The air around them bursting with lights and smoke, the line of jeeps slowed but did not stop.
Hands on their firing controls, the Sword gunners waited tensely to see what would happen next.
Ricci rang Petrov on his hotline before leaving the snoopmobile.
The space program director sounded in a near-panic. “What is happening? The shooting—”
“This facility’s under assault, and starting now I intend to conduct its defense per the terms of your original agreement with UpLink. Which means—”
“Wait a moment—assault from whom? You must tell me—”
“Which means I want the VKS to stay out of my way inside and outside the Cosmodrome, and allow Sword personnel unrestricted access to all buildings we deem under threat,” Ricci interrupted. “With all due respect, Mr. Petrov, I advise you to make that happen, or the sky just might wind up falling down around your head.”
As had been the case with the warehouse penetration in Brazil, the invaders gained access to the cargo-processing facility through a rear loading-bay door. What was different as Kuhl and his men went in now was that every alarm, door lock, piece of audio/visual surveillance equipment, computer—everything, everything that contained wires and circuits and fed off electrical current, including the light fixtures and air conditioners—had been neutralized. And because the precise calibration of Ilkanovitch’s device had disrupted rather than destroyed the power and computer grids, most if not all of the systems would reactivate within several minutes to half an hour, leaving the intrusion undiscovered. Convinced someone was determined to halt the space station program by the Orion explosion and subsequent attack on the Brazilian ISS facility, the Russian and American defenders of the Cosmodrome would repel the decoy strike force at the east gate and congratulate themselves on having saved the launch vehicle.
Never would they guess that its successful launch always had been Harlan DeVane’s intention. That the attacks and sabotage had been both cover for his actual plan to send Havoc into orbit aboard the ISS, and a means by which Roger Gordian’s resources could be needlessly squandered, his political ties in Russia and Brazil frayed, his spreading operations in Latin America weakened and destabilized.
Their FAMAS guns shouldered, optical display helmets and visors covering their faces, Kuhl’s team made their way through the ruler-straight corridor leading to the room in which the space station module was housed, following an interior plan they had long ago committed to memory. The Havoc device and antenna in Kuhl’s backpack weighed only twenty pounds, and was the approximate size of a portable stereo. Planted discreetly aboard the boxcar-sized space-station module, it would not be detected by the engineers who transported the module to its launch vehicle, or the cosmonauts responsible for its linkup to the orbital space station. Once having accomplished the connection, the Russians were scheduled to return to Earth, and there would be several weeks before the first permanent crew was sent aboard, by which time DeVane would have accomplished his blackmail of Russia and the United States. Only the checkout engineers might have noticed it prelaunch—and their final inspection had been conducted the day before.
There was, Kuhl thought, an exquisite symmetry to it all.
Antonio and the others close behind him, he raced forward, pushed through a door in the corridor that was supposed to be electronically locked, and glided effortlessly through another. Speed was of the essence. Though Havoc could be connected to the solar arrays in minutes, the task had to be executed, and his team’s exit from the building accomplished, before power returned to reveal the intrusion.
Kuhl moved swiftly toward one final door, gripped its handle, and pushed it open.
The ISS module was directly in front of him on a large palletized staging work stand.
Despite his need for haste, Kuhl paused in the doorway for the barest instant, feeling a surge of momentous achievement.
Then he moved forward, Antonio and the others entering at his heels, coming up to stand beside him.
“Halt right where you are, all of you,” a voice abruptly said from his right. “Another step and we’ll blow your brains out.”
Ricci held his VVRS rifle out at waist level, aiming it at the man with the backpack, eyeing him steadily through his NVGs. Beside him along the right side of the room, their own rifles angled toward the door, were half a dozen Sword ops also equipped with goggles. On the left were an equal number of men.
“Drop your weapons,” he said. “I hope you understand English, because you’ve got exactly three seconds before we open fire.”
The men in the entryway did not move.
“Two,” Ricci said.
His front teeth clicking together, Kuhl turned toward Antonio. It would be a pity to lose the men who were with him, but there was no choice.
“We fight,” he whispered. Lying to Antonio as he had lied to the perimeter assault team. “To the end. ”
With a quicksilver movement, Antonio brought his gun up and pivoted toward Ricci, but Ricci took him down with a staccato burst to his midsection before he could release a shot.
The momentary distraction was all Kuhl had desired.
As the remaining members of his team split the darkness with automatic fire, he spun on his heels, thrust his arm out at the door that would return him to the outer hall, and pushed it open.
He was halfway through the entry when Ricci lunged from behind and caught hold of his backpack.
The man beside the TRAP T-2 firing commander stared into his handheld monitor. “Jeeps are still coming on.”
The commander breathed. Didn’t those dumb bastards realize what kind of hell storm they were heading into?
“Fire at will,” he said into his headset.
