THERE WAS ONLY ONE REASON FOR
THE GUNS TO BE FIRING BLANKS

The teams had to be held in place and kept busy while the Farm traced the signal from the vidcam. Correction—while the Skywalkers traced the signal from the Farm!

Instantly Schwarz whipped out a jamming device to block unfriendly transmissions, but Lyons took more direct action by firing his Colt Python from the hip, the heavy Magnum round shattering the vidcam into a million pieces.

“Rock House, this is the Senator,” Blancanales said urgently into his throat mike. “Abort the trace! Suspects were waiting for us to signal you! Repeat, we’ve been tricked! The X-ships are on the way! Do you copy?”

The only response was the dead crackle of background static.

Dark Star
DON PENDLETON’S
Stony Man®

AMERICA’S ULTRA-COVERT INTELLIGENCE AGENCY

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Nick Pollotta for his contribution to this work.

DARK STAR

For Sgt. Jason “Scramble” Campbell, U.S. Marine

Corps, 2nd Battalion.

Nice to have you back, buddy.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Compose Island, Brazil

Partially hidden by rising clouds of steam, the huge space shuttle dominated the vast empty expanse of the launch pad. Surrounding the colossal concrete apron was a lush tropical jungle full of wild birds, small monkeys, trip wires, video cameras, proximity sensors and land mines.

“T-minus fifty minutes and counting,” an amplified voice announced over the public-address speakers, the words echoing across the island and startling the flocks of colorful parrots in the nearby coconut trees. For a single moment it almost seemed like a rainbow exploded into existence, then the birds separated, each taking off in a new direction, and it was gone.

Standing alongside the colossal spacecraft, the gantry tower was alive with dozens of scientists, technicians, mechanics and astronauts carefully preparing the billion-dollar vehicle for its maiden flight. In only a little while, a new era would begin for Brazilian space travel.

A large crowd of excited people clustered in front of the Vehicle Assembly Building, watched the complex preparations from behind a line of safety barriers. The cream of Brazilian society was in attendance: politicians, billionaires, scholars, famous athletes and movie stars, along with a small army of new reporters, their digital cameras flashing almost nonstop. This was a very special day for the nation, and everybody wanted to be here for the event.

“T-minus thirty minutes and counting,” the voice loudly announced once more as the technicians on the gantry started disconnecting myriad cables and hoses attached to the shuttle as a prelude to the launch.

More than simply a new class of space vehicle, the monstrously huge Skywalker would be the world’s first armored shuttle, fully capable of being armed to defend Brazilian interests in space or to remove enemy military satellites. The brewing war with Colombia over dwindling natural resources was becoming inevitable, and the Ministry of Defense always took the long view and planned for the future. When the hammer fell, Brazil would be ready to defend itself against any possible invader.

Fully aware that the combination of the Skywalker and the crowd of high-profile notables was a tempting political target for any terrorist group, the Ministry of Defense was taking no chances today and security was tight. Discreetly armed members of the S2 secret police moved through the excited throng, watching intently for anything suspicious. A full battalion of soldiers was situated in the jungle, and floating serenely off the nearby coast was the massive São Paulo, the flight deck of the aircraft carrier full of SuperPuma gunships, and the new AMZ fighter-bombers, their sleek wings bristling with weaponry.

“T-minus ten minutes and counting,” the calm voice announced. “Will all nonessential personnel please leave the launch pad immediately. Repeat, all nonessential personnel leave the launch area…. Alert! Red alert! We have incoming!”

The crowd looked at the sky to see something bright streak by overhead, moving faster than they could track. Was it a meteor? A missile? A split second later they had their answer as the truncated cone came to a dead halt in the air above the throng of dignitaries and a hurricane wind brutally slammed them to the ground.

Suddenly a wave of heat engulfed the spectators, followed closely by a thundering volcano of fire, the roiling blast tearing the horrified people apart, arms and legs sailing away like burning autumn leaves. Heads rolled across the cracking concrete and bodies were hammered flat, only to be reduced to ash in mere seconds.

Shocked motionless for a moment, the news reporters on the roof of the Main Assembly Building lurched into action and swung their cameras around to record the ghastly slaughter. But they caught only a brief glimpse of a strange machine hovering above the ocean of fire before the hellish wave of smoke and flame erupted over the edge of the building. Helplessly, the reporters and their equipment were slammed across the roof to tumble off the other side, falling fifteen stories to the hard concrete below.

A low moan sounded just then, rapidly increasing into a strident howl as warning sirens cut loose, the noise nearly rivaling in stentorian exhaust the cone-shaped machine in sheer mind-numbing volume. Bursting out of other buildings across the base, Brazilian security guards stared in horror for only a heartbeat, then pulled their 9 mm automatic pistols and began shooting at the impossible invader. But if the steel-jacketed rounds even reached the machine there was no way of knowing.

Moving sideways, the ten-story-tall cone floated across the parking lot, its exhaust igniting rows of cars, the gas tanks promptly detonating into a staggered series of fireballs. Black smoke rose in dense plumes as hundreds of soldiers burst out of the jungle to start shooting their assault rifles at the intruder. The hail of 5.56 mm rounds throwing off sprays of bright sparks as they ricocheted harmlessly off the armored side of the sleek cone.

A kilometer offshore, an AMZ fighter-bomber suddenly launched from the deck of the São Paulo, as a full wing of SuperPuma gunships lifted into the air and assumed a combat formation.

Inside a radar installation, the Brazilian soldiers frantically tried to operate their consoles and get a lock for the SAM bunkers hidden in the distant hills. However, the softly glowing screen only registered the AMZ fighters and SuperPumas, but nothing else. As far as radar was concerned, the sky was clear.

“By the blood of Christ, how is this possible?” a civilian technician cursed, thumping the console with a clenched fist.

“Who cares?” a gruff sergeant growled, crossing the room to yank open a metal locker. Inside the cabinet were neat rows of Imbel assault rifles, stacks of ammunition clips, rows of 30 mm rounds, and one large, bulky fiberglass tube.

Yanking out the Carl Gustaf rocket launcher, the sergeant checked the batteries, zeroed the aft port, then started to rummage for 83 mm shells. Damn it, there only seemed to be armor-piercing rounds designed to take out an APC or hovercraft. But there had to be at least one. Please, Lord, just one, single… yes! Sliding the antipersonnel round into the gaping maw of the huge weapon, the sergeant closed it tight, flicked off the safety and grimly strode for the door. A corporal and the civilian tech were already there, working the arming bolts of their assault rifles and thumbing in fat 30 mm rounds.

“Ready!” the sergeant announced, leveling the weapon.

But as the others threw open the door, hell itself exploded into the room, slamming the weapons from their hands and the very flesh from their blackening bones. The delicate equipment short-circuited in a wild display of electric sparks as windows blew out in a glittering rain of glass, then the roof flipped off as the concrete floor cracked, exposing the black box recorder. The resilient device briefly resisted the monstrous onslaught, then it was gone, reduced to red-hot slag and glowing vapors.

Just then there was an unexpected creaking noise as the maze of steel struts supporting the radar array above the installation began to soften and the huge confinement globe started to tilt. Instantly the cone streaked into the sky just in time to avoid being hit by the collapsing tons of advanced electronics.

By now the entire launch facility was in chaos, the soldiers and guards still firing at the bizarre flying machine to no avail whatsoever as hundreds of terrified people ran about screaming. The Main Assembly Building was on fire, and burning cars continued to explode as a spreading cloud of smoke began to completely swamp the base.

Moving above the death and destruction, the cone headed directly toward the Skywalker.

Streaking across the sky, the first AMZ fighter banked sharply toward the aerial machine and promptly unleashed a pair of Sidewinder missiles. Incredibly, the deadly heat-seekers streaked past the cone as if it didn’t exist and disappeared into the distance.

Cursing vehemently, the pilot began to turn for another try. How was this possible? The damn thing was sitting on a column of flame! he thought. There were no markings on the machine, whatever it was, to announce the country of origin, but clearly it had to be from one of the superpowers.

Suddenly a warning light flashed and the pilot of the AMZ fighter banked sharply to get out of the way of the incoming delta of SuperPumas.

Reaching the Skywalker, the cone washed its exhaust across the gantry, sending swarms of burning people flying into the jungle. As the gunships began to fire their 20 mm cannons, the fuel lines attached to the shuttle snapped and out gushed torrents of liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen. The semifrozen elements instantly combined and ignited. Looking horribly similar to fuses, the burning fuel lines raced up the side of the huge shuttle, then disappeared inside the armored hull. For a long second, it seemed as if nothing would happen.

Then the shuttle bulged slightly just before violently exploding, the blinding detonation spreading across the entire base like the wrath of a prehistoric god. Caught in the titanic shock wave, the gunships and jet fighters were smashed to pieces, the grisly remnants sent tumbling away to splash harmlessly into the gentle waves cresting on the white sandy beach.

As the lambent corona finally faded away, there was no sign of the cone. But standing on the bridge of the aircraft carrier, the captain of the São Paulo felt deep in his guts that the enemy machine had not been caught in the massive explosion. Although, how anything could have escaped the gargantuan blast seemed absolutely impossible.

As a second wing of SuperPumas rose from the flight deck to head for Compose Island to start emergency rescue operations, there came a low rumble of something breaking the sound barrier. But the soft noise was lost in the combined roar of the gunship’s engines and the horrible crackling of the spreading inferno that completely engulfed the ruined launch facility.

CHAPTER ONE

Washington, D.C.

Passing through the sturdy concrete barrier that encircled the military airfield, three identical limousines rolled across the smooth asphalt and onto the airfield. Separating, each of the armored vehicles rolled toward a different waiting 747 jumbo jet, the huge planes parked on converging runways.

Covering hundreds of acres, Andrews Air Force Base was located close to the capital and was charged with the primary defense of the city. Dozens of Apache and Cobra gunships were parked in orderly rows, ready to launch in a moment’s notice. More than a dozen hangars edged the field, the sliding doors pulled aside to reveal ranks of jet fighters and interceptors: F-15 Eagles, F-16 Tomcats, F-18 SuperHornets and even a handful of the brand-new F-22 Raptors.

Riding in the back of the second limo, Hal Brognola snorted at the massive display of firepower and wondered what type of disaster had recently occurred in the world that required his immediate presence. The big Fed had been on a rare fishing trip with his family in upstate New York, but when the President of the United States called he had rushed down here immediately, barely stopping long enough to change out of his old denims into a business suit. As the head of the Sensitive Operations Group, Hal Brognola was only contacted by the Man after the blood had already hit the fan.

As the limo braked to a halt at the foot of an air stairs, the man from Justice waited as a Marine in full dress uniform opened the door and moved aside. Stepping onto the tarmac, Brognola noticed two other men dressed in business attire getting out of the other limousines.

Most impressive, Brognola noted professionally. Things must really be bad for the Secret Service to make such complex security arrangements to mask which jetliner I’m boarding. The man was under no delusion that the precautions were for his benefit, but for the august passenger on the waiting 747, better known to the world as Air Force One.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the Marine said, checking a photograph attached to a clipboard. “Password, please.”

The honor guard made the request in a friendly tone, but Brognola knew the man’s response would be lightning fast and decidedly lethal if the wrong response was given. “Agamemnon,” Brognola muttered, for some reason suddenly feeling the urge for a cigar, even though he had given them up years ago.

Nodding, the Marine looked at him much closer now. “Wife’s maiden name?”

Puzzled, Brognola tilted his head slightly, only to notice the other men dressed like him at the other planes doing exactly the same thing. Damn, they could even copy his body language? Damn, the Secret Service was good.

“The name, sir?” the Marine repeated in a more insistent tone.

