by Dale Brown
“Except that those stories are nothing but a combination of speculative bullshit and deliberate Russian disinformation,” a cool, hard-edged voice broke in abruptly from the back of the room.
Around the table, startled faces turned toward the man who’d spoken out so bluntly.
Farrell hid a grin. He’d been warned that Patrick McLanahan had both a flair for the dramatic and a take-no-prisoners attitude when it came to shredding arguments with which he disagreed. “Go on, General,” he said with a small nod. “What are we missing?”
His servos whining softly, Patrick stood up and stalked over to the screen. “You’re all forgetting just who you’re dealing with,” he said forcefully. “Gennadiy Gryzlov doesn’t give a damn about space commerce. He’s focused on one thing and one thing only: achieving global domination through overwhelming military superiority.”
“Relying so heavily on perceived motivations can be a risky exercise, General,” Elizabeth Hildebrand said carefully. “In the long run, it’s usually wiser to assess an opponent’s capabilities and go from there.”
“Sure. And that’s the other thing you’re missing,” Patrick said. He waved an exoskeleton-cradled hand at satellite photos on the screen. “Everyone’s fixated on the rockets waiting out on those launchpads. But those rockets don’t matter a damn. Not in the end. They’re just transportation. Their primary purpose is moving payload from the earth’s surface into orbit.” His expression was bleak. “Payload is what counts. And right now it sure as hell looks like Gryzlov is poised and ready to put four-hundred-plus tons of payload into low Earth orbit . . . all in only days or maybe even just hours.”
Farrell saw Lawrence Dawson’s eyes widen in amazement. “Four hundred tons of payload capacity,” the science adviser mused slowly. “That is extraordinary. It required roughly that much mass to build the old International Space Station.”
His observation drew low whistles of dismay from around the long table. It had taken dozens of separate rocket and space shuttle launches over more than a decade to assemble the ISS. Learning that the Russians might be able to replicate that grueling feat in a matter of days was sobering, to say the least.
Farrell felt cold suddenly. He turned to Patrick. “Isn’t that also about the same size as our old Armstrong military space station, the Silver Tower, General?”
Steadily, Patrick looked back at him. “Yes, sir. It is.” He shook his head. “And that’s what has me scared.”
Baikonur Cosmodrome, Kazakhstan
That Same Time
For more than sixty years, the silence of the desert steppe around Baikonur had been broken periodically by the crackling roar of powerful rockets as they soared toward space—or by shattering explosions when launches failed. Built by the Soviet government at enormous expense and amid tight security, the huge Baikonur complex was a sprawling labyrinth of nine separate launch complexes, two airfields, and dozens of buildings dedicated to vehicle assembly and cryogenic fuels production. A network of five-foot-gauge industrial railroad tracks tied all these facilities together.
Seen from above, the soil around Baikonur was a colored patchwork of browns, off-whites, rusts, and pale ghostly blues. Toxic chemicals draining from thousands of spent rocket stages had stained them forever. Sunlight glittered off mounds of contaminated scrap metal.
Looking down from the twin-engine Mi-8 helicopter ferrying his six-man Mars One crew north from Krayniy Airport, Colonel Vadim Strelkov supposed he should see some bitter irony in the desolation wrought here by man’s efforts to escape the very planet that had given birth to humanity. As it was, he only felt impatient to arrive at their destination. They were heading for Baikonur pad LC-1, called “Gagarin’s Start” because Yuri Gagarin’s historic first manned space flight had lifted off from there sixty years before.
Leave irony to the poets, he thought. They had time to waste on nonessentials. He had none.
Strelkov and his five crewmen were traveling under false identities. Their papers and passports identified them as “technical observers” from Roscosmos, Russia’s civilian space agency. As far as the cosmodrome’s Kazakh landlords were concerned, they were here solely to monitor the first test flight of the new Federation orbiter. By the time they learned otherwise, it would be too late. Strelkov and his cosmonauts would be safely in space, far beyond the reach of any earthbound authority.
