The Kremlin Strike

Thirteen

President John Dalton Farrell let the satellite imagery displayed on the Situation Room’s large wall screen speak for itself. Hours ago, the pictures collected during routine passes over Plesetsk, Vostochny, and Baikonur had sent shock waves rippling through the federal government’s intelligence, defense, and space agencies — first among the analysts who interpreted them and then upward through level upon level of management. Now, finally, those shock waves had reached Washington’s top decision-making echelon, the president and his national security team.

He looked down the crowded table toward his secretary of state, Andrew Taliaferro. Shorter than Farrell by a head, the former congressman from North Carolina already had a good working knowledge of foreign affairs when he’d been tapped to run Foggy Bottom. Almost as important in the president’s eyes was Taliaferro’s reputation as a top-notch amateur poker player. The way Farrell saw it, anyone that skilled at reading other people under pressure ought to have a distinct advantage in diplomatic negotiations. “Well, Andy? Did you hear back from Moscow yet?”

“I spoke to Foreign Minister Titeneva an hour ago, Mr. President,” Taliaferro said. He snorted. “While she denied any personal knowledge of specific space program plans, the foreign minister assured me that the Russian Federation remains committed to the peaceful exploitation of outer space.”

“Basically, just the usual diplomatic boilerplate.”

Taliaferro nodded. “But Titeneva also sounded somewhat nervous to me. More than I would have expected, considering the way she’s backed all of Gryzlov’s aggressive moves from the moment he took office.”

Farrell raised an eyebrow. That was interesting… and worrying, too. As Russia’s chief diplomat, Daria Titeneva was famous for her uncompromising willingness to defend her leader’s actions — no matter how far they strayed outside diplomatic norms and the rule of international law. Her slashing verbal attacks on the United States, Poland, and other Western allies both in public forums like the UN Security Council and in private talks were equally notorious. So what did it mean if one of Gryzlov’s closest political allies — a woman even rumored to be his mistress — was so obviously on edge about whatever he was doing?

Frowning, Farrell glanced at his White House science adviser, Dr. Lawrence Dawson. “Any luck with Roscosmos, Lawrence?” Roscosmos was the government megacorporation in charge of Russia’s civilian space program.

“I reached out to Director Polikarpov,” the tall, rail-thin astrophysicist said dryly. “He was not very helpful. When I asked him why they were prepping so many space vehicles at one time, he claimed it was nothing more than random chance — the result of their new Energia program ramping up to the next phase of flight testing earlier than expected at the same time as other, older rockets were scheduled to carry replacement communications satellites into orbit.” He shook his head in disgust. “In my former academic life, I flunked many undergraduates who came to me with far more plausible excuses.”

Farrell shared his science adviser’s assessment. Polikarpov’s explanation had the distinctive odor of “the dog ate my homework” about it. He looked around the table and focused on the pragmatic, gray-haired woman he’d named to head the CIA. Unlike the incompetent but telegenic nonentity Stacy Anne Barbeau had foisted on Langley, Elizabeth Hildebrand was a talented, hardworking intelligence service professional with decades of experience in both analysis and operations. “Anything to add here, Liz?”

Hildebrand shrugged. “Not as much as I would like, Mr. President,” she admitted. “Our HUMINT networks inside Russia are virtually nonexistent at the moment. Until we can recruit new sources, which could take years, my analysts are largely dependent on what they can glean from satellites and signals intelligence — or even from trying to read between the lines in public news sources.”

Farrell nodded sympathetically. Even under competent leadership, HUMINT, or “human intelligence”—the art of recruiting and running agents — had never been the strongest suit of America’s different intelligence agencies. That was part of the reason he’d reached out to Kevin Martindale and Scion for help right after taking the oath of office. Nevertheless, he judged it would be useful to hear the CIA’s views. After all, even a blind squirrel could find a nut once in a while. “Taking that as a given,” he pressed her gently, “how do your people see this?”

“Their general view is that the Russians may be feeling pressured by the recent successes of our American private space enterprises — and also by your determination to bring the Sky Masters spaceplanes back into active service. The consensus is that Moscow is planning a space ‘spectacular’ of its own to capture the imagination of the world and the interest of potential commercial customers.”

“A spectacular,” Farrell repeated flatly. He nodded his chin at the satellite pictures still frozen on the Situation Room’s big screen. “Like firing off those seven rockets from three different launch complexes?”

“Quite possibly,” the CIA director agreed. “According to stories circulating in the trade press and on some of the more reliable space news blogs, the Russians hope to radically compress their historically slow development and test cycle for new space hardware — especially those Energia heavy-lift rockets and their advanced Federation crew capsule. Launching so many rockets in such a short time would also demonstrate their ability to outbuild and outfly NASA or any other potential Western competitor.” She shrugged. “Those reports do seem to match up with what our satellites are seeing.”

“Except that those stories are nothing but a combination of speculative bullshit and deliberate Russian disinformation,” a cool, hard-edged voice broke in abruptly from the back of the room.

Around the table, startled faces turned toward the man who’d spoken out so bluntly.

Farrell hid a grin. He’d been warned that Patrick McLanahan had both a flair for the dramatic and a take-no-prisoners attitude when it came to shredding arguments with which he disagreed. “Go on, General,” he said with a small nod. “What are we missing?”

His servos whining softly, Patrick stood up and stalked over to the screen. “You’re all forgetting just who you’re dealing with,” he said forcefully. “Gennadiy Gryzlov doesn’t give a damn about space commerce. He’s focused on one thing and one thing only: achieving global domination through overwhelming military superiority.”

“Relying so heavily on perceived motivations can be a risky exercise, General,” Elizabeth Hildebrand said carefully. “In the long run, it’s usually wiser to assess an opponent’s capabilities and go from there.”