Brognola provided the required information, now very eager to get out of the open and inside the waiting 747. The sky was a clear blue, with scarcely a cloud in sight, yet he felt oddly vulnerable.

Easing his stance slightly, the big Marine motioned toward the air stairs. “Right this way, sir.”

Nodding, the big Fed quickly walked up the portable staircase, his sharp eyes checking in every direction. There were snipers lying on the rooftops of the terminal buildings, and several Harrier Jumpjets parked on the grassy strips between the runways, the air in front of them blurry from the heat of the idling turbo engines. What in hell had happened that he didn’t know about yet? There had been nothing on the news. But these were the sorts of safeguards normally reserved for a shooting war, not a tense peacetime.

As he reached the top of the stairs, a pretty female Secret Service agent checked his ID again, and Brognola gave the proper answers to her questions as a full delta formation of F-15E Strike Eagles streaked noisily by overhead, the deadly fighters leaving misty contrails behind from the sheer speed of their passage. There seemed to be a lot of contrails up there, crisscrossing in every direction, enough to almost make a smoke screen above the busy military base, which was probably the general idea. Entering the cool interior of the 747, Brognola forced himself to stop making wild guesses. Soon enough he would know the truth.

“Welcome aboard Air Force One,” a smiling flight attendant said politely, an Uzi machine gun hanging at her side. “If you’ll just hold for a second, sir…”

Standing still, Brognola waited while another Marine used a handheld EM scanner to check him for weapons and explosives. Nobody got close to the President without being scanned, and then scanned again. As part of his job, the big Fed usually carried a 9 mm Glock pistol in a shoulder holster, but that had been left behind in the limo. Over the years, he had created a lot of enemies, but most of them were buried six feet under the ground. However, no visitors got this close to the President caring anything that could be used as a weapon. End of discussion.

“Clear,” the Marine announced crisply, tucking away the device.

“Welcome to Air Force One,” the flight attendant said, smiling briefly. “If you’ll please follow me…” Without waiting for a response, the woman turned to briskly walk down the main aisle of the jet toward the passenger section.

As the Marine closed and locked the hatch, Brognola proceeded down the main aisle of the jetliner, as always marveling that the rich carpeting and polished mahogany panels of the sumptuous interior masked enough state-of-the-art military armor for the plane to be driven through a brick wall.

Catching a movement outside the window, he saw one of the other 747 jumbo jets taxi into position for an immediate take-off. But that was to be expected. The President always traveled in a three-on-three defensive formation, whether it was a 747 or a limousine. Any potential assassins would not know exactly which vehicle he was traveling in.

Passing the stairs to the second level, Brognola reached the passenger section and noted the unusual assortment of people sitting in the comfortable seats. Normally the craft carried a host of government aides, cabinet members, news reporters, along with the occasional member of Congress or the Senate. But this day there seemed to be only grim Secret Service agents, several key members of the Joint Chiefs and a score of Air Force Rangers openly carrying M-17 assault rifles and wearing full body armor.

“Please have a seat, sir,” the flight attendant said, a touch of urgency in her voice. “We’ll be taking off in just a moment.”

Knowing it would be useless to ask about their destination, Brognola took the only empty seat in sight. He barely had time to buckle the seat belt when there came a low rumble of controlled power and the 747 started moving forward, the pressure increasing on him as the front of the jet lifted and he felt the telltale tingling sensation in his gut that meant they had just left the ground. Wow, that was fast. Things had to be a lot worse than he had imagined if the pilot pulled a stunt like that with Eagle One on board. It was almost as if the pilot was taking off under combat conditions and trying to avoid enemy fire.

The angle of assent, maintained for a lot longer than Brognola would have thought necessary, finally leveled out and the rumble of the massive engines faded to a subdued murmur as the colossal plane reached cruising altitude. A light above his seat flashed that it was safe to remove his seat belt. The flight attendant returned.

“Please follow me, sir,” the woman said with a smile.

Brognola stood and followed her to the rear of the aircraft.

Walking up to a plain door, the woman tapped a code into a keypad set into the burnished steel frame, then pressed her hand against a glowing plate. There was an answering beep, a light above the door turned green and the flight attendant stepped aside as electromagnetic bolts disengaged and the door slid into the wall with a hydraulic sigh.

“Good to see you, Hal,” the President said from behind a large wooden desk in the corner of the room. “Glad you could make it on such short notice.”

“No problem, sir,” Brognola replied, stepping into the office. “The fish weren’t biting worth a damn.” Softly, the door closed behind him and resoundingly locked into place.

“Fishing…” the President said with a wan smile. “I haven’t done that in ages. You’re probably using the wrong type of bait again, my friend. Can’t catch catfish with a pop fly, you know.”

“As you’ve mentioned once or twice before.” Brognola grinned as he took a seat.

“I’ll get you to switch from lures to flies yet.”

There was a soft beep from the door. The President pressed a button on the intercom set into his desk and the door opened again, admitting a steward pushing a wheeled cart holding a steaming coffee urn, stacks of cups and saucers and several serving trays piled high with an assortment of sandwiches. Both men nodded politely to the steward as he departed, then completely ignored the food.

“All right, what’s so important that we couldn’t talk at the White House?” Brognola asked, crossing his legs at the knee. “Has there been an assassination attempt?” He paused in consternation.

“Nothing that simple, I’m afraid,” the Man said with a grimace. “And I will not be returning to Washington until further notice. My double is sitting in the Oval office while I stay at Cheyenne Mountain. The Veep is heading for Camp David.”

That was unsettling news.

“Okay, what happened?” the big Fed demanded bluntly. “Are we at war with somebody?”

“You tell me,” the President replied, pressing a button on the intercom.

Silently an oil painting of President John Adams rotated on the wall to display a plasma-screen monitor. There was a brief strobing effect as the room dimmed, and Brognola found himself looking at the smoke-covered remains of Cape Canaveral in Florida. The Vehicle Assembly Building was on fire, the flames licking skyward for hundreds of feet, the blaze occasionally punctuated by a powerful explosion. Several fire trucks were positioned around the blaze and countless firefighters hosed the structure with steady streams of water and foam.

In the foreground of the screen lay a smashed crawler-transporter. The colossal machine was designed to ferry a space shuttle from the assembly building to the launch pad so that the technicians could work on the vehicle and save days of time for a fast turnaround. With a top speed of one foot per hour, the crawler-transporter couldn’t catch a snail, but it was tough enough to roll over an Abrams battle tank without ever noticing. But now the monstrous crawler was deeply bowed in the middle and covered with glowing rivulets of molten metal only partially congealed. The engines were blackened ruins, the armored treads lay broken and randomly scattered. A gigantic pool of hydraulic fluid and diesel fuel covered the ground several feet deep.

Even worse, lying across the top of the crawler-transporter was something that only vaguely resembled a space shuttle. A dozen burned skeletons were sprawled around the crushed wreckage, almost every ceramic heat tile gone or dangling loosely from the warped and badly dented hull. The cockpit was open to the sky, the cargo hatches crumpled like old newspaper. The rear engines were jagged pieces of twisted metal and tubing.

“Son of a bitch,” Brognola muttered, leaning closer.

“Wait, there’s more.” The President sighed.

Slowly the camera panned to the right showing the toppled remnants of two gantry towers, extended over the lip of a huge crater large enough to swallow the crawler-transporter intact. The interior of the depression was filled with a dense gray cloud, tarnished steel rods rising out of the swirling fumes like the desperately reaching fingers of a dying man.

“That was the fuel depot,” the President said in a monotone.

With his heart pounding, Brognola gave no reply, studying the scene of destruction closely as the camera took almost a minute to get past the smoking blast crater to finally focus on a relatively undamaged section of the launch facility. Spread out in neat rows were dozens of black plastic body bags, armed soldiers standing guard while medics ferried the still forms into waiting ambulances. Far in the distance, several Navy warships could be seen along the coastline, while swarms of Apache and SuperCobra gunships hovered overhead.

The room seemed to grow still as Brognola said nothing for a few seconds; there was only the muted hush of the jet engines.

“How many people did we lose?” the big Fed asked, controlling his seething emotions. Normally the Cape was as clean as an operating room, washed and scrubbed almost daily. Now it looked like the bombed-out sections of Beirut.

“Eighty-six are confirmed dead,” the President reported. “With another hundred missing, including a lot of tourists.”

Inhaling deeply, Brognola turned away from the grisly vista of destruction and sat back in his chair. For a long moment he said nothing, lost in dark contemplation.

“Any idea who did it?” he asked.

“None.”

“Damn. And we’re sure this was not a nuke?”

“Absolutely positive,” the President replied, scowling down at the closed report. “Both NASA and the DOD checked for residual radiation, and NSA Keyhole satellites registered nothing out of the usual on the magnetic spectrum.”

“All right, if they weren’t hit by a nuke, then what happened?”

“We’re not exactly sure,” the President replied, tapping a few buttons on his desk. “But the NSA was able to retrieve this image from the cell phone of a Mr. Thomas Hutchings who was fishing about a mile off Cocoa Beach.”

The monitor flickered, then abruptly changed into a jumpy view of the bow of a fishing boat, and a white line stretching down into the water.

Just then something fiery shot down from the sky like a film of a missile launch played in reverse. Smoke exploded from the Cape, then a series of bright explosions, closely followed by a blinding light flash that extended outward. The corona was dotted with bodies and tumbling cars, and pushed back the choppy waves to create a tidal wave that slammed into the fishing boat and sent it flying. The cell phone was dropped to the deck with a clatter and there were only chaotic images for a few seconds, mixed with the sound of splintering wood before the screen went blank.

“Hell of an explosion,” Brognola said in an ordinary voice.

“A hell of an explosion,” the President agreed.

“How long did the attack take?”

“Three minutes, fourteen seconds.”

“To destroy the whole damn Cape?”

“And escape,” the Man said.

Unbelievable.

“Was radar able to track the trajectory of the…whatever it was, coming or going? That could tell us a lot about it’s origin,” Brognola stated.

“No.”

Frowning, the big Fed started to speak, but the one-word answer spoke volumes. This was just incredible, but horribly true. The entire facility had been destroyed, annihilated was a better word, in only a few minutes by something that moved faster than a missile, dropped straight down from the sky, was radar invisible and killed with fire from the underneath.

“Show it to me again,” Brognola ordered brusquely. “Slower this time, with maximum magnification focused on the flying object.”

The President hit another button on the small console and the monitor came to life once more, the nightmare scene advancing in a series of freeze-frame shots every few seconds.

“Hold it right there,” Brognola said as something moved horizontally across the base.

The picture went motionless, and he stared hard at an object momentarily silhouetted by a rising cloud of white smoke. It looked like a cone of some sort. A cone riding a column of fire…

“So it has finally been done,” the big Fed said with a sigh, rubbing his forehead. “Somebody solved the power problem and built an SSO.”

“Unfortunately that is also the opinion of the Department of Defense,” the President said, turning off the monitor. “As well as myself, which is why I immediately called you.”

A working SSO, a single-stage-to-orbit rocket. Brognola tried not to shudder. Several years ago he had been present at the maiden flight of the Delta Clipper, the first test model of an SSO ever built. If successful, it could have been the first true spaceship in human history, a rocket that launched straight up, standing on its own legs, and landed doing the same thing. Just like in the comic books. A genuine rocket ship. Unfortunately the Delta Clipper failed. The vehicle had gained barely a hundred feet of height when it had a massive short circuit in the controls and developed a fuel leak that almost killed the crew. Also, the engines had been pitifully weak, barely able to lift the tiny, thirty-foot-tall X-ship. The test flight was considered a total failure, and the project canceled. It was the considered opinion of everybody involved that the present state of modern technology was simply insufficient to build such an incredible complex piece of machinery.

