“I have absolutely no intention of ceding Earth orbit to Gennadiy Gryzlov’s despicable regime,” Farrell said through gritted teeth.
“I never thought you did,” Martindale assured him. “Of course, that leaves open the question of what we can do to stop him.”
Farrell nodded. He turned to Patrick. “What’s your take on Admiral Firestone’s proposal that we fire our missile defense interceptors against Mars One?”
“About the same as his,” the other man replied. “There’s almost no chance we could score a hit.”
“Shit,” Farrell muttered. His shoulders slumped slightly.
“But we should still try it.”
Farrell stared at Patrick. “Why?”
“First, because if you’re not even in the game, you can’t possibly win,” Patrick said simply. “There’s always the chance — however improbable — that things may go wrong for those cosmonauts. Space is a harsh, unforgiving environment. And it’s tough on hardware. If that plasma gun or those lasers break down at just the right moment, we might get lucky.”
“That’s one heck of a lot of maybes,” Farrell commented sourly.
Patrick nodded. “Which is why I have a second reason for seeing those interceptors fly.”
“Namely?” Martindale prompted.
“We’re still operating in the dark,” Patrick told him. “We need more information about how Mars One’s weapons work and how effective its sensors are. Anything we can do to collect that kind of intelligence is worth trying. The more we know, the more likely we are to find a weak spot — some chink in its defenses we can exploit with the weapons and other hardware Sky Masters has developed.”
He looked up at the president. “And you have my promise, sir. I will not rest until I find it.” A wry grin sleeted across his face as he tapped the LEAF exoskeleton that kept him alive. “Fortunately, wearing all this hardware means I don’t need quite as much sleep as the rest of you mere mortals.”
Farrell studied him quietly for several long seconds. There was no doubting the other man’s sincerity. “I appreciate your dedication, General McLanahan,” he said gently. “But don’t you think you should focus first on rescuing your son, if he’s still alive?”
To his surprise, Patrick shook his head. “I know that Brad’s fate is in good hands,” he said confidently. “I can count on Nadia doing whatever it takes to bring him home in one piece.”
“You trust her that much?” Farrell asked.
“I do.”
Soberly, Martindale nodded. “Major Rozek is something of a force of nature.” Then he warned, “But any plan she comes up with is likely to get a bit messy. If any Russians get in her way, a lot of them are going to end up dead.”
“I take your point,” Farrell said with a thin smile. His eyes were cold. “Frankly, Mr. Martindale, right now that possibility suits me just fine.”
Twenty-Seven
Conspicuously dry-eyed but nonetheless full of barely contained anger and apprehension, Nadia Rozek entered the secure conference room. She pulled the door firmly shut behind her. It locked with an audible click. The two men she’d chosen for her special-operations planning cell stood up to greet her.
She’d selected Peter “Constable” Vasey for his proven ability as a pilot and because of the experience he’d gained while flying secret Scion missions into hostile territory. Those were skill sets she knew would prove crucial to any rescue operation. The other man, Major Ian Schofield, was a veteran of Canada’s Special Operations Regiment. Until recently, he’d commanded the Iron Wolf Squadron’s deep penetration unit. Nadia and the lean, wiry Canadian had served together previously in two high-risk covert operations — the first to attack a fortified Russian cyberwar complex deep in the Ural Mountains, and the second, just last year, to hunt down and destroy Gryzlov’s war robots inside the United States itself. No one else knew more about how to survive and avoid capture behind enemy lines.
“Time is short. And we have much to do,” Nadia said matter-of-factly. “So let us get started.” She sat down at the table, opened her laptop, and synced it with the conference room’s computer. “We have been tasked with a mission which, though simple enough in concept, will be difficult to plan… and even more challenging to carry out successfully.”
“You have something of a gift for understatement, Major Rozek.” Schofield’s teeth gleamed white in a face tanned and weathered by years spent outdoors in harsh climates. He looked thoughtful. “All I’ve heard is that Captain McLanahan is missing somewhere inside Russian territory. Do we know any more than that?”
She nodded. “We do.” She brought up a map. “This is the most recent computer analysis of Brad’s reentry trajectory and probable landing zone.”
Schofield and Vasey both whistled softly. If Brad had made it down from orbit alive, he’d landed squarely in the middle of the Khabarovsk federal region — in Russia’s heavily defended far east. Northern Japan, the closest friendly territory, was more than five hundred miles away.
“Well, I suppose it could be worse,” Schofield said slowly, after a few moments of silent study.
Vasey snorted. “Meaning, he could have come down right in the middle of Moscow?”
The Canadian shook his head. “Not quite.” He nodded toward the map. “That part of the Khabarovsk region is lightly populated. Plus, the terrain there offers reasonable concealment, while still not being impassable for a man traveling on foot.”
“Good,” Nadia said firmly. “Anything that can help Brad evade capture while we organize a rescue operation is welcome news.”
Vasey frowned. “I hate like hell to be the ghost at the feast, Major,” he said gently. “But what actual evidence do we have that Brad even survived reentry? We both know the odds are not in his favor.”
“His emergency beacon activated,” she said forcefully. “And then it was switched off.”
“We don’t know if that was deliberate,” Vasey pointed out. “The beacon might simply have been critically damaged when it hit the ground.”
“Yes, that is possible,” Nadia agreed. Her expression hardened. “But it is equally possible that Brad realized the beacon could give away his position to the Russians… and switched it off himself. At the very least, this shows that his ERO shell did not burn up when it hit the atmosphere.”
Vasey’s light blue eyes were full of sympathy. “That’s rather a lot of ifs,” he said.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I know this all too well.” For an instant, the dark thoughts she’d suppressed threatened to break through into the open. No, she told herself fiercely, you will not give in to your fears. Weeping now would achieve nothing. She shrugged her shoulders. “We Poles have a saying, Constable. Tonący brzytwy się chwyta. The drowning man clutches at a razor blade. Until I know that Brad is gone, I will not abandon hope.”
“Then neither will I,” the Englishman assured her. “I’ve never especially enjoyed playing the devil’s advocate.” His eyes wrinkled. “On the other hand, raising hell is something I’m quite good at… and I rather suspect that’s an attribute that will prove useful if we have to fly in to snatch our fair-haired boy out of Gryzlov’s grip.”