by Andrew Mayne
On the way, I texted the number Tyler gave me before he was killed and received very specific instructions on getting to Markov's house behind the gate in an already gated community on a remote corner of Walt Disney World property.
We had to go through three private security checkpoints to get here. Markov had pre-arranged everything so all I had to do was introduce myself as Mr. Stone and we were waved through without having to show a driver's license or even let my picture be taken.
Laney twice jokingly suggested we make out so we looked like a couple. At least I think she was kidding. Under different circumstances...
At the last gate at the edge of a driveway, a man dressed more like a valet than an armed guard – although I could spot two weapons on him – steps out of a small stone guardhouse, inspects our van then lets us through.
Another man, college-aged and dressed in a polo, is waiting for us outside the front door.
It's a mansion, but not a massive one. Aside from the extra security features, it's just like the others in the reclusive neighborhood.
"Hello, I'm Brian," says Markov's assistant. "If you can follow me in, I'll let him know you're here."
I hold Laney's car door open for her, but she doesn't need any more help than that.
Brian takes us through the foyer into a spacious living room filled with Disney memorabilia. It has the tasteful look of a gallery, more than a children's playroom.
After getting us two bottled waters, Brian leaves us alone.
"So who is this guy?" asks Laney.
"I guess you could call him a spymaster."
She takes in the decor. "Man, I should think about becoming one."
"I'm surprised you haven't been hired to be a lobbyist for some aerospace company."
"Those blood-sucking corrupt jackals? Cost plus contracting is why we're not on Mars."
I guess I struck some kind of nerve. "I see."
"Besides that, I don't have a college degree."
"You should finish that." I reply, then realize she's heard that a thousand times and has a lot more to deal with in life than I do. I get the sense that her father was never around and her mom has some kind of illness.
"Or find someone else who has a better use for your skills," says a booming voice from the hallway.
We look over and see a short elderly man using two canes to maneuver himself into the room. Dark hair and beard, robustly-built, he reminds me of a dwarf from Lord of the Rings.
Markov notices Laney's crutches resting by the couch. "Ah, another quadruped like myself."
"Four legs good, two legs bad," says Laney.
Markov smiles and takes the chair opposite us. "What an appropriate quote given the circumstances." There's a faint Russian accent, but his enunciation sounds more like an Oxford professor.
I look at Laney, not sure what I missed.
"Animal Farm," she says. "By George Orwell, an outspoken critic of Russian politics."
Markov raises a finger, "Yet an ardent socialist himself, who had difficulty dealing with how the use of force to control one aspect of human behavior would inevitably lead to trying to control other aspects and ultimately lead to totalitarianism."
He waves his observation away. "But we are not here to discuss politics of that nature. We're more concerned with the nuclear weapon a hundred miles over our heads."
"Two-hundred and thirty," corrects Laney.
"Yes. I should be more precise around you. I read some of your blog posts."
"You did?"
"When you were at the front gate."
It would figure that the old spymaster would have his tentacles everywhere.
"So you're like a spy?" asks Laney.
"I'm an old man people sometimes ask questions, then promptly ignore. Usually for the better."
"So you know the situation and what happened to Tyler and his father?" I ask.
"Yes. Tragic. Very tragic."
I take the black square and set it on the table. "Well, I brought this. Can you clear things up now?"
"Mr. Dixon, I left the magic wand that does all that in my other jacket pocket. Things are very complicated."
"Yes. Yes, they are. But right now I've got a target on me and can't take a piss without worrying a Russian kill team or a renegade US agent is going to murder me."
"And yet, you find yourself in the delightful company of an attractive and intelligent young woman. I always thought that was a trope of action movies. I'm beginning to think there's some kind of pheromonal effect at work."
"Chicks love a bad boy," says Laney. She slaps my knee. "You don't get any badder than this one right now."
"Indeed." Markov calls to the other room. "Brian, would you take this device and call our friend in computer forensics at the National Air and Space Intelligence Center?"
Markov's assistant materializes and picks the square up off the table. I feel a strange separation anxiety as he walks out of the room.
"Is that...safe?"
"With Brian? I should hope so. He's actually Lieutenant Brian on loan from the Office of Naval Intelligence. We need to make sure it is what you say it is."
"Why would I lie about that?"
"Good question. But apparently you were in the custody of a renegade DIA agent for several hours. Anything is possible. I'm a cautious man."
"Living in Disney World."
Markov smiles. "They have the best, non-invasive security in the world. And I'm quite fond of the place. When I was a boy I used to watch Disney cartoons in a basement in Leningrad, afraid the KGB would bust in at any moment. When I saw a film reel of Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color introducing Disneyland, you can imagine the effect it had on a boy living under a frozen tyranny. Ah, I've digressed. Mr. Dixon, I believe you. I just need to make sure the facts agree with my assessment. I've made that mistake too many times."
Brian steps into the archway and nods to Markov. "It checks."
"And there we go," says Markov. "This little square our friends risked their lives to retrieve is what we are afraid it would be. And soon, within days, the crew of the K1 will have another. If they don't improvise before then."
