Missiles in Space

By Will Anderson

Facing inevitable conflict with the West over "reunification" of Taiwan, China is using its trade surplus to acquire advanced weapons. Ground-based anti-satellite missiles have been demonstrated; space-based missiles follow logically. China hires a Russian firm to help develop a missile platform based on a planned Soviet era spacecraft designed to counter American "Star Wars" weapons. During development, Russian engineers hide a "backdoor" in the missile computers.

After the missile platform is launched the engineers demonstrate the backdoor by firing a missile at the Space Station, damaging it. Islamic terrorists then pay them to destroy GPS satellites. The navigation system fails with horrific consequences. An angry U.S. destroys the missile platform. The baffled Chinese launch a replacement, threaten massive retaliation if the U.S. attacks.

As events unfold, Peter Dime, covert CIA operative, and Heather Young, brilliant and beautiful analyst, lead a team to uncover the truth and prevent armed U.S./China confrontation. Subplots include romance between Dime and Young, plight of the Station astronauts, and terrorist intrigues. Along the way, readers are transported to exciting locales, from Washington to Moscow and Tehran, from California to Beijing and Jakarta. They also gain informative glimpses into the workings of spacecraft, missiles, and unique weapons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Will Anderson
• Release date: Feb 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458087126

Will Anderson

Will Anderson earned a Doctor’s degree from MIT, served as an army Captain, then spent 29 years with NASA as an engineer and senior executive. He has drawn on his knowledge of aerospace systems, piloting, and his related experiences, relationships and travels to write these exciting and believable novels.

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Missiles in Space

by

Will Anderson

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Will Anderson on Smashwords

Missiles in Space

Copyright © 2011 by Will Anderson

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my wife, Jane, an avid reader of all types of literature, for putting up with me during the hours it took to write this book, and also for her insightful review. I would also like to thank those who critiqued every word and provided encouragement as I wrote the chapters: Sansing McPherson, Norma VanAmberg, and Joel Macht. Thanks go also to Matt Hartnett for his discerning and helpful review. Lastly, I think it important to mention the Internet, which I used as a research tool and without which the research process would have been nowhere near as complete.

Prologue

The extraordinary growth of China's early 21st Century economy has given it the means to greatly expand its military forces. With matters such as the reunification of Taiwan still to be achieved, and with Western powers firmly opposed, it makes sense to place priority on military systems that can counter those of the West. Paramount among these are aerospace systems. Ground-based anti-satellite missiles have been demonstrated; space-based missiles follow logically.

During the final days of the Soviet Union, its military and industrial partners remained hard at work developing technology for weapons that could counter the array of planned American Strategic Defense Initiative or Star Wars weapons. One such technology supported space-based platforms housing anti-satellite missiles.

Some believe the Chinese recently developed and launched such a weapon, aided by a Russian aerospace firm well versed in missile platform technology. They also suspect the weapon had been disguised to look like an optical imaging reconnaissance satellite.

Chapter 1

Engineers

The full moon cast its light through cold clear winter air. Snow covered the ground, underfoot, city snow, grimy and gritty. Their shoes made crunching sounds as they took each step and the sounds carried far into the quiet windless night, making them both nervous.

They had parked well away from the complex of white-painted concrete buildings – the home of Komarovsky Aerospace – and walked toward the nearly windowless buildings, staying in shadows where there were shadows. But they found none for the last fifty meters, across an open parking lot, making them even more nervous.

They would enter the complex in the middle of the night. While both were employed by the company, neither had authorization to be inside at such a late hour. If discovered in the building they would first enter – the building in which they worked during the day – the story they invented might sell: a story describing an important piece of work needing to be finished.

But they would stay in that building for only a minute, passing through enroute to the lab. And no story would justify their presence in the lab. Not under the brutal questioning that would surely follow if they were caught. That thought made their stomachs tight and their brows damp despite the cold.

When they reached the building, they punched an often-used number into a keypad beside the door and it opened. Once inside, in a long corridor, they felt less nervous. As far as they knew, no one had heard or seen them. The company employed security guards and surveillance systems were installed, but they were minimal and the route they chose avoided both. Security was expensive and there was little money for such luxury in modern-day Russia – even in a company with large and important military contracts, and one located in the capital city.

