The Kremlin Strike

by Dale Brown

  “Two minutes, sir,” the younger man replied from his sensor console.

  Strelkov tapped the intercom button. “All personnel. Stand by for possible attack. Close and seal your suits.” He closed his own helmet visor.

  Readiness reports flowed smoothly from the rest of the crew. The lasers and Thunderbolt plasma rail gun were fully charged and ready to fire. The station’s own sensors and data links to other satellites and ground-based radars were operational.

  “Sixty seconds,” Konnikov reported. A warning tone pulsed through their headsets. “We are being painted by an X-band radar. My computer evaluates it as an AN/TPY-2 phased-array system.”

  Strelkov nodded. That was one of the bus-sized, long-range, very high-altitude surveillance radars the Americans used for a number of their missile and air defense systems, including the GMD interceptors based at Vandenberg Air Force Base. “Is that radar locked on to us?”

  “Not reliably,” Konnikov answered. “Our stealth coating is absorbing most of its energy.” He glanced toward the colonel. “But they probably have enough tracking data to launch against us anyway.”

  “Understood, Major.” By combining the bits and pieces of information gathered by their ground-based telescopes, radars, and geosynchronous SBIRS satellites, the Americans could certainly pin down their orbital track clearly enough to target Mars One. Briefly, he considered using the thrusters aboard the docked cargo spacecraft and orbiter to change their orbit slightly—in the hope of throwing off the enemy’s firing solution. Then he rejected the idea. Such an evasive maneuver would consume too much of their precious fuel reserves with too little guarantee of success.

  “Fifteen seconds.”

  Strelkov gripped the edges of his console. Yes, they had simulated this exact scenario dozens of times during training. But all those successes in computer-generated war games seemed less impressive when confronted by a real attack.

  “Launch detection by EKS missile warning satellite!” Konnikov rapped out. “A missile has been fired from the silos at Vandenberg. Mars One is confirmed as the target.” He leaned over his console. “Second launch detection! Same source. Same target.”

  “Time to impact for the first American interceptor?”

  “Fifty seconds.”

  Strelkov spoke to Filatyev. “Engage those enemy missiles when ready, Viktor.”

  From his station, the burly major acknowledged with a terse, “Yes, sir.”

  Konnikov spoke up. “EKS data handoff to our X-band radar is complete. Time to impact for the first American missile is now thirty-five seconds. First-stage separation observed. Transferring data to Thunderbolt’s fire-control computer.”

  “Data received,” Filatyev confirmed. A second later, he said, “I have a firing solution. Firing now.”

  Mars One vibrated as the plasma rail gun pulsed.

  “Good hit!” Konnikov reported excitedly. His radar display showed the image of the inbound American interceptor blossom into a cloud of separate fragments and veer off course. He shifted his attention to the second enemy missile still climbing toward them. Like its counterpart, it had already separated from its first stage and must be nearly ready to shed its second—which would leave only its payload, the much smaller EKV, or exoatmospheric kill vehicle, speeding aloft to home in on and strike the station. “Time to impact for the second interceptor is twenty-eight seconds.”

  “Firing Thunderbolt,” Filatyev said.

  Again, Mars One shuddered. And again, the plasma toroid fired by the rail gun slammed home. While it was still more than three hundred kilometers from the Russian space station, the second American missile swerved aside . . . shedding pieces of itself as it fell back toward Earth.

  “Excellent shooting, Viktor!” Strelkov said with open delight. He let go of his console and drifted slightly into the middle of the compartment. He rotated to face Konnikov. “How long before we’re in range of the interceptors based at Fort Drum, Georgy?”

  “Just under eight minutes, Colonel.”

  Strelkov swiveled back to the intercom and spoke to Pyotr Romanenko. “What is the status of Thunderbolt’s supercapacitors, Major?”

  “They are recharging now,” the engineering officer replied. “We should be able to fire two more shots in less than six minutes.”