"I heard there's a rocket already on the pad at Baikonur," says Laney. "People thought they were doing a satellite launch in three weeks but the schedule got moved up. Which is weird, because I heard from a friend at Moscow Polytechnic they're still inspecting the telescope mirror for one of their payloads."
Markov grins at her. "It would seem your network is even more extensive than my own. Brian, would you check on that?"
There's a small smile of satisfaction on Laney's face. "A lot of us space geeks like to talk. Russia has their share, China too."
"I bet. When this matter is settled, we should talk about your goals, Ms. Washburn."
I interrupt them, "After you two are done friending each other, can we talk about how we're going to clear my name?"
"Mr. Dixon, in a period of time measured in hours or days, but less than weeks, nobody will care who you are." He points to a small cabana on the other side of the pool. "There's a guest house with cable, high-speed internet and a fully stocked kitchen. You're welcome to stay there until events have come to their conclusion. Meanwhile, the rest of us are trying to solve the larger problem."
"Do the rest of you have targets on their heads?"
"Tyler did. As did Peterson and Bennet. And I don't know if you've checked the news in the last few hours, but the manhunt for you has moved to west Georgia – where a former Navy SEAL who matches your description has been breaking into cabins and going out of his way to be seen by authorities in order to lead the attention away from you."
What is he talking about? "I don't understand..."
"If you're on the run, our nemesis, Zhirov, doesn't know that we have the square and are aware of what he's up to. Likewise, neither does Silverback."
"Silverback?" asks Laney.
"A mole within US intelligence who has a number of people unwittingly worki
ng for him," says Markov.
"Yikes."
"Yikes, indeed."
Markov's rebuke stings. Suddenly I feel like a very petty man. "Okay. I get it. What can I do?"
"Right now, I need the two of you to tell me everything I need to know about rockets, space stations and anything else I should know."
"That's a lot," says Laney.
"I'm a quick study. Just start and I'll ask questions as we go along."
55
STRATEGY
MARKOV KNOWS way more than he initially let on. As we paint the broad strokes about the current technical state of the space industry he starts drilling down into specifics about craft, equipment and who has what.
While I was able to explain things from a pilot's perspective, Laney has the real information about what is flying over our heads, how long it takes to prep a launch, what kind of shifts crews sleep in, and a myriad of other details that would have put any of my professors or instructors to shame.
Twice she corrected me about engine capacities and the cubic volume of different craft.
"Yeah, but the PPTS has 33 cubic meters of pressurized volume on the older system. The new one gets 37 with the improved scrubbers," she explains to Markov's amusement.
"Um, right. That's true."
"I think they're sending the wrong person into space," he observes.
"We try to keep the real brains away from the things that go 'boom,'" I say, trying to save face.
As we talk, he takes notes, occasionally passing them to Lieutenant Brian who goes into another room to make phone calls.
I'm not sure what Markov is thinking about, but he keeps asking questions about the layout of the K1 and its telemetry system.
"It also has a laser," I point out.
"It does?" says Laney, surprised.
I almost let out an "Ah hah," at having some information she doesn't know.
"They tried to burn a hole in my space capsule. Thankfully, Capricorn had me turn my heat shield towards the station."
"So the Russians have a defensive system onboard the K1 they can use at close range?" He does some calculations on his pad. "I assume the effective range would be 1,500 miles or so due to curvature and assuming no attenuation?"
"Yes," Laney and I say at the same time.
"This presents an interesting challenge. In a conventional situation the solution would be to try to take out the K1 using a high-velocity object and destroy it in orbit. Unfortunately, a near miss would result in them detonating the nuclear weapon.
"The second choice is to bring an explosive device with enough ordnance to destroy the K1, or at least the module holding the weapon. The problem with that is two-fold; getting close enough to do that and the aforementioned near miss scenario. Not to mention the repercussions from the Russians."
"If it's the Russian's problem, why don't we just let them deal with it?" I ask.
"Radin is in even more of a delicate position than we are. While Silverback has our intelligence agencies hamstrung, Zhirov has his ears everywhere – plus, there's not much Radin can do. Zhirov controls access to space. Even the Russian Army space wing's launch centers are controlled by him.
"Oddly enough, the proper course of action is covert intervention by the US. Zhirov's goal is taking power in Russia, not outright confrontation with America. That's why he's been expending every effort he can to capture you. He'll use the nuke, no matter what, but he wants to save it for embarrassing Radin."
"They can't just send some commandos to get him?"
"They would never get close."
"What about appealing to the crew of the K1?"
"The two commanders are Zhirov's chosen men. They control access to the compartment that contains the weapon."
"Wait? Are you saying the other crew aren't in on this?"
He shakes his head. "Not all. In fact...let's just say that you were able to escape with the assistance of someone onboard."
"Wait, what? They were trying to kill me."
"Yes. Or at least the commanders were. But at least one person on the crew was actually working with us. They're the reason we knew the weapon was onboard. When they started getting elevated radiation readings and took it to Roscosmos, the pushback made them suspicious. So they took a geiger counter on a spacewalk next to the bulkhead and confirmed their suspicions.