Or dead, he reminded himself coldly.
True, the Federation spacecraft was a beautifully designed machine. But like any highly complex device, the orbiter depended on the perfect functioning of tens of thousands of interconnected mechanical parts and electronic systems. If too many of them failed under the stress of launch or on exposure to the hostile environment of space, what had been a working spacecraft would instead become one of humanity’s most expensive coffins.
Following in Gagarin’s footsteps, Russian cosmonauts had developed a host of elaborate superstitious traditions to allay their fears—doing everything from planting trees and signing hotel doors to taking a piss against the back tires of the bus that brought them to the launch site. Unfortunately, Strelkov and his crew could not take solace in those customary protections against accident or bad luck before their own lift-off. The need to keep their mission secret was paramount, outweighing everything else. They would have to fly naked before the Fates.
With effort, the colonel pushed aside these sudden gloomy thoughts. One side of his taut face twitched in a crooked smile. What would be would be. Perhaps not quite as the Allah of the Arabs willed, but just as certainly as decreed by Gennadiy Gryzlov of the Russians.
Where it counted, he knew Colonel General Leonov shared his private concerns about this sudden rush to make the Mars Project operational ahead of schedule. Ultimately, though, none of that mattered. Both of them were patriots and dedicated soldiers. So both of them would obey their orders—no matter what the cost.
Through his headphones Strelkov heard the copilot conversing with Baikonur ground security, exchanging code letters gleaned from a codebook that was updated daily. When the interchange ended, the copilot reported on intercom, “Pad LC-1 in sight, Colonel. We have been cleared for approach.”
Intently, Strelkov peered forward through the cockpit windscreen. There, only a few kilometers off, he could see the Soyuz-5 rocket that would carry them into orbit—a slender, sixty-meter-high spire of gray, orange, and white gleaming brightly under the harsh desert sun. For now, it was restrained in a web of gantries, fueling towers, and other support structures.
Closing fast, the helicopter veered away from the launchpad itself. Instead, it headed toward a nearby collection of buildings and settled lower in a swirling cloud of rotor-blown dust and sand. Through the sudden haze, the colonel could make out several small trailers nestled in among a grove of scraggly trees. Those trailers would serve as their temporary quarters during the last remaining hours before launch, he realized. Their support team from Star City should already be inside, checking over both the Sokol pressure suits they would wear during the ride into orbit and the bulkier Orlan-MK suits they would use during EVAs outside Mars One.
Gratefully, Strelkov felt his nerves beginning to settle. Perhaps it was time to discard old superstitions and old ways of doing things, he realized. Like Yuri Gagarin, he and his men were pioneers. But unlike Gagarin, if they were successful, their mission would forever alter the balance of power between the United States and Russia.
Fourteen
St. Petersburg, Russia
Later That Night
“Poyekhali! Here goes!” Major Alexei Rykov downed his shot of vodka in one gulp and then rapped the empty glass on the scarred wooden surface of the bar. “Another, please.”
The bartender chuckled. “Please? You say please?” He shook his head and poured another shot into Rykov’s glass. “Man, you must not be drunk enough yet.”
“Not yet,” the Sukhoi-27 fighter pilot agreed with a short, sharp laugh of his own. “But I will get there.” He turned
to the younger man next to him. “Won’t I, Sergei?”
His wingman, Captain Sergei Novitski, already well over the line between sobriety and inebriation himself, nodded vigorously, with an owlish, glassy-eyed stare. “That is affirmative, Lead.”
With his fresh drink in hand, Rykov turned to survey the packed, smoke-filled bar. The place was a dive, just the kind he liked. With only two days of leave from the 159th Fighter Aviation Regiment at Petrozavodsk, he and Novitski didn’t have time to waste. They were on the prowl for cheap booze and fast women, in no particular order.