  Strelkov allowed himself to relax. With the plasma rail gun operational, they were essentially safe from anything the Americans could throw at them. True, he thought, a sequenced attack like this would be more difficult to defeat if it were carried out while Mars One was in the earth’s shadow. In those circumstances, using Thunderbolt to destroy a first wave of American missiles would drain their supercapacitors—leaving only their much-shorter-range Hobnail lasers to handle a second wave. Given the high closure rates in this kind of orbital engagement, Leonid Revin’s lasers would have just seven seconds to hit and destroy the incoming interceptors. That was still feasible, but there was no denying that the odds that the Americans might score a crippling hit would increase dramatically.

  Fortunately, given the orbital mechanics at work, the American missile defense sites could not conduct a coordinated attack in darkness for at least another nine days. And by that time, the replacement fusion reactor Colonel General Leonov had promised should be in orbit and mated with Mars One. Once that happened, nothing could touch them. Russia’s total domination of low Earth orbit would be assured.

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  Several Hours Later

  President Farrell listened intently while Nadia Rozek outlined her proposed plan to snatch Brad McLanahan safely from Russian territory. Seen over the secure link to Battle Mountain, she looked exhausted, with dark shadows under her large blue-gray eyes. Despite her obvious fatigue, though, she sounded completely confident and fully in control of her faculties and emotions. He found that reassuring, because otherwise what she contemplated would have struck him as riding awfully close to the edge of crazy.

  When she finished, he pursed his lips. “Let’s assume I sign off on all of this, Major. Can you guarantee me that this rescue operation of yours will succeed?”

  “No, I cannot, Mr. President,” Nadia said frankly. “The challenges we face are enormous. And this plan is, of necessity, fairly complex—with many working parts. Should any of them go wrong . . . or if the Russians fail to react as I predict . . . we will fail.”

  Farrell nodded. That pretty much squared with his own assessment. He looked closely at her. “Basically, you’re asking me to commit a substantial U.S. military force and run huge political and diplomatic risks—all in the hope of saving just one man. There’s a lot of folks out there—especially in Congress and the media—who might not see that as real sensible.”

  “Yes, that is true,” she agreed. She offered him a wan smile. “But remember, I will still be risking more than you.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? How’s that?”

  “I will be gambling with my own life, Mr. President,” Nadia said quietly. “And that of the man I love.”

  Damn, J.D., this lady sure knows how to square up and throw a punch, Farrell thought with admiration. And the best of it was that he could tell she meant every single word. There was no artifice in Nadia Rozek. He sat quietly for a moment. Then he nodded decisively. “You’ve made your point, Major. If you’re going all in, how can I do any less? I’ll issue the necessary orders to the commander of the Pacific Fleet. No doubt there’ll be some squawking from some of the Pentagon’s wet hens, but you pay that no mind. I’ll see to it that you get the help you need.”

  “Thank you,” Nadia said simply. She looked down briefly, hiding her face from him.

  She was probably concealing a few tears of relief, he judged. One thing he’d learned was that this young woman hated the thought of competing on anything but a level playing field. A lot of people would have gone straight for the emotional jugular—reminding him of how she’d lost her legs saving his miserable hide. Somehow, he doubted the idea of doing t
hat had ever crossed her mind.

  Farrell waited a few seconds, letting her recover, and then asked, “When do you figure you’ll be ready to kick this thing off?”

  “Approximately seventy-two hours from now,” Nadia replied. “I wish it could be sooner, but I must contact my own government and request the use of some of its resources—those of the Iron Wolf Squadron. It will take time to assemble the necessary aircraft and munitions and transfer them here from Poland.”

  “Seventy-two hours,” he said meditatively. “That’s three days.”

  She nodded darkly. “Three days during which Brad must avoid detection and capture. Otherwise, everything we are doing will be in vain.”