Which was actually for the best, Brognola noted grimly. A working SSO, or X-ship as it had been nicknamed, would have been a security nightmare of gigantic proportions. Able to launch from a driveway and to land on top of an apartment building halfway around the world, a successful X-ship could have heralded a tidal wave of smuggling that would have engulfed the entire world. It would rise straight up into space, then drop back down again in a steep curve, using the natural rotation of Earth to cover thousands of miles in only a few minutes. Overnight, border guards, harbor patrols, custom inspectors and airport security would have become obsolete. Weapons, drugs—anything—could almost literally be delivered to the front door of the customer. Terrorists would have been able to land right on top of their targets—buildings, bridges, schools—and use the fiery exhaust of the X-ship to do more damage than most conventional explosives. Why carry a bomb when the thundering exhaust of the rocket engines was even more powerful? Unless they got hold of a nuke. A working X-ship armed with a tactical nuclear weapon could destroy any place on Earth, and nobody would be able to stop it. The fantastic speeds involved and the vertical trajectory would make all conventional air defense systems virtually useless.

All that was needed was for some lunatic to also make the things invisible to radar, like a stealth bomber, and you’d have the end of the world, Brognola thought.

Only now it seemed that somebody had solved those technical problems and had just gotten in the first strike.

“Okay, we’re facing an X-ship,” Brognola said, cracking his knuckles thoughtfully as he digested the impossible information. “Any chance the lab boys at the Pentagon were able to get an estimate of the size of the SSO from the cell phone video?”

Reaching for a coffee urn, the President poured himself a cup, took a sip, then placed it aside. “Yes, roughly 120 feet tall.”

About the size of a ten-story building, Brognola mused. No way that monster was going to be hidden in a garage or car port. Okay, one small point in our favor. It’s invisible, but huge. That sounded like a contradiction of terms, but sadly was not.

“Have there been any other attacks?”

“Hal, every other major launch facility in the world has been hit. Edwards Air Force Base, Houston, Compose Island in Brazil, Woomera Base in Australia, French Guyana, Rocket City in Russia, Tanegashima Island in Japan, Sriharikota Island in India…every launch facility capable of putting a shuttle into space has been flattened. Utterly smashed. The death toll for all of the bases combined is monstrous.”

“This is why we’re meeting here,” Brognola said suddenly, tapping the arm of the chair. “A moving target will be harder for them to hit.”

“Exactly.” The President paused, then added, “Plus each of the three planes have another jumbo jet riding above it as a physical shield.”

Damn, that was smart. Once more his admiration for the sheer guts of the U.S. Secret Service was raised. The President would have to stay on the move from now on, never stopping for anything, refueling in midair, until this crisis was resolved.

If it could be resolved. Annoyed at himself, Brognola shook the negative thoughts from his mind. “Mr. President, is there any chance that we know the sequence of the strikes?” he asked hopefully, concentrating on the task at hand.

“Now, I just know where you’re going with that question,” the Man said, giving a half smile. “And the answer is yes. Compose Island, Rocket City and Cape Canaveral were all hit at the exact same moment, so we’re facing at least three X-ships, with possibly more of them being held in reserve.

“Currently, the Army Corps of Engineers is working on emergency repairs of the facilities,” the President continued, “but it will take several weeks before we’re able to put anything into space again. Maybe a month.”

“A month we don’t have.” Brognola leaned back in the chair. Christ, in a week these things could smash civilization apart. “And I’ll assume that I’ve heard nothing of this on the radio, cable TV or the Internet because the nations involved are trying to keep a tight lid on the matter and prevent a panic.”

“Exactly. No police force in the world could control the rioting if the news of the X-ships was released. This matter must be handled covertly, as quietly as possible.”

“Agreed, sir. Secrecy is mandatory. Too bad nobody was able to shoot one down. We could have learned a lot from the wreckage.”

“Hal, everybody shot at them,” the President said surprisingly. “But bullets did nothing and heat-seekers went straight past the X-ships without even slowing.”

“But they ride a column of fire larger than the Statue of Liberty! How is that possible?”

“Unknown, and part of your assignment,” the President said. Just then, a light flashed on his intercom and the man stabbed it with a stiff finger to turn off the distraction. If it was anything of importance, his secretary would come into the office. “At the moment, Homeland Security is working with the Pentagon to try to come up with some sort of defense, a way to beat the radar shield of the X-ships. From the sheer volume of their engine exhaust, these things must be flying fuel tanks, so a single missile should blow them to hell.”

“But a missile can’t destroy what can’t be seen,” Brognola finished. The combination of stealth technology and the vertical flight path of the X-ships made them virtually unstoppable.

“The FBI is checking into the major corporations still interested in trying to build an SSO—Armadillo Aerospace in Texas, Blue Horizons in California, and the like,” the President went on, templing his fingers. “The CIA is doing the same thing overseas, with Army Intelligence investigating our known enemies in Europe, Navy Intelligence doing the Middle East and Africa, with Air Force Intelligence concentrating on South America.” He paused. “Especially Brazil.”

“Understood,” Brognola declared. “Just because they were the first place hit, that doesn’t mean they’re not actually behind everything and just trying to throw off suspicion.”

“Precisely.” The President frowned. “Now, what I want from Stony Man is for your people to hit the underground, the crime cartels, drug lords and arms dealers.”

“Understood, sir. Somebody paid a fortune to build these things, and it will cost even more to maintain them.”

“Precisely,” the President said, sliding over the sealed manila envelope. “Here is all of the data that we have, copies of the cell phone video, security logs and such, along with all of the information on the Delta Clipper experiments.”

Accepting the envelope, Brognola noted the security seals were still in place. If it had been opened, the white band along the top would have turned red in only a few seconds.

Damn, it was slim , he thought.

“Yes, I know.” The President sighed unhappily. “That’s not much to go on, but…”

“It’ll be enough,” the big Fed stated confidently, rising to his feet once more. “And if not, we’ll get the rest from these murdering bastards just before we shovel them into the dirt.”

“Move fast on this, Hal,” the President said earnestly. “The only possible reason that these X-ships ran a sneak attack on every launch facility was that they don’t want us putting anything into space that might challenge them. Because if they manage to hold the high ground…”

“We lose,” Brognola said bluntly, feeling a surge of cold adrenaline in his gut. “Plain and simple. We lose the whole goddamn world.”

Lifting the telephone receiver, the President waited for only a moment before speaking. “Captain, please head for Dulles airport at once. And I want an immediate take-off as soon as our passenger has disembarked…no, we’ll refuel in the air over Pennsylvania…yes, thank you.” He set down the receiver. “Twenty minutes, Hal.”

Brognola grunted and tucked the folder inside his jacket. Unbidden, the earlier scenes on the wall monitor playing over and over in his mind. It seemed that World War III had started, and the good guys had lost the first battle.

Now everything depended on Stony Man.

CHAPTER TWO

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

In a rush of warm air, the Black Hawk helicopter set down on Stony Man Farm’s helipad. The side hatch was thrown aside and Hal Brognola stepped out clutching a slim manila envelope.

Waiving away the driver of the SUV who would have taken him to the farm house, the big Fed decided to walk the short distance.

By the time he reached the building the door was open and Barbara Price, mission controller, stood on the threshold.

“Here, you better see this,” Brognola said, thrusting the envelope forward.

“Already have,” Price said, pushing it back. “Aaron and his people are hard at work doing an analysis, and I’ve recalled both teams from their current assignments.”

“Excellent,” Brognola said, tucking the envelope away once more. He was not really surprised that the woman was already familiar with the report. Before being recruited into Stony Man, Barbara Price had been a top operative for the NSA. The woman led him into the farm house.

“Are those infrared cameras?” Hal asked as they walked across the spacious room.

Price nodded in acknowledgment. “I don’t know if it will give us a warning in enough time to respond, but it’s the best we could come up with in an hour.”

Reaching the elevator bank, Brognola pressed the call button. “Not bad, but just in case…” The doors opened and they stepped inside.

“I already have several auxiliary video cameras in the barn set to only see in the ultraviolet spectrum,” Price told him as the doors silently closed. “Once again, I have no idea if it will help, but…” She shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“Well, if it works, we can relay the information to all of our military installations, as well as every friendly nation,” Brognola replied as the car began to descend. “Unfortunately, any civilian targets these bastards hit won’t have that sort of equipment.”

“Yes, I know,” Price stated. “But Aaron has his people working on a few ideas about that.”

“Good to know. The one thing we don’t have is a lot of time.”

The elevator reached the bottom of the shaft and the doors opened with a musical chime. As they exited into a long corridor, Brognola noted the extra blacksuits standing guard. “Expecting trouble?” he asked pointedly.

“Always,” she replied grimly.

As the pair passed a staff room, Brognola could see that it was empty, the break table covered with half-filled cups of steaming coffee, along with partially eaten doughnuts and sandwiches. Mounted in the corner of the ceiling was a flat-screen monitor showing a local news anchor talking excitedly into a microphone and standing in front of a smoky view of Cape Canaveral.

“Damn, the news media has the story,” Brognola muttered irritably. “But I guess we couldn’t kept it from them for very long.”

“I did my best,” Price said, not glancing that way. “At least I have most of the news channels convinced it was merely a fuel leak explosion and not a terrorist attack.”

“How did you manage that?”

“Had the NASA spokesperson deny it vigorously…before they could ask.”

In spite of the situation, the big Fed almost grinned. “Yep, that would do it, all right.”

She shrugged again. “It usually does.”

Reaching the far end of the corridor, they hurried to one of the electric cars that would take them along the underground passageway that led to the Annex building. Moments later, after passing through security, Price and Brognola headed to the Computer Room.

A hushed excitement filled the large room with palpable force. A soft breeze murmured from the wall vents, the pungent smell of strong coffee came from a small kitchenette, and the soft sound of muted rock music floated on the air. Hunched over elaborate workstations, four people were typing madly on keyboards.

“Damn it, there are too many of them!” Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman growled, callused hands pushing his wheelchair a little closer to the wall monitor.

“And this isn’t even half of them,” Carmen Delahunt said, her face hidden behind a VR helmet as her gloved hands fondled the empty air opening computer files on the other side of the world.

“Explain,” Kurtzman demanded, turning the heavy chair in her direction.

“A lot of these companies don’t have computerized files for me to hack,” Delahunt replied. “Some are actually using handwritten ledgers, for God’s sake! There is no way that I can ever track down all of the shipments.”

“Shipments of what?” Price demanded as she advanced closer.

“Air,” Kurtzman said, briefly glancing at her, then turning to wheel back to his workstation. His desk was a mess, covered with papers, CDs, hastily scribbled notes and several books on military history with handwritten corrections in the margins. A steaming mug of coffee stood next to his keyboard.

“Air?” Brognola demanded, crossing his arms.

“Liquid air, actually,” Kurtzman explained, locking the wheels into place. “We did a spectral analysis of the MPEG from the cell phone and found out the X-ship was using conventional rocket fuel.”

“LOX-LOH?” Price demanded skeptically. “But that’s impossible! The combination doesn’t give enough energy to power an SSO!”

“Which means they have some way to boost the reaction, but there’s no denying the facts,” Kurtzman retorted gruffly, tapping a few buttons. “See for yourself.”

With a flicker the main wall screen revealed a wind rainbow with a few interspersed black bars.

“See those color absorption lines?” the cyber wizard said pointing a thick finger at the black bars. “That’s oxygen and hydrogen, no doubt about it.”

“Can they be tricking the sensors somehow?” Brognola asked hesitantly.

Reaching for the mug of coffee, Kurtzman paused to arch an eyebrow. “Trick the visible spectrum?” he asked, sounding incredulous. “No, Hal, the things are using LOX-LOH as fuel. That’s a fact. How they get those reaction pressures is beyond me, though. Hunt is working on a few ideas, but has nothing yet.”

