The pain was so great he thought he'd lose consciousness. He wasn't so lucky.
Egonov and the doctor moved to the door. "Think about my offer, Captain. And, just so that you know, you are not the only American here facing death by infection." Egonov smiled, gave a two-finger salute, and left.
Masters fought back tears.
He thought of his situation. He thought of his men. He thought of his father and mother. If they knew—and surely his father knew—they would be devastated.
He prayed his capture had not compromised his father.
CHAPTER 3
TIM BRYAN PULLED TO a stop at the main entrance to Offutt Air Force Base. A purple sign identified the entrance as "Kenney Gate." Although Tim was not in uniform, the armed guard gave him a snappy salute and motioned the vehicle through.
"Welcome to the home of the 55th Wing, the largest wing within the Air Force's Air Combat Command." Tim motioned to the buildings populating the base. "We have four thousand acres of prime Nebraska property."
"Does Nebraska have prime property?" Rich chuckled at his own joke.
"You bet it does, big guy. We are also home to such units as the U.S. Strategic Command Headquarters, the Air Force Weather Agency, and the Defense Finance and Accounting Service."
"Now you got me," Rich said. "I always was a pushover for accounting."
"Aren't we all?"
Moyer weighed in. "I take it you do other things here you can't talk about."
"Affirmative. The Strategic Air Command Museum is here. You really should see that."
Moyer looked at the driver. "You think we'll have time?"
Tim shook his head. "You'll be lucky to have time to catch a sandwich."
"Swell," Rich said.
"You will get to see something very few see."
"Like what?" Moyer turned his attention to the road ahead. They were approaching a modern-looking, boxy, reddish building. It reminded Moyer of a large post office near his home. The structure was surrounded by a well manicured lawn. Tim parked in front of the building. Moyer and the others exited the vehicle and walked across a wide concrete patio leading to a metal roofed lobby. To one side of the building stood a tall flagpole with the Stars and Stripes flapping in a gentle breeze. The sight of the flag warmed him. Some would think the sentiment was sappy. Maybe it was, but he didn't care. He and his men pledged to protect all the flag stood for—sappy or not.
Footsteps behind him let him know the rest of the team had closed the gap between them. A glance told him all his men and their two escorts were accounted for. It was a habit Moyer picked up on the first mission he led: count your crew. Always get a head count.
"This way, gentlemen." Tim opened the wide glass door and waited for everyone to enter the foyer before following them in.
Several armed security men met them in the lobby. IDs were checked, and portable, digital fingerprint readers were used to log their identities.
"That was quick."
Moyer turned to see twenty-eight-year-old J. J. Bartley standing near Tim.
"That's because you were expected." Tim smiled. "You've already been photographed and run through a face-recognition program. That, your fingerprints, which were just compared to the military database, and a few other identification techniques, tell us you are who you say you are."
"Who else would we be?" Rich gave a cheesy grin.
Tim nodded. "Yeah, I know it's overkill, but would you want to be the guy who let in someone he shouldn't just because he was sure he had the right guy? That's not a screwup I'm willing to chance."
"Makes sense to me." Moyer looked around. "Where's your partner? The one who drove the other SUV."
"This is as far as she's allowed to go. She's gone back to work."
"So she doesn't have clearance?"
"Nope."
"What does she do?"
"To the elevators, please."
Rich stepped next to Moyer and J. J. "I don't think he's going to answer your question."
"I got that impression."
J. J. spoke just above a whisper. "I asked the same question in the car. She wasn't real talkative. My guess is she does some kinda secret work."
Rich placed a hand on J. J.'s shoulder. "That or she just doesn't like you, buddy. It's hard to hear, but you gotta hear it: You ain't no ladies' man."
"That's good." J. J. shook off the hand. "My new wife is the jealous type."
"Gentlemen." Tim's voice carried a hint of impatience.
Moyer and the others followed Tim down a wide hall to a small alcove where two pairs of elevator doors awaited them.
Moyer looked for the call buttons but saw none. Then he realized something. The building was a single-story affair. Who needed elevators in a single-story building?
