The Kremlin Strike

Forty-Seven

Brad McLanahan watched the dark shape of Mars One grow with terrifying speed in his COMS display as he flew toward it at nearly seven hundred miles per hour. Numbers flashed through his neural link with the computer, keeping a running countdown of distance, relative velocity, and time to his planned braking maneuver. Through the link he also kept tabs on the positions of the other three robots. Nadia’s Wolf Two was aimed at the Russian station’s aft vertical module. Peter Vasey’s Wolf Three had the forward vertical module as its target, which left the central horizontal module to Brad’s Wolf One. Cub Three, their sole surviving unpiloted COMS, was currently flying using its own autonomous systems. For now, its chief task was to avoid colliding with any of the human-occupied robots or with Mars One itself.

“Range to target is six thousand feet,” his computer told him. “Closing velocity is one thousand feet per second. Initiate rapid braking maneuver… now.”

Brad activated his thrusters and felt a sharp jolt as twenty small rockets spread across the robot’s outer shell fired simultaneously. His speed dropped.

“Closing at six hundred feet per second. Fuel reserves at seventy-five percent. Continuing the braking burn.”

More thrusters popped. Brad flew onward, slowing further. Even though they were still deep in Earth’s shadow, he could see a lot more detail on the Russian station and its attached spacecraft now. Blinking green and red position lights indicated airlocks and unoccupied docking ports at several places on all three modules. Pieces of shattered weapons and solar panels drifted in a slowly expanding cloud above Mars One.

He frowned. If their robots collided with any of that space junk at speeds much higher than a normal walking pace, they could take serious damage.

“Watch that debris field at twelve o’clock high,” he said to Nadia and Vasey.

“Copy that, Wolf One,” the Englishman replied. “Wolf Three is going low.”

“So is Wolf Two,” Nadia said tersely.

Brad instructed his own COMS to alter its vector slightly, just enough to cross safely below the cloud of debris. Thrusters along the upper surface of his spheroid-shaped robot fired briefly. He curved downward along a gentle arc. More tiny rockets, these on the lower half of the COMS, popped — leveling out his approach so that he was flying straight at the middle of the central Russian module… aimed a little to the left of the docked Federation orbiter.

“Range to target now two thousand feet. Closing at four hundred feet per second,” the computer reported. “Fuel reserves at fifty-seven percent.”

“Coming up on final braking burn,” Brad said. He held his breath and then fought down a sudden wave of nausea as his perspective flipped. Instead of flying toward Mars One, he seemed to be falling right into it. But he had no choice: slowing down while in orbit meant going down. He could only hope that the maneuvering computer would do its job and control the thrusters with precision.

“One thousand feet… six hundred feet… four hundred feet,” the computer intoned.

“Arm braking thrust routine… now!” Brad ordered.

“Braking thrust routine armed… initiating… now.” This time, every thruster oriented toward the Russian station went off in a sustained, maximum-power burn. He felt himself slammed forward, deeper into the robot’s cushioning haptic interface. His eyes closed involuntarily.

The thrusters shut down.

“Braking maneuver complete,” the COMS reported coolly. “Range to target four feet. Relative velocity is zero. Fuel reserves at thirty-two percent.”

Brad opened his eyes to find himself floating serenely within arm’s length of the space station’s outer hull. “Jesus,” he said unsteadily. “Is everyone all right?”

“A bit shaken, but not stirred,” Vasey replied.

“Wolf Two is in position and undamaged,” Nadia said crisply. “Cub Three is in reserve one hundred feet below the aft module.”

Brad looked along the curved surface of the central Mars One module, noting several communications and sensor antennas of differing sizes and shapes. Similar antennas festooned the forward and aft modules. “Then let’s go! First, we make these guys blind and deaf. Understood?”

“Affirmative, Wolf One,” both Nadia and Vasey said.

He activated a couple of thrusters and drifted toward the nearest antenna, judged by his computer to be the station’s primary radio link. When he got closer, he grabbed its mast with one of the robot’s manipulator limbs. Its fingerlike metal appendages curled tightly around the metal pole, anchoring him in place. Another limb uncoiled, this one equipped with a powered cutting saw. He spun it up and started slicing through the antenna mast. A stream of tiny flakes of glowing metal flew away into space.