His gaze flitted lightly across the crowd, evaluating and discarding possible companions in rapid succession. Too chubby. Too short. There was a redhead parked over in the far corner who wasn’t horrible, but she had far too many piercings and tattoos for his taste. God only knew what kind of diseases he might catch. Maybe that skinny blonde? Privately, he dubbed this process “target selection,” likening it to the way his Su-27’s Phazotron Zhuk-MSE active electronically scanned array radar sorted through air contacts—identifying those worth a heat-seeking or radar-guided missile.
Rykov’s gaze drifted across to a slender, attractive woman sitting alone at a tiny table near the door. Now there was a real looker, he thought with sudden interest. Jet-black hair, ice-blue eyes, and a leather bomber jacket unzipped far enough to give him a good look at her assets. She seemed a bit out of place in a seedy bar like this, a little too elegant and composed. But that should work to his advantage, considering the slovenly, ill-kempt civilian schlubs who were his only competition.
Noticing his attention, the woman smiled back at him. Her eyes gleamed brightly in the dim light.
Very promising, he decided. He straightened up to his full, middling-tall height and raised his glass in a silent toast.
With an exaggerated shrug of regret, she held up her own glass and turned it upside down, indicating that it was empty.
Rykov smiled to himself. Target locked on, he thought. Turning back to the bartender, he ordered two shots of vodka, the most expensive brand this time, and then clapped Novitski on the shoulder. “Don’t wait up for me, Sergei,” he said cheerfully. “I’m flying solo tonight.”
His wingman blinked a few times in confusion and then shot him a sly, understanding grin. “Good hunting, Alexei!”
Humming under his breath, Rykov sauntered across the bar, holding both drinks up high to avoid being jostled by a new wave of thirsty patrons crowding in out of the warm St. Petersburg summer night. From the look of them, all torn jeans and spiky hair, some punk rock concert must have just ended.
The attractive woman smiled up at him when he arrived at her table.
“Hello,” Rykov said pleasantly, holding out the drink he’d ordered for her. “My name’s Alexei. And you look thirsty.”
“Parched,” she admitted, taking the glass with a half-sheepish, half-delighted laugh. “Was it so obvious?”
“Not at all,” Rykov lied gallantly. “I have a sixth sense for recognizing beautiful women in distress.” He sat down in the chair across from her and raised his own vodka in another toast. “Vashe zdorov’ye! Your health!”
With a dimpled smile, she echoed him, downing the contents of her glass with a quick, head-back gulp that widened his own eyes in surprised admiration. Then she leaned across the table. “So, Alexei, what is a nice man like you doing in a dump like this?”
“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” he asked in mock protest.
She shrugged. “It seemed appropriate.”
Rykov glanced around at their surroundings—now even more crowded and noisy than ever. Clouds of acrid cigarette smoke coiled across the bar’s low ceiling, settling like a fog across the sea of sweating, hard-drinking regulars packed in elbow to elbow. He turned back to her with a wry shrug of his own. “Maybe I’m looking for somewhere nicer?”
“Me too.” She cocked her head to one side. “Interested in finding it together?”
Better and better, Rykov thought with secret glee. Not only was this woman sexy as hell, she wasn’t bothering with the usual coy games. He hadn’t even had to play his Hero of the Motherland and fighter-pilot cards yet. “Quite interested,” he said warmly. “Where do you think we should start looking?”
“Well, my car is parked close by,” she said with a demure look that didn’t fool him at all. “And my apartment is only a short drive away.”
Delighted at his good fortune, Rykov rose to his feet and chivalrously offered her his hand. “You know, that sounds like an excellent plan.”
Outside on the sidewalk, she guided him toward a big black Mercedes sedan. But when they drew near, the rear passenger door swung open and a big, grim-faced man in a dark business suit climbed out.
Startled, Rykov stopped dead in his tracks. “Hey, what the hell is going on here?” he demanded.
“Get in the car, Major Rykov,” the woman said coolly. There was no trace of warmth left in her eyes or in her voice.
He scowled at her. “Why should I?”
