by Dale Brown
Chris shot a querying expression at Brad. “Yes, a lot,” Brad said.
“I’m sorry about your friends,” Chris said. “I’m glad you made it back, Brad. Had enough of space travel for a while?”
“For now,” Brad admitted. “But I am going back. Most definitely.”
“Done with all the media stuff too for a while?”
“Definitely no more,” Jodie said. “I can’t wait for our lives to go back to normal. Crikey, I can’t even remember what normal is.”
“You need anything, either of you?” Chris asked. “The team will be back in the morning. When you feel up to it, you can start training.”
“He’s right back to his usual routines,” Jodie said. “I might join him from now on.”
“That would be fine,” Chris said. “Ready to go back to the apartment?”
“We’ll unload, and then I’ll close it up,” Brad said. “I’ll wipe it down tomorrow.”
“I’ll drive with you back to Poly Canyon, and then I’m going to the hotel,” Chris said. “I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll update your call sign then, I think.” He gave Brad and Jodie a half smile, which was a big one by Wohl’s standards, and then he put his hands in his pockets against the growing chill, turned on a heel, and . . .
. . . walked right into the knife held by Yvette Korchkov, which plunged deep into his belly. He had enough strength and wherewithal to head-butt his assailant before falling to the tarmac, clutching his abdomen.
“Grebanyy ublyudok,” Korchkov swore, holding her bleeding forehead. “Fucking bastard.” Brad pushed Jodie behind him. “We meet again, Mr. McLanahan. Thank you so much for informing the world where you will be. It was child’s play to track you down.”
Brad pulled Jodie to the back of the hangar, then went over to a toolbox and found a Crescent wrench. “Call 911,” he told her. To Korchkov he said, “Svärd, or whatever the hell your name is, if you don’t want to get caught, you’d better leave. This place has security cameras, and Wohl’s troops will be here any minute.”
“I know where all of the sergeant major’s associates are, Brad,” Korchkov said. “They are hours away, and I will be gone long before the police arrive. But my mission will be completed.”
“What mission? Why are you after me?”
“Because your father made a terrible enemy in Gennadiy Gryzlov,” Korchkov said. “He ordered all of your father’s possessions to be destroyed, and you are at the top of the list. And I must say, after the destruction you caused near Moscow last week, he will have an even greater burning desire to see you dead.”
“The police are on their way,” Jodie called out.
“They will be too late,” Korchkov said.
“Well, then, come and get me, bitch,” Brad said, waving her on. “You like doing it up close and personal? Then give me a hug, bitch.”
Korchkov moved like a cheetah despite the wound on her forehead, and Brad was far too late. He partially deflected the knife with the wrench, but the blade sliced across the left side of his neck. Jodie screamed when she saw the rivulet of blood forming between Brad’s fingers as he tried to stop the flow. The wrench dropped from his hand as the room started to spin.
Korchkov smiled. “Here I am, handsome space traveler,” she said. “Where is your tough talk now? You are perhaps a little weak from your space travels, no?” She raised the knife so Brad could see it. “Give me a good-bye hug.”
“Here’s your hug, bitch,” a voice behind her said, and Chris Wohl broke a push-broom across Korchkov’s head. She whirled and was about to knife him again, but Chris dropped to the floor and was still.
“Finish bleeding and die, old man,” Korchkov said.
“That’s not an old man—he’s a sergeant major,” Brad said, just before the Crescent wrench crunched on the back of Korchkov’s head. She went down. Brad brought the wrench down hard against the hand holding the knife, pushed the blade away, then continued to beat her face with the wrench until he couldn’t recognize it anymore. He collapsed on top of the battered body as Jodie ran up to him, rolling him away from Korchkov and pressing her fingers against the gash on his neck.
Brad opened his eyes to the sounds of sirens outside the hangar and found Jodie still crouched over him, her hands pressed against his bleeding neck. “Brad?” she asked. “Oh, God . . .”
“Hey,” he said. He gave her a weak smile. “Who says I can’t show my girl a good time?” And he thankfully dropped into unconsciousness once again.
EPILOGUE
There is a skeleton on every house.
—ITALIAN SAYING
SCION AVIATION INTERNATIONAL HEADQUARTERS
ST. GEORGE, UTAH
SEVERAL DAYS LATER
Brad stood at the head of the Cybernetic Infantry Unit as the straps began to slowly retract up toward the ceiling, and moments later Patrick McLanahan was pulled clear of the robot. His body was as pale as a bedsheet, and he was thinner than Brad could ever remember, but he was not as skeletal as he had feared—he looked wiry, with good muscle tone beneath the snow-white skin. His head was supported with a pillow attached to its own straps. Doctors and nurses rushed up to him, administering medications and attaching sensors all over his body. They placed an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose with a microphone in it.
Patrick turned and opened his eyes, looking at Brad, and he smiled. “Hello, son,” he said. “Good to see you in person and not through an optronic sensor.”
“Hello, Dad,” Brad said. He turned a little to his right. “I’d like you to meet Jodie Cavendish, my friend and one of my Starfire team leaders. Jodie, please meet my father, General Patrick S. McLanahan.”
Patrick closed his eyelids and even slightly bowed his head. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Cavendish,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“It is a great honor to meet you, sir,” Jodie said.
