by Dale Brown
“Yes, sir,” Titeneva replied with a confident smile, and signed off. Gryzlov grinned. Daria Titeneva had definitely become a changed woman over the past several weeks: aggressive, creative, demanding, even vulgar at times . . . in and out of bed. Gryzlov continued the video teleconference with his other cabinet ministers for a few more minutes, then signed off.
“Your anger and temper will get the best of you eventually, Gennadiy,” Tarzarov said once all the connections to the president’s ministers were securely terminated. “Constantly warning you of it does not seem to help.”
“It has been over ten years since the destruction of the American bomber and intercontinental-ballistic-missile fleet, Sergei,” Gryzlov complained, ignoring Tarzarov’s advice once again. “The Americans reactivated their military space station and made the switch to space-based weapons instead of rebuilding their bomber and missile weapons, and they made no secret of it. What in hell were Zevitin and Truznyev doing all those years—playing with themselves?”
“The former presidents had institutional, political, and budget problems during most of that time, Gennadiy,” Tarzarov said, “as well as having to rebuild the weapons destroyed by the Americans in the counterattacks. It does no good to point fingers at past presidents. Very few heads of state, including you, are completely in control of their country’s fate.” He checked his smartphone, then shook his head in exasperation. “Ilianov and Korchkov are waiting outside. Are you not done with this project, sir? Ilianov is nothing but a thug in an air-force uniform, and Korchkov is a mindless automaton who kills because she enjoys it.”
“I will be done with those two when their task is complete,” Gryzlov said. “But for now, they are the right persons for this job. Get them in here.” Tarzarov escorted the Russian officer and his assistant into the president’s office, then took his “invisible spot” in the office and effectively blended in with the furniture. Ilianov and Korchkov were in military dress, Ilianov in his air-force uniform and Korchkov in a plain black tunic and trousers, with no decorations or medals, just insignia of rank on the epaulets, a characteristic of the elite Spetsgruppa Vympel commandos. She also wore a knife in a black sheath on her belt, Gryzlov noticed. “I expected to hear from you days ago, Colonel,” he said. “I also have not heard anything in the news about the death of McLanahan’s son, so I assume your squad failed.”
“Yes, sir,” Ilianov said. “Team One reported to Alpha, the command team, that they had McLanahan, and then Alpha lost contact with them. Teams Two and Three picked up McLanahan and an individual that McLanahan had been doing self-defense and conditioning training with driving out of the city.”
“Who is this individual?” Gryzlov asked.
“A retired noncommissioned officer named Ratel, now a self-defense and firearms instructor,” Ilianov said. “He makes occasional contact with several individuals that also look ex-military—we are in the process of identifying them now. One man looks as if he was burned by chemicals or radiation. He appears to be the one in charge of the ex-military men.”
“This gets more interesting,” Gryzlov said. “McLanahan’s bodyguards? Some sort of private paramilitary group? McLanahan the elder reportedly belonged to such groups, both in and out of the military.”
“Our thoughts exactly, sir,” Ilianov said. “Team Two had to break off his tail because he thought that he had been detected, but the teams were using an electronic tracker on Ratel’s vehicle, so they were ordered to break off the tail and wait for the tracker to stop. It stopped at a small central California airport. The teams found the vehicle abandoned, but they were able to find which building at the airport Ratel and McLanahan were hiding in, a large aircraft hangar. The command team ordered Teams Two and Three to wait for activity at the airport to cease and then attack from different sides, which they did.”
“And failed, obviously,” Gryzlov said. “Let me guess the rest: the members of all three teams are missing, are not in police custody, and McLanahan is nowhere to be found. Whom did the hangar belong to, Colonel?” He held up a hand. “Wait, let me guess again: some ordinary-sounding aviation company with unremarkable officers and few employees that had not been in the area for too long.” Ilianov’s expression told the president that he had guessed correctly. “Perhaps the hangar is this group’s headquarters, or was. They will surely scatter to the four winds. Was your command team able to search the hangar?”
