Dark Star
“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.