The Kremlin Strike

by Dale Brown

  Leonov kept his mouth shut.

  “Now you show some wisdom,” Gryzlov commented acidly. He stopped pacing. “Despite the dominance we have achieved in near-Earth orbit, the Americans still apparently believe they can act freely against us here on Earth itself. They must be made to regret this error.”

  “In what way, Gennadiy?” Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva asked. Her eyes were watchful.

  Gryzlov bared his teeth in a cold, cruel smile. “By the most logical means, Daria. We will carry out an immediate reprisal attack, employing one of Mars One’s Rapira hypersonic warheads.”

  Leonov nodded to himself. That was the logical move. And it was one he had anticipated as soon as Gryzlov had summoned his senior officials to this emergency meeting.

  Titeneva frowned. “Firing those space-based missiles still involves serious risk,” she said slowly. “And it would not be in our interest to trigger an uncontrolled escalation of this conflict.”

  “Weapons that we are too afraid to use are not weapons at all,” Gryzlov said with contempt.

  “I understand that, Mr. President,” the foreign minister said. She looked straight up at him. “Which is why I agree that we should launch one of the Rapiras—but only against an uninhabited area first. Doing so would demonstrate the power of this new weapons system quite convincingly, especially if we couple it with a clear warning that further attacks against us or our interests will be avenged with overwhelming force.”

  Gryzlov waved away her suggestion with obvious scorn. “That is the counsel of cowardice, Daria. I thought better of you.” He shook his head. “Pulverizing a few hundred square meters of dirt and rock will not terrify anyone. Especially not the Americans.” He looked around the table with a challenging stare. “Did the Americans ‘demonstrate’ the power of their first atomic bomb to the Japanese by dropping it on empty ocean?”

  No one answered his rhetorical question.

  “Of course not,” he continued. “They set it off over an inhabited city—killing tens of thousands to make a point.” He smiled thinly. “Why should we fear to tread the same ground?”

  Titeneva looked horrified.

  “Oh, relax,” Gryzlov told her impatiently. “I am not contemplating an attack on a civilian city . . . yet.” He turned back to Leonov. “Instead, your cosmonauts aboard Mars One will attack a legitimate military target . . . the USS Ronald Reagan. After all, aircraft from that carrier were instrumental in your recent humiliation. Sinking it from orbit should prove to President Farrell the folly of continued resistance.”

  Leonov felt his pulse speed up. Adrenaline flooded his system. This was the moment of maximum danger for him, and millions of years of evolution were now signaling the necessity of “fight or flight.” “Unfortunately, Mr. President,” he said quietly, “I must advise you that such an attack would almost certainly fail. Even at Mach twenty, a Rapira warhead falling from orbit takes around ninety-five seconds to reach its target.”

  “So?” Gryzlov demanded.

  “The ships of the American carrier strike group zigzag at irregular intervals as a matter of routine,” Leonov explained. “And under attack, they can maneuver even more violently and at higher speeds. A warhead aimed at the Reagan, or any of her escorts, could easily miss by a thousand meters or more.”

  For a long moment, Gryzlov stared at him in brooding silence.

  Leonov sensed the others around the table recoiling even farther into their seats. None of them would meet his eyes. Plainly, they expected, and dreaded, a temper tantrum by their leader that would end in his arrest and probable execution.

  At last, Gryzlov’s thin, calculating smile returned. “You seem to have given this some thought, Leonov.”

  “Yes, sir, I have,” he agreed calmly.

  “Then do you have an alternative to offer me? Another military target whose destruction will make Farrell shit himself with fear?”

  Leonov nodded. “I do.” He sent a series of black-and-white images from his tablet computer to the conference room’s large screen. “These pictures are being relayed from one of our reconnaissance satellites. The ship you see here is currently departing from the U.S. Navy base at Yokosuka, Japan.”

  Gryzlov frowned. “If you can’t hit an aircraft carrier with a Rapira, how do you expect to succeed against another moving vessel?”

