The Kremlin Strike

Twenty-Five

Nearly six hundred nautical miles due east of Hokkaido, the northernmost of Japan’s main islands, a scorched and seared ERO shell bobbed up and down — rising and falling as it crested waves rolling ever onward toward distant shores. Some yards off, its large red-and-white parachute, now cut loose and already waterlogged, drifted slowly away on the current.

Clumsily, a tall, lanky man wearing a space suit wriggled his head and shoulders out through the opening left by the detached parachute. Still shaken up by the rough, high-G ride through the atmosphere and hard splashdown, he cracked open the visor of his helmet and dragged in a few shuddering breaths of fresh air. The wind shifted slightly, bringing with it the acrid, charred smell of Nomex cloth and polyimide-based aerogels. Gagging, he leaned over the edge of the shell and vomited into the choppy sea.

“Geez, Hunter, stick to the kiddie rides from now on,” Boomer muttered to himself. He coughed, winced at the taste in his mouth, and threw up again. “Leave the roller coasters to the grown-ups.”

For several minutes, he lay half folded up across the rocking ERO shell — feeling drained, sick to his stomach, and yet amazed and grateful to be alive. By rights, he should be dead, killed by any one of a thousand things that could have gone wrong during his wild ride down from orbit. Whenever a larger wave slapped into the half-submerged shell, the impact sent pain shooting through every part of his body. All his muscles and joints ached. He felt like he’d just run a marathon… while spectators bashed him with clubs and baseball bats. Considered rationally, he figured that wasn’t too surprising, since he’d probably pulled around seven and maybe even eight Gs during some parts of the descent.

The clatter of a helicopter drawing closer broke into Boomer’s dazed thoughts. Blearily, he raised his head to look up. A white-and-yellow UH-60J Seahawk swept across the waves at low altitude — undoubtedly homing in on the emergency radio beacon he’d activated the moment he splashed down. Beyond the helicopter, he could make out the long, sleek shape of a warship as it steamed toward his position at high speed. The Rising Sun ensign of Japan’s Maritime Self-Defense Force streamed proudly from its mast.

Later, safely aboard the Atago-class destroyer Ashigara, Boomer took the headset offered by the ship’s communications officer. Unsure of the formalities, he bowed slightly. “Dōmo… er, arigatōgozaimashita. Thank you very much.”

The Japanese naval lieutenant grinned back at him. “No sweat,” he answered in flawless, colloquial English. He spoke into his own mike. “Wait one, Washington. I have Dr. Noble standing by.”

Feeling sheepish, Boomer donned the headset. “This is Hunter Noble. Go ahead.”

“I’m really glad to hear your voice, Boomer,” Patrick McLanahan said. They were on an encrypted satellite radio link between the Ashigara and the White House. “Are you okay?”

Boomer shrugged. And then winced as his battered muscles protested. “I’m fine, General,” he said. “Just a little banged up and bruised is all. My hosts gave me a head-to-toe exam almost as soon as they hoisted me on board. And I’ve got a clean bill of health from the ship’s medical officer.”

“Good,” the older McLanahan replied after a short pause. “Because we’ve asked the Japanese to fly you to shore ASAP. We’ll have a jet standing by to bring you back to the States for a mission debrief.”

“Yes, sir.” Boomer nodded tightly. It made sense for him to walk them through his side of this disaster while it was still relatively fresh in his mind. But that wouldn’t make the process any more pleasant. He’d better try to grab some decent shut-eye on the flight home, because that might be his last real chance for a long time. He frowned. “Look, do you guys know yet what the hell hit us up there?”

“We have a working hypothesis,” Patrick said quietly. “That’s part of what we want to go over with you.”

“Well, Brad got a closer look at that Russian space station and its armament than I did.” Boomer grinned wryly. “And knowing your kid as well as I do, sir, I bet he’s already worked up a few theories of his own. Some of them may even be in the right ballpark.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence on the other end.

Oh, shit, Boomer thought. He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling nauseous again. “Jesus, General. Brad did make it down okay, didn’t he?”

“We don’t know,” the older McLanahan said at last. “His emergency radio beacon did activate. But then it went dead after just a couple of minutes.” Now his voice openly betrayed the deep anxiety he felt. “We are sure of one thing, though, Boomer. Even if Brad survived reentry, he is still in very grave danger.”

Colonel Vadim Strelkov listened intently to the instructions Leonov was issuing. Through the inevitable visual and audio distortions created when an encrypted signal bounced through a network of communications satellites, it was clear that the other man had misgivings about the president’s command to commence full-scale offensive operations now — before they were fully ready. For what it was worth, he shared those reservations. But orders were orders, and neither of them was in any real position to disobey Gennadiy Gryzlov.

“I understand, sir,” he said. “You can count on us to do our duty.”

