The Kremlin Strike

by Dale Brown

  “I have absolutely no intention of ceding Earth orbit to Gennadiy Gryzlov’s despicable regime,” Farrell said through gritted teeth.

  “I never thought you did,” Martindale assured him. “Of course, that leaves open the question of what we can do to stop him.”

  Farrell nodded. He turned to Patrick. “What’s your take on Admiral Firestone’s proposal that we fire our missile defense interceptors against Mars One?”

  “About the same as his,” the other man replied. “There’s almost no chance we could score a hit.”

  “Shit,” Farrell muttered. His shoulders slumped slightly.

  “But we should still try it.”

  Farrell stared at Patrick. “Why?”

  “First, because if you’re not even in the game, you can’t possibly win,” Patrick said simply. “There’s always the chance—however improbable—that things may go wrong for those cosmonauts. Space is a harsh, unforgiving environment. And it’s tough on hardware. If that plasma gun or those lasers break down at just the right moment, we might get lucky.”

  “That’s one heck of a lot of maybes,” Farrell commented sourly.

  Patrick nodded. “Which is why I have a second reason for seeing those interceptors fly.”

  “Namely?” Martindale prompted.

  “We’re still operating in the dark,” Patrick told him. “We need more information about how Mars One’s weapons work and how effective its sensors are. Anything we can do to collect that kind of intelligence is worth trying. The more we know, the more likely we are to find a weak spot—some chink in its defenses we can exploit with the weapons and other hardware Sky Masters has developed.”

  He looked up at the president. “And you have my promise, sir. I will not rest until I find it.” A wry grin sleeted across his face as he tapped the LEAF exoskeleton that kept him alive. “Fortunately, wearing all this hardware means I don’t need quite as much sleep as the rest of you mere mortals.”

  Farrell studied him quietly for several long seconds. There was no doubting the other man’s sincerity. “I appreciate your dedication, General McLanahan,” he said gently. “But don’t you think you should focus first on rescuing your son, if he’s still alive?”

  To his surprise, Patrick shook his head. “I know that Brad’s fate is in good hands,” he said confidently. “I can count on Nadia doing whatever it takes to bring him home in one piece.”

  “You trust her that much?” Farrell asked.

  “I do.”

  Soberly, Martindale nodded. “Major Rozek is something of a force of nature.” Then he warned, “But any plan she comes up with is likely to get a bit messy. If any Russians get in her way, a lot of them are going to end up dead.”

  “I take your point,” Farrell said with a thin smile. His eyes were cold. “Frankly, Mr. Martindale, right now that possibility suits me just fine.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Battle Mountain, Nevada

  A Few Hours Later

  Conspicuously dry-eyed but nonetheless full of barely contained anger and apprehension, Nadia Rozek entered the secure conference room. She pulled the door firmly shut behind her. It locked with an audible click. The two men she’d chosen for her special-operations planning cell stood up to greet her.

  She’d selected Peter “Constable” Vasey for his proven ability as a pilot and because of the experience he’d gained while flying secret Scion missions into hostile territory. Those were skill sets she knew would prove crucial to any rescue operation. The other man, Major Ian Schofield, was a veteran of Canada’s Special Operations Regiment. Until recently, he’d commanded the Iron Wolf Squadron’s deep penetration unit. Nadia and the lean, wiry Canadian had served together previously in two high-risk covert operations—the first to attack a fortified Russian cyberwar complex deep in the Ural Mountains, and the second, just last year, to hunt down and destroy Gryzlov’s war robots inside the United States itself. No one else knew more about how to survive and avoid capture behind enemy lines.

  “Time is short. And we have much to do,” Nadia said matter-of-factly. “So let us get started.” She sat down at the table, opened her laptop, and synced it with the conference room’s computer. “We have been tasked with a mission which, though simple enough in concept, will be difficult to plan . . . and even more challenging to carry out successfully.”

