“Not sure what button to push, Lieutenant, afraid I might hit ‘eject’ or something.”

  “Hold on,” Burkett said, taking out an instrument shaped like an old-style smart phone. He held it up to the vertical row of Japanese instructions and tapped. Its small screen translated. “That one!” He hit the tab that translated as “Pressurize.”

  A yellow light flashed, and kept flashing. The hatch they’d come through closed, and twenty seconds later his HUD showed rising air pressure around his biosuit. He relaxed a bit. The pressure reached Earth normal and the yellow light was replaced by a steady green light.

  Another tab, translated, said, “Entry on Green.” Burkett pressed the tab and the interior hatch swung open—gently, slowly.

  “Keep the helmets on, sir?” Dabiri asked.

  “Better, yeah. We don’t know if the air filled with fuel or something when the station was damaged. Could be toxic.”

  Dabiri pulled through the hatchway and Burkett followed. They were in Module Two now, which automatically lit up as they entered. It was a cylindrical room about twelve meters long, nine in diameter, with quilt-padded walls of white synthetic, neatly set off by lockers of equipment, food distribution drawers, emergency supply units, exterior view screens in place of windows, and tilt-out worktables, each marked with ideograms. The Japanese penchant for carefully designed living space was apparent.

  Burkett’s headset crackled. “Lieutenant Burkett,” Strickland said, “we received a communication from the Japanese government. They say given this emergency we can take possession of the station, and use whatever we want. Warned us to be careful of stability.”

  Faraday chimed in, “I think they were trying to tell us, ‘Don’t accidentally knock the thing down into some dangerous orbit, you clumsy American bastards.’”

  “Least someone’s being neighborly,” Burkett said. “Good deal.”

  He noticed Dabiri looting a long chain of linked freeze-dried dinner packets from a locker.

  “Twenty here,” Tafir said. “Japanese freeze-dried yakisoba is gonna make a nice change from our so-called vegetable beef stew.” He accordioned the chain up and tucked it into the satchel on the side of his suit.

  “Corporal, if you’re done raiding the fridge, we’ll try module three.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Burkett led the way to module three, a room where padded walls curved down to a steel deck. There were eight microgravity bunks—basically Velcro-closed sleeping bags attached to the soft bulkhead—and a couple of media centers. At either end was a space toilet and sponge-off booth, set beside stretchable exercise cords. Several blank screens had probably shown scenes of Earth. All was carefully arranged. He saw no oxygen storage compartments, but the deck seemed to have lockers built into it. Turning on his magnetic boots, he let them pull him to the deck, then tugged at the deck inset rings.

  There they were: tanks of oxygen mix.

  “Guess we can’t go into module four, sir,” Dabiri said.

  “It was ruptured, decompressed. So—nope. Too bad, it’s their laboratory, might be useful stuff in there.”

  “This station has to have positional jets for restoring position, Lieutenant. Can we cadge some of their fuel?”

  “Specs for the N-22 says its OP jets are hydrogen-oxygen. We can’t use that stuff for S-7. Not our engine design. But we might have some other use for it…” Burkett had some ideas coming together in the back of his mind. Seeing what looked like a life support indicator panel, he walked over to it, having to tug a little too much to use his magnetic boots. He turned the magnetism down a bit.

  “Let’s see if the air is breathable in here, Tafir.”

  Burkett translated the input keys and selected “Cabin Air Quality.”

  Ideograms appeared on the small screen, translating to “Air Quality Optimal.”

  “Says it’s breathable.”

  “Let me do this, sir.”

  “Corporal—” But Tafir had already unfastened his helmet. He lifted it off and took a deep breath.

  “Smells like soy sauce. Makes me hungry.”

  * * *

  They moved the oxygen-nitrogen mix cannisters to the S-7 by grouping chains of them on tethers. It would help—but they still had sixteen human beings sucking oxygen on board. There was enough in the extra tanks, Burkett figured, to give them an additional thirty-six hours, but they might well need more.

  The next stage—he’d had to get it approved by Mayweather—was more complex, and arduous. Researching the specs for the N-22, Burkett found that it wasn’t terribly difficult to detach the modules from the space station—it had been constructed in orbit, after all—but it required a team of four, working inside and outside.

  “Which will be good,” Mayweather said. “I have a feeling our people need more EVA time to be ready for anything.”

  Puzzling over the module detachment system, Burkett tried not to obsess on the possibility that Ashley might be targeted in some way. Would she be safer at Base Three? Suppose the base itself was targeted?

  How far would the Russians go?

  Focus on problems you can do something about.

  Burkett and Corporal Dabiri worked inside the N-22, while Sgt. Des Andrews and Private Dorman worked outside. Activation of release clamps inside the N-22 had to be initiated at the same time as external levers and wheels were thrown. The modules could be disconnected, Burkett figured, without losing pressure, as long as the proper seals were activated.

  Andrews and Dorman secured the module by tethers attached to upper hull hand-rings on the S-7. Modules two and three were detached and tethered to the rear of the orbcraft. Module one had a fuel tank attached to the bottom. They were able to release it and attach it to module two.