At the end of the corridor they heard a watchman approaching, but they knew well the route and timing of his rounds and ducked inside a custodial closet until he passed. Then it was down the corridor to its end, up a flight of stairs and across a skywalk to an adjoining building where a second keypad waited for the right number.

Through a combination of expertise and luck, the two engineers, specialists in control and communications hardware and software, had gained access to a computer file containing entry numbers for the building's keypad door locks. One of them reached out and lifted a clear plastic cover protecting the keypad.

Read me the number, Yuri Kryuchkov said, a man with athletic looks, light skin, blond hair and blue eyes – eyes that looked directly into hers.

Sonia Petrovna hesitated before answering. We can still go back, she said, returning the look. At this point, they know nothing of what we have done. She was tall, well figured, not beautiful but attractive, with medium-length black hair and coal-black eyes.

Read me the number, he insisted. We have talked this through a hundred times. There is too much at stake to quit. He looked back across the skyway. Read it to me now! The watchman will be heading this way soon.

With reluctance she took a piece of paper from her pocket and read him a number. He entered it and the door opened. She stepped back from the doorway, not willing to walk through, to step across a line that would add such risk to her life. But he took her hand and went through the doorway, pulling her just a little.

Three keypad doorways and several stairways later they found themselves in a large room on the top floor of an adjoining building. The room served the company as a communications lab. We have twenty minutes before the watchman comes by, Kryuchkov said impatiently, setting his watch alarm. He closed the lab door, making sure it was locked.

Inside the room a dozen or so tall gray metal racks stood in a semicircle. The racks housed electronic equipment. A portion of the equipment contained the control and communications hardware for a satellite dish antenna located on the roof above them. The gimbal-mounted antenna could point at and track any satellite passing overhead within line-of-sight range.

Petrovna took a seat in front of a terminal located at the center of the semicircle. The terminal, labeled CONTROL, was linked directly to the control computer for the antenna system. She turned on the system. While the outdoor components warmed up, she entered a set of numbers that defined the orbital path of a satellite just now rising above the horizon. The numbers were classified at a level well above hers, but using wit and perseverance she had hacked into a data file containing the numbers.

She commanded the computer to point the antenna at the satellite and begin to track it. She did not worry that someone would spot the antenna moving – it was hidden from below by its position in the middle of the roof, and the Komarovsky buildings surrounding it had no windows.

It took less than a minute before the computer display spelled out the message: ANTENNA LOCK ESTABLISHED. At that point, Kryuchkov, seated beside her in front of a second computer terminal labeled, COMMUNICATIONS, saw a stream of data begin to scroll across his display.

Take a look, he said excitedly. That is the health data coming down from the satellite.

She turned her head and looked at the array of numbers – identified by Chinese characters – that spelled out the status of the satellite's onboard systems.

That is the small step, she said quietly, turning back. Now let us try for the big one.

She took a deep breath, and with her eyes focused intently on the display typed a long single string of symbols – a string known only to her and Kryuchkov. A string designed to be recognized by the satellite's communication system as a command. A command to route the satellite-end of the data link through a backdoor – an unauthorized point of entry in the onboard computer system – and then into the computer code itself.

After what seemed an interminable time, but was in fact only a matter of seconds, precisely what they hoped to see appeared on the screen – a short simplistic menu of computer commands:

1. ENTER TARGET ORBITAL PARAMETERS

2. LOAD TARGET ORBITAL PARAMETERS

3. OPEN CELL DOORS

4. EJECT MISSILES

5. CLOSE CELL DOORS

They had secretly programmed the commands more than a year earlier while members of a team of Russian engineers responsible for developing the Chinese satellite's command, control and communication system. The Russians had been hired as consultants to the Chinese military. The commands gave the two engineers the ability to take control of the honeycomb of cells hidden within the satellite as well as the deadly contents of each cell.