  “You have something of a gift for understatement, Major Rozek.” Schofield’s teeth gleamed white in a face tanned and weathered by years spent outdoors in harsh climates. He looked thoughtful. “All I’ve heard is that Captain McLanahan is missing somewhere inside Russian territory. Do we know any more than that?”

  She nodded. “We do.” She brought up a map. “This is the most recent computer analysis of Brad’s reentry trajectory and probable landing zone.”

  Schofield and Vasey both whistled softly. If Brad had made it down from orbit alive, he’d landed squarely in the middle of the Khabarovsk federal region—in Russia’s heavily defended far east. Northern Japan, the closest friendly territory, was more than five hundred miles away.

  “Well, I suppose it could be worse,” Schofield said slowly, after a few moments of silent study.

  Vasey snorted. “Meaning, he could have come down right in the middle of Moscow?”

  The Canadian shook his head. “Not quite.” He nodded toward the map. “That part of the Khabarovsk region is lightly populated. Plus, the terrain there offers reasonable concealment, while still not being impassable for a man traveling on foot.”

  “Good,” Nadia said firmly. “Anything that can help Brad evade capture while we organize a rescue operation is welcome news.”

  Vasey frowned. “I hate like hell to be the ghost at the feast, Major,” he said gently. “But what actual evidence do we have that Brad even survived reentry? We both know the odds are not in his favor.”

  “His emergency beacon activated,” she said forcefully. “And then it was switched off.”

  “We don’t know if that was deliberate,” Vasey pointed out. “The beacon might simply have been critically damaged when it hit the ground.”

  “Yes, that is possible,” Nadia agreed. Her expression hardened. “But it is equally possible that Brad realized the beacon could give away his position to the Russians . . . and switched it off himself. At the very least, this shows that his ERO shell did not burn up when it hit the atmosphere.”

  Vasey’s light blue eyes were full of sympathy. “That’s rather a lot of ifs,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “I know this all too well.” For an instant, the dark thoughts she’d suppressed threatened to break through into the open. No, she told herself fiercely, you will not give in to your fears. Weeping now would achieve nothing. She shrugged her shoulders. “We Poles have a saying, Constable. Tonący brzytwy się chwyta. The drowning man clutches at a razor blade. Until I know that Brad is gone, I will not abandon hope.”

  “Then neither will I,” the Englishman assured her. “I’ve never especially enjoyed playing the devil’s advocate.” His eyes wrinkled. “On the other hand, raising hell is something I’m quite good at . . . and I rather suspect that’s an attribute that will prove useful if we have to fly in to snatch our fair-haired boy out of Gryzlov’s grip.”

  Nadia inclined her head, offering him her silent thanks. Then she turned to Schofield. “How likely is it that Brad can evade capture until we come up with a plan to extract him?”

  Schofield frowned, thinking it over. “A lot would depend on how actively he’s being hunted,” he said carefully. “If the Russians are mounting a full-blown search operation—using helicopters in the air and troops and police on the ground—he’s in serious trouble. Even worse if he’s injured.”

  “So far, it does not seem that the Russians know any of the S-19’s crew escaped,” Nadia said. “Japan’s signals intelligence ground stations and aircraft have not yet intercepted any military or police radio transmissions which indicate they are hunting for a downed American astro
naut.”

  “Well, there’s a bit of luck,” Vasey said appreciatively. “Either no one spotted the fireball when Brad’s ERO sled tore through the upper atmosphere. Or . . .”

  “The authorities simply dismissed it as debris torn loose from the wrecked spaceplane burning up on reentry,” Nadia said.

  Schofield nodded. “In that case, the SERE training Brad received as an Iron Wolf pilot will give him a fighting chance—as long as he wasn’t seriously injured on landing. He’ll be moving through unpopulated wilderness areas which should offer good cover and plenty of drinking water.” He looked serious. “Dehydration is the always the first and greatest enemy in a survival situation. Humans can go without food for a lot longer than they can go without water.”

  “And if he is badly hurt?” Vasey pressed. “Parachuting into a forest is always risky.”

