The Kremlin Strike

Forty-Eight

Hunter Noble felt the sensation of acceleration compressing his body vanish. Rapidly, he scanned the readouts flowing across his cockpit displays and HUD. “I show a good burn,” he confirmed. “We’re in the groove and closing on the predicted orbits of the second Elektron and the reactor module.”

“I confirm that,” Liz Gallagher said from her copilot’s seat beside him. One of her displays pinged at her. She leaned forward, with her mane of red hair making a halo around her head in zero-G. “We have a radar lock on the Elektron. The range is one hundred thirty-five miles and closing fast.” Her fingers tapped the display. “Passing the data to the OWO.”

“I have it,” Jill Anderson, their offensive weapons officer, said over the intercom from the Shadow’s aft cabin. “Pinging the target with the laser radar now.” There was a short pause while her small targeting laser hit the Russian spaceplane with pulses of coherent light. A sophisticated sensor picked up the reflected pulses — using them both to paint a 3-D image of the enemy spacecraft and to refine the range and closure rate established by the S-29’s radar. “I have a good range. Now down to one hundred twelve miles. That guy has his nose pointed right at us, Boomer. Depending on how long it takes us to get burn-through, we may get a little cooked.”

Boomer felt his stomach tighten. He’d known they weren’t going to be able to surprise that second Russian pilot. “Copy that, Anderson. Zap the bastard and cross your fingers.”

“Firing now,” she replied.

He found the silence unnerving. His brain knew they really were using a two-megawatt gas dynamic laser to attack an enemy spaceplane so far away that it was still invisible to the naked eye. But his animal instincts kept shrieking that nothing was happening… since there was no sound, no vibration, no physical clue of any kind.

“We’re hitting the Elektron,” Anderson reported.

“Warning, warning, target-tracking radar lock,” the S-29’s computer said. And then, “Warning, hull temperature rising.”

Boomer grimaced. “And he’s hitting us.” He felt hotter suddenly, though he knew that was an illusion. Before they truly felt the heat of that Russian Hobnail laser penetrating the Shadow’s cockpit, they’d already be dead.

“Lock broken. Hull temperature within norms,” the computer said suddenly.

“Nailed him!” Jill Anderson crowed over the intercom. “Scratch one Elektron!”

Boomer allowed himself to relax a little, but not much. They still had one more task on this mission. He glanced at Liz Gallagher. “That was a little closer than I would have liked.”

She nodded. “Yep.” Then a quick, impish smile crossed her face. “But at least I won my bet.”

Boomer raised an eyebrow. “What bet?”

“That we’d come through this in one piece,” Gallagher said simply. “So you owe me dinner when we get back to the world. A really expensive dinner.”

Boomer grinned back at her. “You’re on.” He spoke over the intercom to Anderson. “What’s the score on that Russian reactor module?”

“I have good images and a solid lock,” the OWO said confidently. “The reactor is in a stable orbit.”

“Can you hit its communication antennas without damaging anything else?” Boomer asked.

“No problem.”

He nodded. “Then do it. Let’s make sure the Russians can’t send any new orders to the module’s guidance systems. We don’t want them deorbiting that reactor before our guys get the chance to find out what makes it tick.”

“Shooting now,” Anderson assured him.

Several seconds later, their laser stopped firing — leaving the fusion reactor coasting silently in orbit, safe from any further interference by the enemy.

For a long moment, Colonel General Leonov sat frozen at his desk, scarcely able to comprehend the speed with which all his years-long work and planning had collapsed. The Americans had captured Mars One… and it was only a matter of time before they took possession of the orbiting fusion reactor. By destroying the antennas aboard both the space station and the reactor module, the enemy had robbed him of any ability to activate the remaining fail-safe programs secretly installed in their software.

Not that many were left, he thought bitterly. Strelkov’s attempt to evade the American attack by climbing to a higher orbit had completely drained Mars One’s fuel supply — making it impossible for him to order a rocket burn that would have sent the station plummeting back into the earth’s atmosphere. The destruction of the Scimitar missile launcher had been another blow, since he could no longer override its safety lockouts and fire directly into Mars One itself.

In a small inset screen on his display, Leonov could see Gennadiy Gryzlov’s furious face screaming soundlessly at him. To avoid being distracted by the other man’s increasingly unhinged ranting, he’d muted the president as soon as the disaster in orbit became clear.

At an adjacent workstation, he could hear his deputy trying unsuccessfully to soothe Gryzlov. Tikhomirov might as well try to put out a forest fire with a spoonful of water, he thought dispassionately. Russia’s leader had gone far beyond the reach of reason… and he would never acknowledge that his own impatience and overaggressiveness were at least partly responsible for this defeat.

Leonov’s gaze moved to another small inset screen on his computer display. RAPIRA SEVEN IN ORBIT. AWAITING ATTACK CONFIRMATION. He entered a quick series of commands into his system, pulling up the hypersonic warhead’s projected track. His eyes narrowed. Yes, there was still time. If nothing else, he could salvage something from this catastrophe by striking at Russia’s most dangerous foe.

Decisively, he tapped more keys, sending a single encrypted order up into space. The message on his display changed: ATTACK CONFIRMED. DEORBITING IN 10, 9, 8…

Calmly, Leonov took Gryzlov off mute. “Yes, Mr. President?”

High over Western Europe, the Rapira’s retrorockets fired. Decelerated just enough to drop out of orbit, the hypersonic warhead separated from its motor and fell toward the earth at more than sixteen thousand miles per hour. Seconds later, it entered the atmosphere and streaked eastward, trailing a plume of superheated plasma.

Maddened almost beyond coherent thought, Gennadiy Gryzlov stalked around his office in a killing rage. Screens fixed around the walls showed Leonov seated placidly at his desk in his command post below the National Defense Control Center.

“You blundering fool!” he snarled. “Your unbelievable incompetence has snatched defeat from the jaws of victory!” For a moment, he stood breathing hard and fought for control over a rising tide of all-consuming fury. But then he gave in, yielding himself entirely to its red-hot embrace. “You’ll pay for this, Leonov!” he snapped, delighting in the brutal orders he was about to give. “From this moment forward, you’re nothing but a dead man walking!”

To Gryzlov’s intense surprise, Leonov interrupted him. “As so often, you’ve got it exactly backward, Gennadiy,” the other man said icily. “I’m not the dead man here. You are. Look outside your window, you asshole—”

Stunned, and suddenly terrified, Gryzlov whirled around… just in time to see a blinding flash as the Rapira screamed down out of the sky and slammed home only a hundred meters away. The enormous shock wave crushed him to death milliseconds before the following wall of fire and shattered concrete and steel ripped his corpse to pieces.