“We’re not going anywhere without an explanation,” Knox said, stepping forward. “Give me that rifle.”
“If it makes you feel more comfortable,” Glazkov replied, tossing him the weapon. “The guard detachment I had organized had been infiltrated. They were going to kill you, right there in the archives. I convinced them it would be a better idea to do it somewhere quiet, somewhere out of the way.” Gesturing at the two fighters, he added, “They’re officially part of a technical transfer to the Karelian Republic. Fueled and ready to go.”
“And just how did you talk them into all of this?”
“They thought I was working for them. I’ve been a spy for the DGSE for three years. Working under orders from my actual boss, and I’m not talking about the General.” He paused, sighed, then added, “What the hell, I’m not going to be worth a damn out here anymore anyway. I’m a deep cover operative for the DIA. I was assigned to keep an eye on CosmoTech, work as a liaison when needed. When the French started to infiltrate, my responsibilities changed a little.” He glanced at his watch, and said, “We’re wasting time. Any moment now somebody’s going to wonder just what’s taking so long.”
“Major,” Knox asked, looking at the fighters, “are you rated on Su-30s?”
“It’s been a while, but I think I remember what all the buttons do,” she replied with a smile. “You?”
“One flight, years ago. It’ll be interesting to see just how much stuck.” Stepping forward again, he added, “Glazkov, you’ll be riding with me, and once we land, I will personally be checking out your story all the way. If this is some sort of trick, you won’t live long enough to take advantage of it. Is that clearly understood?”
“Understood, and don’t worry, I’m not offended. I’d feel exactly the same if our roles were reversed.”
“As long as that’s clearly in mind.” He walked over to the nearest of the fighters, stepping over the sprawled bodies of the technicians with a grimace on his face, and climbed into the cockpit, sliding on the flight helmet waiting for him inside. Morozov, now clutching the precious folder to his chest, followed Antonova to the other one, as Knox settled down inside the cockpit, looking over the controls, trying to remember the instructions he had received the last time he’d flown one of these fighters, almost a decade ago. He’d kept up his flight status, naturally. The extra pay was incentive enough for that, and NASA had briefly considered buying ex-Russian planes as jet trainers shortly after he’d joined the Astronaut Corps, a diplomatic move that had gone no further than a few test flights.
They’d reap dividends now, with any luck. The planes had more than enough fuel to get to any of a dozen airbases in Alaska, fast enough that they might be in US territory in less than an hour. The canopy slid down and locked, the heads-up display bursting into life, initially in unintelligible Russian, then switching to English.
“They’ve been trying to sell these overseas,” Glazkov explained. “There’s a pretty good translation routine built in. I can manage French, German, Japanese…”
“English will do fine,” Knox replied. He threw a pair of controls, the engines warming up, and settled down at the controls, looking over the readouts as they flickered on the display. As far as he could determine, everything was as it should be, the dead technicians doing a good job of preparing the fighters for launch. “Punch up for Amchitka Space Force Base. That’s probably the closest to us.”
“Nine hundred miles, give or take,” Glazkov said. “Plotting course now. All my instruments suggest that you are cleared for takeoff at your command.”
“Fine. Let’s see what this beast can do.” He reached for the throttle, easing it up, gently guiding the aircraft along the runway, Antonova following behind him. His handling was gentle, tentative. There was no need to take any risks, not with a plane he hadn’t flown in years. Cautiously, he ran up the acceleration, a green light finally flashing to tell him that he’d past takeoff speed. Gently, he pulled back the control stick, and the fighter roared into the sky, the landing gear automatically retracting as they soared over the frozen tundra. He waited for a few seconds to allow Antonova to move into formation, then slid the throttles full-on, the fighter speeding towards the speed of sound, the lights of Vostechny receding into the distance.
“I have a course for you,” Glazkov said. “I’m feeding it to the other plane now. Come right to one-oh-niner, and hold that to the target.” He grimaced, adding, “We’ll be lighting up the air defense radars like a Christmas tree.”