It worked, she exclaimed, and a smile spread across her face. But I do not know whether I feel good or bad. If it had not worked, we could go home, forget all this and be safe.

Safe, but poor, he told her. Just think how much that little menu is worth to the right people. Just think of the life we can lead with that kind of money.

If we live long enough to spend it, she said. The smile faded, but only for a moment. When she saw how happy he was, it came back. Her feelings for him always overpowered her common sense.

She used the terminal's mouse to select the top item on the menu.

ENTER TARGET ORBITAL PARAMETERS appeared. She clicked on it.

TARGET NUMBER 1 next appeared. Another click.

ENTER ORBITAL INCLINATION was displayed. Another click.

ENTER ORBITAL PERIGEE. Another.

ENTER ORBITAL APOGEE.

She stopped at this point. She was only exploring – checking the code they had added to the system. They would not be entering target information. Not from this location; not at this time.

Notice any change in the data stream? she asked, looking over at Kryuchkov.

Nothing, he answered, carefully monitoring the health data flowing across his display, taking notes and writing down and updating numbers associated with the identifying Chinese characters he had memorized. Not a single change. There is no way they can tell we are in the system. Not with what we have done so far.

He answered with conviction, referring to the ground controllers that operated the satellite and monitored its health –controllers in the Satellite Control Center at Xi'an City in Shaanxi Province, China.

Petrovna turned away from the computer terminal and looked at Kryuchkov thoughtfully. They had arrived at another crucial point.

We can shut down here, leave, and no one will know what we have done. She said it, but only half-heartedly. She knew he would not agree.

Or we can take a chance, he told her, and live like kings for the rest of our lives.

She turned back to the terminal. She would do what he wanted, what they both agreed they would do. She used the mouse to select the third item on the menu: OPEN CELL DOORS. She clicked on it.

ENTER DOOR NUMBER appeared on the screen. She typed 1, hit the ENTER key, and turned and looked at Kryuchkov. For about a minute he stared at the data, writing down an occasional number. Then he turned and looked back at her.

The door opened, he said simply and with a grin.

You have a positive indication? she asked, wanting absolute assurance. They had programmed an unrelated variable – a battery temperature – to exhibit a specific recognizable pattern for a few seconds and return to normal. The pattern was designed to indicate to them that the door was open, but to look to the Chinese controllers like a random pattern of no consequence.

His grin broadened. Yes. The battery temperature followed the exact pattern we inserted. And there is no other indication the door opened. They had programmed the variable in the data stream that denoted an open door, not to indicate such a condition if the command to open it came from their menu.

She turned back to her terminal. I will close the door and shut down and we can leave, she said with relief. But the feeling would be short lived.

She selected CLOSE CELL DOORS from the menu and clicked on it.

ENTER DOOR NUMBER appeared. She entered 1 and turned toward Kryuchkov. He stared at the terminal looking for a second pattern in the battery temperature, one that would tell them the door had closed. But the pattern did not appear.

They waited for a minute or more, but still nothing indicated the door had closed.

Try it again, Kryuchkov told her, and she did, but still no indication appeared.

I will tell it to open again, she said, Then tell it to close. She entered the commands and waited.

Kryuchkov's eyes scanned his display, but he said nothing.

Do you see anything? she asked, a hint of panic in her voice. Discovery of what they had done would surely follow if they could not close the door.

No sign of any movement, he said, his tone now grim.

She repeated the process until the satellite passed below the horizon and they lost the data link. But they saw no indication the door had closed.

What do we do now? Petrovna asked, full-fledged panic now in her voice, tears forming in her eyes. They will notice the door is open. They will find out what we have done …

Relax, Sonia. It is early. We can stay here for hours if we are quiet. The watchman does not enter the lab; all he does is listen at the door and check to see if it is locked. He paused to let the words sink in. Now … tell me if we can reestablish the data link when the satellite comes around again. That is only an hour and a half from now.

She fought against the panic; forced herself to think. It was somewhat to the east on that pass, she said, turning to face the terminal, wiping tears away. It will be well to the west on the next … She typed a command, after that, another. We will have a couple of minutes, that is all.

