Eagle Station

Ten

Brad McLanahan only came out of his daze when the lilting, joyful strains of Handel’s “Arrival of the Queen of Sheba” filled the vast interior of the ancient Gothic church. He looked down into Nadia Rozek’s beautiful, blue-gray eyes. “What the heck just happened?” he whispered.

She smiled up at him. “We are married. And you just kissed me.”

“Wow.” Brad felt as though he were waking up after a months-long slumber. He remembered standing nervously in front of the high altar, looking down the center aisle past pews filled with expectant faces — waiting for Nadia to make her entrance. He’d felt his pulse pounding harder than it ever had before, even under the stress of combat.

And then she’d appeared, clad in a dazzling floor-length, white silk wedding dress, silhouetted against sunlight streaming through the basilica’s open doors. From that moment on, his memories were a blur, more a swelling cascade of emotion than of conscious thought. The whole elaborate wedding ceremony itself, with its ancient rites and responses, had slid past in what seemed like only seconds, submerged beneath an overwhelming tide of pure happiness.

“Now what?” he asked quietly.

Nadia laughed and lovingly took his hand in hers. “Now we endure a few minutes more of pomp and circumstance… and then we begin our life together.”

Brad grinned. Pomp and circumstance was the perfect phrase, he thought. Their first plans for a quiet, private wedding in Nadia’s home village had been overruled by Poland’s president, Piotr Wilk. Instead, he’d insisted on a lavish, state-funded public ceremony to honor them. Wilk, who’d led Poland through the dark years of struggle against renewed Russian aggression, had long wanted to give them the recognition he thought they deserved.

“Your marriage is more than just a union of two hearts and two lives,” Wilk had explained seriously, when they’d protested his decision. “It should also be a celebration of the alliance which saved Poland — and a celebration of the victory earned by your courage and devotion and sacrifice.” In the end, Brad and Nadia, faced with enthusiastic support for Wilk’s idea from her parents, his father, Kevin Martindale, and President Farrell, had reluctantly yielded.

Some good, at least, had come out of the Polish president’s determination to make this partly a political show, Brad thought. Instead of a tuxedo, Wilk had encouraged him to wear his Iron Wolf Squadron dress uniform. And there was no doubt that he felt more comfortable in this familiar dark, rifle-green uniform jacket, white collared shirt, and black tie. The squadron patch on his right shoulder, a metal-gray robotic wolf’s head with glowing red eyes on a bright green background, was almost the only splash of bright color besides the flowers entwined in Nadia’s dark hair and her bridal bouquet.

Together, Brad and Nadia turned and started down the basilica’s long central aisle — passing through a sea of delighted onlookers. Apart from a handful of close friends and family, most of those in the church were military and political dignitaries from Poland, the United States, and half a dozen Eastern European allies.

For one brief moment, Brad’s elation faltered. That so many of these faces were those of relative strangers was a reminder of the grim price paid on the way to this joy-filled day. Too many of their fellow pilots and soldiers had been killed in action against the Russians in the past few years. Now their names and faces crowded in on his memory. It was almost as though they were calling out to him… begging not to be forgotten.

But then, as if she’d sensed his darkening mood, Nadia gently squeezed his hand. “Our comrades are never truly gone. Not while we remember them,” she told him softly.

He nodded, grateful all over again for the undeserved good fortune that had brought this amazing woman into his life. “Kocham cię,” he murmured into her ear. “I love you.”

“I am very pleased to hear that,” she said, with a quick grin. “Because otherwise, this marriage would be off to a somewhat rocky start.”

Brad was still struggling not to laugh out loud when they passed through the basilica’s entrance and came out onto Kraków’s Main Market Square. The moment they appeared, spontaneous cheers rang out from the large crowd of ordinary men, women, and children gathered outside the church. Ranks of Polish and allied soldiers and airmen in full dress uniform snapped to attention, presenting arms with long-practiced precision. Bayonet-tipped rifles and swords flashed bright in the sun.