  “Because this ship is steaming at a set speed and on a strictly prescribed course in one of the world’s busiest and most crowded shipping lanes,” Leonov said. “It cannot maneuver evasively without risking a fatal collision.” He tapped his tablet again. In response, text scrolled across the screen, identifying the U.S. Navy ship and its cargo.

  “Ah, I see,” Gryzlov said in satisfaction. His mouth twisted into an exultant, vicious grin. “Yes, that is perfect, Mikhail! Let it be done.”

  Aboard Mars One, in Earth Orbit

  Several Minutes Later

  Colonel Vadim Strelkov looked across the command compartment. “Are we receiving good data, Georgy?”

  Konnikov nodded. “Yes, sir. Our link to the Kondor satellite is solid.” He entered commands on his console. “Transferring tracking data to the Rapira fire-control computer now.”

  “Tracking data received,” Major Viktor Filatyev announced over the intercom from his post in the space station’s aft weapons module. “The computer is calculating a firing solution.”

  Seconds passed.

  “I have a good solution,” Filatyev said. “Feeding it to Rapira One.” Moments later. “Rapira One has accepted the data. I am ready to launch the weapon.”

  Strelkov turned his gaze to his own console. One of his displays showed a feed from one of their outside cameras. It was focused on the underside of the station’s central command module. “Very well, Major. Launch now.”

  “Launching.”

  On the colonel’s display, an armored hatch slid open. With a puff of gas, an elongated shape—the Rapira warhead with its attached rocket motor—drifted out into space, separating from Mars One at ten meters per second.

  One minute later, now safely away from the Russian space platform, the rocket motor attached to the Rapira fired. It was aimed against the direction of orbit. One short burn slowed the weapon just enough to send it slanting down toward the earth on a precisely calculated vector.

  As it fell out of orbit, maneuvering thrusters puffed, flipping the Rapira end over end, so that the warhead was nose first. Small explosive bolts popped, separating the rocket motor from the rest of the assembly. With its task complete, the little rocket engine drifted away . . . on course to burn up in reentry.

  On its own now, the sleek, carefully shaped warhead crossed into the upper atmosphere and plunged onward, trailing a plume of white-hot plasma. As it fell, it tore a blinding streak of light across the night sky above the Pacific.

  Ninety seconds later, the Rapira warhead slammed into the USNS Amelia Earhart at more than thirteen thousand miles per hour. Torn apart by a kinetic impact akin to more than two thousand tons of high explosive, the forty-thousand-ton naval stores ship suddenly vanished in an enormous ball of fire—obliterated by the sympathetic detonation of the hundreds of missiles and bombs in its cargo holds.

  The huge white flash turned the night into day across Tokyo, just twenty-five miles to the north. Burning shards of metal rained down across the densely populated streets and crowded piers of Yokohama and Yokosuka—setting fires and damaging buildings and ships. More than one hundred American sailors on the Amelia Earhart and dozens of Japanese civilians on land were killed instantly. But the real death toll would rise for days, as those who were wounded by shrapnel or trapped amid the flames succumbed to their terrible injuries.

  Forty

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  A Short Time Later

  President John D. Farrell watched the secure video to Moscow go live, revealing Gennadiy Gryzlov seated at his own desk. His jaw tightened when he saw the sly, self-satisfied smile on the Russian leader’s chisel
ed face. “Now you listen here, you . . .”

  “I do not have to listen to anything,” Gryzlov said bluntly. “This is not a conversation, Farrell. We have nothing to discuss.” He leaned forward. “I have been patient with you, but my patience is at an end. I will no longer tolerate foolishness.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” Farrell asked coldly.

  “Let me be very clear, so that no more lives will be lost through your idiocy. Further American attacks against my country—in the air, on the ground, at sea, or in space—will be met with overwhelming and unstoppable missile strikes from orbit. Nothing will be safe. No American military base. No vital infrastructure.” Gryzlov’s voice hardened. “Not even the White House itself.” Then, before Farrell could reply, he reached out and cut the connection.

  The screen went black.

  “Well, that went well,” Kevin Martindale said quietly. The head of Scion had been seated off-camera during the brief call.