  “In that case, Brad would have no chance at all,” Schofield replied gravely. “If the Russians don’t stumble across him and take him prisoner, he would die of exposure or thirst.”

  Nadia winced, suddenly picturing Brad trapped and helpless in the scorched wreckage of his ERO shell with broken bones or head injuries. Frowning, she shook the horrifying image away and rapped the table sharply. “There is no point in dwelling on worst-case scenarios,” she said crisply, forcing herself to sound far more confident than she felt. “Our task is to plan a rescue operation—not a funeral.” Suitably chastened, Vasey and Schofield both nodded. “Fortunately, we have the right aircraft available to extract Brad once he makes contact,” Nadia continued.

  She sent another picture to the conference room’s big LED screen. It showed a batwing-configuration aircraft roughly the size of a Gulfstream G450 business jet, with four engines buried in the wing’s upper surface. Built by Sky Masters as a prototype, the stealthy, short-takeoff-and-landing XCV-62 Ranger had proved its worth during the raid on Russia’s Perun’s Aerie cyberwar complex . . . and then again last year, when it allowed them to fly secretly into the United States. In the confused aftermath of the deadly battle against Gryzlov’s war robots, the Ranger had been flown back to a hangar at Battle Mountain rather than returning to the Iron Wolf Squadron base in Poland.

  She looked at Vasey. “With some simulator practice, you should not have much trouble flying the Ranger. I will be your copilot and systems officer.”

  The Englishman offered her a crooked grin. “You know, Major Rozek, I’m seriously beginning to regret telling you earlier about how good I am at raising hell. Because I had no idea you would take me so literally.”

  Seeing the puzzled look on Schofield’s face, Vasey explained. “Using the XCV-62 to get Brad out means flying straight into a hornet’s nest. Russia’s air defenses in the far east are extremely powerful and they’re backed by advanced radar systems.”

  “How powerful?”

  In answer to Schofield’s question, Nadia pulled up a map of the region between the Vostochny Cosmodrome in the west and Russia’s Pacific coast in the east. Overlapping circles and icons revealed a layered web of S-400 long-range SAMs and medium-range SA-17 SAM, along with a network of airfields where Su-35, MiG-29, and MiG-31 fighter regiments were stationed.

  Schofield stared at the map. “Good God.”

  “It is a difficult tactical problem,” Nadia said evenly. “Compounded by the certainty that the Russians will be on the highest possible alert—ready to meet any American retaliatory air or missile attack on the Vostochny launch complex.”

  “‘Difficult’ isn’t exactly the word I would choose,” Schofield said. “Stealthy or not, there is absolutely no way a lone aircraft can make it through that kind of defensive net without being detected and engaged.”

  “Very true,” Nadia agreed. A fierce, predatory look settled on her beautiful face. “That is precisely why we will not be going in alone.” Speaking forcefully, she ran through the basics of what she contemplated. While it would take a lot more work to refine her rough sketch into a workable plan, the broad outlines were clear enough.

  When she finished, Vasey shook his head in mingled disbelief and admiration. “By God, Major Rozek, I’ll say one thing for you: when you decide to go for something, you certainly don’t hold anything back.”

  Deep in the Oldjikan State Nature Reserve, Russia

  Later That Night

  Brad McLanahan sat slumped with his back against the trunk of a large oak tree. The adrenaline rush sparked by surviving his fiery plunge through the earth’s atmosphere, and then discovering that he’d landed in enemy territory, had kept him going during the first hours of his long afternoon trek. Eventually, though, it had faded, replaced by the throbbing pain in his shoulder and the increasing level of pain in his right leg. After that, his hike through the rugged landscape of low, forested hills and swampy lowlands had settled into a painful, exhausting slog. By the time the last light faded, making it too difficult and dangerous to keep going, he figured he’d walked about eight miles east from where he’d landed . . . though probably no more than four or five as the crow flew.