“The command team could not get inside because of the police and then because of a heavily armed private security guard,” Ilianov said. “But the team leader did observe many men and women taking files and equipment out in trucks, and a business jet that had been inside the hangar during the operation taxied away and flew off the night after the operation. The business jet was painted completely black.”
“I thought it is illegal in most countries to paint an aircraft all black—unless it is a government or military aircraft,” Gryzlov said. “Again, very interesting. You may have stumbled onto some kind of mysterious paramilitary organization, Colonel. What else?”
“The command-team leader was able to observe that the front entrance to the aircraft hangar had been blown inward, possibly by a vehicle that had driven right through the front office and crashed all the way into the hangar itself,” Ilianov said. “There was no sign of a damaged vehicle anywhere outside the hangar, however.”
Gryzlov thought for a moment, nodding, then smiled. “So McLanahan’s paramilitary friends effect a rescue by crashing a vehicle through the front door? That does not sound too professional. But they got the job done.” He rose from his desk. “Colonel, ten of the men you sent in have been either killed or captured, supposedly by this countersurveillance or counterintelligence outfit around McLanahan. Whoever you are recruiting inside the United States are all but useless. You will stand down, and we will wait to allow conditions there to go back to routine. Obviously McLanahan has no intention of leaving that school, so it will be easy to pick him up again.”
Gryzlov looked Korchkov’s body up and down. “And when the moment comes, I think it is time to send in Captain Korchkov—alone,” he added. “Your two-man teams are imbeciles or incompetent or both, and now this paramilitary team has been alerted. I am sure the captain can get the job done. She may have to eliminate a few of these ex-military men first before she gets McLanahan.” Korchkov said nothing, but she wore a hint of a smile, as if already relishing the prospect of fresh kills. “But not right away. Let McLanahan and his bodyguards think we have given up the hunt. Spend some time putting the captain in the perfect cover, close to McLanahan and close enough to get a good look at this paramilitary team. Do not use her diplomatic credentials—I am sure all embassy and consulate staff members are going to be under intense scrutiny for a while.”
“Yes, sir,” Ilianov said.
Gryzlov stepped closer to Korchkov and stared into her unblinking eyes. She stared straight back at him with that tiny smile. “They let you in here wearing a knife, Korchkov?”
“Oni ne smeli vzyat’ yego ot menya, ser,” Korchkov said, the first words Gryzlov remembered ever hearing the beauty utter. “They dared not take it away from me. Sir.”
“I see,” Gryzlov said. He looked her body up and down once more, then said, “It would not bother me one bit, Captain, if you chose to torture McLanahan for a while before you executed him. Then you could come back to me and describe it all in great detail.”
“S udovol’stviyem, ser,” Korchkov said, “With pleasure, sir.”
IN EARTH ORBIT
OCTOBER 2016
“Wow, look at all the new bling,” Sondra Eddington said. She and Boomer Noble were aboard an S-19 Midnight spaceplane, making their approach to the docking bay on Armstrong Space Station, which was about a mile away. This was her fourth flight in a spaceplane, her second in the S-19 spaceplane—the others having been in the smaller S-9 Black Stallion—but her first time in orbit and her first docking with Armstrong Space Station. Both she and Boomer were wear
ing skintight Electronic Elastomeric Activity Suits and helmets for prebreathing oxygen, just in case of an uncontrolled depressurization.
“Part of that Starfire solar-power-plant project,” Boomer said. He could see Sondra shake her head slightly when he said the word Starfire. They were referring to two extra sets of solar collectors mounted on towers between the “top” modules on station, pointing at the sun. “Hard to believe, but those new photovoltaic collectors generate more electricity than all of station’s silicon solar cells put together, even though they’re less than a quarter of the size.”
“Oh, I believe it,” Sondra said. “I can almost explain to you how they’re built and draw you the molecular structure of the nanotubes.”
“Brad talked about them more than once to you, I suppose.”
