The Kremlin Strike

Twenty-Nine

Through narrowed eyes, Gennadiy Gryzlov studied the faces of his closest military, intelligence, and foreign policy advisers. As usual, he could sense the aura of unease emanating from most of them. Cowards and do-nothing bureaucrats, he thought contemptuously. Left on their own, without the lash of his own fierce will to drive them, they were useless, a pack of timid, time-serving drones whose fear of the Americans was only slightly outweighed by their fear of him. Only Mikhail Leonov and Daria Titeneva showed any real courage… and even those two were still far too prone to see the possible dangers of any action more clearly than its potential rewards.

His lip curled in disgust. It might be time soon to purge most of these incompetents. If so, the ensuing trials, imprisonments, and executions should teach a salutary lesson to their successors: while he ruled this country, anyone who failed to act aggressively in Russia’s interests was as much a traitor as anyone who actively conspired with enemies of the state.

Gryzlov shrugged inwardly. Winnowing the chaff from his national security team could wait a while longer — at least until the strategic situation in outer space and on Earth was more settled. Thus far, at least, the Americans were reacting with surprising meekness to the ongoing destruction of their military space infrastructure. Apart from a single failed attempt to shoot down Mars One with a handful of missile defense interceptors, the United States had done nothing. Honestly, he had expected a much stronger response from Farrell after all the man’s superficial bluster and tough talk. Instead, the Texan appeared to be just as weak and ineffectual as his predecessor, Barbeau. In his own native idiom, he was “all hat and no cattle.”

Still, there were some Americans who had proved themselves to be very dangerous enemies all too often in the past — Martindale, McLanahan, and their Scion and Sky Masters mercenaries. He was sure they were plotting something. It was for that reason he’d demanded such close GRU surveillance of their spaceplane base at Battle Mountain. Unfortunately, he thought icily, as usual, poor, bumbling Viktor Kazyanov had little light to shed on the subject.

“Our intelligence agents in Nevada have been forced to go to ground,” the minister of state security admitted reluctantly. His face was pale. “Over the past forty-eight hours, security around Sky Masters facilities has been considerably strengthened. The Americans have established a strong cordon of armed corporate security guards, local and state police, and federal agents. According to the GRU, any further attempts to penetrate this cordon would only result in the exposure and capture of our officers.”

Gryzlov scowled. In and of itself, this heightened security was revealing. McLanahan and Russia’s other adversaries must be going crazy trying to come up with a way to attack Mars One with their remaining spaceplanes. He turned to Leonov. “Now that Kazyanov’s spies have proved worthless, what about our own reconnaissance satellites? Have they spotted any unusual activity at this base?”

“Not thus far,” Leonov said. “Our Razdan and Persona satellites have made several passes over the Battle Mountain area since we destroyed the S-19 Midnight. None of their pictures show any of the remaining spaceplanes. This suggests Sky Masters has moved them from the flight line back into hangars to hide them from our view.”

“But you don’t have continuous coverage of this area,” Gryzlov pointed out sharply. “Those spaceplanes could be landing and taking off undetected whenever our spy satellites aren’t within range.”

Leonov nodded. “That is possible. But if so, they are not going into space. Our EKS ballistic-missile warning satellites will pick up any launch headed outside the earth’s atmosphere.”

“At which point, it might be too late!”

“So long as Colonel Strelkov and his cosmonauts remain vigilant, no space weapon in the current American arsenal poses a serious threat to Mars One,” Leonov said. “This will be even more true once our new reactor is connected and running.”

“No weapon that we know of now,” Gryzlov said sourly. “We have been surprised before… and never pleasantly.” His expression turned murderous. “It may be time to end any possible threat from Sky Masters once and for all.”

Leonov looked surprised. “By what means?”

Gryzlov shrugged. “Two or three of our Rapira hypersonic missiles fired from orbit at Battle Mountain should do the job. Those spaceplanes won’t be any threat if they’re blown to smithereens.”

He hid a smile at the looks of horror triggered by this seemingly offhand suggestion. From their expressions, he might as well have suggested bombing the White House or Buckingham Palace.

“I would strongly recommend against such a move,” Daria Titeneva said carefully. “So far, our military operations have been confined to space, in a limited war that we are winning with ease. Suddenly attacking a crucial target inside the continental United States itself could easily provoke a massive escalation in this conflict — one that might lead to uncontrolled nuclear war.”