Hearing his name, Professor Hunting Wethers looked up from his workstation for a moment, then returned to the complex mathematical equations scrolling across his monitor. The side monitors were full of three-dimensional images of rocket engines and charts of shock-diamond explosion pulses inside the exhaust flames.

“It doesn’t matter how the terrorists are boosting the engine power of the X-ships,” Price said. “What is important is that if they’re using regular fuels, then they just refuel after every attack.” She paused. “Which means they must have refueling stations hidden all over the world, mountaintops, in the middle of a forest or a desert, anywhere at all. Distance means nothing to these ships.”

“That’s why you’re checking into industrial air plants,” Brognola added, his interest piqued. “To try to track down any recent shipments of liquid oxygen.”

“Close enough,” Kurtzman said. “Only it’s—”

“Hydrogen,” Delahunt interrupted, her gloved hands brushing aside firewalls and massaging access codes. “There’s too many medical uses for liquid oxygen, so hydrogen is much easier to track.”

“Anything usable yet?” Brognola prompted.

“No,” the woman replied curtly, her frustration obvious. “There are simply too many air plants in the world.”

“Roughly a double deuce of them worldwide,” Kurtzman added.

Mentally, Price translated the figure. “Twenty-two thousand plants?”

“At least. Lots of uses for compressed air, you know. Hell, we pack munitions in pure argon, and use liquid halogen in our fire extinguishers! And who’s to say the terrorists haven’t built one for themselves in Borneo or Outer Mongolia.”

“Liquid hydrogen…what an interesting possibility,” a voice murmured. “Yes, that might just work.”

“What do you have, Akira?” Kurtzman demanded, twisting in his chair while setting down his empty mug.

Over at the third workstation, a handsome youth of Japanese ancestry thoughtfully blew a bubble of chewing gum before answering. “I’ve been considering the inability of the heat-seekers to attack to the X-ships,” Tokaido said, unwrapping a fresh piece of bubble gum. Briefly he inspected the sugary piece before sliding it into his mouth. “The only possible answer is liquid nitrogen.”

Frowning, Kurtzman was about to ask a question, then his face brightened. “You mean, a defusement pattern, like Looking Glass?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Damn, that’s clever,” Kurtzman muttered. “Yes, I’ll bet that would work as a heat shield. Not for very long, but obviously for long enough. These things travel so fast.”

“Speed is the key,” Tokaido confirmed, tapping a button before a series of charts flashed into existence on the wall screen.

Price and Brognola looked hard at the diagram. They both knew that Looking Glass was the code name for the 747 jumbo jet used as the mobile headquarters for SAC, the Strategic Air Command, the people who controlled all of the nuclear weapons in the nation’s arsenal. The 747 was heavily armed, and the Air Force had boasted for decades that it could not be shot down. Studying the screen, they now knew why. The moment radar registered an incoming missile, Looking Glass would automatically release a stream of liquid nitrogen that chilled the air around the jet engines, momentarily masking their heat signature. With nothing to lock on to, the enemy missile would simply sail right past the mobile headquarters.

“Doesn’t Air Force One use something similar?” Price asked.

“Sure, the Secret Service invented the idea.”

“How much liquid nitrogen would an X-ship need for this tactic?” Brognola demanded. “Those big engines must be hotter than a hellfire barbecue.”

“At least,” Tokaido replied, snapping his gum. “I don’t know how large a crew they carry, but I’d guess—and it’s purely a guess, mind you—that an X-ship is probably only good for two maybe three ventings. After that, they’d be as vulnerable as any ship. Unfortunately…”

“Unfortunately, after the first missile salvo, they take off faster than lightning,” Kurtzman said, working a calculator program on his console. “Damn it, we’d need a concentrated strike of ten Sidewinders launching in unison, overlapping two other salvos, to get a definite kill on the first attack.”

“Can you set the SAM batteries of the Farm to do that?” Price asked.

After a moment Kurtzman nodded. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “But we’d have to replace the blacksuits with a master computer, and that would take at least a week.”

“Useless then.” Brognola sighed, grinding a fist into his palm. “But we better send out the word about the overlapping salvos in case somebody else can do it. Maybe the U.K. They have a lot of automation in their defense systems.”

“Consider it done,” Tokaido said, already typing madly.

“Have there been any demands from these people yet?” Kurtzman asked, reaching for his mug. Upon finding it empty, he pushed away from the workstation and headed toward the kitchenette. “Any requests to release prisoners, transfer money to a Swiss bank account, get troops out of the Middle East, anything at all?”

“No,” Brognola stated. “And that’s the part that scares me the most.”

“Agreed,” Price said. “It means that these people are not planning to negotiate for anything, but simply seize what they want. And who can blame them? As of right now, nobody can stop them.”

“That is not quite correct, Barbara,” Wethers said slowly, leaning back in his chair. “I have been studying the videos of these attacks, and been running some rough calculations. They can’t fly.”

“Are you kidding?” the woman asked.

“Not at all,” the distinguished professor replied, pulling a briarwood pipe out of his shirt pocket and tucking it comfortably into his mouth. Smoking was forbidden in the Computer Room, but he found chewing on the stem highly inducive to the thinking process. “If the X-ships are using a standard LOX-LOH fuel, and we know this for a fact, then they simply cannot generate enough power to fly as fast and as far as we know they do.” He shifted the pipe to the other side of his mouth. “Which sounds like a contradiction, but is not. What it means is, they’ve somehow augmented the combustion.”

“Any idea how?” Brognola asked, feeling out of his element. He was a cop, not a scientist.

“Indeed, yes,” Wethers replied with a wan smile. “There have been some NASA experiments to increase the power of a standard shuttle engine by boosting the ignition with microwaves. Now these have worked in a laboratory, but failed on the launch pad. A microwave impeller can indeed increase the power of a rocket engine several times, more than enough to accomplish what we’ve seen.”

“So why haven’t we done that?” Price demanded impatiently.

“Because the intense magnetic fields would soon kill the crew,” Wethers said. “That is, unless there is sufficient shielding to protect them. But that would weigh so much it’d completely neutralize the boosting effect.”

“If you boost the engine, the crew dies,” Kurtzman said thoughtfully, starting a new pot of coffee. “So either the crews of the X-ships are all suicides, or they have no idea what the engines are doing to them.”

“This could give us some critical leverage to turn one of the terrorists when we find the people behind these attacks,” Brognola said.

“Personally, I’d rather simply blow off their heads,” Price stated. “But it’s more important to stop these lunatics.”

“How does it kill them?” Kurtzman asked. “Damage to the brain tissue, destroys the nervous system, or invokes artificial leukemia?”

“Leukemia,” Wethers stated. “Exactly the same as the technicians who work on improperly shielded power lines and cheaply built electrical substations, but on a much more intense level.”

“Really? How soon would it affect them?” Brognola demanded. “If we’re talking years…”

“At the levels of power necessary to boost a ten-story spacecraft, I’d say no more than a few days at the most.”

“At least that gives us a place to start,” Price said.

“Unless each crew only does one mission,” Wethers amended. “Then another team takes control of the ship…no, wait, that would be a logistical nightmare. The terrorists might have hundreds of refueling depots hidden around the world, but to also have each one staffed with a reserve crew is ridiculous.”

“Could the ships be fully automated?” Price inquired. “Computer operated with no live crew?”

“Impossible,” Kurtzman countered. “Good work, Hunt. Start looking into whatever would be needed to build the microwave…beamers?”

“Impellers.”

The man gave a curt nod. “As you say, impellers. Carmen, check into any large purchases of antileukemia medicine purchased within the past month.”

“I’ll also look for any shipments that have gone missing, or been stolen,” the former FBI agent added from behind the VR helmet, her gloved hands rapidly opening and closing files.

“In the meantime, I’ll access the logs of the NSA Keyhole satellites to try to find out where the ships first launched from,” Kurtzman stated, heading for his workstation. “If we can pinpoint their place of origin, that could tell us—”

Suddenly a printer set against the wall started humming and pushed out a single sheet of green-tinted paper. Changing direction, Kurtzman rolled toward the machine, but Price got there first.

“The FBI was checking the two American companies trying to build SSO transports and found only smoking ruins,” she stated. “The working models, blueprints, schematics—everything is destroyed.”

Brognola bit back a curse. So far, the terrorists were way ahead of them, with Stony Man playing catch-up and doing a poor job. “What’s the official story?”

“That each airfield was struck by lightning, which caused a wildfire.”

The big Fed grunted. That was close enough to the truth for the present. But pretty soon somebody was going to figure out the truth and then it would be chaos in the streets. “Were there any survivors?” he asked hopefully.

“Lots. As soon as they get out of the hospital, the FBI will debrief them.”

“I’ll want a copy of those reports.”

“No problem, I’m already in their system,” Kurtzman replied, the FBI emblem fading into view on his computer screen. “As soon as there is something, I’ll have a blacksuit deliver it to your office.”

“Don’t bother, I’m here for the duration,” the big Fed replied, going to the wall and claiming a spare chair.

“What’s the status of the field teams?” Price asked, glancing at the clock on the wall. “It’s been over an hour since we sent the recall signal.”

“No response yet,” the cyber wizard replied gruffly, looking at a submonitor. “Which means they’re either in the middle of a fight or have gone silent.”

“Or they’re dead.”

There was no possible reply to that, so everybody in the room continued with their work. But the air seemed a little bit colder now as the people pointedly ignored the clock on the wall, the frenzied typing suddenly sounding painfully similar to machine-gun fire.

CHAPTER THREE

Fayetteville, South Carolina

A cool rain fell across the sprawling military base, washing the red clay dust from the side of the stout brick buildings.

“Here we go!” a burly sergeant shouted, gnarled fists resting on his hips. “You have five minutes, then we leave without you!”

Bursting into action, the elite troop of Marine specialists dived off their bunks and scrambled across the barracks, grabbing duffel bags and yanking on unmarked jackets to cover the handguns riding in their shoulder holsters. There were no sirens to announce the intentions of the combat troops, only a small red light flashing above the exit to signal the call to war.

Through a rain-smeared window, the sergeant could see the brilliant columns of combat searchlights sweeping the stormy clouds, and he knew that a dozen radar globes were probing the sky far beyond the range of visible sight. The balloon had gone up only minutes earlier, but already the gate to Fort Bragg was closed and locked, a full platoon of armed soldiers in body armor standing guard, along with a pair of Bradley Fighting Vehicles. The Bradleys were angled toward one another, forming a narrow channel too small for any truck or car to get through, and spike strips had been laid in case somebody tried to ride a motorcycle through or around the imposing the blockade.

Located near the artillery range were half a dozen long-range cannons, their barrels pointed at the sky. Everything the base had was primed and ready for battle, big antiaircraft shells set to explode at different heights to fill the sky with a deadly maelstrom of shrapnel.

Massive Abram battle tanks were parked on the parade grounds, positioned back-to-back in a large circle for fast deployment. Wearing slickers and “hot com” helmets, grim soldiers walked the flat roofs of the PX and library, carrying Stinger missile launchers and lugging cumbersome, four-barrel, HAFLA multirocket launchers.

“One minute!” called the sergeant, checking his watch. “Move it or lose it, people!”

“About time we finally saw some action,” a private said, grinning as he lay his black letter on a shelf. Everybody going into combat was strongly urged to leave a goodbye note for his family in case he didn’t come back. That was just standard operational procedure for the U.S. Marines.

“Don’t get too excited, kid, until we find out what we’re fighting,” a corporal replied gruffly.

Whenever some boot heard that they were being trained to fight in space, a specialist in zero-gravity combat, they always started to make jokes about Space Marines as if nobody had ever thought of it before. Nine times out of ten that started a fight, but it was often held behind a barracks or in the motor pool after reveille, where such matters could be settled with quiet and decorum. What the CO didn’t know couldn’t get you cashiered.

