowy white blankets of cloud.

I don’t think so, said Ingersol.

What about you, XO? asked Nyland, turning to Lieutenant Commander Padma Asan, sitting about twenty feet to his right, manning the sensor console.

Asan studied her amplified views of the object and a screen which danced with colorful messages and numbers. I'm not getting a radiation signature. No launch ports, no gun ports.

The satellite was a large silvery rectangular box about half the size of a school bus with solar panels, several rods protruding from two sides and two large dishes pointed at earth. With a geosynchronous satellite, Asan could sometimes tell who was controlling it by where the dishes were pointing. This satellite was parked over central Europe. A display on her monitor projected a line from each dish connecting it to a point on the earth. She cleared her throat and said, One dish is focused on the eastern Urals and the other is pointing toward the north shore of the Black Sea.

Okay, said McClusky. We are 200 feet and at station-keeping.

Tickle it, said Considine from the overheads.

Not yet, said Nyland. I want to be farther away if we do that.

Now that looks funny, murmured Asan.

What looks funny? Nyland turned to face her.

Look at the release catches on this inspection panel. I don't think they are real.

Not real? asked Considine.

Nyland unhooked himself from his retraints and drifted over and looked over Asan's shoulder at her display. She had zoomed in tightly on one of the latches. It filled the whole screen. It appeared to be plastiformed as part of the panel, not a functioning release at all. I'll be damned! said Nyland. Mary, are you seeing this?

Yes. This is not a comm satellite! said Considine.

Asan turned to face another screen. I'm sending out a remote. I have a hunch. The screen flickered off, came back on and it had switched to a camera that was moving slowly toward the satellite. It got to within inches of the satellite and a bright light lit up its silvery surface. For almost two minutes, Asan said nothing, then, Aha, there it is. A seam.

A seam? Uh...what we are looking at is a clamshell? asked Nyland.

It opens up right along this seam here. See? Someone sends a command to it, and it jettisons the arrays and this outer shell blows away exposing what is inside.

What do you suppose is inside? asked Considine.

I don't know. Something nasty, said Nyland. Someone went through some trouble to disguise this.

Do we dare try to open it? asked Considine.

I’ll bet it’s rigged with trip wires, said Asan.

Deorbit? asked Considine.

Nyland closed his steel blue eyes, thinking, and ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair. He had the family curse of premature gray, but his hair was such a light pecan color that most people didn’t notice. I don't think I want to do that. We have a clandestine tango here, unclaimed by any country. Likely a weapon. Possibly biological. I wouldn't want to risk it falling on a populated area with surviving biologicals on board.

Sun? asked Considine.

Sun, ordered Nyland. First get a complete photographic record of this thing from all sides, then deploy a tug with an EMP bug and hook it up. EMP stood for electromagnetic pulse. It did not explode in the literal sense, but when it detonated, it fried all nearby electronic circuits.

The remote drone finished doing its photographic survey and returned to the Macon’s loading bay. Nyland watched as the tug, a silver cylinder about half the size of the satellite, drifted across from the Macon to the satellite and fired grappling hooks and lines to ensnare the satellite.

Tug is programmed to boomerang, said a young man. Ready when you are, sir.

Back us out of here, McClusky. Let's get about a mile away before we fire that tug up.

Aye, sir. All back! said McClusky.

As the reverse thrusters lit, Nyland felt a fine vibration through the wall grips he was holding on to. When they got a mile away from the satellite, Nyland initiated a short countdown sequence from his command console.

Asan said, Three...two...one...fire...

The tug's engine lit and it began to accelerate away, towing the satellite behind it. In a few seconds, it was a mere bright dot on the screens, even at full magnification. When they lost visual contact, they continued to track it on the ship's radar screen.

Running true, sir.

Okay. Mary, be sure to impound all video and voice of this event. There may be questions later.

Will do.

The tug followed its programming. It oriented the satellite so it was on a trajectory for the sun and attached an EMP bug to it. When the tug was a safe distance away, the EMP detonated which fried the internal electronics of the satellite, a standard kill, then the tug returned to the Macon.

Nyland told the bridge crew that they had done well and decided to call it a day. He drifted to his state room only a few feet down the passageway from the control room.

He logged on to his Navcom, wrote a report for Naval Space Command about the encounter with the tango, then he went through his messages. The first one was from his twelve year old son, Ken. Ken’s young face filled the screen as he told his dad that he had made the all star baseball team for the school. He had the family square jaw and steel gray eyes. Nyland congratulated him and said he loved him and looked forward to seeing him play. He had a text message from the blue crew commander asking about the status of the CO2 scrubber repair. He replied that the parts had still not arrived, but number 2 scrubber was performing fine and they had an older one for backup.

