The Kremlin Strike

Forty-Two

Brad McLanahan showed his ID to the group of armed security officers on duty. They checked it carefully against the list of approved personnel and then waved him on toward Hangar Three. Before going in, he turned back briefly to look across the empty airport runway. Anyone surveying the Sky Masters complex around the airport, whether through binoculars from the nearby mountains or from a satellite in space, would see no unusual activity. There were no aircraft lined up on the tarmac or parked outside any of the hangars. Everything seemed quiet.

This early in the morning, the sun rising over the mountains of the Shoshone Range sent long shadows stretching westward. He shivered slightly. Nights on the high deserts of Nevada were chilly, even in the summer, and it would be another couple of hours before temperatures would climb back to their usual searing midnineties.

Which meant that faint shimmer he saw drifting across the tarmac was not a heat mirage. It was one of the three Cybernetic Infantry Devices assigned to protect the Sky Masters facility against possible Russian attack. The patrolling war machine was using both of its advanced camouflage systems to full effect. Hundreds of hexagonal thermal adaptive tiles covered the robot’s armor, made of a special material that could change temperature with astonishing speed. Computers could adjust them to mimic the heat signatures of the CID’s surroundings, rendering it effectively invisible to enemy IR sensors. The machines also had thousands of paper-thin electrochromatic plates layered over those thermal tiles. Tiny voltage changes could alter the mix of colors displayed by each plate, giving the CIDs a chameleonlike ability to blend in with their environment. By using both systems in tandem, the robots could essentially hide in plain sight when they were stationary or moving slowly.

Their presence was a sign of just how seriously Martindale and Brad’s father took the Russian threat and the need for tighter security around Battle Mountain — especially now that their handful of Sky Masters spaceplanes represented America’s only real hope to conduct a counterattack against Mars One. If Gryzlov decided to carry out a preemptive strike against them, using one of his space-based hypersonic warheads, the three CIDs permanently on guard might be able to block the attack with a well-aimed rail-gun shot.

On a good day. With a lot of luck.

But then again, Brad realized, any chance was better than none at all.

He turned away and limped on toward the nearest hangar door. Even with a regular dose of painkillers, his shoulder and knee still hurt like hell… but at least he’d been able to ditch the sling. Walking with a cane took some getting used to, though. Sky Masters had offered him a golf cart and assigned driver to get around the facility, but he’d turned them down. He figured it was better to sweat a little than to risk his knee stiffening up on him again.

After the deceptive early-morning tranquility outside, entering the vast building was a shock to his system. The hangar was a sea of bright lights, rapid, purposeful activity, and ear-shattering noise. Sky Masters and Scion ground crews surrounded three spaceplanes, readying them for flight. One was a comparatively small twin-engine S-9 Black Stallion. The others were the two Sky Masters S-29 Shadows — one still rigged up as an in-space refueling tanker. Scion’s armed S-29B spaceplane was back in its own secret Scion hangar in southwestern Utah, undergoing the same preparations, under Boomer’s watchful eye.

Nadia Rozek stood near one of the S-29s, following along while a crew chief ran a maintenance check on one of the big LPDRS engines. Brad crossed the huge hangar floor to join her. When she turned her head to greet him, a smile crossed her tired face. “You look better.” Then she reconsidered. “Or at least not quite so much like an old man tottering about in a daze.”

“Gee, thanks,” Brad said. “I think.”

“Nie ma za co,” she said with a slightly wider smile. “You’re welcome.”

Brad nodded up at the large spaceplane, which was the Shadow configured to carry cargo and passengers. Its bay doors were open and he could hear the shrill whine of drills and other power tools coming from inside. “How’s it going?”

“Very well,” Nadia told him. “The special payload modifications we require should be finished within the next few hours.”

That was good news. When the S-29s were designed, no one had ever imagined anything quite like what they were about to attempt. Modifying a standard spaceplane cargo bay to hold the complicated array of supports, webbing, and auxiliary power and communication leads necessary for this mission — especially in such a short amount of time — had been a difficult job.

“So our spaceplanes will be ready. But will they have anything to carry into orbit?” Nadia asked.