  Twenty-Nine

  The Kremlin

  Later That Day

  Through narrowed eyes, Gennadiy Gryzlov studied the faces of his closest military, intelligence, and foreign policy advisers. As usual, he could sense the aura of unease emanating from most of them. Cowards and do-nothing bureaucrats, he thought contemptuously. Left on their own, without the lash of his own fierce will to drive them, they were useless, a pack of timid, time-serving drones whose fear of the Americans was only slightly outweighed by their fear of him. Only Mikhail Leonov and Daria Titeneva showed any real courage . . . and even those two were still far too prone to see the possible dangers of any action more clearly than its potential rewards.

  His lip curled in disgust. It might be time soon to purge most of these incompetents. If so, the ensuing trials, imprisonments, and executions should teach a salutary lesson to their successors: while he ruled this country, anyone who failed to act aggressively in Russia’s interests was as much a traitor as anyone who actively conspired with enemies of the state.

  Gryzlov shrugged inwardly. Winnowing the chaff from his national security team could wait a while longer—at least until the strategic situation in outer space and on Earth was more settled. Thus far, at least, the Americans were reacting with surprising meekness to the ongoing destruction of their military space infrastructure. Apart from a single failed attempt to shoot down Mars One with a handful of missile defense interceptors, the United States had done nothing. Honestly, he had expected a much stronger response from Farrell after all the man’s superficial bluster and tough talk. Instead, the Texan appeared to be just as weak and ineffectual as his predecessor, Barbeau. In his own native idiom, he was “all hat and no cattle.”

  Still, there were some Americans who had proved themselves to be very dangerous enemies all too often in the past—Martindale, McLanahan, and their Scion and Sky Masters mercenaries. He was sure they were plotting something. It was for that reason he’d demanded such close GRU surveillance of their spaceplane base at Battle Mountain. Unfortunately, he thought icily, as usual, poor, bumbling Viktor Kazyanov had little light to shed on the subject.

  “Our intelligence agents in Nevada have been forced to go to ground,” the minister of state security admitted reluctantly. His face was pale. “Over the past forty-eight hours, security around Sky Masters facilities has been considerably strengthened. The Americans have established a strong cordon of armed corporate security guards, local and state police, and federal agents. According to the GRU, any further attempts to penetrate this cordon would only result in the exposure and capture of our officers.”

  Gryzlov scowled. In and of itself, this heightened security was revealing. McLanahan and Russia’s other adversaries must be going crazy trying to come up with a way to attack Mars One with their remaining spaceplanes. He turned to Leonov. “Now that Kazyanov’s spies have proved worthless, what about our own reconnaissance satellites? Have they spotted any unusual activity at this base?”

  “Not thus far,” Leonov said. “Our Razdan and Persona satellites have made several passes over the Battle Mountain area since we destroyed the S-19 Midnight. None of their pictures show any of the remaining spaceplanes. This suggests Sky Masters has moved them from the flight line back into hangars to hide them from our view.”

  “But you don’t have continuous coverage of this area,” Gryzlov pointed out sharply. “Those spaceplanes could be landing and taking off undetected whenever our spy satellites aren’t within range.”

  Leonov nodded. “That is possible. But if so, they are not going into space. Our EKS ballistic-missile warning satellites will pick up any launch headed outside the earth’s atmosphere.”

  “At which point, it might be too late!”

  “So long as Colonel Strelkov and his cosmonauts remain vigilant, no space weapon in the current American arsenal poses a serious threat to Mars One,” Leonov said. “This will be even more true once our new reactor is connected and running.”

  “No weapon that we know of now,” Gryzlov said sourly. “We have been surprised before . . . and never pleasantly.” His expression turned murderous. “It may be time to end any possible threat from Sky Masters once and for all.”

  Leonov looked surprised. “By what means?”

  Gryzlov shrugged. “Two or three of our Rapira hypersonic missiles fired from orbit at Battle Mountain should do the job. Those spaceplanes won’t be any threat if they’re blown to smithereens.”

  He hid a smile at the looks of horror triggered by this seemingly offhand suggestion. From their expressions, he might as well have suggested bombing the White House or Buckingham Palace.