Nyland looked at the schedule for the coming week. They had two look down missions and a rendezvous with the supply station. He would have to schedule a scramble drill on Thursday. There were 54 crew members on board and 44 of them had come from the submarine Navy. They seemed to be suited for this work. They spent long boring months in isolation, never breathing fresh air or seeing a sunset, although the earth views from here were pretty spectacular.

The submarine Navy also had excellent reactor operators. Solar power was impractical for ships like the Macon. If they had to transfer orbit quickly using their large burner engines, the acceleration would snap off a solar array. And the nuclear reactors were also used to superheat the H-bricks which gave them hydrogen for their burner engines and oxygen for the engines and life support.

Nyland decided to go to the officer’s mess and make himself a sandwich before turning in. Another difference between submarine duty and here was the zero gravity environment. Nyland pulled himself down the passageway by lightly pulling himself along using stirrup-like handholds on the passageway walls.

No one was in the galley so he made himself a turkey cheese sandwich in a large whole wheat pita with mayonnaise. He also got a tube of Iced tea. As he ate his sandwich at the eating station, small crumbs broke off the bread and were immediately sucked out an over head vent. He felt as if he were eating in a strong draft, but he didn’t mind. The sandwich was very good and space food had improved since he had first started.

As he was leaving, he ran into the young supply officer, Ensign Bud Nguyen. Hi, Bud.

Oh hi, sir, he said smiling nervously.

Why was he always so nervous, thought Nyland. Are you ready for Friday’s supply run, Bud?

Yes, sir! he replied enthusiastically.

Nyland excused himself and returned to his state room, and wondered briefly if he was ever that young and nervous around the skipper.

He watched a news broadcast on his small viewer and was appalled. The top story was an assassination of French President Thebideaux and then a bus bombing in Tel Aviv, 5 people killed. He turned off the viewer and stripped for bed and dialed the port transparency to black to darken the state room.

He connected the bungee cords on his sleeping bag to the overhead and the floor and the bulkheads on both sides. When it was secured, he crawled inside and settled in for a good rest.

He was awakened in the night by the familiar sensation of a naked body sliding in to the sack with him.

Hello, my captain. Padma Asan smiled.

He turned his smiling face to her. Hello, my maharani.

He could make out her fine features in the dim light. She must be descended from Indian nobility, he thought. She had the exquisite high cheeks and latte skin of a Hindu princess. Her long hair enveloped him like cool silken coal-colored rain. She had a trim athletic body he enjoyed very much, and although in the darkness it was hard to see her cocoa-colored eyes, the whites of her eyes and her teeth were like beacons. His mouth met her soft lips and their tongues probed each other. His hands slowly explored her naked body and she took his growing penis in her hands.

Sex was tricky in zero gravity, but Nyland and Asan had it down. They both climbed out of the sleeping bag, then Nyland who was 6' 1 in normal gravity embraced Asan and planted both feet in the floor stirrups. Asan who was 5' 7 took hold of the overhead grips and wrapped her legs around Nyland’s waist. Nyland plunged deep into her, thrusting again and again and again. All their military bearing and properness fell away. Their hormonal fires ignited and the rest of the world did not exist. Their intertwined spirits soared like birds high above a beautiful landscape of the mind, like an out of body experience. Their breathing and thrusting got faster, and their bodies glistened with sweat. As the climax got closer, Asan let go of her handholds and embraced his broad shoulders, unable to think about anything but her love-making. They began to drift about the cabin, anchored to nothing. They gently bounced first off the floor, then the wall, totally oblivious to the world around them. Finally in a series of pants, moans and sharp gasps they both reached climax out of breath.

He held her tightly to his chest, both of them breathing hard. I love this, she gasped.

Me too. he smiled broadly at her.

I mean making love in zero g. You aren’t being crushed by the weight of a man on top of you or, if you are on top, worried about losing your balance and falling off the bed. In zero g it’s just pure pleasure!

Nyland said nothing. He only smiled and stroked her hair.

Say, do you do this with all your Executive Officers? she teased.

Well, he pretended to consider. Since this is my first command and you are the only XO I’ve ever had, I’d have to say yes.

She laughed. I see.

How about you? he asked. Do you do this with all your Commanding Officers?

No, you are the first one. I had a fling with another lieutenant once, but that was a big mistake. He was a jerk.

We’ve all had a few of those.

You kind of...scared me at first, she said searching his face in the darkness.

Scared of me? Why?

"You have this bird of prey look, you know, with that hawk like beak and those deep set intense eyes. You look like you are always ready to attack."

Is that why I always get my way in meetings?

"Probably. In the bedroom though that bird of prey thing is kind of sexy." She giggled, took his face in her hands and kissed him long and hard.

How many people know about us?

She thought on it. I don’t know. Barndoor knows I think.

Well, Barndoor always...God, I hate nicknames.

Too bad. Almost everyone has one...even you. She pointed a finger at his chest.

I know, he conceded.

