The Kremlin Strike

Forty

President John D. Farrell watched the secure video to Moscow go live, revealing Gennadiy Gryzlov seated at his own desk. His jaw tightened when he saw the sly, self-satisfied smile on the Russian leader’s chiseled face. “Now you listen here, you…”

“I do not have to listen to anything,” Gryzlov said bluntly. “This is not a conversation, Farrell. We have nothing to discuss.” He leaned forward. “I have been patient with you, but my patience is at an end. I will no longer tolerate foolishness.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Farrell asked coldly.

“Let me be very clear, so that no more lives will be lost through your idiocy. Further American attacks against my country — in the air, on the ground, at sea, or in space — will be met with overwhelming and unstoppable missile strikes from orbit. Nothing will be safe. No American military base. No vital infrastructure.” Gryzlov’s voice hardened. “Not even the White House itself.” Then, before Farrell could reply, he reached out and cut the connection.

The screen went black.

“Well, that went well,” Kevin Martindale said quietly. The head of Scion had been seated off-camera during the brief call.

Farrell snorted. “About as well as could be expected.” He nodded toward the blank screen. “That Russian son of a bitch thinks he’s sitting in the catbird seat.”

“He’s not far wrong.”

“No, he’s not,” Farrell agreed bitterly. “Besides killing a bunch of our sailors and Japanese civilians and blowing the shit out of Carrier Strike Group Five’s ammo resupply, sinking the Amelia Earhart just showed the whole world that no one’s safe. The Russians can hit virtually any target they want from orbit… and we can’t do a damned thing to stop them.”

He steepled his hands. “As long as Gryzlov has that space station and its weapons hanging over our heads, we’re screwed. The Pentagon’s run the numbers. No antimissile system in our existing arsenal has a shot in hell at stopping that Rapier warhead of theirs. Not when we’re likely to have less than two minutes warning of any attack.”

Martindale frowned. “Sky Masters has certain weapons under development that might do the job — battlefield lasers, hypersonic interceptors, and the like. Unfortunately, they’re not yet ready for deployment.” He looked up. “Our Cybernetic Infantry Devices might be able to shoot down one of those incoming warheads using their electromagnetic rail guns. While I imagine the odds of success would be very low, they’d still be better than nothing.”

“And how many operational CIDs are there currently?” Farrell asked.

“Just six,” Martindale admitted. “Three in Poland with the Iron Wolf Squadron and three more at Battle Mountain. We were able to repair one of the machines damaged during the fight with Gryzlov’s KVMs last year. The other two are new construction.”

Farrell nodded grimly. “That’s about what I thought,” he said. “Six CIDs divided among thousands of potential targets around the world isn’t exactly going to cut it.”

“Not really,” Martindale said heavily. “Which leaves us… where?”

“In a world of hurt.” Farrell got up from behind his desk and turned to look out the Oval Office windows. For once, the sky over Washington was a deep, rich blue, without a single cloud to break its perfection. “As a precaution, I’ve ordered the vice president to board one of our E-4B command posts and get airborne.” He checked his watch. “By now, Tom and his national security team should be orbiting somewhere over the Midwest at forty thousand feet.”

Martindale nodded. That was a sensible move. E-4Bs were Boeing 747-200s converted into strategic command and control aircraft. Constant air-to-air refueling enabled the large four-engine jets to remain aloft for a week or more. Putting the vice president out of harm’s way aboard one of the National Airborne Operations Centers at least made sure that Gryzlov could not carry out a successful decapitation strike against the United States.

And if necessary, Vice President Thomas Knox and the battle staff aboard that U.S. Air Force mobile command post could pick up the reins and carry on. It helped that Farrell had picked his running mate for more reasons than just the votes he could help swing. Knox, a popular former senator and onetime chairman of both the Senate Armed Services and Intelligence Committees, brought a wealth of institutional knowledge and experience to the job. He was the slick, smooth insider to Farrell’s rugged outsider… and they’d made a very effective team so far.

Farrell turned away from the windows. “One thing’s sure. I’m damned tired of playing defense. That’s a sucker’s game in the long run.” He looked toward Martindale. “We need a plan to take out Mars One. And we need it fast.”

“Patrick’s working up some ideas now,” Martindale promised.