Tim removed a key card from his shirt pocket and held it next to a small, dark glass panel. He then held the back of his hand next to the glass. A moment later, one set of doors opened. They entered a cab twice the size Moyer expected. The doors closed and Tim spoke. "Captain Tim Bryan."
The elevator moved at the sound of his voice.
"Coolness."
Moyer looked at Crispin. "What's so cool?"
"The security: card reader and security card with a smart chip, back of the hand biometric reader, and voice recognition." He turned to Tim. "I bet there are multiple cameras in here."
"You'd be right. You must be the security specialist for the team."
"Intel mostly, but I double up on security, yeah."
"What else do you do?"
Crispin smiled but said nothing. Moyer was starting to like the newest member of the team.
The elevator picked up speed and Moyer expected the pit of his stomach to drop. It didn't. It rose. Of course. There was no place to go but down.
"If I asked how far below grade we're going, would you tell me?" Moyer had his doubts.
"You may ask whatever you like."
"But you promise no answers. At least no details."
Tim shrugged. "I do as I'm told."
"Understood." Moyer couldn't fault the man.
The elevator slowed and settled to a stop.
The doors parted.
Moyer had been in many high-tech facilities, but this one looked straight from the Syfy channel. For a moment, he thought he was stepping into NASA's Houston Control, or at least what he imagined it would be. He saw photos of the control center during its Apollo days: a big room filled with people sitting at consoles gazing at computer monitors and clacking away on keyboards. Except this place was more streamlined. The computer monitors were thin, flat screens and the people who sat at them wore uniforms. Most wore the new Army Service Uniform of white belted trousers, black pullover sweater, and jump boots. Half of the workers were women.
On the opposite wall a massive series of monitors covered two-thirds of the wall and reached to the ceiling. Moyer estimated the monitors covered sixty feet of wall. Above the monitors ran several rows of digital numbers in yellow and red lights. He couldn't make sense of most of them but did notice a few coordinates and dates. The rest read like code.
"Wow," Crispin said.
"Amen to that," J. J. added.
Moyer scanned the images on the giant display. Several were present: In one he saw what looked like a U.S. fast-attack submarine skimming the surface of some ocean; in another he recognized the barren terrain of Afghanistan, territory he was all too familiar with; another monitor showed a view of a wide, meandering river. If Moyer's geography was right, he was looking at the Yangtze River in Qinghai Province in China. "Is that—?"
"This way please, gentlemen." Tim led them along a raised walkway to a pair of double doors. A shiny metal sign bore the words: TELECOM. Tim opened the door, which swung inward, then stood to the side. Moyer was second in, followed by his crew.
This room was small by comparison but similar in that it had a console along one side and six large monitors mounted to the wall. Soundproof batting covered the walls. No art. I
t was Spartan, just like the military liked it. Several rows of padded chairs, like theater seats, faced the monitors.
"Have a seat, gentlemen." Tim motioned to the chairs. Moyer and the others sat.
"What's the movie?" Rich lowered his bulk into the front-row seat next to Moyer. The others sat in the second row. "And where's the popcorn?"
Moyer glanced at his second in command. Rich Harbison was always a font of jokes, quips, and digs, but he knew when to be serious.
The door opened and an Army major walked in. Moyer and the others were on their feet a half second later.
"As you were." The man was tall, sported short brown hair, and eyebrows a half-size too large for his face. His thin lips were pulled tight.
Moyer and his team sat.
"I am Major Bruce Scalon, one of the officers in charge of STRATCOM here at Offutt." He exchanged glances with Moyer. "You the team leader?"
"Yes, sir." Moyer gave a nod. "Sergeant Major Eric Moyer."
"Introduce your team, Sergeant Major."
"Yes, sir." Again Moyer stood. He pointed to Rich. "This is my second, Master Sergeant Rich Harbison. On mission he goes by 'Shaq.'"
"I can see why," Scalon said.
"Staff Sergeant Pete 'Junior' Rasor, communications. He's the baby of the group, well, was the baby of the group. Next to him is Sergeant First Class J. J. 'Colt' Bartley, weapons and explosives. He's also the team sniper."