“I’m sorry about Casey Huggins and Starfire,” Patrick said. “You did some amazing work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Patrick looked at Brad. “So, you’re headed back to school,” he said. “I’m not sure if you can get any work done with all the publicity swirling around you guys.”
“We’re counting on fast news cycles and short memory spans,” Brad said. “Cal Poly is a big place. We’re the ones who lost a space station. We’re not heroes.”
“In my eyes, you are,” Patrick said.
It did not take long. As Patrick was suspended above, the old CID was wheeled away, the new one wheeled into place. Patrick’s body was lowered inside, the straps pulled free, and the rear hatch was closed. Jodie was awestruck as the CID stood up, wriggled its arms and legs as if waking up from a nap, then extended a hand to her. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Cavendish,” Patrick said in his electronically synthesized voice. “I look forward to seeing you again.”
“We’re coming up next weekend to decorate your room,” Brad said. “I got a bunch of your Air Force stuff out of storage. We’ll make this place feel like home.”
“I can’t guarantee I’ll be here, Brad,” Patrick said, “but you’re welcome to do whatever you feel like doing. I’d like that.” Brad gave his father a hug, and he and Jodie departed.
A few minutes after they left, with the CID plugged into power, nutrients, environmental, and data umbilicals, former president Kevin Martindale entered the room. “You actually approved Miss Cavendish to visit,” he remarked. “I’m surprised.”
“She promised to keep it a secret,” Patrick said. “I believe her.”
“Too bad about Phoenix losing the election to Barbeau,” Martindale said. “That could be the end of a lot of government contracts.”
“Many more clients out there,” Patrick said. “Many more projects that we need to get under way.”
Martindale shook his finger at Patrick. “Very clever of you, I must say,” he said. “Injecting news articles and data to Brad about orbiting solar power plants and microwave lasers. You actuall
y made your son believe Starfire was his idea.”
“I planted the ideas—he had to run with them,” Patrick said.
“True, true,” said Martindale. “But when the idea came to life, it was so clever of you to secretly and carefully send him the experts, point him to Cavendish, Kim, Huggins, and Eagan, and line up Sky Masters to support him with that grant money.”
“My son is a true leader,” Patrick said. “He may be a terrible aerospace engineering student, but he’s a good pilot and a great leader. All I did was place the resources at his disposal—it was up to him to put them together and build it. He did a good job.”
“But you used your son to build an illegal directed-energy space weapon, in violation of international law,” Martindale said. “Very, very clever. It worked. Unfortunately it was destroyed by the Russians, but it proved the value of microwave lasers. Good job, General.” Martindale smiled and asked, “So what else do you have in store for young Bradley, may I ask?”
“We have to deal with a President Stacy Anne Barbeau now,” Patrick said. “She will surely scrap the space initiative. But the good thing is, she wants to build bombers, aircraft carriers, arsenal ships, hypersonic weapons, and unmanned everything. I’m sure Brad can design and test most of those things. I’ll get to work on it right away.”
“I’m sure you will, General McLanahan,” Martindale said with an evil smile. “I’m sure you will.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Information on Cane-Ja was taken from “Street Techniques” by Mark Shuey Sr. and Mark Shuey Jr., © Canemasters.com.
The P210 Silver Eagle, a Cessna P210 Centurion modified with a turboprop power plant (minus a lot of the high-tech stuff I added to it), is a product of O&N Aircraft, Factoryville, Pennsylvania, www.onaircraft.com.
Angel Flight West is a real charitable organization that matches needy medical or humanitarian recipients with pilots who donate their airplane, the cost of fuel, and their skills to fly them to wherever they need to go for medical or support reasons, with absolutely no cost to the passengers. I have flown for Angel Flight West for four years, and I think it may have been the ultimate reason I became a pilot: to use my skills to help others. Learn more at www.angelflightwest.org.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DALE BROWN is the author of numerous New York Times bestsellers, starting with Flight of the Old Dog in 1987, and most recently Tiger’s Claw. A former U.S. Air Force captain, he can often be found flying his own plane over the skies of Nevada.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
ALSO BY DALE BROWN
TIGER’S CLAW
A TIME FOR PATRIOTS
EXECUTIVE INTENT
ROGUE FORCES
SHADOW COMMAND
STRIKE FORCE
EDGE OF BATTLE
ACT OF WAR
PLAN OF ATTACK
AIR BATTLE FORCE
WINGS OF FIRE
WARRIOR CLASS
BATTLE BORN
THE TIN MAN
FATAL TERRAIN
SHADOW OF STEEL
STORMING HEAVEN
CHAINS OF COMMAND
NIGHT OF THE HAWK
SKY MASTERS
HAMMERHEADS
DAY OF THE CHEETAH
SILVER TOWER
FLIGHT OF THE OLD DOG
CREDITS
Cover design by Richard Aquan
Photograph montage: Stormy Clouds by Travelpix/
Getty Images; Flag © by Travelpix/Getty Images;
Space plane © by kollected.com;
Author photograph © by Joy Strotz
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
STARFIRE. Copyright © 2014 by Air Battle Force, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-226239-4
EPub Edition May 2014 ISBN 9780062262363
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