  He stifled a ferocious yawn. Sound would carry farther at night than during the day. Not that there was much real risk that anyone would hear him, he thought. Since he’d crossed that dirt logging road with its telltale nature reserve sign, he hadn’t seen any signs of human activity. No houses or buildings. No other roads. Not even any identifiable walking trails. He looked up through the canopy of oak leaves over his head. An infinity of stars, undimmed by any man-made light pollution, speckled the night sky. Apart from the soft rustle of leaves and small branches stirred by a gentle breeze, there wasn’t a sound for miles around.

  All things considered, Brad decided, this was about as good a time and place to try making contact with the outside world as he was likely to get. He unzipped the pouch holding his emergency supplies, took out the compact satellite phone, and switched it on. After a second or two, its small screen lit up with a soft hum. The GPS coordinates it displayed confirmed his position. Hip-deep in shit, he thought wryly.

  A couple of quick icon presses configured the phone to hunt for the next available satellite that could route his signal. Almost immediately a quiet tone chimed. Relieved, he exhaled. One more hurdle down.

  To tighten its control over mobile communications, Russia’s government required the registration of all satellite phone SIM cards. Theoretically, this made it impossible for anyone to place a call inside Russian territory without positive identification. Fortunately, thanks to Scion’s tech wizards, this phone had a special SIM card that could mimic those officially registered phones.

  Mentally, Brad crossed his fingers and dialed a special number—one he’d had drummed into him during the intense SERE training Ian Schofield had run for all Iron Wolf combat pilots. After a series of soft clicks, the phone connected.

  Someone on the other end picked up on the second ring. “Smallville Pizza Parlor,” he heard a young man’s voice say calmly. “This call may be monitored for quality-control purposes. Now, how can I help you, sir?”

  A smile crossed Brad’s face. He was in touch with a covert Scion communications center back in the States. But that bit about calls being monitored was a warning that there was a chance, however slim, of Russian eavesdropping. He would need to use a simple voice code suited to the cover identity chosen by the Scion operative. Fortunately, memorizing different key phrases had been another part of his SERE training. “I have an order for takeout.”

  In plain English, that was his request for an emergency extraction.

  “Yes, sir,” the other man said calmly. “And will you be paying by cash, check, or credit card?”

  “Credit card,” Brad told him. That was the code phrase for “the enemy appears unaware of my location.” Saying he would pay with cash would have signaled that the Russians were in hot pursuit, while a check would have told the Scion agent that he was being hunted, but that the enemy was not close.

  For the next couple of minutes, he ran through a litany of voice co
des that reported his physical status and current situation—all disguised as an ordinary order for a pizza with different toppings. It occurred to him that one of the unintended benefits of speaking in code was that it forced him to concentrate and stay calm . . . when all the while he really wanted to yell, “For Christ’s sake, hurry up and pull me out of here!”

  When he finished, there was a brief pause. Then the Scion operative came back on the line. “I’ve placed your order, sir. It should be ready for pickup in thirty minutes, but you should call back just to be sure it’s ready.”

  Brad nodded. “Got it.” His message had been passed up the chain of command and he should recontact this number in thirty minutes to receive further instructions.

  “Is there anything else I can get you?” the agent on the other end asked.

  “Er, no . . . no, thanks,” Brad said slowly. What he really wanted most of all was the chance to hear Nadia’s voice again. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a request covered in the covert communication codes he’d been taught.

  “Then you have a nice night. And thank you for calling Smallville Pizza,” the other man said. With a click, the line went dead.

  Feeling very subdued suddenly, Brad shut down the phone to conserve its limited battery power. Its tiny screen blinked off, leaving him in darkness again. Ironically, now that he’d regained contact with the outside world, he felt more alone than ever.

  Twenty-Eight

  Aboard Mars One

  A Short Time Later

  Colonel Vadim Strelkov looked down at the Pacific Ocean as the station swung northeastward toward the coast of California. Masses of clouds, bright white in daylight, towered above the dark navy-blue waters of the deep sea. “Time to the first estimated American launch window?” he asked Konnikov.