It confused and offended the troops that so many people thought it was odd that America had taken steps to protect its interests in space. A paratrooper was specially trained to fight while falling out of the sky. Commandos did it behind enemy lines, snipers did it from a mile away, scuba divers did it under water and Navy SEALs could fight anywhere, hanging upside down from mountain peaks if necessary. The United States of America had thousands of satellites in low-Earth orbits and a fledging space station in high-Earth orbit, and was planning to expand it, even build another one, before going back to the moon. The same as the Red Chinese. It would be foolhardy for the Joint Chiefs not to make plans to protect those stations with troops.

“Time!” the sergeant announced, throwing open the exit door.

Forming a rough queue, the men walked neatly into the rain. Across the road was a line of nondescript Hummers waiting to take them to Pope Air Force base as the first step in their rapid journey to the Cape. The vehicles were parked near a large bronze statue of General Bragg, the soft rain blurring the features of the officer so that it almost appeared as if he were crying.

Shaking off the unnerving sight, the men of the Special Space Combat Unit started across the road when they paused and began to shudder. Dropping their duffel bags, several of them bent over and started vomiting onto the gravel. Clambering out of the Hummers, the drivers rushed to aid the fallen men when they also started to shake violently, then topple over, foaming at the mouth, streamers of red blood pouring from their eyes.

Utterly horrified, the sergeant standing in the doorway of the barracks took a step toward the rain outside, then changed his mind and turned to sprint for the emergency button on the wall. Smashing a fist through the thin glass, he hit the switch and a strident siren began howling above the barracks. Knowing help was on the way, he went back to the doorway. Fighting the urge to rush outside, he looked over the fallen men, twitching on the ground. What in the holy hell was going on here? he thought. Wild screaming came from all over the base and, squinting against the rain, he could see a gunner topple limply off the roof of the PX, and then another from the library. Bloody hell! If he didn’t know any better, the sergeant would have swore that this was a—

Suddenly a sharp pain filled his lungs, and the Marine lunged forward to try to shut the door, but it was already too late. His fingers felt like jelly. The soldier slipped to the floor on boneless legs, his eyesight dimming even as his mind recognized the deadly symptoms of VRL nerve gas. No. Impossible! VRL was banned by every civilized nation in the world.

Struggling to drag in a lungful of air, the sergeant could hear the sirens of an approaching ambulance. Throwing himself forward into the rain, he cried to wave off the others, struggling to shout out a warning. But there only came a horrid burbling from his dissolving throat. Suddenly a terrible cold filled his body and the man felt himself falling forever into an inky blackness darker than space.

H OVERING A MILE above the rumbling storm clouds blanketing South Carolina, the pilot of the X-ship waited until the canisters of VRL gas were completely empty before boosting the engines and streaking away for a quick refueling on the tropical island of Fiji, and then on to his next target. At last, the preliminaries were over, and now Dark Star could begin its real mission.

CHAPTER FOUR

Beijing, China

A flash of light from above drew the guard’s attention just before his world exploded into flame.

Moving along the top of the wall of the People’s Maximum Security Prison, the hovering X-ship burned out both searchlights and all three guard towers before anybody had time to react.

A dozen guards burst from the last tower, blowing whistles and desperately loading 5.56 mm Norinco machine guns. As they raised the weapons and touched the triggers, bright red laser beams shot out from the tiny black box clipped under the barrel. For a moment it looked like a burning spiderweb filled the air as the lasers swept along the smooth hull of the gigantic X-ship.

“Fire!” a sergeant bellowed, and the machine guns cut loose with streams of soft lead that bounced off the side of the huge ship.

Just then, a steel door slammed open and a big corporal strode into view carrying a massive machine gun with a long belt of 7.8 mm rounds dangling from the side, a bipod attached to the vented barrel. Working the arming bolt, the corporal aimed the machine gun at the X-ship, then paused in shock as he saw the red dot of a laser pointer resting on his chest. For a breathless moment he waited for the prison guard pointing the Norinco at him to move the beam aside, then in cold realization he understood the beam was angling down from the invading vessel.

Jerking up his head, the corporal looked into a grinning face of a man crouching in a small open hatch in the side of the X-ship, some sort of angular rifle in his hands. Instantly, both men cut loose. The heavy-duty 7.8 mm combat rounds hammered briefly across the adamantine hull of the X-ship, then the guard exploded, guts and blood spraying outward for yards.

The gunner was cut in two. The ragged remains of the torso fell into the exercise yard, while his undamaged legs toppled outside into the freedom of the night.

Quickly turning, the man disappeared from the hatch and a salvo of rockets shot out to impact on the inside of thick granite wall. The noise was deafening, and billowing smoke exploded across the enclosed prison yard.

On the ground, a lone guard threw an arm across his face and braced for the impact of shrapnel, but nothing occurred. Hesitantly, the guard lowered his arm in confusion. But how could that be? He saw the missiles hit! Could they have dummy warheads that only produced smoke and noise? But that would mean…

“Jail break!” he bellowed, running blindly through the dense fumes. “Alarm! Alarm! Mass escape!”

Sirens began to stridently howl as the double doors of the dining hall slammed aside and out poured a howling mob of prisoners, their gray work suits fluttering with prison ribbons. Howling like wild animals, the murderers and rapists spread across the courtyard, grabbing the fallen weapons of the dead guards and firing at the other guards. The smoky air was alive with red laser beams.

Staying safe inside the dining hall, four men poured water over their clothing and hair, then flipped over a table and crouched behind the impromptu shield.

A buffetting hurricane filled the yard as the X-ship descended, the fiery exhaust tearing the prisoners apart, their tattered bodies smashing against the granite wall. The red-hot ammunition in the dropped weapons of the dead guards ignited, generating a fusillade of ricochets as a river of elemental flame poured into the dining hall pushing back the sideways table, charring the thick wood.

Racing away from the monstrous heat, guards sprinted for arms lockers, while scores of prisoners dropped to cover their heads and shout pleas for mercy.

Extending four gridwork legs, the X-ship landed in the courtyard, the steel pads of the legs crushing numerous corpses with a sickening crunch.

As the thundering engines decreased to a low bellow, the four prisoners darted out from behind the burning table, their clothing steaming from the awful heat. Dashing across the courtyard, they reached the landing legs, but a man appeared in the hatchway holding a strange angular weapon that looked like something out of an American science-fiction movie.

“We’re here only for you, Chen-wa,” he stated in bad Mandarin, and the FN F2000 assault rifle hummed out a brief stream of 5.56 mm rounds, the Teflon-coated bullets tearing apart the astonished bodyguards.

Even as his people fell, Chen-wa scrambled up the access ladder.

“Hold!” a guard bellowed, working the pump-action on a 10-gauge shotgun.

But the man only smiled and the big second barrel of the FN F2000 spoke. But in spite of the laser dot on the guard’s chest, the 20 mm round missed and exploded harmlessly on the ground, the concussion slamming the guard aside and knocking away the shotgun.

As Chen-wa gained the top of the ladder, the stranger lowered the sleek rifle to point directly into his face. Chen-wa paused, uncertain, then the rifle moved aside and a helping hand was offered. Without hesitation, the terrorist took it and eagerly crawled through the hatch of the vehicle.

Inside, the craft was cramped with thick pipes leading everywhere, some of them radiating heat, while others were frosty with ice. That badly confused Chen-wa. Ice? How could a ship use frozen fuel? he wondered.

Slamming the hatch shut, the man twisted a lever, engaging a locking mechanism. “We’re in!” he bellowed, shouldering the rifle and grabbing a wall stanchion.

Chen-wa barely had time to react when the pipes began to hum. The subdued roar of the engines increased in volume, then a rush of acceleration threw him to the perforated deck. The pressure was horrible.

After a few moments the pressure eased to a more tolerable level.

“Many thanks, my friend,” Chen-wa panted in Mandarin, rolling onto his side. Then he recalled how poorly the stranger had spoke the official language of China. “Thanks,” he said in English.

“I’m just glad you made it safely,” the man replied, holding the FN F2000 through a hatch to the next level. Hands took the weapon. “Come on, we have a chair for you.”

Following the man up a ladder, Chen-wa poked his head into a sort of control room with three chairs set along a complex panel that curved along the walls. There were no windows as he would have expected. How odd. There was only a series of video monitors, showing the blue sky above, the horizon to the west and south, and the smoky prison below. It was rapidly dwindling out of sight, the swirling clouds of smoke and exhaust fumes filling the central courtyard.

“I am impressed by your vehicle,” Chen-wa said, climbing awkwardly to his feet. “Does it have a name?” He knew for a fact that there was not a sailor, or pilot, alive who did not have great pride in his craft. Asking for the name was a sure way to ingratiate himself to the crew. Secretly, he was badly frightened, but determined to show no fear to these people. That was how he had run a terrorist organization that operated for more than three decades before being caught, and how he had stayed alive in the brutal, inhuman hell of prison. Show no fear, stand your ground, kill without hesitation. It was the way of the world.

“Of course, this is the Lady Colette, ” a burly man replied in perfect Mandarin, glancing over a shoulder. His hands were on a pair of joysticks and his shoes working levers on the floor. “I’m Captain Ivan Nicholi, and these are Overton and Sullivan.”

Already sitting at control panels, the other men merely nodded at the introductions as they adjusted dials and threw endless rows of switches. Oddly, some of their actions seemed random, yet upon closer scrutiny, the control boards looked more complex than anything he had ever seen before. Suddenly Chen-wa was highly suspicious that some of the controls were dummies, installed to merely make the operation of the aircraft seem impossible to manage for any passenger or prisoner to forestall any attempts at a hijacking. Grudgingly, he approved of the tactic.

“I am most pleased to meet you all,” Chen-wa said honestly, moving to the only empty chair. “When I received your message from the new inmate, I naturally assumed it was a joke, or at best, a trap by the Americans, but then when the ship descended in fire from the sky!” He broke into a gentle laugh, then stopped as there was no response from the others. “A pity about my men,” Chen-wa said experimentally.

Both hands busy, the captain merely shrugged, dismissing the matter. The others ignored him.

“I know you are not members of my organization,” Chen-wa said slowly, weighing each word carefully as if walking across a field full of land mines. “So clearly somebody has paid for my release. Who was it? Who arranged for my release?”

Suddenly the radar began to emit a rapidly escalating tone, and lights flashed on the console near Sullivan.

“We have company coming,” the thin man said calmly, adjusting the dials with fingertip pressure. “Five—no, six J-10 Chengdu-class interceptors. Okay, no danger there…aw, shit.” He looked up, his features pinched. “Sarge, there’s also a fucking Sky Dragon!”

At the pronouncement, Chen-wa arched an eyebrow, but did not speak. Sarge? How could a man be a captain and a sergeant at the same time?

“He’s jamming our radar,” Sullivan said. “Damn, he’s good. Didn’t know you bastards could do stuff like that.”

“I hate my nation’s Communist leaders, but my people are excellent technicians,” Chen-wa replied, feeling oddly insulted by the slur.

A light flashed on a side monitor.

“Missile alert,” Overton muttered, stroking the controls like a concert pianist. “Activating jamming radar. Firing chaff and flares.”

“Nitrogen is on,” Sullivan added as another missile flashed past the X-ship, much closer this time.

“Nitrogen?” Chen-wa asked.

“Shut up,” Nicholi growled.

“Okay, playtime is over,” Nicholi said, shoving both joysticks savagely forward. “Give me full power. We’re heading for the black!”

Tightening his grip on the armrest of the chair, Chen-wa silently prayed these men knew what they were doing. The Sky Dragon was the Chinese version of the American F-22 Raptor, built from stolen blueprints. It was the fastest jet fighter in the Red Army, and armed like a battleship.