"Bartley?" The major furrowed his brow. "Do you have a brother in the Army?"
"Yes, sir. Paul Bartley."
"The chaplain?"
"Yes, sir. Do you know him?"
"I do, but not well. Bumped into him once or twice." Scalon returned his attention to Moyer. "Carry on."
Moyer pointed to a dark-haired man. "Sergeant First Class Jose 'Doc' Medina, team medic. Last, and probably least, Sergeant First Class Crispin Collins, surveillance."
Scalon looked puzzled. "No nick?"
"He's new to the team. We haven't given him a nickname yet. He's the newest and youngest."
"Do any fieldwork before?" Scalon asked.
"Just training, sir, but I'm ready for whatever the Army has planned for me."
Scalon chuckled. "It's not my place to judge your readiness, Sergeant. I'm an overweight desk jockey. I do my fighting from behind a computer monitor." No one commented. "I suppose they call you, 'Boss,' Sergeant Major. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir. They do."
"It helps with his low self-esteem." Rich grinned, then quickly added, "Sir."
"It's my understanding most teams like yours have a designated class clown. You it, Harbison?"
Rich puffed out his chest. "I am, sir."
"Well, keep the funnies in check for now." He put his hands behind his back. "Do you know where you are?"
Moyer answered. "Captain Bryan gave us some information about the base and your mission, but nothing beyond that."
"September 11, 2001. It's a date none of us will forget. Then President Bush, as is required by Secret Service and military protocol, left Washington, D.C. One of the places he flew to was here. He held video meetings here with his secretary of state, chief of staff, the head of the Joint Chiefs, and others. Of course things have changed since then." He sat at a small table and looked at a simple monitor system. "We're over a decade past that now and the technology has improved."
An airman seated behind the electronics console at the side of the room turned in his chair. "Sir, we're ready."
"Go ahead." Scalon stepped to the side and stood by the first row of chairs. The large monitor blinked to life and the image of a well-muscled man in his fifties appeared. His hair was Army short, his skin tanned, and his face chiseled. Moyer knew he wasn't a dour man; he'd seen him smile twice in the years he had known him.
"Do we have a clear connection?" Colonel MacGregor looked to his side, apparently to whoever was twisting knobs and flipping switches. Moyer heard, "Affirmative."
"We're good on our end," Major Scalon said.
"Good." Colonel Mac looked into the camera. "Gentlemen. Sorry to change your itinerary, and I'm even sorrier to tell you you won't be coming home right away."
J. J. sighed. Moyer couldn't blame him. J. J. had a new wife at home. Moyer had a wife and two kids he was dying to see. "No problem, sir." It was a lie.
"Down to brass tacks. Three days ago one of the Army's satellites was knocked from orbit. As you know, we and the other branches of the military have come to depend on satellites for GPS, communications, real-time observation, and battlefield control. I don't need to tell you there are a hundred other things these birds do for us. Angel-12 is one of the latest intel and recon satellites. I hear Sec Army has a personal stake in this device. He pulled a lot of strings and shook the hands of a lot of senators and representatives to get the funding. That being said, this has nothing to do with the secretary of the Army's pride."
Mac took a deep breath. "The bird has sensitive optics and communications, things we'd like to keep to ourselves if you follow my drift. And that's just the stuff I know about. I'm pretty sure there's more to it than that, something a few thousand feet above my security clearance. I can't prove that, but I wouldn't bet against me."
"I'd never bet against you, sir." Moyer understood the unspoken words. Much of contemporary military operations were based in technology. The army with the best tech always had an advantage.
"Where did it come down, Colonel?" Rich put all the jokes aside.
"It hasn't. Not yet, but we know the general area. I will reveal that in a moment. First, Major Scalon will fill in the basics for me."
"Yes, sir." Scalon moved two steps forward, not in front of the monitors, but just far enough so the team could see him. "Part of the Joint Space Operations Center at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California's mission is to monitor everything of importance in space. Space has become more crowded than most people know. They keep an eye on more than one thousand active satellites and nearly four thousand inactive satellites or rocket debris. All told, they watch close to sixteen thousand objects; most moving at five miles per second."
