“More flight tests? After this picture-perfect launch?” Gryzlov shook his head. “A waste of resources, Mikhail.”
Leonov’s face froze. “What?”
Gryzlov eyed him closely. “You heard me.” He nodded toward the monitor. “The Americans are not fools. Not all of them, anyway. And now we’ve just revealed a space launch capability they never dreamed we could develop so quickly. Some of the brighter people in Washington, D.C., are going to start wondering what else we have up our sleeves.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “No, we don’t have any more time to throw away. Not when the Americans are already rushing to make those damned spaceplanes of theirs operational again. We need to move fast… even faster than we first planned.”
For a long moment, Leonov stared back at him in stunned silence. “What are you proposing, Gennadiy?” he asked finally.
“Proposing? I’m not proposing anything. I think you mistake your place, Mikhail,” Gryzlov snapped with biting sarcasm. “What I am doing is issuing orders.” His voice grew colder. “So listen closely. You will not waste those expensive new Energia rockets conducting additional test flights. Instead, you will proceed immediately to the next phase of the Mars Project — the operational phase. When our next heavy-lift rockets launch, I expect them to carry the weapons and other equipment necessary to construct Mars One in orbit. Is that clear?”
Leonov’s face might have been carved from stone. “With respect, Mr. President,” he said, stressing every word. “I cannot guarantee the reliability of the Energia-5VR system on the basis of a single successful test flight. We were very lucky today. Tomorrow, we might not be so fortunate. Each rocket is an incredibly complex machine, with hundreds of thousands of separate parts. Even the smallest production fault or a single software glitch could be disasterous.”
“You will make them work, Colonel General,” Gryzlov interrupted curtly. His eyes held all the warmth of a Siberian winter. “I’m counting on you.”
Eight
Beyond the looming spire of the Washington Monument, the sky had turned a dark gray. Towering masses of clouds were rolling in from the south, bringing rain and predicted high winds. In the fading light, even the green, tree-covered South Lawn looked gloomy.
With a thoughtful frown, U.S. president John Dalton Farrell turned away from the Oval Office windows. After nearly six months in office, he still missed the wide-open horizons of his native Texas — especially those of the vast plains and plateaus of West Texas, where he’d made his fortune as a wildcatter in the energy industry. In the east, he felt more confined, more hemmed in, especially in crowded, bustling Washington, D.C. People here moved and talked faster, but somehow their words carried less meaning… and their dreams were narrower. The capital’s political power brokers and federal bureaucrats had long ago mastered the art of drowning new and unconventional ideas in a morass of regulatory red tape and dreary, pompous, never-ending argument.
Then he shrugged. Quit your bitching, J.D., pull on your britches and your boots, and get back to work, he told himself firmly. He’d worked his butt off to beat Stacy Anne Barbeau and park himself behind the big Oval Office desk, hadn’t he? Nobody’d ever promised him the job was going to be easy.
Besides, the American people had elected him for good reasons of their own. For one thing, they were sick of watching buttoned-down Washington insiders cozy up to favored interest groups, corporations, and government unions. Too many folks were getting rich playing inside baseball in this town. His commission from the voters was to break up the incestuous triangle of big business, big labor, and big government.
Outside of domestic politics, Farrell knew he faced challenges that were just as demanding. For four long years, Barbeau and her foreign policy team had sat idle, watching from the sidelines while the Russians ran roughshod over U.S. allies and U.S. interests abroad. She’d claimed she was saving American lives by avoiding unnecessary battles over insignificant places and peoples. Well, that had sure as shit come back to bite her in the ass when the Russians, masquerading as terrorist mercenaries, blew the hell out of civilian and military targets inside the U.S. itself last year.
The American people were sick of having sand kicked in their faces by Gennadiy Gryzlov. No one who was sane wanted to risk all-out war, but it was high time Moscow learned the rules had changed. Further aggressive moves by the Russians were going to be challenged, not ignored.
Which was why the two men who were being ushered discreetly into his office were here.
Neither former U.S. president Kevin Martindale nor retired Air Force Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan was officially part of his administration. Both had made too many political enemies — inside the United States and overseas — for that to be practical. Besides, Farrell thought, naming either of them to an official intelligence agency or Defense Department slot would be a criminal waste of talent. In recent years, both men had proved they were far more effective when operating outside regular channels. Together with the Poles and the other courageous peoples of Eastern and Central Europe, their Iron Wolf Squadron and Scion weapons and intelligence specialists had held Gennadiy Gryzlov at bay — buying time for the United States to regain its senses.
Martindale’s stylish, open-necked suit, long gray hair, and neatly trimmed gray beard gave him something of the air of an aging hipster playboy. While his shrewd, observant gaze dispelled that false impression, it was an image he often cultivated as a form of public-relations camouflage.
Unlike the former president, Patrick McLanahan could not conceal his own extraordinary nature. Critically injured years ago during a combat mission against the People’s Republic of China, he was only alive now thanks to a remarkable piece of advanced medical hardware, the LEAF, or Life Enhancing Assistive Facility. Its motor-driven, carbon-fiber-and-metal exoskeleton, life-support backpack, and clear helmet kept him alive, despite wounds that were beyond the power of modern medicine to heal.
Farrell knew he owed both men his own life. Together with Brad McLanahan, who was Patrick’s son, Nadia Rozek, and Whack Macomber, they had smashed Gryzlov’s mercenary force when the Russians came storming onto his Texas Hill Country ranch to kill him. In a just world, their heroism and self-sacrifice would have earned a long period of rest and recovery. As it was, the country needed them too much for that to happen. With Russia still on the prowl probing for weaknesses, the high-tech weapons systems, intelligence assets, and combat experience Martindale, the McLanahans, and their people brought to the table were vital to the defense of the United States. It wasn’t really fair, the president thought grimly, but then again, nobody ever said life was fair.
Getting back to business, he shook hands with the two men and waved them into chairs across from his desk. “I’m real glad you could fly all the way out here on such short notice. I surely do appreciate it.”
“Invitations to the White House aren’t exactly easy to refuse,” Martindale told him wryly.
Farrell chuckled. “No, I suppose not.” He shrugged. “I figure y’all probably realize this isn’t a social call.”
“That’s too bad, Mr. President,” Patrick said with a crooked, self-deprecating grin of his own, plainly visible through the clear visor of his LEAF helmet. His exoskeleton whirred softly as he leaned back in his chair. “Think of the tabloid headlines you could trigger: ‘President Hosts Space Alien at State Dinner.’” His expression turned more serious. “But since this little get-together is about business, what can we do for you?”