“Definitely,” Brad assured her. “I just checked in with Richter. His engineering and production crews are working around the clock. Whatever they can’t pull off the shelves, they’re fabricating on the fly. He’s mastered the art and science of large-scale, super-precise 3-D printing and has his machines spitting out parts at the speed of light. I think they’re actually enjoying the challenge.” He grinned, remembering the oddball collection of pieces and parts he’d seen strewn across lab benches and worktables. Crossing a high school robotics competition with a late-night party of drunken mad scientists might produce a similar jumble. “None of our new little birds are going to win awards for clean lines or elegant design… but they’ll fly all right.”

“On a one-way trip,” Nadia pointed out quietly.

“There is that,” Brad agreed. He shrugged. “It does simplify the design process.”

“And the rest of our equipment? What is its status?”

“Loading on an air force C-17 in Houston now,” he said. “Everything should be here by early afternoon.”

“So until then, we wait and worry… and train,” she said.

“Yep,” Brad said. “Which is mostly why I’m here now. My dad just uploaded a new variation on our attack plan. Constable’s configuring the simulators now. They should be ready for the three of us to try another run-through in about half an hour.”

Nadia sighed. “I will be there.” She put a gentle hand on his left arm. “But after that, I would like to spend some time with you. Only with you.” Her blue-gray eyes were serious. “Because we both know this mission is likely to be a one-way trip for more than just our little satellites.”

Brad suddenly wished with all his heart that he were a better liar… so that he could offer her a more optimistic assessment of their chances and be believed. But as it was, all he could do was give her a quick, silent nod.

“Energia-5VR guidance systems are configured,” one of the controllers reported.

From his station on the top tier of Vostochny’s control center, Yuri Klementiyev followed the progress of the automated launch sequence with a certain fatalistic calm. At this point, the computers aboard the huge rocket out on Pad 3 were fully in control. Short of ordering an emergency abort, there was nothing more he could do. Success or failure was now wholly in the hands of the gods of probability, physics, and fortune. Despite that, he was keenly aware that both Gennadiy Gryzlov and Colonel General Leonov were closely monitoring this operation from Moscow. It had been made clear to him that he would not survive any launch accident that destroyed the new reactor intended for Mars One.

Vostochny’s director closed his eyes. If he were a genuinely religious man, he could have passed the time with a litany of heartfelt, unspoken prayers. As it was, all he could do was await the outcome.

“All stages look good,” another controller said through his headset. “We are ready for flight.”

Klementiyev opened his eyes.

The base of Pad 3 disappeared in a cloud of brownish smoke and bright flames. “Zazhiganiye. Ignition,” his deputy announced. And then, seconds later, “Engines throttling up. Full power!”

Through the thickening smoke, Klementiyev saw the gantries holding the massive, twenty-five-hundred-ton rocket in place swing up and away. Unrestrained now, the Energia-5VR rose on a column of fire, climbing toward the heavens with rapidly increasing speed. “Podnyat’! Lift-off!”

Unable to sit idle any longer, he stood up — mentally urging the rocket onward as it roared higher, pierced a layer of low-lying cloud, and kept going. Nearly three minutes later, long-range tracking cameras captured the welcome sight of a perfect third-stage ignition. Mars One’s replacement fusion reactor was on its way safely into orbit.

Klementiyev breathed out, feeling as though an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Slowly, he took his seat again and turned his attention to the Soyuz-5 rockets waiting on Pads 7 and 9. “Status on the Elektrons?”

“Both are go for launch. Their flight computers and automated programs look solid. We are holding for ignition,” his deputy reported.

He nodded. If something had gone wrong with the Energia heavy-lift rocket, there would have been no point in sending its escorts into orbit. Now it was time to send the two armed spaceplanes and their cosmonaut pilots aloft. “Light the fires, Sergei,” he ordered. “Let’s give that reactor some company.”

A few short minutes later, both Soyuz-5 rockets blazed into the sky and headed toward space.

Orbiting high above the earth in geosynchronous orbit, America’s space-based infrared satellites detected all three launches from Vostochny. Within minutes, their reports were relayed to the White House and from there to the members of the Sky Masters — Scion assault force in Nevada and Utah.

The news triggered an immediate operational readiness conference.

Brad McLanahan looked around the table. Nadia and Peter Vasey were seated with him. His father, Martindale, and President Farrell were visible on one side of the conference room’s large LED screen, present via secure link from the Oval Office. Boomer and the five members of his S-29B Shadow crew looked out from the other side of the screen. They were being broadcast from their hangar at St. George.