Dime

Indonesia's most populated city and its capital, located on the island of Java, is the city of Jakarta. Beginning centuries ago as a small fishing village lying along the shore of the Java Sea, it is today a teeming metropolis of ten million inhabitants. Near its center, a short walk south of Merdeka Square with its towering gold-tipped National Monument, lies the Jalan Jaksa area, noted for inexpensive hotels and restaurants.

On a hot, humid morning, in one of those restaurants, at a street-side table, a man sat drinking a cup of black coffee, his third that morning. The coffee made the air seem even hotter, but he wanted the caffeine. It gave his mind an edge, an alertness that he needed.

The man was Caucasian, forty years old, tall and muscular, with light hair and light-gray eyes. But he did not stand out – the restaurant was well frequented by Western tourists of similar age and appearance. That was why he agreed to meet in such an open setting. For it was important that he not stand out, that he blend in, that he exist without being noticed or easily remembered.

He was there to meet a man, another Westerner, someone with information to sell, important information if the man could be believed. And for such information, Peter Dime had money to spend – all that was needed – for Dime was CIA, assigned to the American Embassy with a bogus diplomatic title, but in reality the leader of a covert team operating in the Indonesian archipelago. A team whose mission was to locate the islands on which new terrorist training camps had been established by extremist Islamic Jihadis, holy warriors. Warriors that fled Afghanistan following the American and Pakistani military actions that denied them access to that part of the world. And having located them, eliminate them as viable enemies.

Dime had been in Indonesia for the past several months gathering information, pulling in informants, setting up an organization. He was well suited for the job, having lived as a youth in Asia and having visited Indonesia many times during that period. He was also educated and experienced. In the U.S. for college, he had earned a bachelor's degree in electrical engineering from MIT and a masters degree in economics from Georgetown University; spent time as a naval officer, including two years as a navy SEAL, during which he had been a member of intelligence gathering teams jointly manned with Agency operatives. After finishing his active-duty commitment, it had been a simple matter, a few pieces of paper to sign, to join the Agency. Theory and practice in a variety of fields and endeavors made Dime an invaluable covert operative and team leader.

But it was time to leave and he knew it. Surely someone had spotted him by now, learned his identity by now. He had followed and observed too many suspected terrorists, talked to too many informants, searched too many islands with suspected camps. Washington wanted him out of there, and he agreed. His replacement had arrived and been briefed. His name was Paul Iskandar; born to Indonesian parents that had immigrated to America; an American who looked and spoke like a native Indonesian and could move about without being noticed. Dime knew the man and knew he would do a first-rate job – a former SEAL like Dime, training and experience that came in handy in this island land.

His plane ticket was in his pocket; a small bag at his feet. He would take a cab directly to the airport from the restaurant. But he had agreed to this one last meeting before leaving.

A man had called a day earlier saying he wanted to meet with Dime and Dime only. He told of a large shipment of explosives: potassium chlorate and TNT, as well as ammonium nitrate – a fertilizer useful as a bomb-making ingredient – along with detonators and timers. He claimed he knew where the shipment was headed, which specific island, but would give no details on the phone. He mentioned a price for the information. Dime agreed and the meeting was on.

He looked at his watch. It read 9:00, a half-hour past the arranged time. He would have to leave for the airport in a few minutes to make his flight. He wondered why the man was late. Had something gone wrong? He began to think through the possibilities and what they might portend. Nothing good came to mind.

He raised his cup to sip at the coffee, and for the first time that day noticed that the hard metallic object usually resting under his left arm – the lightweight 9-millimeter Berretta pistol kept in an under-arm holster, the pistol he trusted and relied on – was missing. He had left it at the Embassy, choosing to fly carry-on-only. It also left the hassle of waiting for and claiming baggage to others with more time and patience.

More minutes passed, the coffee now gone. The man was nowhere in sight. Dime had a bad feeling. He made a decision. Get the hell out of here!

He stood up, grabbed his bag, took some money from a pocket, tossed it on the table, and walked out of the restaurant and onto the crowded street – a street filled with small cars, motorcycles, bicycles, noise, polluted air, and many many Asian faces.