There was a surge of power, crushing the terrorist into the cushioned chair, and the soft tones of the radar screen got louder and louder, then abruptly stopped.

“Clear,” Overton announced with a satisfied smirk.

“Did we lose it?” Sullivan asked.

“A side hatch tore off and the piece of shit broke apart from the wind sheer.” Sullivan laughed. “Excellent technicians, my ass. I told you guys that the Reds were a decade away from mastering that level of technology.”

As the other chuckled assent, Chen-wa bristled but said nothing, marking the fool for death.

Just then the noise of the engines faded and the blue sky changed into the starry black of space.

Filling a central monitor was the slowly rotating blue-white ball of Earth. There were scattered clouds over the Pacific Ocean, and a storm was ravaging the west coast of North America. Chen-wa was astonished. They had only left China minutes ago! How fast was this vehicle traveling? Fascinated, the terrorist stared at the world. It seemed strange to see no borders. There was no way of telling where one nation ended and another began.

“We’ve left the world,” Chen-wa exhaled, amazed and appalled at the same time. “What a truly amazing vessel!”

“Oh, we’re still Earthbound,” Nicholi replied over a shoulder. “Don’t have enough power to break out of orbit, but then we don’t have to, eh, boys?”

Suddenly there was a tug from below and Chen-wa felt a rushing sensation in the pit of his stomach. “We’re descending already?” he demanded, tightening his grip on the chair.

“And we’ll be down in only a few minutes,” the captain retorted. “Better hold on, there’s a storm over Hawaii. Could get bumpy up here.”

“Is that where I will meet your master?” Chen-wa demanded excitedly. He was eager to join forces with these strange people. With a machine like this he could wage war on any government that he wished.

“No, that’s where we dump the trash,” Sullivan snarled, slashing out with the flat of his hand.

Caught by surprise, Chen-wa only saw a brief flash of light as bone splinters were driven into his brain, then there was only infinite darkness.

“Is he dead?” Nicholi asked, watching the radar screen. There was already a lot of activity from Paris Island, but nothing dangerous coming their way.

“Of course he is,” Sullivan replied curly, unbuckling his safety harness and awkwardly standing.

Hauling the still twitching corpse out of the chair, Sullivan threw the body down the ladder to the main deck, then climbed after it. Stepping over the corpse, he placed a hand on the lever that opened the hatch.

“Ready!” he announced loudly.

There was a feeling of falling for a moment, then the engines surged with power and the sensation ended abruptly.

“Dump him!” Overton shouted from above.

Throwing the lever, Sullivan opened the hatch and a wave of heat poured into the X-ship, along with a reeking stink of sulfur. Dimly seen through thick clouds, below the vessel was a hellish vista of bubbling red lava. Gagging from the pungent fumes, Sullivan grabbed the dead terrorist by the collar and heaved him out of the hatch. The limp body tumbled through the smoky air and vanished inside the mouth of the volcano.

“Clear!” Sullivan yelled, closing the hatch.

Immediately the engines surged with power and the X-ship rose quickly.

As the man started up the ladder, he noted a strong smell of sulfur that didn’t fade away, and realized it was coming from his clothing. Well, there was nothing he could do about that until they landed to refuel. There was always spare clothing, foods and weapons at every drop site. Colonel Southerland never missed a trick. Chen-wa being the case in point.

“How’s the fuel?” Captain Nicholi asked, both hands working the joysticks. The temperature gauges were almost in the red zone, but as the ship climbed the hull rapidly cooled back to normal.

“Just barely enough for us to reach Mexico,” Overton replied, checking the controls. “A double jump is really pushing the limits on this ship.”

“Had to be done,” Nicholi replied gruffly, already starting the descent. “After this, everybody will be positive that Chen-wa is behind the attacks and waste a lot of valuable time on a worldwide hunt for the wrong man.”

“A dead man,” Overton corrected as Sullivan climbed into view to reclaim his chair. “And there’s no way they’ll ever find his body.”

“Got that right.” Sullivan grinned, buckling on the safety harness.

As the colossal X-ship settled onto the hard-packed sand of the isolated desert, the three men shut down the huge rocket engines and exited the vehicle to start the dangerous refueling process. Now that the decoy had been engaged, they were eager to start the next wave of attacks.

Soon enough, the whole world would be engulfed in the flames of war, and nobody would ever discover what the colonel and Dark Star had really accomplished in three bloody days.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Computer Room, Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“How’s it going,” Price asked, placing a hand on Aaron Kurtzman’s shoulder

“What? Oh, hello,” Kurtzman grunted, glancing up briefly. “Everything is fine. So far, so good.”

“Why are you watching the Weather Channel?” Price asked.

“It’s a wild idea I’ve come up with, and I’m trying to see if it works.”

Grabbing the hard-rubber rims of the wheels on his chair, the man rolled himself away from the workstation. “Meanwhile, Akira is doing a global search for any information on theoretical X-ship designs, while running support for the teams, getting them government clearance, forging diplomatic immunity, erasing their flight plans…the usual stuff.”

Both at the same time? Turning her head, Price glanced at the young man sitting at his workstation, chewing gum and listening to rock music. He appeared to be daydreaming, but the mission controller knew from past experience that she’d have to shoot the hacker to get his attention, nothing less would penetrate his iron wall of concentration.

“Fair enough,” Price said, almost smiling. “I just saw Hunt outside the staff room. He mentioned a slight problem. So what’s the delay with Carmen? We helped develop the firewalls that Interpol uses, so she should be able to access their files at will.”

“Normally, yes,” Kurtzman replied. “But an X-ship landed on the main file room of Interpol. Their master computer isn’t crashed, the damn thing is half melted. Millions of data files are gone forever.”

“What about the off-site files?” Price asked. “Those should have been safe.” Every major corporation kept a duplicate set of important documents in a secure location miles away from the master files, just in case of a fire or corporate espionage. Governments did the same; the NSA kept their backup files at Menwithill in the UK, while M-I5 kept their files in Minnesota, and so on. Only the Farm did not use that standard safeguard, but it was the sole exception.

“Yeah, the clever bastards got them, too,” Kurtzman growled, his face becoming hard. “And you know what that means, Barb.”

“Interpol has a mole,” Price muttered. “A traitor working for the, as the President calls them, Skywalkers inside the organization.”

“Or else the hacker for the people behind the X-ships is an absolute wizard at tracing encoded signals.”

“Is that possible?”

The man shrugged. “Anything is possible.”

“Okay, I just read the FBI reports on Blue Origins and Armadillo Aerospace,” Akira Tokaido announced. “Both companies are nowhere near a functional SSO ship. The only useful information the FBI got is that the X-ships have to be singles.”

“What does that mean?” Price demanded curiously. “Hand-built or something?”

“No, the ships only have one control system,” Tokaido replied. “Take a NASA space shuttle, for example. Those have a complete backup system for everything. In case anything goes wrong, it can continue to fly without loss of performance. On some of the critical systems, there are even three or four backup versions. Control board, air recycling, teleflex cables, fuel lines, everything but the engines, toilet and crew, comes in a minimum of three.”

“I see, and that adds a lot of weight,” she said, chewing over the new information. “So the Skywalkers took out everything not actually needed for flight, which massively cut the weight of the X-ships.” She frowned. “No, this doesn’t work, because they also have armored hulls. Wouldn’t that equal out the same weight as before?”

“Not really. The armor is mostly just heat-proofing, the few hardpoints are an ultralight composite,” Kurtzman stated. “But they would still need the microwave boosters to put them over the top.”

“Which is killing the crews. That beggars the question, do they know, or not care?”

“Unknown.”

The woman started to pace. “Okay, if the X-ships have no backup controls, then if we damage one at all, even minor damage, it’s down for the count.”

“Absolutely. But you’ve seen how fast they are,” Carmen Delahunt said. “Combine that raw speed with their stealth technology, and these things are damn near invincible.”

“But not invulnerable.”

“Oh no, a standard LAW should be able to blow them out of the sky. But you have to hit them first.”

“All right, if speed is an issue, then how about using a PEP?” Tokaido asked out of the blue. “That might do the job.”

“What is a PEP?” Delahunt asked from behind the VR helmet, her body language showing the woman’s puzzlement.

“A Plasma Energy Projectile,” Kurtzman translated. “And no, don’t ask me why the Army calls a laser weapon a projectile. I have no idea.”

“Yes, I have heard about that. The weapon is a highly advanced form of a deutronium-fluoride laser about the size of a refrigerator,” Hunt Wethers added from around his pipe. “But it weighs a lot more, about five hundred pounds. However, with special bracings, it can be mounted on the side of an APC, or even a Hummer.”

“So what does it do?” Price asked impatiently. “I know the Army had lasers that could blind people all the way back in Vietnam, but those were declared illegal by the UN, and banned worldwide.”

“No, this is a real weapon,” Kurtzman stated. “It kills. The beam cycles so fast that anything it hits becomes superheated into a plasma and explodes.”

“They do what?”

“Explode. Let me tell you, it’s a hell of a blast. Roughly the equivalent to a 40 mm grenade. Only the PEP can chew its way through even tank armor, just by staying focused on one area. The laser is fast enough to take out jets, but strong enough to kill tanks, maybe even sink ships, who knows?”

“The Pentagon planned to deploy them in a few years,” Tokaido said smugly. “But I managed to locate a couple of working prototypes at the Pickatinny Experimental Weapons Lab in Pennsylvania, and had them assigned to us for field testing.”

“Excellent!” Price said, exhaling. “Send one here, and one to the…no, send both of them to the White House.”

“Both?” the man asked in surprise.

“If a SOTA military laser suddenly shows up in the middle of a national park, what would you think?”

“I wouldn’t think anything,” Kurtzman snorted. “I’d know for a damn fact that was the location of a secret base. Okay, fair, enough, they both go the White House.”

“However, we still have to find the X-ships to destroy them,” Tokaido added. “They move way too fast for us to respond. We need to be waiting at the target, before they arrive.”

“We have to beat the men,” Delahunt added, “not the machines,”

“Exactly.”

“Unfortunately, we have no idea where they are going to hit next,” Price said.

“Barbara,” Kurtzman stated, “the impossible can be done.”

“With a little bit of luck,” Price amended. “And so far, our luck is registering at just below zero. We call the terrorists the Skywalkers because that Brazilian shuttle was their first target, but in truth, we don’t know anything about these people. Are these attacks religiously motivated or political? What are their ultimate goals?” She turned, and started for the door. “Hell, we don’t even know their real name yet.”

CHAPTER SIX

Outer Siberia, Russia

The two Dark Star agents shuffled their feet on the frosty ground and shivered in the morning breeze.

The crisp, clear air was bitterly cold, and carried a faint acidic taste of rock dust. Reaching from the dark mountains to a jagged cliff, the desolate landscape was barren and rocky, like the far side of the moon. There were no plants in sight, no grass or trees, not even the slightest touch of green to brighten the otherwise sterile vista.

The man and woman knew there were parts of Siberia that were lush and green, covered with dense forests and fertile fields of wheat, the cities bright and lively with commerce, music and laughter. But not here. Then again, less than a decade ago this section of Russia had been forbidden for anybody to even discuss, much less visit, unless you were a KGB agent, a privileged member of the Presidium or a slave.

Steadily losing the arms race against the prosperous West, the old Soviet Union had been overjoyed to find a motherload of pitchblende in such an isolated area. Hundreds, then thousands, of innocent people were arrested on false charges and sent to the area to slave in the hastily erected mines, many of them freezing to death before starving.

Which was just as well, Colonel Zane Southerland thought humorlessly, stomping his sneakers to maintain circulation. Because the acid fumes used in the process that extracted tiny flecks of uranium from the tons of pitchblende was slowly destroying their bodies. He considered it a much better fate to die from the cold, rather than coughing out bloody chunks of what was once your lungs.