“Sure. And that’s the other thing you’re missing,” Patrick said. He waved an exoskeleton-cradled hand at satellite photos on the screen. “Everyone’s fixated on the rockets waiting out on those launchpads. But those rockets don’t matter a damn. Not in the end. They’re just transportation. Their primary purpose is moving payload from the earth’s surface into orbit.” His expression was bleak. “Payload is what counts. And right now it sure as hell looks like Gryzlov is poised and ready to put four-hundred-plus tons of payload into low Earth orbit… all in only days or maybe even just hours.”

Farrell saw Lawrence Dawson’s eyes widen in amazement. “Four hundred tons of payload capacity,” the science adviser mused slowly. “That is extraordinary. It required roughly that much mass to build the old International Space Station.”

His observation drew low whistles of dismay from around the long table. It had taken dozens of separate rocket and space shuttle launches over more than a decade to assemble the ISS. Learning that the Russians might be able to replicate that grueling feat in a matter of days was sobering, to say the least.

Farrell felt cold suddenly. He turned to Patrick. “Isn’t that also about the same size as our old Armstrong military space station, the Silver Tower, General?”

Steadily, Patrick looked back at him. “Yes, sir. It is.” He shook his head. “And that’s what has me scared.”

For more than sixty years, the silence of the desert steppe around Baikonur had been broken periodically by the crackling roar of powerful rockets as they soared toward space — or by shattering explosions when launches failed. Built by the Soviet government at enormous expense and amid tight security, the huge Baikonur complex was a sprawling labyrinth of nine separate launch complexes, two airfields, and dozens of buildings dedicated to vehicle assembly and cryogenic fuels production. A network of five-foot-gauge industrial railroad tracks tied all these facilities together.

Seen from above, the soil around Baikonur was a colored patchwork of browns, off-whites, rusts, and pale ghostly blues. Toxic chemicals draining from thousands of spent rocket stages had stained them forever. Sunlight glittered off mounds of contaminated scrap metal.

Looking down from the twin-engine Mi-8 helicopter ferrying his six-man Mars One crew north from Krayniy Airport, Colonel Vadim Strelkov supposed he should see some bitter irony in the desolation wrought here by man’s efforts to escape the very planet that had given birth to humanity. As it was, he only felt impatient to arrive at their destination. They were heading for Baikonur pad LC-1, called “Gagarin’s Start” because Yuri Gagarin’s historic first manned space flight had lifted off from there sixty years before.

Leave irony to the poets, he thought. They had time to waste on nonessentials. He had none.

Strelkov and his five crewmen were traveling under false identities. Their papers and passports identified them as “technical observers” from Roscosmos, Russia’s civilian space agency. As far as the cosmodrome’s Kazakh landlords were concerned, they were here solely to monitor the first test flight of the new Federation orbiter. By the time they learned otherwise, it would be too late. Strelkov and his cosmonauts would be safely in space, far beyond the reach of any earthbound authority.

Or dead, he reminded himself coldly.

True, the Federation spacecraft was a beautifully designed machine. But like any highly complex device, the orbiter depended on the perfect functioning of tens of thousands of interconnected mechanical parts and electronic systems. If too many of them failed under the stress of launch or on exposure to the hostile environment of space, what had been a working spacecraft would instead become one of humanity’s most expensive coffins.

Following in Gagarin’s footsteps, Russian cosmonauts had developed a host of elaborate superstitious traditions to allay their fears — doing everything from planting trees and signing hotel doors to taking a piss against the back tires of the bus that brought them to the launch site. Unfortunately, Strelkov and his crew could not take solace in those customary protections against accident or bad luck before their own lift-off. The need to keep their mission secret was paramount, outweighing everything else. They would have to fly naked before the Fates.

With effort, the colonel pushed aside these sudden gloomy thoughts. One side of his taut face twitched in a crooked smile. What would be would be. Perhaps not quite as the Allah of the Arabs willed, but just as certainly as decreed by Gennadiy Gryzlov of the Russians.

Where it counted, he knew Colonel General Leonov shared his private concerns about this sudden rush to make the Mars Project operational ahead of schedule. Ultimately, though, none of that mattered. Both of them were patriots and dedicated soldiers. So both of them would obey their orders — no matter what the cost.

Through his headphones Strelkov heard the copilot conversing with Baikonur ground security, exchanging code letters gleaned from a codebook that was updated daily. When the interchange ended, the copilot reported on intercom, “Pad LC-1 in sight, Colonel. We have been cleared for approach.”

Intently, Strelkov peered forward through the cockpit windscreen. There, only a few kilometers off, he could see the Soyuz-5 rocket that would carry them into orbit — a slender, sixty-meter-high spire of gray, orange, and white gleaming brightly under the harsh desert sun. For now, it was restrained in a web of gantries, fueling towers, and other support structures.

Closing fast, the helicopter veered away from the launchpad itself. Instead, it headed toward a nearby collection of buildings and settled lower in a swirling cloud of rotor-blown dust and sand. Through the sudden haze, the colonel could make out several small trailers nestled in among a grove of scraggly trees. Those trailers would serve as their temporary quarters during the last remaining hours before launch, he realized. Their support team from Star City should already be inside, checking over both the Sokol pressure suits they would wear during the ride into orbit and the bulkier Orlan-MK suits they would use during EVAs outside Mars One.

Gratefully, Strelkov felt his nerves beginning to settle. Perhaps it was time to discard old superstitions and old ways of doing things, he realized. Like Yuri Gagarin, he and his men were pioneers. But unlike Gagarin, if they were successful, their mission would forever alter the balance of power between the United States and Russia.