  “I would strongly recommend against such a move,” Daria Titeneva said carefully. “So far, our military operations have been confined to space, in a limited war that we are winning with ease. Suddenly attacking a crucial target inside the continental United States itself could easily provoke a massive escalation in this conflict—one that might lead to uncontrolled nuclear war.”

  Leonov nodded. “The foreign minister is right, Mr. President,” he argued. “And with only one Mars-class station in orbit, we do not yet have the ability to intercept a significant retaliatory strike launched by their ballistic-missile submarines. Later, once we’ve put additional platforms into space, we will have more options. But for now, the game is not worth the candle.”

  Caution, caution, always caution, Gryzlov thought caustically. Though in this case, he realized, Leonov and Titeneva’s advice was probably sensible. Tempting though it was, an orbital missile strike against Sky Masters now might frighten even Farrell into believing he faced the nightmare scenario of all nuclear war planners—the moment where you either had to launch your missiles or risk losing them to an unstoppable enemy attack.

  No, he decided, it was better to stretch out the pretense that Russia had only limited aims in this conflict—control over low Earth orbit—for as long as possible. And if Sky Masters actually launched another attack on Mars One using its spaceplanes? Then all bets would be off . . . and destroying Battle Mountain from orbit would be a justifiable act of war.

  “Very well,” Gryzlov said curtly. “We’ll hold off for the moment.” He motioned for Leonov to continue. “What else do you have to report, Mikhail?”

  “Our satellites have spotted increased activity at the U.S. Air Force space launch complex at Vandenberg,” Leonov told him. “My analysts believe the Americans are preparing one of their Delta IV Heavy rockets for lift-off sometime soon. They might be planning to send up replacements for some of the satellites we’ve already destroyed.”

  Gryzlov smiled thinly. “Which would be futile.”

  Leonov nodded. “Sooner or later, the orbits of those new satellites would bring them within firing range of Mars One. The Americans might regain some limited reconnaissance capability for a few days, but only at great cost.”

  That much was true, Gryzlov knew. By itself, launching a single Delta IV Heavy cost several hundred million dollars. Add in the cost of the satellites it carried, and the final price tag would soar into the billions. Not even the Americans could afford to be so profligate forever. Besides, even if they were prepared to throw away that much money for so little purpose, the simple reality was they would run out of replacement spy satellites very soon. Sop
histicated spacecraft like the Topaz radar and KH-11 photoreconnaissance satellites could not be mass-produced. Building them required months and often years of painstaking precision work.

  With Mars One already circling the world every ninety-seven minutes, poised to shoot down anything headed beyond the atmosphere, this was a space race the United States could not possibly win.

  Already, the effects of Russia’s surprise offensive actions in orbit were spreading fast, far beyond the purely military sphere. Previously scheduled commercial rocket launches from Kennedy Space Center and the European Space Agency’s French Guiana launch site had been delayed indefinitely. There were signs of panic in Western stock exchanges as investors and economists tried frantically to calculate the possible repercussions of Russian control over outer space. The same thing was happening in the Asian markets—despite Gryzlov’s public promises to People’s Republic of China president Zhou Qiang that Mars One’s weapons were not a threat to the PRC’s own spacecraft and satellites.

  Gryzlov smiled cynically. It seemed that Chinese investors were a better judge of his own trustworthiness than their leaders. Then again, what could Beijing’s rulers do, even if they suspected Moscow had no real intention of honoring its commitments in the long run? Once someone had a knife at your throat, it was already too late.

  He looked across the table at Gregor Sokolov, the minister of defense. “Well, Gregor? Are the Americans making any threatening new military moves?”

  “Their conventional and nuclear forces remain on a heightened state of alert, the one they call DEFCON Three,” Sokolov said. “But this level has not increased significantly in the past forty-eight hours.”

  “Except that virtually all U.S. ballistic-missile submarines are now at sea,” Leonov said dryly.

  Gryzlov shrugged his shoulders. “That’s merely a political move, a small gesture of defiance by Farrell. Ultimately, it changes nothing.” He turned back to Sokolov. “Is that it?”