Leonov nodded gravely. “I am well aware of that, Vadim.” He looked closely into the screen, obviously studying Strelkov’s demeanor. “Maintain your station’s defenses at the highest possible effectiveness, even when conducting an attack. I do not believe the Americans will give up so easily.”

“Yes, sir. We will be watchful,” Strelkov assured him.

“Then get to work, Colonel,” Leonov said laconically. “Moscow Control out.”

The screen blanked.

For a moment longer, Strelkov floated in front of his console, considering his options. Leonov’s suggested precautions were justified. Without the massive amounts of electric power their lost fusion reactor would have provided, his most sensible course was to maintain a deliberate, carefully regulated tempo of attacks — conserving as much of their stored battery and supercapacitor energy as possible. Most obviously, that meant he and his cosmonauts should fire their Thunderbolt plasma rail gun offensively only when Mars One was in full sunlight and its solar arrays could recharge the weapon efficiently.

At last, he nodded to himself. The tactical situation might not be ideal, but any commander who dreamed that real war would match his picture-perfect plans was a simpleton. And when it mattered most, his crew and the station’s weapons systems had passed the test of actual combat with flying colors.

Strelkov pushed the intercom control on his console. “Attention, all crew,” he said calmly. “This is Command. Prepare for offensive operations. Repeat, prepare for offensive operations. Report when ready.”

One by one, the other five cosmonauts confirmed their readiness. Except for Konnikov, their duty posts were in other compartments scattered throughout Mars One. That made it more difficult for him to judge their demeanor under pressure. Nevertheless, the cool professionalism he heard in their voices now was reassuring — a stark contrast to the undercurrent of panic he’d sensed during their frenetic, no-notice, short-range engagement against the American S-19 Midnight spaceplane and its stealth weapons.

Satisfied, Strelkov rotated toward Konnikov. “Time to the solar terminator, Georgy?”

The younger man checked his computer. “We will be in sunlight for another seventeen minutes, sir.”

“Very well,” Strelkov acknowledged. They had enough time to conduct at least one Thunderbolt attack before Mars One crossed back into darkness on its orbit around the earth. He opened a circuit to Major Pyotr Romanenko. “Solar array status?”

“We are currently generating seventy-two kilowatts,” the engineering officer reported. “All surplus capacity is on standby to recharge Thunderbolt’s supercapacitors.”

Strelkov pulled up their targeting list on one of his console displays. It was a compilation of all known military and civilian satellites whose orbits lay within reach of Mars One’s main armament. It took only seconds to winnow the list down to those currently in range. He highlighted one of them, already identified by the planners in Moscow as a top-priority target, and relayed it to Konnikov. “Georgy, designate Topaz-Four as target Alpha-One.”

The sensor officer entered the necessary information with unruffled precision. “Target Alpha-One is designated, sir.” He opened a new window. “Our secure data link to the Altai Optical-Laser Center is open. Confirming Alpha-One’s current orbital parameters now.”

Sited high in the Altai Mountains a few hundred kilometers south of Novosibirsk, the center’s powerful one-hundred-ton telescope was a key component in Russia’s optical space tracking network. Its constantly updated databases included observations of hundreds of satellites as their orbits brought them within view. Cross-checking them against computer predictions based on earlier observations would reveal if a given satellite had recently altered its orbit… and if so, what its new parameters were. Absolute accuracy was essential for a weapon firing on rapidly moving targets at very long ranges.

“Alpha-One’s orbit confirmed,” Konnikov reported. “Transferring tracking data to Thunderbolt’s fire-control computer.”

“Tracking data received,” Major Viktor Filatyev said from his station in the aft weapons module. “I have a firing solution.”

Strelkov nodded to himself. It seemed odd to open a new era in the history of warfare so prosaically, with so little fanfare or drama. Then again, perhaps that was fitting. After all, this would be a conflict fought by machines against other machines at vast ranges, with none of the carnage and chaos of close physical combat. “Weapons release granted,” he said simply.

“Firing Thunderbolt… now,” Filatyev announced.

Mars One shuddered slightly. Maneuvering thrusters aboard their docked Progress cargo ships and Federation orbiter had fired simultaneously to counteract the recoil from their plasma rail gun.

Two thousand kilometers away and two-tenths of a second later, Topaz-Four, one of America’s most advanced radar reconnaissance satellites, glowed brightly — eerily wreathed in lightning. Shedding antennas, thruster cones, sections of fractured solar panels, and other fragments, the wrecked satellite spun away into space.

“Good hit. Altai Center confirms a kill on target Alpha-One,” Konnikov said, with a grin. He checked their ground track again. “Time to solar terminator now twelve minutes and thirty seconds.”