  “Sir,” Dabiri said as they worked, “if we can’t use it as fuel, why do we want the oxy-hydrogen?”

  “That’s above your paygrade right now, Corporal,” Burkett said, pretending to be snippy about it.

  “Sir, I think you enjoy saying that stuff is above my paygrade.”

  “Roger that, Corporal Dabiri.”

  The project took three hours to organize and carry out, but when they were done they had not only the air in the modules, which could be compressed into tanks or breathed directly inside—they also had the volatile fuel mix.

  “When we get back to base,” Mayweather said, “I’m going to send the Japanese embassy a basket of flowers and a case of Kentucky’s best bourbon.”

  * * *

  Sitting at his desk, Chance puzzled over Staff Sergeant Rowell’s clearance reports. Everything seemed fine. General Carney’s staff sergeant had been a Green Beret, an expert commando, and had even instructed. Had won awards in Army hand-to-hand combat competitions, fought in Libya, received a silver star for bravery. Killed several terrorists barehanded in a night insertion to rescue prisoners.

  Rowell’s final combat mission was in Estonia. He’d gotten a bad wound, bum leg, physical rehab, desk job.

  But Chance had been forced to ask twice to see the clearance checks. Why had they been held back? Maybe just an office snafu, after all. Or maybe there was something in the files he hadn’t spotted. Something he wasn’t supposed to see, tucked away in all the seemingly irrelevant data.

  Estonia.

  Chance reread the file on Rowell’s combat time there. Winter, six years ago. Baltic Alliance base near the Baltic Sea. Eastern Estonians of Russian antecedents tried to break off, form a Russo-centric state, with arms and financial support from the Russian GRU. The Baltic Alliance had been unprepared, asked for American troops from their base in Finland just a hundred miles north.

  An Army battalion was sent to Estonia, established a temporary base—which was overrun by separatists in a surprise attack. Rowell was wounded, taken prisoner. Three months later he was exchanged for two Russian “advisors.”

  The takeaway was that Rowell had been a prisoner of separatists run by Russian Intelligence. For three months. What had happened in those three months? Was he tortured? Recruited?

  Could be there was nothing there. But…

  Chance accessed Defense Intelligence Agency inter-agency files, and looked up Rowell’s psychological assessment. Ayn Rand fan, it said. Very reserved, mistrustful of interviewer. Possible sociopathy but no clear diagnosis. “Could be simple battle fatigue.” Subject’s father had lost the family fortune, and Rowell resented it in a big way. He said his ambition, after he got out of the military, was to make another fortune. How? “I’ll find a way.”

  Chance told his phone to get him General Carney’s switchboard. A human-sounding but inhuman voice asked Chance for his name, clearance number, and who he wanted.

  “Staff Sergeant Sheila Mendez.”

  A click, another, and a woman answered the phone. It was still daylight back in Colorado.

  “Sergeant Mendez.”

  “Sergeant, this is Sandy Chance at the Central Intelligence Agency. I have the clearance file you sent over on Staff Sergeant Rowell. Seems comprehensive. But listen—and don’t take this personally, I am most definitely not blaming you, Sergeant—but General Carney told me you were sending me all this stuff previously. Months ago.”

  “I did. I put it in the pipeline. I sent the files.”

  “Never got to me. Thanks for resending them. But… what happened the first time?”

  There was hesitation on the line. “Tempting to say it was a screw-up on your end, Mr. Chance, but we’re having some… some glitches around here. Some computer issues. We had some kind of break-in on our SubOrbital files—had to plug that leak.”

  “I remember,” Chance said. “Carney says it was just one of those ‘we found a hole in our firewall before anyone else did’ things. He claimed nothing got out.”

  “Didn’t, as far as I know.”

  “You don’t sound certain.”

  She chuckled dryly. “General Carney’s my boss. I’m as certain as he wants me to be.”

  “I take it you think this was an internal issue—maybe someone’s faulty IT work?”

  “Could be. Maybe.”

  “Rowell involved in any of the security IT?”

  Another hesitation. “Yes. We also had Pentagon security come in.”

  It would have been easy for Rowell to stop his files from going out to the CIA, then, Chance figured.

  “You don’t think anything could’ve gotten out through that hole—anything regarding the Drop-Heavy missions, Sergeant?”

  “We don’t know, Mr. Chance, but we did manage to keep everything buttoned up about the mission in… am I supposed to say? Everyone knows now. The mission in Moldova.”

  Or maybe, he thought, it was kept need-to-know until someone got onto it just as the mission was ending.

  Right before a missile was launched.

  “Sergeant—what’s your impression of Staff Sergeant Rowell?”

  “Efficient. Very loyal to the General. Loves opera. Got a medal or two in the field. Not much else I can tell you. Keeps to himself.”

  “You have my contact information. If there’s anything else you think could be of interest to the agency, please send it on. Discreetly. I won’t reveal my source.”

  “I’ll… keep that in mind, Mr. Chance.”

  “Call me Sandy, if you want to. Thank you for your help.”

  Chance broke the connection. He drummed his fingers on his desk, looking out at the night. The circle of lights around the helipad.