Just as he reached the street, he saw a man running toward him, looking at him, waving at him – a Western face full of fright and panic, easy to spot in the crowd of Asian faces. But before he could reach Dime, a shot rang out and the man staggered. Instinctively, Dime reached for the Beretta, but it was not there. A sinking feeling hit him in the pit of his stomach. Shit! was the word that came to mind.

Dime heard a second shot and watched the man fall – face forward onto the pavement. People nearby panicked and began running in all directions. Dime heard men shouting and women screaming. All this in a very few seconds.

Dime was exposed – in the open on the side of the street – and unarmed. He guessed the shooter had seen the man waving at him. He guessed the next shot would be for him. Both were correct guesses.

Heather

A little west of the city of Washington, DC, in McLean, Virginia, sits a neighborhood known as Langley, named after the ancestral home in England of the man who purchased the underlying tract of land nearly 300 years ago. Within that neighborhood, and known by the same name for almost fifty years, lies a complex of pleasant-looking buildings which, from all outside appearances, could easily be taken for the campus of a local college. Nothing could be further from the truth, however, for within the walls of those buildings, at any and all hours of the day and night, reside the people and equipment that make up the headquarters of the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency.

In one of those buildings, in the late evening, in a moderate-size office, a thirty-year-old analyst in the Intelligence Directorate sat typing the last sentence of a report. For weeks she had been analyzing material from both open and classified literature, as well as interviewing case officers and their agents from locales around the world on intelligence recently and covertly obtained. The report dealt with the degree to which advanced technology – in particular, advanced computer technology – was embedded in modern Chinese military equipment and the level of its sophistication. With flourish, using the ring finger of her right hand, she typed a final period at the end of that last sentence.

She saved a copy on her computer and sent another via e-mail, with the word PRELIMINARY added above the title, to the policy office that requested the analysis. A copy also went to her supervisor for approval. She knew he would read it, but doubted he would recommend any changes. She got up from the chair and stretched; the typing session had been a long one, but with the report finished, Heather Young could now go home.

She was tall, her legs long, her figure near perfect. Her hair was blond, her eyes light blue, her face, in a word, beautiful. A quintessential California girl – born and raised. But those qualities had not brought her to that office in that building complex and allowed her to become a senior analyst in the Intelligence Directorate of the CIA. She was also brilliant and learned, having spent much of her adult life studying complex topics in science and mathematics, having earned a Ph.D. in computer science from Stanford University with highest honors at age twenty five. But for three minor issues – a penchant for emotional release through fast driving, an occasional self-induced lack of propriety, and the inability to see much beyond her nose without corrective lenses – one would have to say that Heather Young was perfect.

She opened a desk drawer and took out her purse revealing a framed picture. That morning she had taken the picture from its three-month perch on top of her desk and roughly tossed it in the drawer. She stared at the man in the picture. Where is he? she asked herself. Why no contact? It's been weeks since I've heard from him. Doesn't he care? Doesn't he know I care and I'm worried? The thoughts stirred her anger and she slammed the drawer shut and walked toward the door to the office.

Probably fooling around with some other woman somewhere, having the time of his life. No wonder his wife divorced him. The hell with him! I don't care how good looking or nice or funny or exciting he is, I'm going to find someone normal. Someone that doesn't go away for months at a time!

She put her hand on the door but did not open it. A moment passed. But what if he can't get word to me? she asked herself. What if he's in trouble? What if he's been hurt and is lying somewhere too weak to move?

She walked back to the desk, opened the drawer, took the picture out and placed it back on top of the desk. Where it belongs, she told herself, thinking back to the wonderful times they had spent together before he left for Indonesia.

Sokolov

A middle-aged man with graying hair sat alone at a table separate from others in a Moscow restaurant talking on a cell phone. He wore a well-tailored suit that hid his excessive weight. His clean-shaven face appeared normal except for one feature, his eyes. They were half closed by eyelids that drooped, and he had to lean his head back so he could see out from under them. A thin scar, old in appearance, showed itself on each eyelid. His name was Nikolai Sokolov.