Thirty yards away, near the bottom of the aft space station module, Nadia gripped the mast of another radio antenna. It would be faster to just tear the small dish right off the hull, she judged. She released another of the COMS’ mechanical arms and flexed its appendages—

“Hostile at three o’clock! Range close,” her computer warned abruptly.

Something crashed hard into the left flank of her robot — threatening to send her tumbling off into space. Frantically, Nadia caught at the antenna mast with a second mechanical hand. Her thrusters fired in the opposite direction, countering the impact.

Caught by surprise, she found herself staring at a monstrous figure, a ten-foot-tall humanoid machine with thin, agile arms and legs and a long torso. It was topped by an eyeless sphere bristling with antennas and other sensor arrays. A large pack equipped with maneuvering thrusters was strapped to its back. My God, she thought in alarm, the Russians had deployed one of their own KVM war robots aboard Mars One.

Quickly, Nadia lashed out at the enemy robot with a third metal limb — trying to shove it away.

Almost contemptuously, the KVM batted her riposte aside and then reached out and tore the arm off with its own mechanical hands. Trailing sparks from torn wiring, the dead limb sailed away into space.

Nadia cried out involuntarily. Through her neural link, she felt the loss of that COMS arm as a red-hot flash of pain. “Wolf Two is under attack!” she said desperately.

The Russian war machine reached out with one hand and grabbed hold of another of her limbs — securing itself to her COMS. Glittering crystals of frozen gas floated away from the KVM’s backpack thrusters as they fired again to hold it stable. The metal fingers of its other hand probed at the stump of the arm it had ripped loose, trying to find a place where it could dig in and start peeling away her robot’s protective hull.

“Hold tight!” Brad called out.

Obeying him, Nadia tightened her grip on the thin radio mast.

And then she felt another powerful impact as something slammed into the Russian war machine from below. Several mechanical limbs wrapped themselves around the KVM’s torso and legs. Another COMS had grappled with the enemy robot. Now its thrusters fired at full power, burning through all its remaining fuel to wrench the Russian machine away from her.

Nadia felt fresh agony as the arm the KVM had been using as an anchor tore loose.

Still entangled, the second COMS and the Russian robot spun off into space — moving away from Mars One at a hundred feet per second. As they rotated around each other, she could see the KVM’s hands flailing as it tried to pry itself free.

Suddenly there was a brief flash… and then the torso of the Russian war machine came apart in a cloud of frozen oxygen mixed with dark globules of blood. Splintered shards of composite armor floated away from the COMS. Locked together, the two wrecked robots fell into the endless void, shrinking rapidly until they disappeared from sight.

Inside the cockpit of her COMS, Nadia stared in horror. “No, Brad,” she said brokenly.

“I’m fine,” he reassured her quickly. “That was Cub Three and a strategically applied explosive breaching charge, not me.”

Nadia swallowed hard. She could not cry, not in zero-G. If she did, her own tears would cling to her eyes and blind her. “Thank God,” she murmured. Then she shook herself. This battle was not yet over.

Doggedly, she turned back to the small communications antenna and began prying it loose with her robot’s remaining limbs.

A couple of minutes later, Brad finished cutting away another sensor dish. He tossed it away from Mars One as though it were the world’s largest Frisbee. That was the last of them. The Russian crew inside the station no longer had any way to communicate with the world below.

He fired more thrusters and glided back around the central module until he came to a shallow bay that now lay open to space. The large, camouflaged clamshell doors that had sealed it previously were folded back against the station’s outer hull. There was a standard-sized airlock on the inner wall. This was where the KVM that almost killed Nadia must have been lurking… ready to lunge out at them from ambush, he realized.

Well, it sure was nice of the Russians to leave at least one door open for him, Brad thought coldly.

“Wolf One to Two and Three,” he said. “I am ready to enter Mars One.”

“Roger that, One,” Nadia said. Her voice echoed his own determination. “Wolf Two is prepared to breach the aft module.”