You’re the Old Man.

I’m only 34 for cryin’ out loud.

I know. Would you rather be called Thor?

Thor? Who calls me Thor?

The bridge crew. I think it has something to do with your Viking ancestry and the fact that the COB said when you get mad, you breathe fire and shit thunder.

Nyland laughed. Ingersol said that?

Well, I don’t know. It’s just what I heard.

It sounds like something he’d say.

They both went into the shower compartment and showered, which was an amazing feat considering the stalls were only made big enough for one and Nyland had a stocky well-muscled build. Afterward they toweled off and climbed into Nyland’s sleeping bag.

Macon has a day off tomorrow, doesn’t it? asked Asan.

Yep, no assignments so far. There is only one scheduled launch tomorrow in French Guiana and Akron is going to cover it.

"Did they request a look down?"

They requested Macon. But NSC gave it to Akron. Yoseph Johnson needs the experience. He could see Asan’s white teeth in the darkness as she smiled.

Macon is the best! They are asking for us by name now.

We’re pretty damn good. Nyland did not try to hide the pride in his voice. "Since her commissioning three and a half years ago, she has stopped 93 attacks and has been credited with 178 hot kills. But It’s nice to have another look down ship up here to take on some of these missions. It takes some of the pressure off us. We can do a better job of patrolling. Be more thorough."

What’s our kill percentage? asked Asan.

"So far, hundred per cent. We’ve had a few shots miss, but we always bring down the attack vehicle. Ground based systems are only about 85 per cent effective, but when a shot comes screaming down from a look down ship at 100,000 miles an hour, it can’t be stopped or dodged. From 600 miles up we can put ordinance on target even through heavy cloud layers and it takes an average of thirty seconds from the time it leaves our ship to target. I’m talking rail guns, of course. Tube launches are slower, particle beam is faster. We’ve rendered ICBM’s obsolete."

Nuclear powers must hate us. Look at all they’ve invested.

True. Almost every country has nuclear weapons now...and biologicals...and, as you saw today, space weapons. Our Navy designation is OSP...Orbital Space Platform, but I’ve petitioned the Navy to change the last word of that to Peacekeeper. I think it describes our mission better.

Orbital Space Peacekeeper. I like it.

They drifted off to sleep in each others arms and the next morning they arose and dressed in crisp clean uniforms. Asan exited Nyland’s stateroom first. There were two crewmen in the passageway, so she said, Aye, sir. I’ll send a memo right away.

Chapter 2

Nyland unclipped a package of hot scrambled eggs, a cheese danish and a tube of hot black coffee from the galley rack in the officer's mess. He strapped down next to the weapons officer, Lieutenant Jennifer Yang and the engineering officer, Lieutenant Commander Rick Perez. They were doing the same thing they did every morning, solving the world’s problems.

Someone needs to go to France and kick some Christian Separatist butt, shouted Perez.

Why do you think it was the CS? The state department thinks it was the Right Hand of Mohammed, said Yang.

Oh...give me a break, shot Perez. They’re incompetents. They can barely find which way to face during morning prayers.

It was too late to go sit next to Ensign Nguyen, thought Nyland. Just as well, Nguyen seemed to be absorbed by a newscast that was playing on the overhead screen. Nyland had just squeezed his second bite of scrambled egg into his mouth when his comm implant went off, alerting him to an incoming call. A small female voice in his left ear said, bridge.

He touched a small switch behind his left ear and answered the call, Nyland.

Hello, sir. This is CDO Matson. We have launch signatures out of Pakistan.

Nyland knew there were no launches scheduled for Pakistan today. Where in Pakistan?

About 90 miles north of Karachi.

Hmm...okay...better sound GQ. He stuffed his cheese danish and his coffee tube into his cargo pocket and unstrapped. As soon as he reached the door, the overhead speakers began to blare.

Nonng! Nonng! Nonng! Nonng! General Quarters! General Quarters! Nonng! Nonng! Nonng!

One could move very quickly in a zero g environment if you knew how. Nyland positioned himself exactly in the center of the passageway oriented in the direction of the bridge, gripped the handholds on each side of him and pulled for all he was worth. With his arms folded tightly at his sides, his body shot down the passageway at great speed. He would have made it all the way to the end too, almost a hundred feet, except McClusky stepped out of the head right in front of the door to the bridge. Nyland had to grab a handhold and stop.

What have we got? asked Nyland, taking his position at the captain’s chair.

Two intermediate-sized birds in flight. Anti-matter heads most likely. Looks like attack trajectories, said Lieutenant Commander Barnie Matson on the tracking console.

Target?

Looks like Israel. Matson’s console was drawing red course lines from the missiles to the target area with cones of uncertainty at the destination area.

We have only a scattered layer of clouds, said Nyland. A good day to go bird hunting. He turned to Lieutenant Yang who was just sliding in to her weapons console. Load tubes one and two. I want Banshees.

