The Kremlin Strike

by Dale Brown

  Talanova smiled thinly. “Now we are getting somewhere, Alexei.” Her humorless smile faded. “Which brings me to the point of tonight’s little excursion to this rather dreary dacha.”

  Rykov swallowed again.

  “Someone has been talking out of school,” she went on coldly. “And as a result, the West’s spies may be close to learning what were supposed to be our Motherland’s most closely guarded secrets.”

  He stared at her. “What?”

  “That surprises you?” Talanova countered.

  “Of course it does.” Rykov grimaced. “But whoever’s blabbing, it is not me. I swear it.”

  She studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then she shrugged. “Oaths can be broken, Alexei. I prefer proof.”

  “For God’s sake, how am I supposed to prove a negative?” he asked desperately, instantly despising himself for sounding so weak.

  “You cannot,” Talanova said bluntly. “But perhaps I can.”

  He stared at her. “How?”

  “That depends on you, Major Rykov.” She moved forward, coming more fully into the circle of light cast by the bare bulb overhead. “Are you prepared to cooperate fully—without reservation?”

  “Yes, I will. Absolutely,” Rykov said, almost stumbling over his words in his hurry to grasp the lifeline the colonel seemed to be offering. “What must I do?”

  “Tell us your life story,” Talanova said. Her mouth twitched. “Or, to be more precise, your life story from the moment you arrived at the Anatoliy Gryzlov Military Cosmonaut Training Center.”

  He stared at her in surprise. “But why? You already have access to the records of my time there, don’t you?”

  “A dry list of classes, test results, and comments from your instructors?” she scoffed. “Of what use are they in determining whether or not you have betrayed your country? No, Alexei, you are going to talk us through your experiences at Star City—fully, honestly, in your own words, and in your own way. We already know what has been illicitly revealed to Western agents. And if you are the one responsible for this treason, so do you.”

  Talanova looked down at him. “Now, a skilled liar may be able to conceal the truth for a time by carefully controlling how much he says. But the more anyone talks, the harder that becomes. Small inconsistencies begin to mount up. Hidden falsehoods emerge from what seems a jumble of otherwise irrelevant details. Eventually, the liar unmasks himself.” Her voice slashed at him, as sharp as a razor’s edge. “You see?”

  Rykov nodded tightly. He said nothing.

  “Very well. Let’s get started.” She glanced toward the big man looming behind him. “Wire him up, Dmitry.”

  Without speaking, the other FSB officer began attaching electrodes to Rykov’s scalp, chest, neck, and wrists—pressing them firmly into place. The Su-27 pilot sat rigid in his chair, all too aware of the sense of helplessness and terror crawling up his spine.

  “We don’t just use our ears to listen,” Talanova explained dryly. “Lies can be discerned in many different ways.” She leaned closer. “So, then, Alexei. Tell me a story . . .”

  It was well past dawn when they dropped the exhausted and shaken Rykov at a commuter rail station outside St. Petersburg and drove away.

  “Do you think he’ll tell anyone about what just happened?” Marcus Cartwright asked. He glanced in the rearview mirror, checking automatically to see if they were being followed.

  “That he’s been under suspicion as a possible traitor?” Sam Kerr shook her head with a wry smile. “Our friend the fighter pilot wasn’t at his best last night, but he’s not really a fool. No, he’ll keep his mouth shut.” She shrugged. “Even if he doesn’t—”

  “Colonel Natalia Talanova will have vanished,” the big man finished for her.

  Sam nodded contentedly. “It is very hard to find someone who never actually existed in the first place.”

  “And all those wild stories he told us? About the kind of training the Russians are doing at Star City? Do you believe them?”

  She pondered that. Under their questioning, Rykov had painted a picture of an incredibly intense training regimen. He claimed that Russia’s cosmonauts were learning everything from on-orbit construction techniques to sensor data analysis and the combat use of both lasers and missiles. From what she knew, all of it sounded plausible. But what about his insistence that he and his fellow cosmonaut trainees had also been taught how to manage highly advanced nuclear fusion power systems? For decades, scientists and engineers had claimed that working fusion reactors were just around the corner. But their predictions never panned out. Could the Russians finally have made the technological breakthroughs that had eluded so many other researchers for so long?