Vasey spoke up from his position at the other end of the Russian space station. “Wolf Three is ready to assault. But it looks a rather tight fit,” he said thoughtfully.

Brad nodded. Their COMS were likely to find it difficult, maybe even impossible, to maneuver inside Mars One. They hadn’t been able to get any intelligence on the station’s internal structure, but the odds were that it was broken up into separate compartments, some of which might be too small to accommodate their large, egg-shaped machines. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I guess we’ll see. If necessary, though, we’ll open everything up to space from the outside.”

“Mr. Martindale may not be terribly happy about that,” Vasey pointed out. “Since we’re supposed to capture Mars One intact.”

Nadia snorted. “Mr. Martindale is not here. We are.”

“A fair point,” Vasey allowed.

Brad shrugged inside his cockpit. “So we do our best not to break stuff unless we have to.”

“And the cosmonauts?” Nadia wondered.

“They get one chance to surrender,” Brad said somberly. “After that, all bets are off. Just make sure your short-range radios are set to the standard Russian frequency so you can talk to them if necessary. Is that clear?”

“As crystal,” Vasey acknowledged.

“Then let’s move.” Through his sensors, Brad looked ahead. A bright glow lit the curved horizon of the earth. Mars One was approaching the dividing line between light and shadow.

He turned his attention back to the open bay and glided inside. The airlock was a no-go, much too small for his COMS to fit. So I’ll make my own hole, he decided. With his thrusters set to stabilize him, he powered up his saw and started cutting into the inner hull.

Mars One shuddered sharply.

“I have breached the aft module’s outer hull,” Nadia reported. “Moving on to the inner sections now.”

Brad finished slicing an opening large enough to fit the powerful fingerlike appendages of two more of his robot’s mechanical limbs. Bright white light, oddly flat in a vacuum, was visible through the gap. He gripped the edges of the slit he’d cut and then fired several of his COMS’ thrusters at full power, pulling back and to one side.

For a moment, the section of hull plating held… and then it gave way — peeling back like tinfoil. Given the payload constraints involved in any rocket launch, no one built spacecraft like an armored battleship. Conduits and cabling running through that area of the inner hull ripped loose in a cascade of sparks. The bright white light he’d seen winked out, replaced instantly by dim red emergency lighting.

Instantly, Brad let go and maneuvered over to the breach he’d opened. He looked into a compartment full of electronic consoles and displays. A single cosmonaut in a white space suit was tethered by an umbilical to one of the consoles. Through the visor of his helmet, the Russian’s eyes were wide with fear. The cloth name tag on his suit identified him as Lieutenant Colonel Pavel Anikeyev. A sign on one of the compartment’s intact walls read: oкружающая среда и техника.

“Environment and Engineering,” his computer translated helpfully.

Brad swung the limb holding his powered saw toward Anikeyev and activated his short-range radio. “Sdavaysya! Surrender!”

Immediately the other man raised both hands.

The station rocked again.

“I’m inside the forward module,” Vasey said carefully. “No hostile contact yet.”

“Copy that,” Brad said. He turned his attention back to Anikeyev. “Do you speak English?”

“Yes, a little,” the other man said shakily.

“Good. Then stay here and don’t move,” Brad ordered. “Do you understand?”

“Da,” the cosmonaut agreed.

Frowning, Brad used a short burst from his thrusters to enter the compartment. Hatches on either side opened up into narrow corridors. “No way is this thing going to fit through those,” he muttered to himself. His robot’s thermal sensors were picking up the heat signatures of at least two more Russian crewmen down the corridor to his right — the one that led off toward where the Federation orbiter and one of the Progress cargo ships were docked. Another sign over the hatch indicated this was the way to the station’s command compartment. He spun the COMS in that direction, trying to decide what he should do next.

And through his rear-facing sensors, he saw the Russian cosmonaut suddenly lower his hands and grab a pistol that had been Velcro’d to the side of the closest console. It came up, aimed straight at his robot.