The attackers riding in the jeeps had not expected to come up against the remote gun platforms. Kuhl’s scouts had told them that the east perimeter, now under American control, was guarded by an inadequate number of men possessing only nonlethal small arms intended to disrupt and incapacitate. The scouts had told them that the VKS was apparently convinced an offensive against the space center, if it came at all, would be launched against its industrial area—never expecting that Kuhl and his small group would infiltrate that sector rather than stage a mass assault there, and that the attack on this perimeter was a mere distraction that would allow Kuhl to accomplish his mission, drawing any troop concentrations away from the cargo-processing facility. Kuhl’s scouts had also told the attackers that the Sword security team did not have adequate manpower to form a strong second line of defense or mount an effective counterattack.
Although the TRAP T-2s had come as a surprise to him, the leader of the attack force had assumed they had been moved into position after the last forward reconnaissance. Having never seen anything like them, he completely underestimated their precision-firing capabilities. Furthermore, the smoke, gas, and fireworks belching from the fixed platforms seemed to confirm his intelligence—relayed by Kuhl himself—that the Americans were under stricter no-kill orders than in Brazil.
Completely misled, he stuck to his plan of attack and ordered the jeeps to roll on toward the perimeter.
The Sword gunners opened up on them with everything they had, the TRAP T-2 VVRS platforms unleashing streams of deadly ammunition, angled to cover the entire field of approach with plunging, grazing, and crossing fire.
Men leaped from their vehicles as they were sprayed with bullets, many falling dead before they could make their exits, others managing to take cover behind the jeeps and return fire with their FAMAS guns. But they knew they were stalled, unable to advance, and by the time the QR squads came speeding up on their flanks, the attackers left alive were ready to surrender.
Their assault lasted just under half an hour before the Sword guards were satisfied it had been suppressed.
Exactly as Kuhl had planned.
His rifle slung over his shoulder, the fingers of one hand clutching the strap of Kuhl’s backpack, Ricci pulled Kuhl toward him,
keeping him in the doorway, hooking his free arm around Kuhl’s chest. But Kuhl continued to press forward, fighting to escape, twisting slightly to drive an elbow into the center of Ricci’s rib cage.
The wind knocked out of him, Ricci struggled to keep his arm around Kuhl, took another hard, crisp elbow jab to the diaphragm, a third.
His hold relaxed but didn’t break.
Gunfire racketing behind them, the two men grappled in the narrow space of the entryway, both their rifles clattering to the floor, their arms and shoulders banging against the partially open door, slamming it repeatedly back into the wall. Then Ricci saw Kuhl reach down with his right hand, saw the truncheon in his belt scabbard, and tried to grab his wrist to keep him from getting a grip on it. But Kuhl was too fast. He pulled it from the scabbard, brought it up, half-turned again, and thrust its blunt hardwood tip into Ricci’s solar plexus.
Ricci tightened his abdomen against the blow, but the pain was nevertheless tremendous. He grunted and crashed dazedly back against the door. His hold around Kuhl slackening, he somehow managed to cling to the strap that was his only remaining purchase, pulling it backward again even as Kuhl pulled forward.
There was a sound of fabric giving way, the strap tearing free of the stitches that held it to the pack, swinging loosely from Kuhl’s right shoulder.
Slipping down his opposite arm, the pack dangled there momentarily, and then fell toward the floor between the two men.
Kuhl spun, reached a hand down to catch it, but his brief distraction had allowed Ricci a chance to recover. He brought his knee up into Kuhl’s stomach, staggering him, then bent his legs to give himself some momentum and snapped a hard uppercut to Kuhl’s jaw.
Kuhl’s head jerked backward, but Ricci could feel him roll with the punch, and knew he’d avoided the worst of it. Ricci hit him again, aiming high, unable to maneuver in the cramped doorway and just hoping to connect with a solid hit. This time his fist smashed into the side of Kuhl’s nose, and blood came spurting from it onto Ricci’s knuckles.
Though Ricci could see the pain register in his opponent’s eyes, Kuhl gave no other sign of weakness. Before Ricci could follow up with a third blow, he slammed his truncheon lengthwise across Ricci’s side directly over his kidney, then brought it up and back for another strike, this one aimed for Ricci’s temple
Raising his arm to block the swing, Ricci forced the stick out and away from himself. But his side was on fire and he was still too stunned and breathless to move. Then, through the specks of light wheeling across his vision, he saw Kuhl’s left hand thrust downward again, his fingers groping for the backpack lying on the floor between them, then clenching around its broken strap.
He snatched it up and turned toward the corridor.
Gulping air, Ricci pushed himself off the door. Whatever was in that pack had to be important enough for the other man to have paused twice to retrieve it when he might instead have gotten a head start out of the building.
As Kuhl fled into the hall, Ricci launched into the air after him, tackling him around the middle with a force that sent both men crashing to the noor—Ricci atop Kuhl’s back, Kuhl facedown beneath him, their legs stretched out into the entryway and blocking the door from swinging shut. The truncheon skittered from Kuhl’s grasp, but his other hand remained tightly clenched around the dangling strap of the backpack. Ricci could feel his enormous power as he fought to get out from underneath, feel the muscles of his back and arms working, flexing, bulging up against his chest. The man was like a wild stallion, and Ricci knew he wouldn’t be able to keep him pinned for too long.