Strelkov felt himself relax. Despite his earlier show of confidence, and their destruction of the American spaceplane, he had never been completely sure Thunderbolt could actually engage and destroy targets at the ranges its creators promised. “Good shooting, Viktor,” he told Filatyev. “Stand by for a new target.”

Mars One was now officially at war.

Clenching his teeth against stabs of pain from his much-abused muscles and joints, Brad McLanahan dumped a last armful of torn brush on top of a shallow mound of dirt, rocks, and clumps of moss. He’d spent the past half hour frantically burying his bright red-and-white parachute, silver carbon-fiber space suit, helmet, emergency radio beacon, and white life-support backpack, using just his left arm because it sure felt like his right shoulder might be dislocated.

Straightening up, he dusted off his hand and stepped back a few feet to survey his work with a critical eye. There was zero chance it would fool anyone up close, he decided. But his improvised cache should hide the gear he’d just ditched from anyone hunting him from the air… and that seemed the most immediate threat.

Brad swung around and checked the other side of the small woodland clearing he’d landed in. The most he’d been able to do over there was drag the blackened, six-foot-diameter aerogel ERO shell off into a thick stand of young spruce trees. Their overhanging branches ought to break up its silhouette. Maybe, he thought doubtfully. With some luck. Then again, he’d been pushing his luck pretty hard over the past several hours. How much further could it possibly carry him?

While chewing that over in his mind, he mopped at his sweaty forehead with a sleeve of his coverall. This outer garment he’d worn over his space suit wasn’t exactly designed for hard manual labor on the ground. Or for trekking through what sure looked a lot like an uninhabited wilderness — a landscape of scattered woods, grassy meadows, boulder-strewn rises, and reed-choked bogs.

Brad shook his head in mild dismay. This was not going to be fun. Damn it, he’d signed on with Sky Masters and Scion to fly… not to go crawling around in swamps and forests like some U.S. Army grunt. Then he grinned wryly, imagining Nadia’s reaction if she heard him whining like this. She’d probably kick his ass all the way from here — wherever here was — to Battle Mountain. Besides, what was that old line? “If you can’t take a joke, you shouldn’t have joined up.”

Well, at least his footgear, a pair of black leather zippered paratrooper boots, was appropriate for the task in front of him. Plus, Sky Masters had included a lightweight pouch with SERE — Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape — supplies with the ERO kit. The water-purification tablets and protein bars it contained should keep him from dying of thirst or starving to death… at least for a few days.

Maybe even more important, the survival kit included a compact satellite phone with some additional capabilities — rudimentary language translation and digital map software — built in. Limited battery power meant he’d have to carefully ration its use… but at least he might be able to call for help.

But not right now. Like cell phones, satellite phones could be tracked through their GPS receivers. And if hostiles had monitored his flaming descent through the upper atmosphere or spotted the ERO’s big parachute when it opened at thirty thousand feet, this whole area was likely to get unhealthy mighty fast. He’d do better to cover as much ground as he could before the light failed. “Phoning home” would have to wait until he could find someplace reasonably safe to hole up in.

Brad used a parachute riser cord he had collected before he buried the parachute to rig up a sling for his right arm. Some other injury was causing some intense pain in his right knee, but at least he could walk. Resolutely, he slung the SERE pouch over his left shoulder and started hiking east — heading deeper into the cover offered by the forest. Behind him, the waters of a large lake glinted in the early-afternoon sun.

Half a mile from the clearing he’d crash-landed in, he struggled through a thicket of dwarf birch trees and unexpectedly emerged onto a narrow dirt road running north and south through the forest. The road’s surface was deeply rutted, indicating that it was at least occasionally used by heavy wheeled vehicles. It was probably a logging trail, he thought.

Still, any road was a sign there might be people living or working close by. And stumbling into them could mean big trouble for him.

Careful to avoid making any sudden moves that might draw even more attention, Brad slowly backed a few feet into the thicket. Once he was in some cover, he squatted down. From this position, he spent several minutes studying the road and the woods on the other side. Nothing moved. At least nothing he could see. Everything seemed quiet.

About twenty yards up the road, he spotted what looked like a rusting metal sign nailed to a tree. Cautiously, he moved forward to examine it.

It was written in the Cyrillic alphabet: oрджиканский государственный природный заповедник.

Dry-mouthed, Brad ran that through his satellite phone’s software. It seemed worth the risk to get a fix on his location. A translation blinked onto the tiny screen, along with a digital map that highlighted “the Oldjikan State Nature Reserve.”

“Yeah, that answers my question,” Brad growled under his breath as he stared at the map. “I am so well and truly fucked.”

The good news was that he’d survived the totally insane stunt of plunging four hundred miles down from orbit aboard a completely untested, foam-filled escape pod. The bad news was that he’d landed in Russia’s far east region… just three hundred and fifty miles from the Vostochny Cosmodrome.