“Good.” Farrell sat back down. “I’m convening an emergency national security meeting tomorrow afternoon. Admiral Firestone and the rest of the JCS have been crafting their own plans to attack that space station. I want you and General McLanahan — and anyone else from Battle Mountain you think necessary — in on that meeting.”

Somberly, Martindale nodded. “We’ll be there, Mr. President.”

Hunter Noble knocked on the open door of Brad McLanahan’s room and then cautiously poked his head inside. “Anyone conscious in here?”

“Maybe not bright-eyed, but definitely conscious,” Brad said from a wheelchair parked by the bed. He looked thinner, still had his right arm in a sling, and wore a compress around his elevated right knee. He had a walking cane perched across his lap.

Nadia Rozek looked up from the travel bag she was packing. She nodded to the visitor with a slight smile. “Hello, Boomer.”

“Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

“I negotiated a plea bargain for you on the flight home from Japan,” Brad told him dryly. After crossing the Kuril island barrier safely, Peter Vasey and Nadia had flown the Ranger south to Chitose Air Base on Hokkaido. Martindale had one of his fastest private executive jets, a Gulfstream G500, waiting there to bring the XCV-62’s flight crew and passengers back to the States. “You have her permission to save our lives again as necessary… but you’ve got to promise not to scare the crap out of her by showing up unannounced in some new super-secret armed spaceplane next time.”

“It’s a deal,” Boomer said gratefully. He shrugged. “In my defense, I didn’t learn Martindale actually built that S-29B until after everybody had already left for Attu.”

“We figured as much,” Brad assured him.

Boomer glanced back down the hall. “Speaking of secrets, what’d you tell the doctors here?”

“The official story is that I got hurt skydiving.”

“That’s close enough to the truth, I guess,” Boomer acknowledged. “For a certain definition of ‘sky,’ anyway.” He waved a hand at the wheelchair. “So what’s the deal with that? Shouldn’t you be resting comfortably in bed?”

Nadia zipped the bag shut. “We are busting Brad out of this Popsicle joint.”

Boomer stared at the two of them. “Come again?”

She frowned. “Did I not use the proper idioms?”

“No, that’s not it,” Boomer said. He turned to Brad. “It’s just that I thought you had a dislocated shoulder.”

Brad’s mouth twitched into a wry smile. “Yeah, I did, for probably about twenty minutes.”

“Huh?”

“My best guess is the shock when my ERO parachute opened at thirty thousand feet yanked my right shoulder partially out of its socket.” Brad winced, remembering the sudden, intense spasm of pain he’d felt. He’d definitely blacked out for some amount of time, coming to not far above the ground. “But then my hard landing must have slammed it back into place.”

“Holy shit,” Boomer muttered. “I bet that’s not a medically recommended procedure.”

“It is not,” Nadia said quietly. “Fortunately, there were no serious complications. While it will take weeks of physical therapy for Brad to regain his full strength with that shoulder, no additional surgery is required.”

“And the knee?” Boomer asked.

“It’s badly sprained, but no ligaments are torn,” Brad told him. He smiled crookedly again. “I got lucky. Though the nurses gave me hell for not following the whole RICE — rest, ice, compression, and elevation — protocol sooner.”

Nadia sniffed. “That would have been somewhat difficult to arrange while on the run in enemy territory.”

“Just a little,” Brad agreed. He looked back at Boomer. “Anyway, the only reason for this wheelchair is to get me out of the hospital. After that, I should be able to hobble around okay using a cane.”

“But why the hurry?” Boomer asked carefully, already suspecting he knew the answer.

“First, because I hate hospitals,” Brad said quietly. “And second, because I’ve read through my dad’s intelligence reports on Mars One… along with the attack plan he’s worked up, with input from you and from Jason Richter. Banged up or not, you guys are going to need me.”

Boomer sighed. “I figured as much.” He shook his head. “Look, Brad, considering how close you came to getting killed on our last trip into orbit, don’t you think maybe you should just sit this one out?”

“I can’t do that,” Brad said flatly. His mouth tightened angrily. “Not after seeing the footage of that missile strike on the Amelia Earhart. Gennadiy Gryzlov just murdered hundreds of people because of me. Because you, Nadia, Peter Vasey, and the others helped me escape. So that makes this my fight, now more than ever.”