Pressing all his weight down on Kuhl, Ricci raised his fist over his head, then hammered it against the hand clutching the pack. Kuhl did not let go. Inhaling deeply, lifting his arm back up, Ricci struck another side-fisted punch to Kuhl’s knuckles.
This time he both heard and felt the splintering of bone. Though Kuhl again gave no outward indication of pain, his fingers splayed open around the strap. His chest flattened against Kuhl’s back, Ricci reached out, grabbed the pack off the floor of the corridor, and slung it over his shoulder through the entryway behind him, the door of which remained propped open by both men’s outstretched legs.
It was just then that a hand gripped Ricci’s ankle.
Blood trailing out behind him in a long, smeary ribbon, a feeling of looseness where he’d been shot, Antonio crawled across the floor on his belly until he was through the doorway and, mustering all the strength left in his fingers, caught hold of Ricci above his foot. It had not occurred to him that he had been intentionally sacrificed by the man he was trying to save.
“Mi mano, su vida, ” he said, repeating the phrase to himself like a mantra. “Mi mano, su vida ...”
My hand, your life.
Glancing over his shoulder at the dying man, Ricci tried to shake his ankle free of him, couldn’t at first, then kicked out hard, his shoe bottom crunching into Antonio’s face.
Antonio held on to his ankle, held on through willpower alone, pulling him backward. His lips were peeled away from his gums in a kind of rictus. There was blood smeared on his teeth, lips, and chin.
“Mi mano, su vida ... ”
Feeling a shift in Ricci’s balance as he struggled with Antonio, Kuhl flailed beneath him, planting both hands on the floor to gain some leverage. Like a man doing a push-up, heedless of his shattered knuckles, he straightened his arms and heaved himself off the floor. As Ricci went spilling from on top of him, Kuhl scrambled to his feet and looked hurriedly around for his pack.
Then he glimpsed it behind him. Behind Antonio. In the room containing the ISS module.
In there with the other Sword operatives.
Kuhl saw the choices before him, and again took the one that was unfortunate but unavoidable.
“Mi mano, su vida, mi mano ... ”
Antonio’s voice fading until it was barely a shiver on his lips, Ricci finally kicked free of his still-clinging fingers, sprang to his feet, and looked down the corridor.
All down its length, it was empty.
He rushed straight ahead toward the loading bay, plunged from the darkness of the hall out into the lesser darkness of the night.
The man with whom he’d been struggling was nowhere to be seen.
Gone.
And though Ricci would search for him for the next hour, and immediately order a cordon placed around the space center’s grounds, Kuhl would remain gone.
He had, however, left his backpack behind.
Epilogue
VARIOUS LOCALES APRIL 30, 2001
A SECURE CONFERENCE ROOM, UPLINK INTERNATIONAL corporate headquarters, San Jose, California.
“We’ve landed on our feet,” Gordian said, “but let’s not kid ourselves into thinking we’re on anything close to solid ground.”
At the table with him, Megan Breen and Tom Ricci were sober.
“Our mole’s still in his burrow,” Megan said. “We know now that he was familiar with the layouts of the Brazilian compound, the Cosmodrome, and presumably the KSC’s vehicle assembly building. That he not only revealed detailed information about the design of the ISS service module, but also where to plant the HMP device so it would be hidden from sight and able to feed off the solar sails.”
“Takes real access, and a lot of technical expertise,” Ricci said. “Same for whoever did the dirty work on Orion.”
“How about the one you got the device away from?” Gordian asked. “Any leads on him?”
Ricci shook his head. In the grounds search that had followed the man’s escape from the cargo-processing facility, his teams had found two murdered VKS guards, one garroted to death, the other with a broken neck. Ricci figured their quarry had killed them both and taken off in their missing patrol vehicle.
“Rollie holds firm that he wasn’t the guiding force behind the strikes,” Megan said.
Gordian looked at her. “Reasons?”
She shrugged. “He calls it a gut feeling.”
She nodded.
“Sometimes,” Ricci said, “following your gut’s the best thing you can do.”
Gordian expelled a long breath.
“The longer I think about all this, the more unanswered questions arise,” he said. “A primary one being what the HMP generator’s target was going to be once it was placed in orbit.”
They all sat very still in the room’s electronic envelope of silence.
“Small steps,” Ricci said after a while, his voice so quiet it seemed he’d been talking to himself.
Then he noticed Gordian had turned to face him.
“That’s how you count your gains,” Ricci explained. “It’s what I learned in the service and had reinforced when I was working the streets as a cop, and maybe almost forgot till recently. When it seems like there are ten lousy situations you can’t do anything about, for every one where you can make a difference, it’s all about putting your right foot forward, and just taking those small steps.”
About having confidence that just being here, and alive, gives you the chance to see better times ahead, Gordian thought.
“You did a hell of a job in Kazakhstan, Tom,” he said at length. “I’m glad to have you aboard.”
Shadow Watch (1999) Page 31