Leonov nodded. “The foreign minister is right, Mr. President,” he argued. “And with only one Mars-class station in orbit, we do not yet have the ability to intercept a significant retaliatory strike launched by their ballistic-missile submarines. Later, once we’ve put additional platforms into space, we will have more options. But for now, the game is not worth the candle.”

Caution, caution, always caution, Gryzlov thought caustically. Though in this case, he realized, Leonov and Titeneva’s advice was probably sensible. Tempting though it was, an orbital missile strike against Sky Masters now might frighten even Farrell into believing he faced the nightmare scenario of all nuclear war planners — the moment where you either had to launch your missiles or risk losing them to an unstoppable enemy attack.

No, he decided, it was better to stretch out the pretense that Russia had only limited aims in this conflict — control over low Earth orbit — for as long as possible. And if Sky Masters actually launched another attack on Mars One using its spaceplanes? Then all bets would be off… and destroying Battle Mountain from orbit would be a justifiable act of war.

“Very well,” Gryzlov said curtly. “We’ll hold off for the moment.” He motioned for Leonov to continue. “What else do you have to report, Mikhail?”

“Our satellites have spotted increased activity at the U.S. Air Force space launch complex at Vandenberg,” Leonov told him. “My analysts believe the Americans are preparing one of their Delta IV Heavy rockets for lift-off sometime soon. They might be planning to send up replacements for some of the satellites we’ve already destroyed.”

Gryzlov smiled thinly. “Which would be futile.”

Leonov nodded. “Sooner or later, the orbits of those new satellites would bring them within firing range of Mars One. The Americans might regain some limited reconnaissance capability for a few days, but only at great cost.”

That much was true, Gryzlov knew. By itself, launching a single Delta IV Heavy cost several hundred million dollars. Add in the cost of the satellites it carried, and the final price tag would soar into the billions. Not even the Americans could afford to be so profligate forever. Besides, even if they were prepared to throw away that much money for so little purpose, the simple reality was they would run out of replacement spy satellites very soon. Sophisticated spacecraft like the Topaz radar and KH-11 photoreconnaissance satellites could not be mass-produced. Building them required months and often years of painstaking precision work.

With Mars One already circling the world every ninety-seven minutes, poised to shoot down anything headed beyond the atmosphere, this was a space race the United States could not possibly win.

Already, the effects of Russia’s surprise offensive actions in orbit were spreading fast, far beyond the purely military sphere. Previously scheduled commercial rocket launches from Kennedy Space Center and the European Space Agency’s French Guiana launch site had been delayed indefinitely. There were signs of panic in Western stock exchanges as investors and economists tried frantically to calculate the possible repercussions of Russian control over outer space. The same thing was happening in the Asian markets — despite Gryzlov’s public promises to People’s Republic of China president Zhou Qiang that Mars One’s weapons were not a threat to the PRC’s own spacecraft and satellites.

Gryzlov smiled cynically. It seemed that Chinese investors were a better judge of his own trustworthiness than their leaders. Then again, what could Beijing’s rulers do, even if they suspected Moscow had no real intention of honoring its commitments in the long run? Once someone had a knife at your throat, it was already too late.

He looked across the table at Gregor Sokolov, the minister of defense. “Well, Gregor? Are the Americans making any threatening new military moves?”

“Their conventional and nuclear forces remain on a heightened state of alert, the one they call DEFCON Three,” Sokolov said. “But this level has not increased significantly in the past forty-eight hours.”

“Except that virtually all U.S. ballistic-missile submarines are now at sea,” Leonov said dryly.

Gryzlov shrugged his shoulders. “That’s merely a political move, a small gesture of defiance by Farrell. Ultimately, it changes nothing.” He turned back to Sokolov. “Is that it?”

“Most American air, ground, and naval forces remain at their normal peacetime stations,” Sokolov replied slowly. He hesitated for a moment — plainly reluctant to go on. “With one possible exception.”

Gryzlov frowned. “Which is?”

“Approximately twenty-four hours ago, the U.S. Navy’s Ronald Reagan carrier strike group, which had been conducting previously scheduled training exercises in the Western Pacific, off the Taiwanese coast, suddenly altered its course. It is now steaming north, toward Japan.”

“Japan? Why head there?” Gryzlov demanded.

Leonov leaned forward, suddenly looking pensive. “Washington may be positioning military assets for a possible strike against the Vostochny Cosmodrome,” he said. “If the Americans are planning a retaliatory attack against our space launch assets, it is the logical target.”