Knox frowned for a second, realizing that his navigator had suddenly lost his Russian accent, and asked, “Where are you from?”
“Oh, Minsk, like I said, but my folks left when I was a kid. Three, I think. I grew up in Schenectady, but they made sure I kept up my studies, hired some old guy to teach me Russian. They always figured on going back some day, I guess, but they never actually did.”
“Beautiful. See if you can patch me through to Alaskan Command, will you?”
“Working on it,” Glazkov replied. Knox eased the fighter through a few simple maneuvers, trying to get the feel of it, then brought them back on course, concentrating on gaining height and speed. They burst through the last of the clouds as they past fifteen thousand feet, heralded with the loud report on a sonic boom, and the stars shone through the cockpit, a brilliant, glorious view that brought a wide smile to Knox’s face. This was flying, real flying, and no matter the circumstances, he was planning to enjoy it, to savor it as best he could.
“I’ve got them,” Glazkov said. “You want to speak?”
“Yeah.” Knox threw a switch, and said, “This is Colonel Thomas Knox, flying a Siberian fighter with one escort, on course for Amchitka Space Force Base. I need the base commander alerted about our imminent arrival, and I need a flight of fighters scrambled out of Elmendorf to cover us in case someone else decides to join the party. You should have the codeword ‘Fallen Apollo’ somewhere in your books.”
“We’ve got it, Colonel, and we’ve confirmed your voiceprint as authentic,” a thin, reedy voice replied. “Amchitka is alerted, and we’re getting a pair of F-35s into the air right now, but they’re not going to be with you for at least half an hour. Not until you’re well clear of Siberian airspace.” The voice paused, then added, “We’re attempting to contact General Cooper for further instructions. Be aware that any attempt to change your destination will result in your re-designation as a hostile aircraft, and we will be forced to shoot you down.”
“Understood. Have them put the coffee on. We should be on the ground in fifty-two minutes. Out.”
“Curt,” Glazkov said.
“Cautious,” Knox replied. “Given the circumstances, I can hardly blame him. One way or another, this is going to be one hell of a diplomatic incident if it ever gets out.”
“It won’t,” Glazkov said, confidence lacing his voice. “Too many people have too much to lose if it does.”
“I hope you’re right,” Knox said, shaking his head. He looked at the aft radar, and said, “Tell me that’s a standard patrol, not something special for us.”
There was a brief pause, the sound of controls being thrown, and Glazkov said, “Looks like a pair of MiG-31s, scrambled just a minute ago. This could get interesting.”
“I’m a little out of date with Siberian aircraft specifications. Can they catch us?”
“Possibly. Certainly they ought to be able to get into missile range. Surely they’ll pull back as soon as they see the American fighters heading their way…”
“Nobody’s going to start a war over this, Corporal. I can assure you of that.” He tapped a control, and said, “Major, this is Knox. I’m letting you take the lead. You’ve got the information we came out here to get, and it is imperative that you get it back to General Cooper for analysis. We’ll cover your back.”
“Negative, Colonel, we’re both in this together,” Antonova replied.
“I know you’ve been out of uniform for a while, but the birds
on my shoulder beat your oak leaves. That means you follow orders, whether you like it or not. Go full-burn. We’ll fall back and take the heat. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
He looked at the radar, watching as Antonova raced away, losing height and gaining speed, while he slowed down, trimming down to barely supersonic speed, making a few deliberately uncertain adjustments to his course in a bid to convince his opponents that he was even less familiar with the airplane than he was. There were no missiles in the racks, the aircraft flying empty, but a quick inventory check revealed all the countermeasures they could want, ready and waiting for immediate deployment.
“No offensive moves,” he ordered, “but be ready with all our defensive instruments. If they launch a missile, I want it to detonate well clear of us.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more, Colonel,” Glazkov replied, a wry smile on his face. “And before you ask, I have been trained on this equipment. I did some work at Nellis before I transferred to undercover operations.”