When the mine became exhausted, the Soviets had started to convert the labyrinth of tunnels into an underground fortress, then the government ran out of money, and then out of power. These days, the barbed-wire fences were long gone, the one road smoothed until it once more merged with the shifting dust of the desolate landscape as a modern Russia tried to erase the crimes of the old USSR. Abandoned and forgotten, the uranium mine had been thoroughly wiped from the pages of the history books.

Which should have made it the perfect location for a refueling cache, the colonel raged furiously, buttoning closed his collar. Except that the expected tanks of liquid nitrogen and hydrogen were not there!

Less than an hour earlier he had been warm in South Africa bombing the capital building. Now he was freezing to death, but he knew the attack had been well worth the price. Formerly the head of Internal Security, Southerland had been thrown out of power when Mandela led the revolution. Now a wanted criminal around the world, the colonel stayed constantly on the move, always one jump ahead of Interpol and their ridiculous charges of war crimes. Bah, he had been merely protecting his homeland. He was a hero, not a monster!

Glancing over a shoulder, the colonel stepped closer to the hulking transport, savoring what little heat there was coming off the rapidly cooling engines. In spite of the hostile weather, Southerland was dressed in only a lightweight, camou-colored ghillie suit and sneakers, with a Webley .44 revolver strapped about his waist, but no spare ammunition. Although they operated at maximum efficiency, the X-ships consumed fuel at a prodigious rate, and weight was a matter of prime concern. His teams carried only what was necessary for their next mission, and nothing more.

Although a relatively short man, Southerland was solidly built, appearing to be made of only muscle and bone, similar to a closed fist. His hair was cut in a severe military style, and there was a long scar on the left side of his face that marled the left eye to a dull white orb. Long ago, while questioning a traitor, Southerland had felt pity and offered the chained man a glass of water. It had been gratefully accepted, then smashed against the stone wall, the jagged edge slashed across his throat and face.

Knocking aside the makeshift weapon, Southerland had grabbed the prisoner around the throat and squeezed until the bones cracked, killing the man on the spot. Which was probably exactly what the rebel had hoped for in the first place—escape from the brutal torture to reveal the location of a hidden weapons cache. The doctors at Johannesburg had offered to repair the scar, but Zane refused, preferring to keep it as a grim reminder to himself to never again offer another person mercy.

“If only we had some fuel,” Southerland muttered, scowling into the distance. “Where are those fools?”

“Just arriving now, sir,” Sergeant Davidson said over the comm system. The pilot had stayed in the control room of the X-ship to monitor the pressure in the fuel tanks during refueling.

“And look what the idiots are carrying,” Major Theodora “Zolly” Henzollern drawled, lowering her binoculars.

Standing well over six feet tall, the major was a Nordic beauty with soft, curly blond hair that cascaded gently to her shoulders. Diagnosed as a sociopath as a child after burning her parents alive, Henzollern was sent to an insane asylum, but escaped as a teenager and roamed the streets robbing rich tourists, until being caught and forced to join the army.

In boot camp, her special talents were soon discovered, and the young woman was promptly put to work in the underground torture rooms for the Ministry of Defense, then into the field as a counterinsurgent for the Ministry of War, and finally recruited as a personal bodyguard for the legendary Colonel Southerland.

Seemingly impervious to the cold, Henzollern was also wearing a ghillie suit and sneakers, but carried a wide assortment of weaponry. A coiled garrote hung from her shoulder epaulet, an Italian stiletto was sheathed at her hip, an American switchblade knife tucked up a sleeve, and a French police baton was holstered at the small of her back. Holstered directly in front of her stomach was a brand-new, Heckler & Koch MP-7 machine pistol. Larger than a standard Colt .45 automatic pistol, the superfast HK could fire 950 rounds per minute, creating a wall-of-lead effect, the oversize clip containing 4.5 mm rounds of highly illegal, case-hardened steel penetrators that were capable of going straight through NATO-class body armor.

“Air tanks,” Southerland stormed, clenching his fists. “Those are conventional air tanks, not liquid air containers!”

“Yes, sir, they are,” she replied, brushing back her riot of curls with stiff fingers, her hand brushing against the coiled, plastic garrote on the way down. “It seems that O’Hara was right. He said not to trust these people. Guess the little bastard was correct.”

“So it would seem,” the colonel stated, forcing open his hands and clasping them behind his back in a martial stance.

Bouncing and shaking at every irregularity in the rough ground and coughing blue smoke, the battered old truck came to a rattling stop only a few yards from the colonel and major, smack in the shadow of the huge X-ship. Turning off the sputtering engine, the incredulous driver was unable to look away from the gigantic ship, but the fat man in the passenger seat seemed unimpressed. A missile was a missile; they were all the same. Big, noisy and expensive. Merely toys for governments, and not a proper weapon at all. Ivan Kleinof had made his fortune in the mean streets of Prague, Minsk, and finally Moscow with only an ice pick, nothing more. Even the old KGB had been afraid to cross the path of Icepick Ivan, the red czar of the Soviet underground.

“Greetings, my friends!” Kleinof boomed in a deep bass voice as he climbed down to the ground. “I have your shipment. Where is my money?”

“Inside my ship,” Southerland said woodenly. “But I don’t see my shipment. Is it hidden among those useless tanks of compressed air? Or perhaps it is lashed under the bed of that…well, let’s call it a truck, shall we?”

The smile vanished from Ivan’s face, and the driver behind the wheel put his hands out of sight below the dashboard.

“What are you babbling about, old man?” Kleinof shot back. “That is exactly what you ordered, a hundred thousand yards of oxygen and hydrogen, and right on schedule, too!”

“No, you’re over an hour late,” Southerland replied, bending his head slightly forward like a bull about to charge. “I order a hundred thousand gallons, not yards, fool, and those are compressed air cylinders, not liquid air tanks! Don’t you know the difference?”

“Bah, all oxygen is the same.” The man snorted, waving a hand to dismiss the claim. “My people stole these from a hospital. It is the very best oxygen and hydrogen. I should charge you more, so such quality, but a deal is a deal, eh?”

Pursing her lips, Henzollern noted the numerous splatters of blood on the outside of the air tanks, but that did not concern her. How these people got the fuel was not important. Only that they had brought the wrong stuff.

“As you say, a deal is a deal,” Southerland said, turning sideways. “And you have reneged on it completely.”

“What? I don’t know that word…renig?”

“Renege. It means to fail,” Southerland said calmly, turning his head slightly. “Zolly, please kill these idiots, but don’t hurt the truck. We may need that later.”

Suddenly grinning, Henzollern whipped forward the MP-7, the weapon firing into the cold ground, it stitched a path of destruction straight into Kleinof and up his body. Caught in the act of pulling an ice pick, the criminal’s face took on a strange expression as he broke apart and toppled to the ground in segments, wisps of steam rising from his internal organs.

Snarling a curse, the driver jerked up a pump-action shotgun and fired, but Southerland and Henzollern had already separated, and the hail of buckshot rained harmlessly off the hull of the X-ship.

As the driver worked the pump, Southerland came out of the roll on one knee and fitted the Webley, a foot-long lance of flame stabbed from the barrel. A hole appeared in the windshield of the truck, and the driver jerked backward as he sprouted a third eye. Moving his mouth as if talking, he convulsed, and the shotgun discharged, blowing a hole in the floorboard. A rush of pink gasoline chugged out of a severed fuel line, the cool liquid hissing as it hit the hot exhaust pipe. Southerland and Henzollern retreated quickly as there came a whoof from under the truck, and a few seconds later flames engulfed the vehicle, setting the corpse ablaze and licking out from around the hood. Keeping their distance, the man and woman waited until the shotgun shells cooked off from the heat, the random spray of buckshot finishing the job of shattering windows, flattening a tire and blowing off a door before stopping.

“Pretty,” Henzollern whispered softly, watching the growing conflagration.

Casting a glance at the killer, Southerland holstered his weapon and touched his throat mike. “Davidson, did you see?”

“Yes, sir,” came the crisp reply. “And I’ve already worked out the calculations. We can travel about fifty miles on what is remaining in the auxiliary tanks and fuel lines. But after that we’re dead on the ground.”

Unacceptable. Whipping out a cell phone, the colonel tapped in a long number, then listened carefully for eight clicks as the call was relayed twice around the world via satellites.

“Yes, Colonel, was there trouble?” Eric O’Hara said as a greeting.

Southerland detected a faint sneer in the hacker’s voice and accepted the unspoken reproof. He had been wrong, O’Hara right. He couldn’t fault the man for feeling smug. That was only human. But if the hacker had said anything out loud, he would have killed him.

“We need an alternate source for fuel,” Southerland stated bluntly, looking over the barren landscape. There was nothing in sight but mountains and rocky desert. “Is there anything we can use within fifty miles?”

“No,” came the prompt reply. “But I’ll guess that Davidson did the calculations for a crew of three. If only two of you go, that’d extend the range to a hundred fifty miles and…” There came the pattering of fingers on a keyboard. “Okay, there is an air processing plant only seventy miles away. Here are the coordinates.”

As a string of numbers flowed across the screen, Southerland tapped a button to lock them into storage.

“They will have enough liquid oxygen and hydrogen to fill the main tank halfway,” O’Hara finished. “I’ll divert the local police, and do what I can to pave the way. But expect some resistance.”

“Understood.” Southerland snapped closed the lid of the cell phone. Tucking it into a pocket of the ghillie suit, he touched the throat mike. “Davidson, come down immediately. You will stay here while I do an emergency fuel run.”

“Sir?” came the puzzled reply.

“The ship can’t fly far enough to obtain fuel with all three of us, and I go nowhere without the major.”

Still watching the fire, Henzollern stood a little straighter at those words, but said nothing out loud.

“Of course, sir,” Davidson replied hesitantly. “I’ll…come right down.”

As their earbuds went silent, Henzollern rested a hand on her MP-7. “Sir, will we be returning for Davidson?”

“Yes,” Southerland retorted sternly. “Dark Star never leaves a man behind.”

Nodding in agreement, the woman tore her attention away from the burning truck as there came a metallic clang and the hatch swung open to reveal Davidson. The pilot paused uncertainly for a moment, then put his back to the others and climbed down the ladder to the ground. The blackened soil was soft around the great ship, but as the man got farther away it started crunching under his sneakers.

“We won’t be gone more than thirty minutes, an hour at the most,” Southerland said, patting the man on the shoulder. “The fire should keep you warm for that long. But even if it dies early, stay in plain sight and wait right here for us. We’re already behind schedule and I do not wish to waste time hunting for you among the rocks.”

“Yes, sir,” Davidson replied, snapping off a salute. “And if Interpol, or NATO, should arrive before you return?”

Already starting toward the ladder, Southerland stopped to turn and stare hard at the pilot. “Throw yourself off the cliff,” he ordered in a perfunctory manner. “People often flinch at the second when shooting themselves in the head, and are only wounded. The bastards must not learn anything of importance from you. Understood?”

“Yes, sir! Hail the Motherland!”

Placing a sneaker on the bottom rung, the colonel gave a grim nod. “God bless South Africa,” he said in reply, starting to climb.

“Sir!”

At the top of the built-in ladder, Southerland climbed into the X-ship and dogged shut the hatch. Heading directly to the control room, he found Henzollern already strapped in and adjusting the dials. “Preburners on,” she announced, flipping a switch. “Reaction chamber is reaching operational levels…ready to go, sir.”

“Launch,” Southerland commanded, strapping on a safety harness.