  Farrell snorted. “About as well as could be expected.” He nodded toward the blank screen. “That Russian son of a bitch thinks he’s sitting in the catbird seat.”

  “He’s not far wrong.”

  “No, he’s not,” Farrell agreed bitterly. “Besides killing a bunch of our sailors and Japanese civilians and blowing the shit out of Carrier Strike Group Five’s ammo resupply, sinking the Amelia Earhart just showed the whole world that no one’s safe. The Russians can hit virtually any target they want from orbit . . . and we can’t do a damned thing to stop them.”

  He steepled his hands. “As long as Gryzlov has that space station and its weapons hanging over our heads, we’re screwed. The Pentagon’s run the numbers. No antimissile system in our existing arsenal has a shot in hell at stopping that Rapier warhead of theirs. Not when we’re likely to have less than two minutes warning of any attack.”

  Martindale frowned. “Sky Masters has certain weapons under development that might do the job—battlefield lasers, hypersonic interceptors, and the like. Unfortunately, they’re not yet ready for deployment.” He looked up. “Our Cybernetic Infantry Devices might be able to shoot down one of those incoming warheads using their electromagnetic rail guns. While I imagine the odds of success would be very low, they’d still be better than nothing.”

  “And how many operational CIDs are there currently?” Farrell asked.

  “Just six,” Martindale admitted. “Three in Poland with the Iron Wolf Squadron and three more at Battle Mountain. We were able to repair one of the machines damaged during the fight with Gryzlov’s KVMs last year. The other two are new construction.”

  Farrell nodded grimly. “That’s about what I thought,” he said. “Six CIDs divided among thousands of potential targets around the world isn’t exactly going to cut it.”

  “Not really,” Martindale said heavily. “Which leaves us . . . where?”

  “In a world of hurt.” Farrell got up from behind his desk and turned to look out the Oval Office windows. For once, the sky over Washington was a deep, rich blue, without a single cloud to break its perfection. “As a precaution, I’ve ordered the vice president to board one of our E-4B command posts and get airborne.” He checked his watch. “By now, Tom and his national security team should be orbiting somewhere over the Midwest at forty thousand feet.”

  Martindale nodded. That was a sensible move. E-4Bs were Boeing 747-200s converted into strategic command and control aircraft. Constant air-to-air refueling enabled the large four-engine jets to remain aloft for a week or more. Putting the vice president out of harm’s way aboard one of the National Airborne Operations Centers at least made sure that Gryzlov could not carry out a successful decapitation strike against the United States.

  And if necessary, Vice President Thomas Knox and the battle staff aboard that U.S. Air Force mobile command post could pick up the reins and carry on. It helped that Farrell had picked his running mate for more reasons than just the votes he could help swing. Knox, a popular former senator and onetime chairman of both the Senate Armed Services and Intelligence Committees, brought a wealth of institutional knowledge and experience to the job. He was the slick, smooth insider to Farrell’s rugged outsider . . . and they’d made a very effective team so far.

  Farrell turned away from the windows. “One thing’s sure. I’m damned tired of playing defense. That’s a sucker’s game in the long run.” He looked toward Martindale. “We need a plan to take out Mars One. And we need it fast.”

  “Patrick’s working up some ideas now,” Martindale promised.

  “Good.” Farrell sat back down. “I’m convening an emergency national security meeting tomorrow afternoon. Admiral Firestone and the rest of the JCS have been crafting their own plans to attack that space station. I want you and General McLanahan—and anyone else from Battle Mountain you think necessary—in on that meeting.”

  Somberly, Martindale nodded. “We’ll be there, Mr. President.”

  Battle Mountain General Hospital, Nevada

  Early the Next Day

  Hunter Noble knocked on the open door of Brad McLanahan’s room and then cautiously poked his head inside. “Anyone conscious in here?”

  “Maybe not bright-eyed, but definitely conscious,” Brad said from a wheelchair parked by the bed. He looked thinner, still had his right arm in a sling, and wore a compress around his elevated right knee. He had a walking cane perched across his lap.

  Nadia Rozek looked up from the travel bag she was packing. She nodded to the visitor with a slight smile. “Hello, Boomer.”