  At length, Sam shrugged. “Hell if I can say.” She frowned. “We certainly know that poor bastard Rykov believed he was telling us the truth and nothing but the truth. So I guess the sooner we send what we’ve learned to Mr. Martindale the better. Because I’m pretty sure our report is going to scare the living crap out of a lot of people back in the States.”

  Fifteen

  U.S. Strategic Command Missile and Space Launch Warning Center, Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado

  A Few Hours Later

  Air Force Major General Amanda Hayes was the senior officer on duty in the Missile and Space Launch Warning Center, two thousand feet under Cheyenne Mountain, when the shit hit the proverbial fan. Her desk was on the highest of three stepped tiers facing several large screens. Consoles fitted with computers, displays, and secure communication links lined each tier. Since USSTRATCOM was a unified command, officers and enlisted men from the Air Force, Army, Navy, and Marine Corps manned these consoles around the clock.

  Hayes, a former bomber wing commander, couldn’t pretend she enjoyed this assignment very much. She’d originally joined the Air Force to fly and to lead other fliers—not to spend her days hunkered down in the bowels of a steel-and-concrete-encased bunker buried far below Cheyenne Mountain. Emerging blinking into the sunlight after a long night on watch in the warning center always made her feel more like a mole than a steely-eyed aviator.

  She took a sip of her coffee and glanced again at the large center screen. It displayed a digital map of Russia and its central Asian neighbors. Suddenly blinking red icons flashed onto the screen.

  “Ma’am! SBIRS has detected multiple launches from the Russian Federation and Kazakhstan!” one of her watch officers reported urgently.

  Carefully, Hayes set her coffee cup back down. “Well, shit.”

  She pulled up the data download from SBIRS, the Space-Based Infrared System—a network of five missile launch and tracking satellites stationed more than twenty-two thousand miles up in geosynchronous orbit. Their sensors scanned the entire globe, looking for significant heat signatures. Sensitive enough to detect large-scale explosions, plane crashes, and major fires, the satellites were a key component in the U.S. early warning system. Right now, in virtually real time, they were observing five separate rocket launches, two from Vostochny, two from Plesetsk, and one from Baikonur.

  Hayes immediately contacted her counterpart at the headquarters of the North American Aerospace Defense Command at nearby Peterson Air Force Base. “Charlie, SBIRS evaluates these launches as non-ICBM. Do you concur?”

  Through her headset, she heard the gravelly voice of Canadian Army Brigadier General Charles Costello, the duty controller of the joint U.S. and Canada forces command responsible for the air defense of North America. “That’s affirmative, Amanda. Based on the signatures and current trajectories, we show two Energia-5VRs, two Angara-5s, and one Soyuz-5 heading for Earth orbit. Their trajectories are nonballistic. Repeat, nonballistic.”

  Hayes allowed herself to relax slightly. Whatever was going on, at least the Russians weren’t firing nuclear-tipped missiles aimed at the United States. These were some of the several medium- and heavy-lift space rockets Moscow had been readying for launch over the past several weeks. There were standing orders to cove
r this development. She tapped a series of key codes into her computer, activating another secure link—this one to the White House.

  It beeped once and then was answered. “Commander Nishiyama here. Authentication Zulu-Bravo-Five-Tango.”

  Quickly, she checked the classified duty roster shown on her computer. Commander Thomas Nishiyama, USN, was the presidential military aide currently assigned to carry the “nuclear football,” the briefcase containing launch codes, retaliatory options, and other emergency procedures. And ZB5T was the personalized authentication code he’d been issued for this shift. Satisfied that she was speaking to the right person, she said, “This is Major General Hayes at USSTRATCOM. We have a multiple non-ICBM launch event occurring in Russia and Kazakhstan. I need to speak to the president.”

  “Wait one,” Nishiyama said.