Suddenly he slammed the phone closed. Come with me, he said in a loud hoarse voice to two thick-necked, gold-chained, crew-cut young men standing nearby. They followed him down a flight of stairs to the street and into a large black car. Wheels spun on the snow-covered street as the car sped off, a cloud of exhaust vapor left in its wake.

Minutes later the car stopped in front of an old tenement building, a relic of the Soviet era, its concrete sides showing cracks edged in brown from rusting steel within. They quietly climbed six flights of stairs to the building's top floor, as quickly as Sokolov's overweight, under-exercised body would allow.

Kick it in, Sokolov mouthed breathlessly. Together the two young men each gave a forceful kick to an apartment door that splintered easily. A shocked man barely had a chance to rise from a chair before a pistol was inches from his head, and his wrists were bound together.

So you are the son-of-a-bitch that has been stealing from me, Sokolov said icily. Grab the bastard and we'll teach him what happens to thieves. The man wailed his innocence as he was dragged up a stairwell, pulled out onto the building's roof, and deposited atop a short wall inches from the edge, on his rear with each of his legs held by one of the young men.

Give me the details, and I will let you live, Sokolov told him. Otherwise, it is a long drop to oblivion.

The man twisted his head and looked over his shoulder, down at the pavement. When he turned back, his eyes were wide with fire; his face contorted with fear. … I … I swear to you, I am loyal. I have taken nothing …

Sokolov raised a hand and turned a thumb sideways. The young men raised the man's legs until they were near vertical and his back and head were poised out over empty space.

Alright, the man screamed. I will tell you … everything …

And he did, and when he finished, Sokolov walked away from the edge and up to the door to the stairwell where he stopped and turned and looked back. I said I would let you live and I have. I just did not say how long. And he raised his hand again, but this time his thumb was down …

Chapter 2

Flight

Dime had ducked instinctively, and not a split-second too soon. He heard a third bullet pass just above his head and slam into a sign that spelled out the restaurant's name. A walkway flanked by two short brick walls led from the street back to the front door of the restaurant. He pivoted and began running, keeping low to the ground, below and between the walls. As he ran, a fourth bullet tore into one wall, but did not penetrate, then a fifth into the opposite wall – a second shooter!

He ran through the front door, past seated customers staring with open mouths, too shocked yet to be frightened. He headed for the kitchen, knowing it led to an alley behind the restaurant. He had the good sense to study the building's layout earlier that morning.

Just outside the kitchen he brushed against a waiter with a tray of food balanced on one hand, drinks held in the other. The waiter spun completely around as Dime raced past, but the man spilled nothing. Inside the kitchen, Dime bumped into a cook holding an open pan full of fat. The fat fell onto a stove and burst into flames; the cook began to scream; Dime threw himself out the back door and into the alley.

As he ran away at full speed, dodging refuse and cans full of trash, he turned his head and caught sight of a large man dressed in black exit from the kitchen and begin to run after him. A moment later he looked again and saw a second man also chasing him and raising what looked like a pistol. The alley branched sharply to his right and he followed it – just in time. Two bullets whined past his head on the left.

He considered his options. He was not armed, so he could not stand and fight. He did not know the area well, therefore little chance to hide. He had no vehicle, therefore no opportunity to run to it and drive away from the men on foot – two of them, perhaps more. That left outrunning them, sticking to back alleys and streets, taking a new one, a new direction, at every intersection to avoid giving them a clear field of fire. But to where should he run?

Then he remembered a taxi stand at a nearby hotel – the Indonesian Prince – nearly due west, but too close to go to directly. He would need to run farther to put more distance between him and his pursuers. If he took a circuitous route, he could stay near the hotel and stretch out the distance, and if he ran at full speed, did not pace himself, they might fall far enough behind … He turned right onto a street … And he would have enough time … He sensed his breathing rate increase … Enough time to get into a taxi and drive away …

He turned into another street, this one headed south. His legs were beginning to tire but he kept them pumping as fast as he could. He thought about dropping his bag, but decided not quite yet – maybe in another minute … He looked back and saw no one, then