“Because my name is Colonel Natalia Talanova and you are now in preventative state security custody.” She fished an identity card out of her bomber jacket for his inspection. “You would be wise not to try my patience.”
Rykov stared down at it in confusion. The woman he’d thought he was picking up for some fun, no-strings-attached sex was a senior officer in the FSB’s counterintelligence service. Moistening his lips nervously, he looked up into her unsmiling, wholly unsympathetic face. “Look . . . Colonel . . . what is this all about?”
“You don’t know?” Talanova raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It seems that someone has been a very, very naughty boy, Alexei. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was someone you know.” She nodded toward the big man. “That is what my colleague over there and I intend to discover.”
Rykov swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very, very sober indeed. There were many unpleasant stories about how the FSB treated suspects it considered uncooperative. He had no desire to find out if any of those whispered tales of beatings and torture were true. This time, when the colonel ordered him into the car, he obeyed without question.
An hour outside St. Petersburg, the black Mercedes turned off onto a long gravel road that ran deep into the forest. Two kilometers farther on, it parked in front of a small wooden cottage—probably once the country dacha of a mid-ranking Communist Party official. A small light glowed dimly behind one curtained window. Otherwise, the house looked as dark and forbidding as the wilderness all around it.
Silently, Colonel Talanova and her fellow FSB officer marched Rykov inside and into an empty room at the back of the house. Apart from a plain wooden chair set directly under a bare overhead bulb and a small table along one wall, there was no furniture or any other sign of human habitation.
Talanova nodded toward the chair. “Sit down, Major.”
Numbly, Rykov did as he was told. She moved around to stand in front of him. Her face was mostly in shadow, almost wholly unreadable. Cat-quiet despite his size, the big man moved around to take up a position behind the chair, somewhere close by but out of Rykov’s sight. The back of his neck itched.
“You do know why you are here, Alexei, don’t you?” Talanova said calmly.
Desperately, he shook his head. “Honestly, Colonel,” he insisted. “I have no idea of what all this is about. I’m just a pilot, that’s all.”
She snorted. “Just a pilot?” She shook her head. “Try again, Alexei. Ordinary combat aviation officers do not have military service records which contain otherwise unexplained eighteen-month-long periods of ‘special detached duty.’”
Oh, shit, Rykov thought, feeling his heart rate accelerate sharply. What had been a bad situation was about to get much, much worse. Someone, somewhere, in either the Ministry of Defense or the FSB itself, had really fucked up—and now he might be about to pay in blood, bruises, and broken teeth for their mistake. Nevertheless, the special security oath he’d sworn was crystal clear, as was the prescribed
penalty for violating that oath. He forced himself to sit up straighter in the chair. “I am very sorry, Colonel,” he said firmly. “But I really am not at liberty to discuss that subject.”
“You think not?” she said, sounding amused. Reaching into her leather jacket again, she tossed him yet another identity card.
Rykov looked it over in stunned disbelief. The card confirmed that Colonel Natalia Nikolaevna Talanova held a Level Two Mars Project clearance—a full level above the one he’d been issued as a cosmonaut candidate at Star City. Slowly, he breathed out. Why should he be surprised? The FSB, like the KGB before it, involved itself in everything. With a repressed sigh, he handed the card back to her.
“Right, then,” she said briskly. “I don’t want to hear any more noble bullshit about how you can’t talk about the program, Major. You spent those eighteen months of ‘detached duty’ training to become a cosmonaut. You know it. And I know it.”
Reluctantly, he nodded. She was right. Commended for his courage, superb technical and analytical abilities, and excellent flying skills, he’d been among those chosen for Colonel General Leonov’s rigorous cosmonaut selection and training program. His class had started the course one hundred strong. In twos and threes over the next months, they’d been whittled away. He had only failed to make the final selection cut by the narrowest of margins. Most of the failed candidates, like him, were sent back to their regular military duties. Several had died in training accidents. Others were probable suicides, the victims of intense psychological pressure and their own undiscovered inner weaknesses.