Gryzlov stared at him. “Vostochny must be well over a thousand kilometers from Japan. That’s beyond the range of a carrier strike force, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Leonov agreed. “Even using long-range cruise missiles, carrier-based aircraft would be hard-pressed to attack the complex.”

“Then where is the threat?”

“The Reagan’s aircraft could be used to breach our outer defenses in the far east region,” Leonov speculated. “That would open a path for a deep penetration raid by America’s remaining heavy bombers.”

“Six B-2 Spirit stealth bombers and a handful of refurbished B-1 Lancers?” Gryzlov scoffed. “What could they accomplish against Vostochny’s defenses?”

“It would probably be a suicide mission,” Leonov agreed carefully. “We have a full regiment of S-500 SAMs guarding the space center itself.” His jaw tightened. “But I remind you that even a single bomb or missile hit scored against a spacecraft ready for launch would be catastrophic.”

Gryzlov saw what he was driving at. The Energia-5VR heavy-lift rocket being assembled at Vostochny was the one slated to ferry Mars One’s replacement reactor into orbit in just a few short days. If American bombers hit the launch complex and destroyed the Energia and its priceless payload on the pad, Russia’s space station would remain dangerously vulnerable for months.

“Listen to me closely, Mikhail,” he said coldly. “You will prevent such a disaster.”

Leonov nodded. “I will put my forces on the highest possible alert. If the Americans do attack, their aircraft and missiles will be shot out of the sky.”

“For your sake, I hope this show of confidence is justified,” Gryzlov said bluntly. “Do not forget that others have failed to keep similar promises to me… and regretted it for the rest of their short and pain-filled lives.”

With his boots held above his head in his left hand to keep them dry, Brad McLanahan waded cautiously across a shallow, muddy creek choked with reeds. Huge mosquitoes rose in swarms on all sides — buzzing noisily past his face. He grimaced. With his right arm in its improvised sling, he couldn’t even swat at the ones that came swooping in, hungry for his blood.

“Wonderful, just wonderful. Join Sky Masters and see the festering armpits of the world,” he spat out through clenched teeth. The air was thick with the stench of rotting vegetation.

On the other side of the creek, Brad grabbed at an overhanging branch and hauled himself back up onto drier land, his left arm shaking with fatigue and his right leg threatening to give out at any second. Despite the discomfort involved in walking barefoot through the tall grass and rocky soil, he resisted the temptation to put his boots back on right away. The last thing he needed right now was a case of trench foot, with its attendant blisters and painful skin infections.

Slowly, he toiled up a low rise and worked his way into the cover of a copse of trees. Time for a short breather, he decided. Once his feet dried off, he should be able to make better time.

When he drew near the top of the little ridge, Brad stopped and slumped down. He propped his back up against a tree trunk for support. Bone-weary as he was, lying down was a surefire recipe for falling asleep. Then, noticing that his mouth felt dry, he took out his canteen and swigged a quick drink.

He recapped the canteen and put it away. At least the purification tablets included in his SERE kit ensured he wasn’t short of potable water. Food was another matter. His stomach growled softly. The need to ration his limited stock of protein bars meant he was already running a serious calorie deficit. Ideally, he would have been able to hunt, fish, and forage to supplement his emergency supplies. But that wasn’t possible — not when he still had so much ground to cover before it grew too dark to travel safely.

Exhausted, Brad bent his head and focused on controlling his breathing. With every passing hour, he was growing more footsore and hungry. To avoid being spotted, he’d been forced to fight his way through the worst and most rugged sections of this seemingly empty countryside. The need to detour around clearings and patches of more open woodland added miles to his journey.

In some ways, the worst part was knowing that he was being deliberately kept in the dark about the details of any plans to rescue him. Intellectually, he understood the need for tight security. After all, what he didn’t know he couldn’t spill if the Russians caught him. Still, it was frustrating. And, as tired as he was, frustration felt dangerously close to despair.

The instructions Brad had been given were both clear as crystal and as murky as the bottom of that stream he’d just crossed. On first hearing, they’d seemed simple enough: Head southeast toward a set of map coordinates. And at all costs, reach those coordinates within seventy-two hours. But what he didn’t know, and the Scion agents on the other end of his satellite phone connection would not tell him, was why this was so important. Did that X on the phone’s digital map mark the end of this long trek, the place where someone would be waiting to help him out of this godforsaken country? Or was it only a waypoint on an even longer journey?

Well, Brad told himself grimly, there was only one sure way to find out. He would just have to get off his lazy ass and soldier on. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he tugged the paratrooper boots over his swollen feet, pushed himself back upright, and started walking again.