Suddenly acutely aware that they were the sole focus of several thousand pairs of eyes, Brad felt his face redden slightly. In contrast, Nadia looked radiant, even regal, in the long, flowing dress that concealed her prosthetic blades. Beaming, she raised her floral bouquet above her head in a salute, acknowledging the greeting. They cheered even louder in response.

He started to relax a bit.

Movement near the edge of the square caught his eye. Flanked by motorcycle police escorts with flashing lights, a long black limousine nosed slowly through the throng. Small red, blue, and white flags fluttered from its hood.

“What the hell?” Brad muttered. Those were Russian flags.

Nadia followed his gaze. Though she kept smiling, her eyes darkened with anger. “Skurwysyn. Son of a bitch,” she said through gritted teeth. “So someone from Moscow decides to interfere with our wedding day?”

The limousine rolled to a stop a few yards away. A smartly uniformed Russian army colonel emerged. He carried a silver-wrapped gift box under one arm. Followed closely by a pair of dour-looking Polish plainclothes security officers, he advanced toward them.

“Diplomacy, remember?” Brad whispered with a slight smile of his own — aware that Nadia’s first instinctive impulse would be to kick the Russian officer in the groin.

“I will be good,” she promised. “For now.”

The Russian stopped a few feet away and tossed off a quick, formal salute. “Major McLanahan. Major Rozek. My name is Colonel Vasily Artamonov. I am my country’s military attaché to Poland.”

“Colonel,” Brad said, not bothering to return the salute. There were limits to his own capacity for diplomacy. “What can we do for you?”

Artamonov smiled politely, ignoring the slight. “On behalf of Marshal Mikhail Ivanovich Leonov, I offer this small personal token, as a gift on your marriage.” He held out the wrapped box.

Nadia raised an eyebrow and then nodded at one of the Polish security officers. He took the box for her. “Tell Marshal Leonov that we accept his present in the same spirit in which it is given,” she said coldly.

“Of that, you can be sure, Major,” the Russian said in reply. His own tone was equally unemotional. He saluted again and strode back to his waiting car.

Brad waved a hand toward the gift box. “Aren’t you at all curious to see what’s inside?”

Nadia shook her head dismissively. “Not in the slightest.” She shrugged. “Let the experts wrestle with Marshal Leonov’s odd psychological games.” Smiling more genuinely now, she slipped her hand through his arm. “After all, we have a wedding reception to attend, do we not?” Her voice turned husky. “With a long and very private honeymoon to follow, I understand?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Brad said fervently.

Patrick McLanahan looked up with a frown when Kevin Martindale entered the secure conference room. “What have you got for me, General?” Martindale asked.

“Nothing clear,” Patrick admitted.

Martindale crossed the room and stared down at the collection of small wooden figurines scattered across the table. “That’s what was in this wedding gift from Leonov?”

Patrick nodded. “It’s a Matryoshka set. You know, one with small and smaller dolls nesting inside each other.” He picked out two of the larger figurines for the other man to see. “And obviously handcrafted.”

Martindale stared down at the two dolls, one painted to resemble a young man in a dark green military uniform, and the other a young woman in a white dress. He arched an eyebrow. “All of the dolls are supposed to be either Brad or Nadia?”

“All of them, except for this,” Patrick said grimly, fishing out a very tiny piece. He handed it to Martindale, along with a magnifying glass. “This was nesting inside the smallest figurine.”

The other man studied the miniature carefully. His lips pursed. This was definitely not a doll. Instead, he decided, it was shaped like some kind of futuristic-looking aircraft. He frowned. Or possibly it was supposed to be a spaceplane, like the one flown by Brad, Nadia, and Peter Vasey when they’d captured Russia’s Mars One station last year. This one, however, had a roundel on one wing — showing a dark blue chevron rising across a stylized globe striped in the red, blue, and white bands of the Russian flag.

Martindale’s frown deepened. That was the emblem of Russia’s Space Forces. He looked up. “Was there anything else in that damned gift box?”

“Just this,” Patrick said. He slid a small, handwritten note across. “It was attached to the doll set before we took it apart.”