  “Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

  “I negotiated a plea bargain for you on the flight home from Japan,” Brad told him dryly. After crossing the Kuril island barrier safely, Peter Vasey and Nadia had flown the Ranger south to Chitose Air Base on Hokkaido. Martindale had one of his fastest private executive jets, a Gulfstream G500, waiting there to bring the XCV-62’s flight crew and passengers back to the States. “You have her permission to save our lives again as necessary . . . but you’ve got to promise not to scare the crap out of her by showing up unannounced in some new super-secret armed spaceplane next time.”

  “It’s a deal,” Boomer said gratefully. He shrugged. “In my defense, I didn’t learn Martindale actually built that S-29B until after everybody had already left for Attu.”

  “We figured as much,” Brad assured him.

  Boomer glanced back down the hall. “Speaking of secrets, what’d you tell the doctors here?”

  “The official story is that I got hurt skydiving.”

  “That’s close enough to the truth, I guess,” Boomer acknowledged. “For a certain definition of ‘sky,’ anyway.” He waved a hand at the wheelchair. “So what’s the deal with that? Shouldn’t you be resting comfortably in bed?”

  Nadia zipped the bag shut. “We are busting Brad out of this Popsicle joint.”

  Boomer stared at the two of them. “Come again?”

  She frowned. “Did I not use the proper idioms?”

  “No, that’s not it,” Boomer said. He turned to Brad. “It’s just that I thought you had a dislocated shoulder.”

  Brad’s mouth twitched into a wry smile. “Yeah, I did, for probably about twenty minutes.”

  “Huh?”

  “My best guess is the shock when my ERO parachute opened at thirty thousand feet yanked my right shoulder partially out of its socket.” Brad winced, remembering the sudden, intense spasm of pain he’d felt. He’d definitely blacked out for some amount of time, coming to not far above the ground. “But then my hard landing must have slammed it back into place.”

  “Holy shit,” Boomer muttered. “I bet that’s not a medically recommended procedure.”

  “It is not,” Nadia said quietly. “Fortunately, there were no serious complications. While it will take weeks of physical therapy for Brad to regain his full strength with that shoulder, no additional surgery is required.”

  “And the knee?” Boomer asked.

  “It’s badly sprained, but no ligaments
are torn,” Brad told him. He smiled crookedly again. “I got lucky. Though the nurses gave me hell for not following the whole RICE—rest, ice, compression, and elevation—protocol sooner.”

  Nadia sniffed. “That would have been somewhat difficult to arrange while on the run in enemy territory.”

  “Just a little,” Brad agreed. He looked back at Boomer. “Anyway, the only reason for this wheelchair is to get me out of the hospital. After that, I should be able to hobble around okay using a cane.”

  “But why the hurry?” Boomer asked carefully, already suspecting he knew the answer.

  “First, because I hate hospitals,” Brad said quietly. “And second, because I’ve read through my dad’s intelligence reports on Mars One . . . along with the attack plan he’s worked up, with input from you and from Jason Richter. Banged up or not, you guys are going to need me.”

  Boomer sighed. “I figured as much.” He shook his head. “Look, Brad, considering how close you came to getting killed on our last trip into orbit, don’t you think maybe you should just sit this one out?”

  “I can’t do that,” Brad said flatly. His mouth tightened angrily. “Not after seeing the footage of that missile strike on the Amelia Earhart. Gennadiy Gryzlov just murdered hundreds of people because of me. Because you, Nadia, Peter Vasey, and the others helped me escape. So that makes this my fight, now more than ever.”

  Forty-One

  The White House Situation Room, Washington, D.C.

  A Few Hours Later

  President Farrell entered the crowded Situation Room at a rapid clip. He waved the men and women who’d started to rise to greet him back down into their seats and took his own place at the head of the table. Besides his top national security advisers, Patrick McLanahan and Kevin Martindale were physically present. A video link to Battle Mountain showed other members of the Scion and Sky Masters team listening in—including Brad, looking much the worse for wear, Nadia, Hunter Noble, and Peter Vasey.