There came a deafening roar and crushing acceleration slammed the man into the cushioned seat. He watched the world drop way below them, then move sideways as the X-ships descended from the mountains. Keeping a sharp watch on the fuel gauge, Southerland was starting to become nervous when the mountains finally gave way to rolling foothills and then a jagged coastline.

Minutes later a small factory town came into view on the monitor. There were row upon row of small wooden houses laid out in orderly streets. Thick black smoke poured out of tall brick chimneys of the main plant, and the dockyard was busy with cranes loading and unloading cargo from a fleet of vessels.

“Busy place,” Henzollern commented. “What is it called?”

“I could not care less,” Southerland retorted, studying the monitors for their goal. “All I am concerned with is…there! See it there, just to the west?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, working the joysticks. “Starting descent now.”

The air plant was situated off by itself, well away from the town and public roads in case of an explosion. The building was long, the flat roof edged with hundreds of small windows in an obvious effort to try to control the damage of a blast, and off to one side were some bare steel exhaust vents covered with ice and surrounded by white mists.

The colonel started to point at them, but the woman was already heading in the correct direction. The legs extended, a red light began to flash as the X-ship landed on the pavement, the material cracking from the tremendous weight.

“We must have had a lot less fuel than O’Hara figured,” she reported. “We barely made it here, sir!”

“Good thing for him we did,” Southerland said dryly, rising from the chair. “If I die on a mission, he dies.”

Licking her lips, Henzollern ached to ask how it was arranged, but restrained herself. The colonel would not be the man he was without taking any, and all, necessary precautions to safeguard his return. He will make a fine king of South Africa, she thought.

As the man and woman undogged the hatch, they found a crowd of astonished workers gathered around the vessel. Without hesitation, Henzollern began to sweep the people with the MP-7. A dozen workers died before the rest registered the slaughter then scrambled away, screaming in terror.

Ignoring the rabble, Southerland and Henzollern climbed down the ladder and stepped over the twitching corpses to enter the plant. There were no divisions or walls inside the structure, the entire building one single massive room. Hundreds of tall steel bottles were lined up neatly, the bronze nozzles attached to pressure lines. Somewhere big pumps were thumping, steadily forcing two-thousand square feet of gas into the six-square-foot cylinder. While constructing the X-ships, Southerland recalled seeing an oxygen tank fall over, the bronze nozzle snapping off against a concrete block. Instantly, there was a hurricane as the volumes of gas inside rushed out and the cylinder shot along the floor, then up into the air, zooming about madly like an unguided missile, smashing apart men and machinery, until punching through the cinder-block wall and disappearing into the distance. Surrounded by so much explosive material, there was a sudden tingle in his gut similar to the rush of combat.

“Watch the feeder lines,” the colonel directed, pointing. “Green is oxygen, red is hydrogen. We need the insulated tanks. Those will hold the liquid gases.”

There came the sound of running boots and several burly men in denim jumpsuits appeared from around the row of air tanks, brandishing long wrenches and iron bars. One fellow in a suit was holding a fire ax. Obviously, that was the owner of the plant, or at least the foreman. Knowing to discharge the Webley this close to the charging lines might blow them to hell, the colonel pulled out a knife and jerked his wrist.

Across the floor of the plant, the man dropped the ax and staggered backward, the handle of the knife jutting from his throat. As red blood began to gush between his spasming fingers, the workers lost heart and ran away frantically, casting aside their makeshift weapons.

“Cowards,” Henzollern sneered, pressing the release button on the French police baton. The coiled sleeve of steel extended to a full yard, and locked into position. Eagerly, she tapped the deadly bludgeon against her leg, looking for prey. But there was nobody in sight, only the jerking hoses and thumping machinery.

Retrieving the gory blade, Southerland saw a side room full of refrigeration tanks and heavily insulated conduits. Opening the door, he was hit with a bitterly cold wave that chilled him to the bone. “This is it!” Southerland cried, reaching for a pair of safety gloves lying on a convenient table.

Having done something similar hundreds of times before, it took only a few minutes to run a pair of flexible hoses to the X-ship and start the pumps. In short order, the refrigeration tanks had been emptied, and the Dark Star operatives disconnected the lines to simply cast them aside. Returning to the control room, Southerland took command this time and started the engines, frowning deeply as the fuel gauge only registered a quarter full. Damn, just barely enough.

The colonel sent the X-ship soaring skyward, the fiery exhaust igniting the feeder hoses, the flames rushing back into the plant as they climbed high into the sky.

Streaking back toward the mountains, Henzollern saw the huge explosion rip the plant apart. As a roiling fireball covered the building, hundreds of black shapes began darting around within the blast, punching through the walls, and roof, then spiraling off into every direction. Mother of God, those had to be the air bottles!

Like a salvo of missiles, the steel containers dispersed randomly, a handful reaching the town to smash through buildings, spreading a wave of destruction throughout the homes and factories, and even reaching the cargo ships moored at the wooden docks.

“Our next stop will be Tasmania,” Southerland said, working the joysticks. “After that, we go back to home base.”

“But, sir, what about Davidson?” Henzollern asked uncertainly.

The man grit his teeth. “Unfortunately, we don’t have enough fuel for three, so he must stay behind.”

“I’ll take care of it, sir,” she said, pulling out the MP-7 and checking the clip.

“No, a commander must handle such things himself,” the colonel countered, gliding sideways toward the old uranium mines. “It is a matter of honor.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate the gesture.”

“Oh, I doubt it highly,” the man chided. “But as a soldier, he would understand the necessity, and that is enough.”

The dark plume of smoke rising from the burning truck made an excellent guide back to the landing site, and the X-ship hovered over the area for only a few seconds, before streaking upward into the starry black of space.

CHAPTER SEVEN

London, England

Ethereal mist moved over the Thames River like a living thing, the ancient stones lining the shore weather to the consistency of polished marble from the endless decades of wear. Far at the bottom of the river, covered in layers of silt and mud, the decaying pieces of German war planes warmly rotted alongside the remains of the vaunted Spanish armada from another century.

Rising majestically over the murky waters, Tower Bridge was an imposing Victorian edifice. The massive Cornish granite blocks had been intricately carved by master masons from another era, and the two great Gothic towers that stood on either side of the center span resembled something from legend, beautiful, dominant, eternal.

High overhead, the perpetually gray sky rained slightly, then stopped, merely to start once more as if it had forgotten what happened just moments earlier. On the busy sidewalks crossing the ancient bridge, only the tourists cried out in annoyance, or dashed about struggling to open their newly purchased umbrellas. The locals simply ignored the drizzle, the same as they did the blaring car horns from the streaming traffic, or the thick reek of diesel fumes from the fleets of double-decker buses.

“Ah, just like home!” A tourist smiled, deeply breathing in the smog. “God, I miss New York.”

“Are you insane? How can you think about Manhattan when we’re standing smack in the middle of London!” his wife gushed happily, both of her hands full of shopping bags from Harrods department store. “I mean, look at this, Harold! We’re actually standing on London Bridge!”

“London Bridge,” he said slowly, tasting the words. “As in the old song, ‘London Bridge is falling down…’?”

“Exactly! Isn’t it exciting?”

“London Bridge,” the man said slowly, smiling.

Several of the people passing by tried to hide their amusement at that, but an elderly barrister stopped alongside the gawking couple. Lord love a duck, bloody Americans didn’t know a lorry from a lavatory!

“Excuse me, old chap,” the barrister said, resting his umbrella on the sidewalk with a flourish. “But this is most certainly not London Bridge.” He flipped the umbrella upward to point at the two massive structures at either end of the span. “See those? This is Tower Bridge.”

“Not London Bridge?” the wife asked, hoping this was some sort of joke.

“No, ma’am, honestly, it is not.” The barrister used the umbrella again to point upstream. “See there? The next bridge is London Bridge.”

“Are you sure?” the husband asked warily.

“Absolutely.” He smiled tolerantly.

Just then the clouds parted and fire descended from the sky.

Realizing what was happening, the SAS operative posing as a barrister started to go for the gun under his jacket, then changed his mind and shoved the two tourists over the side of the bridge in a desperate effort to save their lives.

The shocked husband and wife were still falling when the X-ship arrived to hover above the bridge, its exhaust washing over the granite slabs to ignite people and vehicles. Screams and explosions filled the roadway, the SAS operative trying for his weapon just before vanishing in the incandescent fury of the rocket engines.

On the roof of the South Tower, an iron-bound door slammed open and a dozen Special Forces soldiers charged into view, working the arming bolts of their Enfield L85 assault rifles. Rushing to the parapets of the castelated tower, the troopers took aim and fired streams of 5.56 mm hardball bullets upon the huge ship below them. But the hail of bullets only bounced harmlessly off the steeply sloped sides of the smooth hull.

Desperately, the soldiers raked their gunfire along the scarred, white hull, searching for a window, or a hatch, anything that might yield a vulnerable point to the flying mountain. But the seamless X-ship seemed to be a single homogenous artifact, immutable and indestructible.

Seeing the futility of the assault, the lieutenant swung up an XM-18 grenade launcher and started pumping high-explosive rounds at the giant machine. But again, the 40 mm shells ricocheted off the smooth hull before detonating, doing no damage at all.

“Get clear!” a sergeant bellowed, swinging up a Stinger missile launcher. The brains in Whitehall had deduced how the X-ships were protecting themselves from the heat-seekers, and new software had been hastily written and loaded into the minicomputer of the antiaircraft Stinger. It was no longer a guided missile, but a deadhead, a simple rocket that would fly true until it ran out of propellant. All he had to do was to get close and—

“Bugger me!” the sergeant snarled as the distance to the X-ship appeared on the viewfinder. The damn thing was too close! The tower was two hundred feet tall, but the X-ship was well over a hundred itself, and hovering several yards off the bridge. A standard Stinger needed a hundred yards to arm the warhead and the X-ship was less than one third of that distance!

Gamely trying anyway, the soldier fired the rocket, and it slammed into the side of the X-ship only to shatter into pieces and fall tumbling into the ocean of boiling flame covering the bridge.

The unit’s lieutenant stared hatefully at the steel invader. Then he paused. Was it made of steel? A chap from the RAF said that space shuttles, and the like, had a sort of heat-proof glass shield covering the nose as protection. By sheer necessity, the material was rough and tough, built to take incredible punishment. However, it was breakable.

“Aim for the nose!” the officer bellowed over the unimaginable noise of the engines. “Bust the heat shield and it’ll melt trying to lift off. That’s the weak spot! The top!”

Focusing their attack on the crest of the cone, the British soldiers got off only a few bursts before the X-ship incredibly started to rise and a monstrous wave of volcanic heat-searing fumes poured over the parapet, stealing the air from their lungs.

Coughing hard, the soldiers were driven back inside the South Tower and hastily slammed the ancient iron door shut.

“Mother of God,” a corporal wheezed, barely able to form the words, while another man bent over the iron railing at the top of the granite stairs and nosily lost his breakfast. Struggling to pull in a breath, none of the others blamed the poor sod a bit. That was the closest any of them ever wanted to get to hell. A few more seconds of that and they all would have keeled over.

Suddenly the streams of heat came from around the thick door, eased away, and a great silence filled the tower.

Never pausing in the reloading of their weapons, the troopers listened hard, but they could only hear the piteous wails of the wounded and the crying civilians mixing with the crackling of the burning cars and trucks.

“Did it leave?” a private asked, thumbing a 40 mm shell into the grenade launcher of his L-85 assault rifle.

“Bleeding hope so,” another man snarled, then hawked and spit in the corner. “God, I can still taste the stink!”

“Silence!” the lieutenant snapped, pressing an ear to the warm metal of the door. Instantly the men went quiet, but still he could hear nothing from outside. Nothing at all. Strange…

“What is it doing, sir?” the sergeant asked, loading another Stinger missile into the spent launcher.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.