Martindale stared down at the note. Written in the Cyrillic alphabet it read: В будущем. Slowly, he puzzled through the unfamiliar characters, switching them out for their Latin alphabet equivalents. “To the future?” he translated.

“That’s what it says,” Patrick agreed.

“And there was nothing else?”

“Nope,” Patrick said. “No hidden listening devices. No lethal toxins. Nada.” He scowled. “Which leaves us with one big question—”

“What sort of message is Leonov trying to send?” Martindale finished for him.

Patrick nodded. “Admittedly, we don’t know much about his psychology. But nothing suggests he shares Gennadiy Gryzlov’s psychotic craving for personal revenge. If anything, Leonov’s supposed to be one coldhearted bastard — never making a move unless he’s analyzed it six ways from Sunday.”

“Which makes him more dangerous,” Martindale commented sourly. “He’s not as easy to predict… or to manipulate… as the late and very unlamented Gennadiy.”

“Too true.”

Martindale tapped the tiny spaceplane miniature with the tip of one finger. “Then the simplest explanation may also be the most likely.” He looked up. “By now the Russians must realize how valuable our single-stage-to-orbit spaceplanes are, both for military and civilian space operations.”

Patrick nodded again. The Russians had their own Elektron spaceplanes, but they were primitive compared to the hypersonic S-series ships built by Sky Masters. The S-29 Shadow and its counterparts could take off and land on runways built for ordinary commercial airliners. In contrast, the Russians could only launch their comparatively tiny, single-pilot spacecraft atop expendable rockets. And even when they reached orbit, they were easily outgunned and outmaneuvered by their larger, more capable American rivals. “So?”

“Well, this little exercise could just be Leonov putting us on notice that he plans to build his own versions of the S-29 Shadow and our other spaceplanes,” Martindale mused.

“Why give us any warning at all?” Patrick asked, not hiding his skepticism.

Martindale shrugged. “Leonov might be playing a weak hand to the best of his ability. After all, there’s no way in hell he could hope to hide a full-scale spaceplane development and flight test program. Not for very long, anyhow.”

“He hid the Energia heavy-lift rocket program from us for years,” Patrick pointed out quietly.

Martindale looked pained. “That’s not a mistake my Scion intelligence teams will make again.” He went on. “Anyway, maybe he just wants to make us sweat a little, while his engineers and scientists work on reverse-engineering Sky Masters technology, just like he did with our CID combat robots.”

Patrick winced. Learning that the Russians had successfully built their own robotic war machines, their Kiberneticheskiye Voyennyye Mashiny, had come at a terrible price — one that included thousands of dead American civilians, airmen, and sailors… and both of his beautiful new daughter-in-law’s legs. “Is there any evidence at all that Moscow has a serious spaceplane R&D program under way?”

Reluctantly, Martindale nodded. “For the past couple of months, my people inside Russia have been picking up rumors of something called Proyekt Zhar-Ptitsa, the Firebird Project.”

“Firebird,” Patrick said heavily.

“That is dismayingly suggestive,” Martindale agreed.

“So why is this the first time I’m hearing about it?” Patrick asked.

Martindale sighed. “Mostly because all I had were a few unsubstantiated bits of information, more random gossip than hard intelligence. Not anything worth sounding the alarm about, especially with Brad and Nadia’s wedding coming up.”

“And that’s changed recently?”

Martindale nodded. “My operatives have learned that, whatever this Firebird Project is, it involves some of the top aerospace engineers and designers from Sukhoi, Tupolev, and Mikoyan.” Those were the top Russian military aircraft manufacturers.

“Then we’d better make damned sure Sky Masters tightens up its security,” Patrick growled. “Because those LPDRS triple-hybrid engines it produces are the key component for any real spaceplane program.”

Martindale nodded his understanding. All the other elements needed to build a working single-stage-to-orbit spaceplane — hypersonic airframe designs, composite materials, advanced computer flight controls, and the like — were already readily available. So if the Russians ever got their hands on Sky Masters’ revolutionary engine technology, all bets were off. Moscow could have its own fleet of hypersonic aircraft and spacecraft flying within one or two years — completely upsetting the favorable balance of power the United States had so recently achieved.