“The Russians have definitely put their reactor module into space,” Brad told them. “The Space Surveillance Telescope in western Australia took this image as it passed overhead a few minutes ago.” He used his laptop computer to pull up the picture he’d downloaded. It showed an unmistakable cylindrical shape, identical to the other three that already made up Mars One.

“Three rockets lifted off from Vostochny,” Boomer pointed out. “So what sort of payloads were the other two carrying?”

Brad kept as much control over his voice and expression as he could. “These,” he said, pulling up two more images captured by the powerful U.S. Air Force — operated telescope. Both showed winged spacecraft with their cargo bays open, revealing a fixed weapons mount inside.

“Elektron spaceplanes,” Boomer muttered. “Armed with more of those fucking Hobnail lasers.”

Brad nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“What’s your evaluation?” his father asked.

“Both Russian spacecraft have entered the same orbit as the reactor module. One Elektron is on station about twenty miles ahead of the module. The second trails it by about the same distance,” Brad told him. “Based on that, it’s pretty clear that they’re acting as escorts, with orders to protect that reactor until it’s safely docked with Mars One.”

“I concur,” the older McLanahan said. He turned to Farrell. “If we needed any further confirmation that Gryzlov has launched a replacement fusion generator, there it is. There’s no reason he would commit those two armed spacecraft to protect anything that he didn’t consider absolutely vital.”

The president nodded his understanding. He looked at Brad. “How much time do we have before this module is in a position to link up with the Russian space station?”

“Based on its current trajectory, our computers estimate it will be ready to dock with Mars One in five, or possibly six more orbits,” Brad said. “That’s approximately eight hours from now.”

“And after it’s docked? How long will it take the Mars One crew to bring their new reactor online?”

Patrick shrugged. “Without a clearer understanding of the technology the Russians have developed, there’s no way to be sure, Mr. President. But we can’t count on it taking them very long.”

Privately, Brad agreed. The Russians were smart enough to design their systems so that all the necessary power connections from the reactor to the rest of their station ran through its docking port. And unlike a conventional power plant or even a fission-based reactor with its steam turbines, it was unlikely that any functioning small fusion generator had many moving parts. Spinning it up might be as simple as running a number of safety checks and then flipping a switch.

“So we must go and go soon,” Nadia said decisively.

“Nadia’s right,” Brad said. He pulled up Mars One’s projected orbital track. “A little under three orbits from now, in roughly four hours, the Russian station will cross into darkness over South America. That’s our best chance to jump them while they can’t recharge their plasma rail gun and lasers.”

“But attacking then isn’t ideal,” Farrell guessed.

“No, sir,” Brad admitted. “On that orbit, the ground track for Mars One passes within striking range of a number of high-priority European targets.”

“Including Warsaw,” the president said flatly.

“Yes, sir.”

Nadia shook her head impatiently. “Yes, the risk exists. We cannot avoid it. I will brief President Wilk, but I already know what he will say: better death than slavery. Is not that the lesson of the heroic defenders of your own Alamo?”

Beside her, Peter Vasey hid a sudden grin. Nadia had the duelist’s gift, all right. Give her any opening, however small, and she would thrust home straight through it — striking straight to the heart.

“I take your point, Major,” Farrell said quietly, with a wry smile. He looked at Brad. “Then I guess it comes down to whether or not y’all can be ready to go in time.”

“We can,” Brad said firmly. “I’ve run the flight times to the necessary jump-off point over Ecuador. All of the spaceplanes we’re committing to this operation can make it with time to spare… but only if we take off within the next hour.”

Martindale nodded. “Sky Masters has already staged the necessary refueling aircraft to airports in Mexico and Central America.” He looked at Farrell. “As soon as you give the word, I can get those tankers airborne.”

Farrell sat in silence for a moment. Then he turned to Patrick. “Do I have an alternative?”

“Short of eventual capitulation to anything Gryzlov demands?” the older McLanahan said. He shook his head. “No, Mr. President, I’m afraid you really don’t.”

Farrell grimaced. He seemed to have aged several years in as many minutes. Finally, he looked up at Brad and the others. “All right. Y’all have my permission to go into orbit and kick some Russian ass.”

“We will not let you down,” Nadia promised.

“See that you don’t,” the president said gruffly. “And make damned sure you come back in one piece.”

No one had anything much to say to that.