“Not cool,” Brad growled. He lashed backward with the powered saw. Blood sprayed lazily across the compartment, already boiling away in the vacuum of space. Another of his flexible limbs grabbed the pistol as it drifted out of the dead Russian’s gloved hand.

His COMS computer identified it for him. “The weapon is a Vektor SR-1M 9mm pistol loaded with armor-piercing ammunition able to penetrate 2.8mm of titanium plate at one hundred yards.”

Or this robot I’m riding, Brad realized. His jaw tightened. These guys weren’t going down easily. “Wolf One to all Wolves,” he said tightly. “Stay sharp. This crew is armed.” His computer transmitted pictures of the pistol to the other COMS.

“Roger that, Wolf One,” Nadia replied. “The Russian I just encountered was similarly equipped.”

“And?”

“He resisted,” she said simply. “It was futile. I threw him out of the station. Major Filatyev should reenter the earth’s atmosphere in approximately twenty minutes. He will have ample time to regret his error.”

Harsh, but eminently fair, Brad decided. “How about you, Constable?” he asked.

“Captain Revin has opted for the better part of valor,” Vasey answered. “I have his pistol.”

Which left the two cosmonauts whose heat signatures he’d detected, Brad thought. It was time to put an end to this. He toggled his radio again. “Attention, surviving Mars One crew, this is McLanahan. It’s over. Surrender and we’ll spare your lives.”

“Yebat’ tebya! Go fuck yourself,” an older man’s voice replied.

“But, Colonel, maybe we should…” a younger voice said hesitantly.

“Shut up, Konnikov!”

Based on its triangulation of the radio signals it had just received, the COMS computer tentatively assigned identification tags to the two thermal signatures. Brad studied their indicated positions and improvised a quick plan. It was probably insanely risky… so he decided not to waste any more time thinking it through. Pushing these Russians fast and hard was the surest way to beat them.

He released the robot arm holding his explosive breaching charge and swung it into position in front of the opening to the station’s command compartment. “Set the charge timer for thirty seconds,” he instructed his computer. “But deactivate the detonator.”

“The timer is set and running,” the computer replied. “The detonator is inactive.”

Without waiting any longer, Brad disconnected his neural link and life-support umbilical. His awareness of the COMS dropped away, leaving him feeling fully human for the first time since they’d loaded aboard the S-29 Shadow several hours before. He squirmed around and punched the hatch release mechanism. It cycled open and he floated out into the environment and engineering compartment. The electronically compressed carbon fibers of his advanced Electronic Elastomeric Activity Suit protected him against vacuum and he had enough air to last at least thirty minutes.

He took the Vektor pistol out of one of the robot’s hands. Its safety was off. He scooped up the rectangular breaching charge. A red light on its top winked on and off, counting down seconds.

With a crooked smile, Brad braced himself against the COMS. Then he tossed the breaching charge down the corridor toward Mars One’s command compartment. It sailed away, flying straight and true.

One. Two. Three, he counted mentally. Now!

Brad pushed off hard with his boots. Holding the 9mm pistol out in front of him, he shot through the open hatch and along the narrow corridor.

The explosive charge flew out into the next compartment. Its red light blinked rhythmically, apparently signaling imminent oblivion.

“Bombit’!” the younger man screamed over the radio. “Bomb!”

And then Brad soared into the compartment right behind the dud charge. Out the corner of his right eye, he saw a cosmonaut desperately trying to pull himself down behind a bulky console. No threat there, he decided. At least not immediately.

But straight ahead, he saw another space-suited figure rising from cover. Time seemed to slow down, with single seconds seeming to stretch out into whole minutes. That other Russian’s weapon was already swinging toward him, coming on target with frightening control.

Brad squeezed the trigger.

There was no sound. Only the sensation of a slight deceleration when his pistol fired, bucking back against his hand.

The other cosmonaut’s helmet exploded.

Killed instantly by the bullet that drilled through his forehead and out the back of his skull, Colonel Vadim Strelkov drifted backward and then stopped, snugged up tight against the umbilical still connecting him to his console.

Screaming shrilly inside his helmet, Georgy Konnikov let go of his own pistol and frantically raised his hands.

Mars One had fallen.