“What is this?” he said, speaking English with a fabricated Russian accent. “Do you realize I am an officer of the military police?”
The Sword guard looked calm but determined.
“I apologize for the inconvenience, sir, but my detail’s been assigned security of this entry point, and if you’d just show your papers we can let you right on through.”
Kuhl feigned affront and gestured toward the Russian watchmen.
“What is this?” he barked in Russian. “Am I to be insulted by these outlanders?”
The Sword guard might not have understood his words, but his tone made their meaning clear.
“Sir,” he said. “I assure you this is strictly a routine check—”
Suddenly one of the Russian guards stepped up past the American, slapped his hand against the truck’s rear panel, and waved it forward, signaling one of his men to open the gate.
“Nye byespakoytyes!” he told the driver in Russian. “Go on through!”
Oleg nodded and put his foot on the accelerator.
The Sword guard watched with dismay as the huge semi began rumbling past the checkpoint.
“Just a minute—”
“Nyet!” the Russian said, puffing himself out. “He is commanding officer of our military guard, not common criminal!”
The Sword guard looked at him, weighing his options. He could order his men to stand the truck down, but the damn thing was going full steam ahead, and they’d have to raise their weapons against it to do so. On the other hand, this was the third such dispute he’d had with the Russians since coming on shift tonight to suddenly find they’d crashed his party, and both times before they had bristled but ultimately yielded to his authority. Assholes that they were, he had to bear in mind they were acting on orders from higher-ranking assholes — and allowing a minor confrontation to trigger an out-and-out donny-brook would only complicate his job if something serious requiring their cooperation cropped up. Maybe it would be best to radio ahead, have the brass tussle it out, let these guys save a little face.
He turned away from the Russian and flicked on his communications headset.
Inside the truck, Kuhl had already turned on his own trunked radio and ordered his strike team to mobilize.
On receipt of Kuhl’s command, the small army he had gathered in the foothills southeast of the Cosmodrome burst into hurried activity, emerging from behind artificial boulders, foliage, stone panels, and other blinds, peeling the camouflage netting off their vehicles, moving from the pockets of concealment where they had patiently hidden while going about their preparations. Often over the past week, and again earlier that night, advance scouts handpicked by Kuhl had reported back with descriptions of the launch center’s eastern perimeter defenses, indicating they would be unable to withstand a direct, concentrated, lightning-fast strike. Resistance would become more intense once VKS and American reinforcements were called up from other areas of the center, but the attackers did not have to worry about penetrating it too deeply. Their objectives were limited: move in, put on a good show, move out.
They did not suspect that, in the interests of putting on the best, most convincing show possible, the scouts, under orders from Kuhl himself, had lied to them.
“Sir, we’ve got something from SkyManta.” The young op who had come pounding at Ricci’s trailer door was flushed and breathless. “Looks like this is it.”
Ricci stared at him from inside the entrance, coffee cup in hand.
“What’s it picked up?”
“Fifteen, maybe twenty jeeps, the controllers say the IR video’s clear as day. They’re heading in convoy toward the east side of the compound.”
The launchpad area, Ricci thought. He hadn’t wished himself luck a moment too soon.
“How close are they?”
“Two, maybe three miles, sir. There’s a whole network of gullies along that way. Caves in the hills, scrub… it’s possible they could have been hiding there for a while….”
“Let’s worry about the present.” Ricci took a breath. “Those remote gun platforms that were brought in, what are they called?”
“The TRAP T-2s.”
Ricci nodded.
“They’re all in position? Exactly the way they were when we conducted firing exercises?”
“Yes, sir. Every inch of ground in that sector’s covered by overlapping fire. We have at least fifteen of them just out beyond the gate — same number at each of the other perimeters—”
“Grab a few off each line, but just a few. Three, four. Leave the rest where they are. That’d bring us to about thirty guns at the point of attack. Have the additions emplaced right away.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ricci wanted to tell the kid not to call him “sir.” He wasn’t his uncle, and Sword wasn’t the military. But his preferred form of address was something for later.
“Notify the firing and Quick Response teams, make sure they’re all in their tac vests—”
“That’s SOP, sir.”
“Make sure anyway. ”
“Yes, sir!”
Jesus, Ricci thought.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m heading out to the snoop-mobile to see the pictures for myself.”
Minutes after Kuhl had gotten past the gate sentries with what amounted to a nod and a wave, the truck stopped briefly in a quiet section of the compound, where his men had placed the dish atop its trailer’s roof and switched on the pulse generator. They had then driven on to within two hundred feet of the long cargo-processing facility in which the ISS service module was being stored prior to installation in the launch vehicle — a movement that was scheduled to occur the very next morning.
The concrete building was guarded exclusively by VKS troops, and only a sprinkling of them at that. None seemed interested when the cargo hauler pulled up at a moderate distance. It was one of their own trucks, and there were vehicles coming and going constantly in the days preceding a launch. Although Kuhl had been prepared for the eventuality of having to deal with Sword personnel, he was not surprised by their absence. One could always depend on Russian pride. That, he thought, and the impoverished economy that had ensured their facility would not be hardened against the incapacitation of their electronic alarm systems by microwave pulse, an expensive upgrade in shielding they could scarcely have afforded.
He turned to Oleg.
“Go around back,” he said. “Tell the others they are to activate the cannon when ready.”
The snoop-mobile was all boxed-in commotion. As Ricci entered, he saw men and women hunched over every one of the instrument consoles lining its sides, the radiance from the displays and lighted controls casting pale flickers of color across their faces.
He glanced up at a flat-panel monitor on the wall above one of the consoles, and instantly saw SkyManta’s aerial IR video view of the approaching jeeps.
“Those pictures,” he said, moving up beside the woman in the operator’s seat. Her name tag read Sharon Drake. “They’re called near real-time, that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sir, again.
“How near is near?”
“What you’re seeing happened less than two seconds ago.”
“Putting the attack force how close?”
Sharon hit a button to superimpose grid coordinates over the image.
“A little less than a quarter mile,” she said.
“Any movement near the other gates?”
She shook her head. “Not according to aerial IR scans, ground surveillance cameras, or reports from the guard posts.”