Aye, sir. Banshees in tubes one and two, said Yang. She began to flip switches and punch keys on her keyboard.

A third bird is in the air, said Matson.

Nyland frowned. Are they all coming from the same place?

It appears so, sir, replied Matson. It must be a multiple launch vehicle facility.

Okay, said Nyland. Power up both rails. I want Voodoos.

Aye, sir, said Yang. Voodoos on rail one and two.

Space Command is calling, sir. It was Asan on sensor and comm.

Could you tell Mary we are a little busy right now, XO? Nyland did not need any distractions.

Yes, sir, said Asan, smiling.

Tubes one and two loaded and targets acquired, said Yang.

Prepare tubes one and two for firing and give me another...no make that two more Banshees...tubes three and four.

Aye, sir. Venting one and two and opening outer doors, loading three and four.

Fourth bird is in the air, said Matson, shifting his massive body. His black forehead was glistening with dampness, and sweat stains were beginning to blossom under his armpits.

I thought so, said Nyland smugly.

Rails one and two charged and loaded, reported Yang. Tension was starting to creep in to her voice.

Okay, Jennifer. I want those rails to target the launch site.

Launch site? asked Yang, her almond eyes wide with questions.

You’ll have the coordinates in about two seconds, Jen, said Matson.

Oh...okay...got ‘em! Okay... Yang typed a few commands then waited, staring at her screen, then looked at Nyland and announced, Target acquired for the Voodoos.

Fire rail one, ordered Nyland. He reached up and grabbed an overhead handhold.

Firing rail one! screamed Yang. She punched a key.

Whoomp! A percussive shock passed through the ship as the five hundred pound projectile was violently accelerated off the 200 foot rail. The effect was explosive although there were no explosives involved. It was all done with magnetic pulses. The projectile was pushed down the rail and exited at a speed close to 50,000 miles an hour. It accelerated even more under the influence of earth’s gravity. It only slowed slightly when it encountered earth’s atmosphere. The Voodoo projectile from Allaman Industries was the first of its type of rail munitions. It could lock on and steer to its target with small vanes.

Being hit by a rail projectile was a lot like being hit by a large meteorite. There was so much kinetic energy being dissipated, devastation usually extended for a mile in every direction.

Fire rail two, ordered Nyland.

Firing rail two! screamed Yang and punched a key.

Whoomp! Another shock went through the ship.

Voodoo one is twenty seconds to target, screamed Yang.

Fifth bird is in the air, said Matson.

Damn! growled Nyland. He was hoping to take out the launch site before any more birds were launched.

The launch site was on the overhead screen, zoomed in as close as they could get. They could clearly see many silos in the ground. They could not see the incoming projectile. It was too small at this scale and moving too fast.

Yang counted, Five...four...three...two...one...

They all saw a cloud of dust and a shock wave blossom like a pale halo out from the site.

Yang continued, Second Voodoo...five...four...three...two...one...

A second halo blossomed out from the site, then there was something bright like a small star, then a fireball mushroomed and then many smaller fireballs and finally one massive one that seemed to engulf the whole valley around the launch site.

The bridge crew all smiled at each other.

Okay, people, now let’s get those birds. Nyland looked to Yang and she dropped the smile and quickly recovered her professional composure.

Tubes one and two, ready to fire, sir. Tubes three and four loaded and cycling.

Nyland squinted at the display and said nothing. He appeared to be waiting for something.

Matson cleared his throat and said, Bird one is 25 minutes to target, sir.

I know. I want to bring these things down over the Persian Gulf. Not over any populated areas. It takes a Banshee about four point two minutes to reach target from this altitude.

Nyland didn’t worry too much about a Banshee missing it’s target. The Banshee was a reentry hardened vehicle with a composited tracking and steering system. It used video imaging, radar and heat guidance to track it’s target. It couldn’t be fooled by chafe, flares or jamming. He looked at Yang and said. And, before I forget, load tube five, another Banshee.

Aye, sir. Loading tube five.

Launch one! ordered Nyland.

Launching one! screamed Yang. One away.

The crew could feel a fine vibration which quickly faded. It was the backwash from the missile engine as it ignited close to the ship.

Nyland’s eye glanced back and forth between the display tracking the birds and the digital clock in the corner of his own display.

Launch two! ordered Nyland.

Launching two! responded Yang. Two away.

Another vibration through the ship.

Is three ready to go? asked Nyland.

Aye, sir. Tubes three and four vented, outer doors opened and targets acquired and locked on.

Launch three! ordered Nyland.

Launching three! responded Yang. Three away.

Another vibration.

Launch four! ordered Nyland.

Launching four! responded Yang. Four away.

Another vibration.

How is tube five coming? asked Nyland.

"It’s loaded and...what