“Until it’s coming out my ears,” Sondra said wearily.
This part of Sondra’s training to fly the spaceplanes was fully computer controlled, so both crewmembers sat back and watched the computers do their thing. Boomer asked questions about possible malfunctions and her actions, pointed out certain indications, and talked about what to expect. Soon they could only see one station module, and before long all they could see was the docking bull’s-eye, and minutes later the Midnight spaceplane was stopped. “Latches secure, docking successful,” Boomer reported. “Kinda boring when the computer does it.”
Sondra finished monitoring the computer as it completed the postdocking checklist. “Postdock checklist complete,” she said when the computer had finished all the steps. “There’s nothing I like better than a boring flight—that means everything went well and everything worked. Good enough for me.”
“I like to dock it by hand,” Boomer said. “If we have extra fuel on Armstrong or on Midnight, I will. Otherwise the computer is much more fuel-efficient, I hate to admit.”
“You’re just a show-off,” Sondra said. “Cocksure as ever.”
“That’s me.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “How did the ascent feel? I sense you’re still having a little difficulty with the positive Gs.”
“I can stay ahead of them just fine, Boomer,” Sondra said.
“It just looked like you were concentrating really hard on staying on top of them.”
“Whatever gets the job done, right?”
“I’m a little worried about the descent,” Boomer said. “The G-forces are heavier and longer. You only get about two or three Gs in the ascent, but four or five during the descent.”
“I know, Boomer,” Sondra said. “I’ll be fine. I passed all the MiG-25 flights, and I did okay on the S-9 and other S-19 flights.”
“Those were all suborbital—we can avoid the Gs easier because we don’t have to decelerate as much,” Boomer said. “But now we’ll be slowing down from Mach twenty-five. To reduce the Gs I can shallow out the deorbit angle a bit, but then you’ll have to go against the Gs for a longer period of time.”
“I’ve heard the lecture before, Boomer,” Sondra said a bit testily. “I’ll be fine no matter what descent angle you pick. I’ve been practicing my M-maneuvers.” M-maneuvers were the method for tightening the stomach muscles, inflating the lungs, and then grunting against the pressure in the chest to force blood to stay in the chest and brain. “Besides, the EEAS helps a lot.”
“All right,” Boomer said. “Is that like practicing your Kegel exercises?”
“Something you’d like to feel personally?”
Boomer ignored the intimate comment and pointed to the displays on the instrument panel. “This shows that the computer is ready to begin the ‘Before Transfer Tunnel Mating’ checklist,” he said. “I’ll go ahead and initiate it. Since the transfer tunnel will be mated by machine—that’s why we wear space suits—in case the tunnel isn’t secure when we want to exit, we can safely do a spacewalk to reattach it or reach station.”
“Why don’t we just do a spacewalk to get to the station, like President Phoenix did last spring?” Sondra asked. “That sounded like fun.”
“We will do that in a later evolution,” Boomer said. “Your job in this evolution is to learn how to monitor the ship and the station from the cockpit, be able to recognize anomalies, and take action.”
“How long does the cargo transfer take?”
“Depends. There aren’t that many cargo modules on this trip. Probably not long.”
As the transfer tunnel was being mounted into place atop the transfer chamber between the cockpit and cargo bay, Boomer watched mechanical arms from Armstrong Space Station removing pressurized modules from the open cargo bay and carrying them to their proper destinations. The smaller modules were personal items for the crewmembers—water, food, spare parts, and other essential items—but the largest module was last. This was one of the last components of Project Starfire to come up to Armstrong Space Station: the microwave generator, which was to be fitted inside the free-electron laser already on the station to produce maser energy from collected solar-produced electrical energy.
A tone sounded in the astronauts’ helmets, and Boomer touched a microphone button. “Battle Mountain, this is Stallion Three, go ahead,” he said.