"This cosmonaut was then in a precarious position. Nuclear weapons in space are specifically banned by treaty. Making any kind of noise about this would have serious, if not fatal, consequences."
"With all your inside information, how come Tyler is dead?"
Markov looks at the floor, avoiding my gaze. "I explained to him the likelihood they were going to have him killed. He naively thought that his status as a senator was somehow going to protect him – at least from physical threats."
"And Silverback still got him. Why is he still active?"
"One, I'm an old man people rarely listen to. Second, Silverback is very likely more than one individual. I suspect that he or she is working in concert with someone who has influence at the highest level."
"But Silverback knows about you. Yet here you are." I'm taking my frustration out on the one living person that has an idea what's going on.
"Are you asking why Silverback hasn't killed me yet? The answer is very simple and Russian. I don't know who Silverback is, but I have my suspicions. I also have dossiers on a number of government officials containing extremely incriminating information. Affairs, bribes, most of it minor, but enough to remove any of them from their position.
"While I have my own security, my real protection comes from the fact that should I die from anything resembling suspicious circumstances, those dossiers would find themselves immediately released and a great number of people would be embarrassed and exposed – Silverback among them. It's a lot like Zhirov's weapon. It's what's keeping his enemies at bay. Fortunately for me, these dossiers are digital and not stored in any one place. Which brings me to what we need to do. While Silverback's reach is extensive, we do have allies, but we have to act very quickly. Ms. Washburn, is there someone to look after your brothers? It would probably be best if you came along with us."
"Me? Uh, yeah. My aunt is visiting for a few days."
"Hold up. Are we going somewhere?"
"I can't tell you that until we're there. But I would appreciate your advice. I'm pulling some favors and putting together a team."
"A team to do what?"
"Our only option; steal the nuclear weapon that's onboard the K1."
56
SPACE OPS
FOUR HOURS LATER, our helicopter touches down on a tarmac near a hangar at the far end of Cape Canaveral Air Force base. I get chills thinking about the last time I was this close to an airport.
As I help Laney, and Brian assists Markov out of the helicopter, an athletic silver-haired man in a black polo gets out of an SUV and joins us.
"Dr. Markov," he says, shaking the old Russian's hand.
"Admiral Jessup. I believe you are aware of my companions?"
Jessup gives Laney a nod then stares at me for a moment, sizing me up. "So this is our fugitive?"
"We're pretending he's under custody," says Markov. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't run out and collect the reward just yet."
"I'll take it under consideration if he promises not to steal anything." He gives me a very intense look that I can't tell if it is a joke or not. He relents and turns back to Markov, "So this is your team?"
"Indeed. Is this the facility?" Markov nods to the building. "May we go inside?" He quickly ambles towards the door on his canes.
Jessup hesitates. "Well, you need security clearances..."
"And you have the power to grant them, don't you?" Markov faces Laney and me. "Mr. Dixon and Ms. Washburn, tell anyone what you've seen in here and I'll shoot you myself."
I believe him.
Jessup shakes his head, apparently used to Markov getting whatever he wants. He takes out a keyca
rd, unlocks the door and follows us inside.
It doesn't look like a cleaning crew has been here in years. Jessup takes us past an abandoned security desk.
"What's an Admiral doing on an Air Force base?" asks Laney, no longer able to contain her curiosity.
"Besides holding my nose? We rent this space from our pretend pilot friends." He takes us through another door and down a corridor.
"This operation started with an NRO project back in the 1960s. They wanted to build a space station specifically for spying on the Russians. They got as far as a mock-up and a facility a few miles up the road. However, by the time they figured out the logistics of everything, satellite technology and the SR-71 were advanced enough at that point to handle most of what we needed.
"But the idea kind of stuck. The Navy liked the idea of having our own reconnaissance birds and strategic space capabilities. Congress gave us a little budget to play with some ideas. Some clever, others not so much.
"One idea, straight out of the Naval Intelligence handbook, was finding ways to intercept or manipulate satellite surveillance.
"Some of our folks thought up a crazy scheme to put a mirror-tap over Russian spy satellites and control what they saw or even faking images. Another idea was to outright steal one of their birds to get a look at what made it tick.
"Of course the problem was two-fold. The first was having a vehicle that could sneak up on a satellite. The second was having a way to do all the crazy things we wanted. We played with everything, from robotics to little space-suited monkeys. This way..."
The next room is the main section of the hangar. The few working overhead lights illuminate various machines and equipment covered in plastic. There's a small mission control room and sectioned-off zones with rocket engines and workbenches and tools.
"My predecessor eventually convinced a secret congressional committee to give us the budget when he stopped talking about space monkeys and gave them something they could wrap their heads around.
"We called it Space Ops, a squad of Navy SEALS trained for space operations and the gear they'd need to pull it off." He sweeps his arm around the hangar. "A lot of this was built by SpaceX and other outfits in their backrooms. Come over here and I'll show you the main attraction."