“I hope so,” Knox said. “See if you ran raise Siberian Air Defense.”
“I already tried. Either nobody’s home, or nobody’s listening. Some money probably changed hands.”
“Must have been a lot. I didn’t realize EuroFed was taking things quite this seriously.”
With a shrug, Glazkov replied, “Desperate men do desperate things. And I’m not talking about EuroFed.”
As the second fighter raced safely ahead, Knox looked down at the terrain below, looking at the readouts still streaming across his flight displays. Lots of nice, rugged ground, perfect for evasion. The sea was only fifty miles away, a few minutes at the speed they were flying, but he’d have to cut back on the throttle anyway. He dived, amber warning lights flickering on as he raced towards the jagged hills below, the Siberian fighters following, gradually closing to missile range. It seemed unlikely that they actually wanted to kill him. More likely that they expected him to eject, right into the arms of the border troops beneath them. He intended to confound their expectations.
The MiGs were older than the Sukhoi, but both were of significant vintage that it hardly mattered. The Siberians had managed to get sufficient help from Japan and Korea to keep their air force in reasonable condition, both powers concerned about the Chinese expanding their influence northward, so he didn’t doubt that they’d operate as they should. No chance of a lucky break from that quarter. As far as he could recall, the enemy had four missiles apiece, and they’d certainly use all of them in their bid to bring him down.
“They’ve got a lock!” Glazkov warned. “I’m trying to shake it, but these guys are good.”
Knox sent his fighter through a series of wild maneuvers, dipping down into the hills, swerving from side to side in a bid to break the enemy’s missile lock. A dull red tone indicated that he had failed, two missiles racing towards him, one from each of the pursuing MiGs. He smiled, remembering his flight training, remembering long summer nights racing over the Gulf of Mexico on mock dogfights. Now he had a chance to put his practice to the test.
“Closing fast. Dropping chaff, dropping flares,” Glazkov said. “Impact in twenty seconds.”
“Come on, old girl, come on,” Knox said, speeding as rapidly as he dared across the terrain. In the distance, he could see the cold, gray waves of the Pacific before him, now only a handful of heartbeats away. At the last second, he rolled right, into the path of a tall mountain, the missiles following. With only an instant to spare, he rolled back, but the missiles were unable to match his speed, the confusion of chaff in the sky distracting them for just long enough to doom them to a fiery death on the dark granite slopes.
The fighter soared over the sea, and now Knox opened up the throttles once again, rattling past the speed of sound once more, high over the waves as he strived to gain altitude, gain ground. The enemy pilots had let themselves fall back, doubtless believing that their first attack would be sufficient, and now they were struggling to keep pace. Then, after another moment, they turned back, heading towards Vladivostok. For a second, Hunted couldn’t understand why, before finally spotting a pair of F-35s racing towards them, heading north, not west.
“This is Colonel Knox,” he said, switching frequencies. “Just which carrier do I send the beer to?”
“The USS Gerald R. Ford sends its complements, Colonel. Happy to be of service. Though note that we’re not planning on turning down free beer. Our orders are to link up with you and escort you to Amchitka, or at least as far as our fuel permits. We had to burn like hell to get here in time.”
“Thanks for that, pilot. We should be fine from here. I don’t think our Siberian friends will trouble us again. They’d have to answer far too many questions first. Just watch us until we get safely into international territory.”
“Will do, Colonel. Anything you ask.”
“Just one more thing, pilot. This mission never happened, and I was never here. Got that?”
“Naturally, sir,” the pilot replied, sounding slightly hurt. “We’re just doing some night navigation training, checking out some upgrades to our instrumentation. What else would we be doing out here?”
“I can’t possibly think of any other answer. Thanks. Out.”
“Not bad,” Glazkov said. “Not bad at all.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Knox replied. “Trust me. The fun is only just beginning.”
