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November 27, 2034, US Space Force Peterson Aerospace Base, Colorado, United States
A burly man strides down a corridor lit by blindingly white LED lights, a steaming coffee mug in hand. Clad in the deep navy of a US Space Force uniform, the mug's "USSF" logo betrays his military affiliation.
"Good morning, Commander," a passing officer greets, stepping aside and saluting crisply.
"Morning," he replies, nodding.
Officers yield the path, salute, and resume their hurried steps after he passes. He opens a sleek black door labeled "Base Commander's Office" and steps inside.
A middle-aged woman with glasses looks up from her desk, smiling warmly. "Good morning, Commander. Oh, you didn't need to bring coffee I'd have prepared it for you."
"Morning, Mary. No bother. I've a delicate tongue, you see. By the time I carry it from the pantry, it's cooled just right. Efficient, no?" He chuckles, passing her desk.
"Understood, sir. Hot tea's your preference, but coffee's best lukewarm. Let me know if you ever crave it hot," Mary replies with a teasing lilt.
"Hah, you're sharp as ever. What's on today's schedule?" He pauses, sipping his coffee.
Mary recites, "Check the scheduler for virtual meetings. At 1030, NORAD's facility director arrives to discuss shared resource allocations. Lunch with the technical director at 1200 in the dining annex. At 1430, you're due at Colorado Springs City Hall for the Space Force monument unveiling, so you'll need to leave by 1330."
"Got it. Desk work until NORAD's director shows, then." He takes another sip, opens the door beside Mary's desk, and enters his office.
Setting the mug on its usual spot, he boots up his desktop. Placing his hand on the fingerprint scanner, the system unlocks, greeting him: "Good morning, General William Robertson, US Space Force." The familiar desktop loads.
Just as he opens his email, Mary peeks in. "Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Crawford from the 3836th Recon Battalion is here."
"3836th? Crawford? Hm. Send him in."
"Yes, sir."
The 3836th specializes in satellite surveillance of military installations. An unscheduled morning visit suggests something urgent.
"Lieutenant Colonel Crawford, entering," a voice announces.
"Come in," Robertson replies.
A lean man with neatly combed blonde hair enters, saluting sharply. "Is there an emergency?" Robertson asks.
"Not an immediate threat, sir, but a high-priority development." Crawford's tone is measured.
"What's that?"
"The Russian manned Mars base, designated Priority A last month, went silent. This morning, astronomical satellite imagery confirmed the cause: the base has been destroyed. Survival of the six Russian personnel is deemed unlikely."
Robertson leans back. Five years ago, Russia secretly launched a manned mission to Mars, establishing a base near the equator a covert triumph over the sluggish international Mars exploration project. Shrouded in secrecy, their achievement went unpublicized, partly due to the Space Treaty banning military use of celestial bodies and partly because a Martian nuclear threat posed no real danger to the US. The US opted for quiet observation, focusing on cooperative exploration over rivalry.
"Destroyed? An accident, perhaps?" Robertson muses.
No Earth-based weapon can directly strike Mars. A nuclear-armed probe could, theoretically, but to what end? Accidents within the base seemed the likeliest cause.
Last month, the base's sudden silence suggested a communication failure or internal mishap. Mars' position behind the sun had blocked optical observation, but shifting orbits now allowed a clearer view.
"Here, sir." Crawford hands over a rugged military-grade tablet displaying a reddish landscape scarred by an explosion the Russian base, obliterated.
"An explosion, yes, but what of it?" Robertson asks.
Russia's self-inflicted disaster wouldn't disrupt US Space Force operations or the international Mars project.
"Sir, the base lies within a tunnel carved into Zephyrion Planum's rocky hills. Analysis of this and forty other images suggests the explosion originated externally, not internally."
"You're saying it was attacked?" Robertson's brow furrows.
"Yes, sir."
"A meteor strike, perhaps?"
"Astronomically unlikely, but possible. However, look here." Crawford swipes through images, zooming in. "See these black lines?"
Dark streaks mar the reddish terrain. "What are they?" Robertson asks.
"Analysis indicates traces of high-energy thermal weapons, likely large-caliber lasers. The soil and rock melted, cooling into glass-like residue."
"Lasers? The PLA?" Robertson's mind races. No US spacecraft are near Mars' orbit, and he'd know of any undisclosed American vessels. Attacking Russia's base made no sense—not in this era. China, then? But their "Feitian IV" mission failed, stalling their Mars ambitions.
"No, sir. China's manned and unmanned missions haven't reached Mars. Their program's stalled."
"Then whose spacecraft?"
Europeans align with the US on cooperative exploration. India and Japan lag behind. No other nation has the capability.
"Unknown, sir. The base shows signs of missile-like impacts and simultaneous thermal weapon strikes."
"Missiles and lasers?" Robertson scoffs. No spacecraft could carry such arsenals to Mars. Manned missions are already overburdened with survival gear and exploration tools, trimmed to the barest essentials. An attack drone could, theoretically, but targeting a militarily insignificant base wastes resources.
Crawford hesitates. "I've no conclusion, sir. This exceeds my speculation."
"Then we'll call it an accident. The Russians botched an experiment, destroying their base. No spacecraft save their own exist near Mars. Nonexistent threats don't attack. Reexamine the data."
"Sir, we've checked thrice. The observation team, the lead, and I confirmed it. Laser-induced rock melt wouldn't occur in a mere explosion "
"Enough!" Robertson snaps. "Who fired these lasers? The missiles? China can't reach Mars. Our next probe isn't even in blueprints. Russia wouldn't attack itself. India, Japan, private firms they're even further behind. No one in this solar system could've done this. Am I wrong?"
Crawford stands rigid. He agrees and doesn't. Robertson overlooks one possibility: what if the attacker isn't from this solar system? But suggesting extraterrestrial involvement would be dismissed outright. Current technology couldn't mount such a laser on a spacecraft.
Crawford knows Robertson won't entertain this. Exiting the office, he ponders his options: NORAD's research division, the CIA, or even the press. All would likely echo Robertson's skepticism.
Better to try a trusted route. He has a friend at Langley. Back in his office, Brian Crawford pulls up the contact.