Crispin whistled. "That's . . . what? About eighteen thousand miles an hour?"
"That's right, Sergeant. If we count smaller objects, there are close to half-a-million bits of debris over our heads. An aluminum object the size of your fist carries the same kinetic energy of fifteen pounds of TNT. Imagine the kind of damage something the size of a Buick could do." Scalon rocked on his heels for a moment. "On average, there are seventy-five possible collisions every day. When a collision occurs, the satellite usually bursts into pieces. To give you an example, on February 10, 2009, a busted-down Russian communications outpost called Cosmos 2251 collided with one of our Iridium 33 communication birds. It knocked out some phone calls and left more than two thousand pieces of debris."
"So this happened to Angel-12?" J. J. asked.
Scalon shook his head. "There are similarities. It was a deactivated Chinese satellite that did the deed, but this time it was no accident."
"They intentionally rammed us?" The idea infuriated Moyer.
"We think so. There's been no public discussion of this, of course, but behind-the-scene talks have been revealing. The Chinese claimed they were attempting to park their satellite in a graveyard orbit."
"A what?" Rich said.
"Most satellites orbit in geosynchronous paths 22,400 miles above the earth. Dead or out-of-date devices are pushed to a slightly higher orbit where they won't present a danger to other satellites."
Moyer spoke. "But you suspect the Chinese are lying."
Scalon nodded. "Their satellite was inactive for more than two years. Why the sudden concern about its location? I suppose we'd buy the story if the thing hadn't changed course. It didn't bump into our equipment; it targeted it."
"So we're out a bird?" Rich said. "Won't it just burn up in the atmosphere?"
"Good question. With almost any other satellite, the answer would be yes, but Angel-12
has been hardened."
"Hardened?" Moyer said.
"On January 11, 2007, the Chinese shot down a defunct Fengyun-1C satellite using a 'kinetic-kill vehicle,' an unpowered projectile. They scored a direct hit, shattering the satellite into three thousand traceable pieces. One of the things that keep guys like me and my superior officers awake at night is facing an enemy who can shoot down our satellites. Imagine a war in which only one country has eyes in the sky. We'd be fighting like we did in World War II while facing a twenty-first-century enemy."
"So by 'hardened' you mean Angel-12 is up-armored." Moyer kept his gaze on Scalon.
"Yes. It's a new, lightweight armor you don't need to know about." Scalon inhaled deeply. "Pieces of space junk have made earth-fall before. In 1997, a Delta II fuel tank landed in the yard of a home in Georgetown, Texas. In 2001, a titanium motor casing from a Delta II came to rest in Saudi Arabia. Fortunately, it hit the desert and not a city. Most objects that fall from space burn to ashes; those that don't, land in the ocean or in unpopulated areas. Angel-12 will do the same."
J. J. shifted in his seat. "Do we want to know where?"
"These things can't be predicted with absolute accuracy, but we can get close . . ."
"You're killing us here, Major," Moyer said.
"Siberia."
Rich swore.
"Siberia. As in the Russian wasteland?"
"Some people call Siberia home," Scalon said.
"No one I know," Rich whispered.
"In June of 2010, the Japanese Space Agency guided the Hayabusa spacecraft—the one that landed on an asteroid and returned to earth—to the Australian outback. Unlike them, however, we have lost all control of what's left of our bird; otherwise, we'd direct it into some deep ocean. The best we can do is crunch the numbers and watch it fall."
"To Siberia," Rich mumbled. "First Nebraska, now Siberia."
"Yes, to Siberia."
"There's more." Colonel Mac's voice rolled from overhead speakers. "In fact, it's why you're the ones going and not someone closer. The Air Force sent in one of their Special Ops units. They were captured and we believe they are being held near the area where Angel-12 will impact. Your mission is twofold. First, be the first to the satellite, secure its nuclear power source, and then destroy its sensitive communications and optics. Second, if possible, get the flyboys home. Is that understood?"
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