  Hayes saw another red icon blink onto the map.

  “New launch from Plesetsk,” one of her subordinates reported after studying the tracking data supplied by their satellites. “We evaluate it as a third Energia-5VR, on roughly the same trajectory as those first two Angara-5s.”

  Moments later, a familiar voice with a distinct Texas twang sounded in her headset. “General Hayes, this is J. D. Farrell. I understand those Russian sons of bitches are raising a ruckus?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” she said, finding herself smiling despite the gravity of the situation. Jesus, she thought, what everyone said was true. You could take the boy out of Texas, but you could not take Texas out of the boy. “We have six confirmed launches so far—three from Plesetsk, two from Vostochny, and one from Baikonur. And all within the past ten minutes.”

  She heard Farrell inhale sharply. “Well, goddamn,” he said. “Have you ever seen a rocket launch tempo like that before, General?”

  “No, sir,” Hayes said simply. “To my knowledge, no one has ever tried anything remotely resembling this.”

  Abruptly, a seventh icon blinked into existence on the map.

  “SBIRS is confirming another launch, Mr. President. A fourth heavy-lift Energia just lifted off from Plesetsk,” she reported.

  “Any idea on where all of these spacecraft are headed?” Farrell asked.

  Hayes checked the data scrolling across one of her displays. “Most of the Russian rockets are still climbing toward orbit, sir. Until they finish maneuvering, we won’t have a solid lock on their final track. But the first launch, an Energia-5VR from Vostochny, seems to have completed its third-stage burn. Our calculations show it inserting into a circular orbit—”

  “Four hundred miles high, inclined at fifty-one point six degrees,” Farrell guessed.

  Hayes couldn’t keep the surprise she felt out of her voice. “Yes, sir, that’s correct. How did you know?”

  “Chalk it up to my manly intuition,” he said with a short, humorless laugh. “Which is why I have a bad feeling the rest of those Russian rockets are headed pretty much the same damned way.”

  And then, with breathtaking suddenness, the projected track of the seventh rocket—designated as Energia Four by the warning center’s computers—disappeared from the screen. In its place, Major General Amanda Hayes saw a confused swirl of smaller scarlet trajectories bloom across a large portion of northern Russia. “Well,” she heard herself say slowly. “Maybe not all of them, Mr. President.”

  Over Northern Russia

  That Same Time

  One hundred and forty-five seconds after launch, Energia Four was climbing through an altitude of fifty-four kilometers at a speed of more than six thousand kilometers per hour. The five RD-171MV kerosene-fueled engines in its strap-on boosters and core stage were firing perfectly. Just sixteen seconds away from shutdown and booster separation, they were steadily burning through the remains of the nearly two thousand tons of original propellant mass.

  Secure within the payload module that made up the upper portion of the rocket’s third stage, the Energia’s primary flight control computer went about its preprogrammed business—evaluating thousands of pieces of data from navigation sensors, engine subsystems, fuel feeds, and other systems. Periodically, the computer gimbaled individual rocket nozzles, making small corrections in the direction of thrust to keep the spacecraft stable and on its planned trajectory. And then, only seconds from booster separation, a minor power surge tripped the computer off-line.

  Reacting immediately, the Energia’s backup computer picked up the reins, smoothly taking command over the flight. Unfortunately, during the frantic rush to prepare so many rockets for launch, one small glitch had gone unnoticed. The backup computer’s internal clock was set twelve seconds fast.

  Following its programming, the computer immediately commanded the third stage’s two RD-0150 liquid-hydrogen-fueled engines to fire . . . while the strap-on boosters and core stage were still attached. Milliseconds later, their white-hot exhaust plumes ripped through the thin metal shell surrounding the core stage’s liquid-oxygen fuel tank.

  Instantly, Energia Four blew apart in a huge explosion that lit the sky over northern Russia. Hurled out of the enormous fireball, thousands of pieces of burning debris rained down. Within minutes, nearly a dozen wildfires were raging across a vast stretch of primeval coniferous forest.

