A smile crossed Brad’s face. He was in touch with a covert Scion communications center back in the States. But that bit about calls being monitored was a warning that there was a chance, however slim, of Russian eavesdropping. He would need to use a simple voice code suited to the cover identity chosen by the Scion operative. Fortunately, memorizing different key phrases had been another part of his SERE training. “I have an order for takeout.”
In plain English, that was his request for an emergency extraction.
“Yes, sir,” the other man said calmly. “And will you be paying by cash, check, or credit card?”
“Credit card,” Brad told him. That was the code phrase for “the enemy appears unaware of my location.” Saying he would pay with cash would have signaled that the Russians were in hot pursuit, while a check would have told the Scion agent that he was being hunted, but that the enemy was not close.
For the next couple of minutes, he ran through a litany of voice codes that reported his physical status and current situation — all disguised as an ordinary order for a pizza with different toppings. It occurred to him that one of the unintended benefits of speaking in code was that it forced him to concentrate and stay calm… when all the while he really wanted to yell, “For Christ’s sake, hurry up and pull me out of here!”
When he finished, there was a brief pause. Then the Scion operative came back on the line. “I’ve placed your order, sir. It should be ready for pickup in thirty minutes, but you should call back just to be sure it’s ready.”
Brad nodded. “Got it.” His message had been passed up the chain of command and he should recontact this number in thirty minutes to receive further instructions.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” the agent on the other end asked.
“Er, no… no, thanks,” Brad said slowly. What he really wanted most of all was the chance to hear Nadia’s voice again. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a request covered in the covert communication codes he’d been taught.
“Then you have a nice night. And thank you for calling Smallville Pizza,” the other man said. With a click, the line went dead.
Feeling very subdued suddenly, Brad shut down the phone to conserve its limited battery power. Its tiny screen blinked off, leaving him in darkness again. Ironically, now that he’d regained contact with the outside world, he felt more alone than ever.
Twenty-Eight
Colonel Vadim Strelkov looked down at the Pacific Ocean as the station swung northeastward toward the coast of California. Masses of clouds, bright white in daylight, towered above the dark navy-blue waters of the deep sea. “Time to the first estimated American launch window?” he asked Konnikov.
“Two minutes, sir,” the younger man replied from his sensor console.
Strelkov tapped the intercom button. “All personnel. Stand by for possible attack. Close and seal your suits.” He closed his own helmet visor.
Readiness reports flowed smoothly from the rest of the crew. The lasers and Thunderbolt plasma rail gun were fully charged and ready to fire. The station’s own sensors and data links to other satellites and ground-based radars were operational.
“Sixty seconds,” Konnikov reported. A warning tone pulsed through their headsets. “We are being painted by an X-band radar. My computer evaluates it as an AN/TPY-2 phased-array system.”
Strelkov nodded. That was one of the bus-sized, long-range, very high-altitude surveillance radars the Americans used for a number of their missile and air defense systems, including the GMD interceptors based at Vandenberg Air Force Base. “Is that radar locked on to us?”
“Not reliably,” Konnikov answered. “Our stealth coating is absorbing most of its energy.” He glanced toward the colonel. “But they probably have enough tracking data to launch against us anyway.”
“Understood, Major.” By combining the bits and pieces of information gathered by their ground-based telescopes, radars, and geosynchronous SBIRS satellites, the Americans could certainly pin down their orbital track clearly enough to target Mars One. Briefly, he considered using the thrusters aboard the docked cargo spacecraft and orbiter to change their orbit slightly — in the hope of throwing off the enemy’s firing solution. Then he rejected the idea. Such an evasive maneuver would consume too much of their precious fuel reserves with too little guarantee of success.
“Fifteen seconds.”
Strelkov gripped the edges of his console. Yes, they had simulated this exact scenario dozens of times during training. But all those successes in computer-generated war games seemed less impressive when confronted by a real attack.
“Launch detection by EKS missile warning satellite!” Konnikov rapped out. “A missile has been fired from the silos at Vandenberg. Mars One is confirmed as the target.” He leaned over his console. “Second launch detection! Same source. Same target.”
“Time to impact for the first American interceptor?”
“Fifty seconds.”
Strelkov spoke to Filatyev. “Engage those enemy missiles when ready, Viktor.”
From his station, the burly major acknowledged with a terse, “Yes, sir.”
Konnikov spoke up. “EKS data handoff to our X-band radar is complete. Time to impact for the first American missile is now thirty-five seconds. First-stage separation observed. Transferring data to Thunderbolt’s fire-control computer.”
“Data received,” Filatyev confirmed. A second later, he said, “I have a firing solution. Firing now.”
Mars One vibrated as the plasma rail gun pulsed.
“Good hit!” Konnikov reported excitedly. His radar display showed the image of the inbound American interceptor blossom into a cloud of separate fragments and veer off course. He shifted his attention to the second enemy missile still climbing toward them. Like its counterpart, it had already separated from its first stage and must be nearly ready to shed its second — which would leave only its payload, the much smaller EKV, or exoatmospheric kill vehicle, speeding aloft to home in on and strike the station. “Time to impact for the second interceptor is twenty-eight seconds.”
“Firing Thunderbolt,” Filatyev said.
Again, Mars One shuddered. And again, the plasma toroid fired by the rail gun slammed home. While it was still more than three hundred kilometers from the Russian space station, the second American missile swerved aside… shedding pieces of itself as it fell back toward Earth.
“Excellent shooting, Viktor!” Strelkov said with open delight. He let go of his console and drifted slightly into the middle of the compartment. He rotated to face Konnikov. “How long before we’re in range of the interceptors based at Fort Drum, Georgy?”
“Just under eight minutes, Colonel.”
Strelkov swiveled back to the intercom and spoke to Pyotr Romanenko. “What is the status of Thunderbolt’s supercapacitors, Major?”
“They are recharging now,” the engineering officer replied. “We should be able to fire two more shots in less than six minutes.”
Strelkov allowed himself to relax. With the plasma rail gun operational, they were essentially safe from anything the Americans could throw at them. True, he thought, a sequenced attack like this would be more difficult to defeat if it were carried out while Mars One was in the earth’s shadow. In those circumstances, using Thunderbolt to destroy a first wave of American missiles would drain their supercapacitors — leaving only their much-shorter-range Hobnail lasers to handle a second wave. Given the high closure rates in this kind of orbital engagement, Leonid Revin’s lasers would have just seven seconds to hit and destroy the incoming interceptors. That was still feasible, but there was no denying that the odds that the Americans might score a crippling hit would increase dramatically.