Chapter 7
When the Space Force had originally been formed, assets from the Air Force, Army and Navy were gathered together to get the fledging service started. Vandenburg had been the prize, but most of the other assets had been provided with the greatest reluctance, each of the three major services jealously guarding their bases, personnel and equipment. The need for a North Pacific monitoring station for the Space Force had been met almost suspiciously easily with Amchitka, an inactive Air Force base that had been in the process of being turned into a bird sanctuary.
The first personnel assigned to restore the base to operation and install the new equipment had learned why, and it had quickly gathered a well-deserved reputation as a posting to avoid if at all possible, a cold, out of the way base with a long airstrip that had last seen use in the days of Strategic Air Command and a collection of prefabricated huts and structures maintaining satellite observation and communications relays. Then the AEC had conducted a series of nuclear tests, back in the final days of above-ground testing, leaving a significant portion of the island off-limits, even decades later. Just another unwanted scrap of American territory, left alone and forgotten.
Just now, however, as cold, miserable and depressing as it was, it seemed the greatest possible haven to Knox, who sat in the base commander’s office with a fresh uniform and a steaming mug of hot chocolate, attempting to revive himself after the long, wearying day. There was a knock on the door, and Antonova stepped inside, wearing a thick, heavy coat that she draped over a chair as she stepped inside, clapping her hands to dismiss the cold.
“Ah, good. I thought you were going to be late,” he said.
“Late for what?” she asked, taking a chair.
“Apparently, the President,” he replied, reaching for a control. As a panel on the wall slid back to reveal a monitor screen, he added, “General Cooper called me a few minutes ago. Apparently, we’re going to be brought in on a top-level teleconference that officially isn’t happening. Should be exciting.”
“The President,” she said, shaking her head. “Have you ever met him?”
“Once, when I got back from the Moon. Just a photo op. Nothing substantial.” He paused, then added, “I do know he keeps his cards pretty damned close to his chest, for whatever that’s worth.” The panel lit up, the crest of the Space Force appearing for a moment as the system linked to the network, the orbital satellite relay connecting them to Washington and Vandenburg. A sextet of faces appeared on the screen, each in its own section. General Cooper, Gene Franklin, the Secretary of State,
NASA Administrator Randall Bishop, and Curtis Baker, obviously still in his suite in the Siberian Hotel, a pair of guards visible behind him.
“Mr. President,” General Cooper began, “I’d like to introduce Colonel Knox and Major Antonova, just back from Siberia. You’ve had the full report of their findings…”
“Yes, and we need to talk about that,” a gruff, harsh voice interrupted. “Why wasn’t State brought in on this?”
“For that matter,” Bishop asked, “What about the Secretary of Defense, or the National Security Advisor?”
“The Secretary of Defense is engaged in high-level talks in Johannesburg,” Franklin replied. “The National Security Advisor is in Santiago. Both of them will be briefed later. I don’t object to that. We need to keep this tight. Nevertheless, I still want to know…”
“There simply wasn’t time, sir,” Cooper said. “This situation evolved extremely rapidly, and we’re struggling to catch up. I assume you all have the relevant briefing material on Operation Daedalus, so I don’t see any need to go over the details of that any further.”
“Science-fiction,” Franklin said, shaking his head. “Nothing more than that.”
“So was that Mach Five interceptor your old Air Force buddies just got through the Senate, Gene,” Baker said. “Let’s not play any games about that. We’ve got the technology to do this. Count on that. My technical teams have been over this a dozen times on a theoretical basis. No engineering problems exist that we can’t overcome. The only remaining questions are political, and frankly, that’s all way above my pay grade.”
“Not what I’ve heard,” Bishop retorted. “That last…”
“Gentlemen,” the President said. “We’re not here to repeat old arguments. If that’s all you want to do, feel free to go right ahead, and I’ll go back to bed. I’m willing to accept General Baker’s word that Operation Daedalus is feasible from a purely technological standpoint. The first step is to put boots on the ground, both to complete a full and intensive survey of the asteroid and to establish at least some sort of ownership. Doctor Bishop, is NASA ready to undertake such a mission?”
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