  Over the Central Pacific Ocean

  That Same Time

  Energia One’s third-stage fuel tank and payload module coasted silently through space, on course to its intended orbit. Explosive bolts fired in quick puffs of vapor. Their task complete, the two spent RD-0150 main engines spiraled away, drifting lower on a trajectory that would eventually cause them to burn up somewhere over the South Atlantic. More explosive bolts detonated, jettisoning fairings—thin sheets of metal—which had protected the module’s special radar-absorbent coatings during launch.

  Years ago, under Colonel General Leonov’s direction, Russia’s aerospace engineers had come up with several ingenious variations on the Energia-5VR’s original third-stage design. Its two large internal tanks—one for liquid hydrogen, the other for liquid oxygen—had been drastically reduced in size, leaving room for just enough fuel to reach the right orbit. The remaining space was now allocated to compartments containing deployable solar power arrays, military-grade radars and infrared sensors, retractable weapons mounts, crew living quarters, and life-support systems.

  Seconds later, small valves opened. Plumes of liquid hydrogen and oxygen vented into space, instantly becoming clouds of glittering frozen gas. Once sensors confirmed the module’s internal fuel tanks were empty, the valves closed again. Now even those spaces could be used for additional consumables storage.

  Hundreds of kilometers behind the Energia One module, five faint, moving specks of light glittered against the infinite blackness—rising slowly above the cloud-dappled curve of the earth. The surviving components of Russia’s Mars One space station were closing steadily, using energy-efficient Hohmann transfer orbits.

  Federation Orbiter, over the People’s Republic of China

  That Same Time

  Bulky in his Sokol pressure suit, Colonel Vadim Strelkov reached up and tapped a glowing communications icon on the multifunction display fixed within inches of his helmet. “Moscow Control, this is Federation One. Posigrade transfer burn complete. The burn was nominal and the spacecraft is stable.”

  “Copy that, Federation One,” one of their flight controllers radioed back. “Well done on the good burn.” There was a long, static-filled pause. “Ah, One, please switch your communications settings to Mode Six and then recontact us.”

  “Roger, Control.” Frowning, Strelkov entered the necessary commands. Mode Six was the highest possible voice encryption setting. Routine radio transmissions between a spacecraft and its flight controllers were ordinarily broadcast in the clear. And to preserve the fiction that this was a civilian spacecraft for as long as possible, he had been ordered to follow regular peacetime procedures. Why was Moscow altering that plan now, so early in the mission?

  He saw the communications icon change shape
to that of a padlock. “Control, this is Federation One. Mode Six is enabled.”

  “Copy that. Stand by for Colonel General Leonov.”

  Strelkov glanced sideways at Major Georgy Konnikov, crammed into the next seat over, and got a slight shrug. Leonov had always been a hands-on commander. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t too surprising that he would involve himself early on.

  Then Leonov’s deep voice boomed through his headset. “I congratulate you on a successful launch and insertion to orbit, Colonel. I hope the spacecraft is performing to expectations?”

  “Perfectly, sir,” Strelkov assured him. In truth, their lift-off and ride to space had been much smoother and more trouble-free than he had thought possible in an untested vehicle. Only a couple of very minor systems had failed under the initial stress of flight, and both of them were back up now. “We expect to rendezvous with the other Mars One station components within twenty-four hours.” With a dry smile, he looked at Konnikov, who mimed closing his eyes. “In fact, things are going so well that some of my crew seem to be planning to catch up on their beauty sleep.”

  “Unfortunately, you will have to disabuse them of this notion,” Leonov said heavily. “I’m afraid we are all going to be very busy over the next several days. Many of our existing Mars One construction and operations procedures must be significantly revised—literally, in this case, on the fly.”

  Strapped snugly into the capsule’s command seat, Strelkov could not sit bolt upright in shock. That was probably just as well, since he would have only banged his helmet on a bulkhead. Compared to Russia’s old Soyuz spacecraft, the Federation orbiter was a technological marvel. But with six cosmonauts on board, it was still incredibly cramped. “What?”