“Sondra, Boomer, this is Brad!” Brad McLanahan said excitedly. “My team members and I would like to say congratulations for bringing up the last major Starfire component.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Boomer said. “Pass along our congratulations to your team. Everyone on Armstrong and at Sky Masters is excited to be installing the last part of this project and preparing for a test-firing very soon.”
“Same, Brad,” Sondra said simply.
“How are you, Sondra? How was your first trip into orbit?”
“I’m more like a babysitter up here: everything is so automated that I don’t do anything but watch the computers do all the work.”
“Well, the takeoff was incredible, we watched your ascent from mission control, and the rendezvous was picture-perfect,” Brad said. “We can see them loading the microwave cavity into the Skybolt module right freakin’ now. And you just made your first trip into orbit. Awesome! Congratulations!”
“You sound like a little kid, Brad,” Boomer said.
“The team and I couldn’t be more excited, Boomer,” Brad said. “I couldn’t sleep at all last night—heck, not for the past week!”
“So when do we fire this bad boy up, Brad?” Boomer asked.
“It’s coming together real well, Boomer, maybe in a week or so,” Brad replied. “Construction of the first rectenna is complete, and it’s being tested and readied for the test firing at the White Sands Missile Test Range as we speak. The computer chips and new software for the aiming controls are all online and tested. We’ve run into a couple glitches with the lithium-ion capacitors fully discharging into the Skybolt laser, but we have an army of guys working on them, and we recruit more experts and technicians for the project every day. I’m still trying to talk Dr. Kaddiri and Dr. Richter into letting me fly up to the station. Put in a good word for me, okay?”
“Sure, Brad,” Boomer said.
“Sondra, when do you come back?” Brad asked.
“I can’t tell you that, Brad, not on an unsecure transmission,” Sondra replied testily. “I know I have some classes and exercises up here on station, and I don’t think we’re returning directly to Battle Mountain.”
“I have to go back to Cal Poly tomorrow morning,” Brad said, the dejection apparent in his voice. “I’ve missed enough classes already.”
“Next time, Brad,” Sondra said.
“Well, I’ll let you guys get back to work,” Brad said. “We’re going to talk with the techs on Armstrong about beginning integration of the microwave cavity into Skybolt, and then the team is going to the city to celebrate the completion of Starfire. Wish you guys were with us. Thanks again for a thrilling and successful flight.”
“You got it, buddy,” Boomer said. “And I will talk to the brass about getting you up and other members of your team on a spaceplane flight to Armstrong. You
should be up here when you make your first shot.”
“Awesome, Boomer,” Brad said. “Thank you again. Talk to you soon.”
“Midnight clear.” Boomer closed the connection. “Man, it’s good to hear a guy so damned excited about something,” he said on intercom. “And I like hearing ‘the team this’ and ‘the team that.’ He’s the head of a project that has almost a hundred members and a budget of over two hundred million dollars at last count, but it’s still about the team. Very cool.” Sondra said nothing. Boomer looked over to her but couldn’t read much in her face through the oxygen helmet. “Am I right?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Boomer let the silence linger for a few long moments; then: “You still haven’t broken up with him, have you?”
“I don’t need to,” Sondra said peevishly. “I’ve seen the guy just three weekends in six months, and when we do see each other, all he talks about is Starfire this or Cal Poly that, and all he does is schoolwork and Starfire stuff, and then he rides his bike or does hundreds of push-ups and sit-ups to work out. He did that every day I was visiting.”
“He works out every day?”
“At least ninety minutes a day, not including the time on the bike riding to classes or the gym,” Sondra said. “He’s really changed, and it’s a little creepy. He sleeps only four or five hours a night, he’s on the phone or computer—or both at the same time—constantly, and he eats like a friggin’ bird. I get home after visiting him and I feel like ordering a whole large cheese and pepperoni pizza just for myself.”
“I have to admit, he looked really good when I saw him before takeoff today, a lot better than the last time I saw him when his dad was around,” Boomer said. “He’s lost a bunch of weight and looks like he’s got some guns on him now.”