  “Get me Director Blackwell.”

  Blackwell answered. “Chance—what?” There was a yawn in her voice.

  “Long day, I know. One thing more, ma’am.”

  “Well?” He heard ice clinking in a glass. Chance guessed she was in the back seat of the self-driving limo, relaxing on the way home.

  “We have a seven-level risk at SubOrbital One. I want authorization to have someone followed, and monitored.”

  “You’re saying there’s a mole there?”

  “I’m saying it’s possible.”

  She made a tsk sound into the phone. “Come on, Chance. You’ve ‘spotted moles’ before and it turned out to be a mirage. General Carney won’t like this if you’re wrong.”

  “Yes ma’am, but we can’t take the risk just to soothe the General. Especially now. We have sixteen lives—four of high intelligence value—targeted up there in orbit. We have the very real danger of…” He didn’t want to sound melodramatic. But he almost said, a world war. “…of serious escalation, Madame Director.”

  Blackwell exhaled a long, annoyed outbreath that made the headset she’d be wearing hiss.

  “All right. I’ll authorize it. Tell your people to be as discreet as a nun dating a priest. You hear me?”

  “Yes ma’am. I hear you.”

  Blackwell hung up and Chance made two quick, urgent phone calls.

  FIFTEEN

  It was no use at all.

  Alexi Syrkin could not sleep. 2nd Lt. Kenneth Carney was snoring in his seat just two rows forward from Syrkin. Everyone but the watch was trying to sleep and the serrated sounds coming out of the murderer of his brother tormented Syrkin. Carney would be quiet for a moment, then a raw sawing noise would come right at Syrkin, right into his brain. He could feel the sound, in there. A cutting, icy feeling.

  He sleeps well, Syrkin thought. He feels no guilt, no remorse. Why should he worry? A general’s son has nothing to fear.

  Close beside Syrkin, Ildeva slept, too, floating loosely in his bonds, his head tilted to one side, his mouth wide open. Snoring an octave lower. Ildeva’s snoring didn’t bother Alexi.

  Syrkin could hear the reaction control system thrusters burning—a slight rumble transmitted through the hull from beneath the thruster. For this orbital shift, the RCS was under control of the ship’s navigational computer. He unfastened his seat belt, the netting moved out of the way to let him float to where he could see through the open hatch to the flight deck.

  Earth was crowding up, filling the windshield as if waiting to engulf them. The S-7 was moving into position to drop to Zero Point over Base One, where they were going to try a landing—assuming the USAF spaceplane brought them a sufficiency of frozen methane-oxy fuel for braking. The emergency fuel transfer might work, if the spaceplane got here in time.

  Lieutenant Carney would go cheerfully back to Earth, skate through the inquiry, and off to some cushy job set up by his father.

  Ildeva was right. The Army would never convict Carney of anything. They’d go through the motions, give him a slap on the wrist, and send him back to shoring up his career.

  There would be no justice for Olek Syrkin.

  Perhaps it was the plan to kill Olek all along. The CIA didn’t want to have to pay him off. Probably thought he’d outlived his usefulness. Syrkin wasn’t sure—but it was possible, and what had he, Alexi Syrkin, done about any of this?

  What had he done, in fact, to protect his brother? Olek—who’d stood up for Alexi more than once.

  Nothing.

  I should have thought about protecting Olek. I was trying to be in the forefront of the action for the sake of my own career. Prove that I deserve to be promoted once more. Which had gotten him clipped by a bullet, and while he was unconscious, Carney had murdered Olek.

  I have to make up my mind, Syrkin thought. What must I do, to make it right?

  Another cutting snore and Carney mumbling—laughing in his sleep.

  Laughing! Something funny in your dream, Carney? Are you enjoying your little joke?

  Suddenly he knew what he must do. He could not live with what had happened, not without justice—and the only justice for Olek would come from Alexi Syrkin.

  It must be done quickly, before they were back on the ground. Before Carney could be protected.

  Syrkin reached up, pulled at a ceiling ring, torqued his wrist, turning himself toward the aft and then tugged to head that way, floating over Megan Lang’s head. She was deeply asleep. He could even see her rapid eye movement. But there was Lance Corporal Cha, on security watch, drifting over to him.

  “Where you off to, Alexi? We’re supposed to be seated and secured right now.”

  “There’s no appreciable inertia from these little burns,” Syrkin said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m just going to the head.”

  “Make it quick.”

  “Who’d want to linger?”

  “You got me there.”

  Cha turned away, pushed off the back of a chair to drift toward the flight deck. Syrkin waited to see if he’d turn around. He didn’t.

  Syrkin turned away, tugged toward the aft again. He saw everything so clearly. He could see a bit of food that had escaped from someone’s careless mouth, floating like a miniature asteroid next to him. He could see pits and grain on it.

  He could see every seam, every mark on the deck below. He could easily count the metal rings on a cable running along the ceiling of the passage to the rear as he headed to the big storage compartment. He smelled the stale air thick with the odors of sweat, rubber, piss, old food. With sixteen people aboard for so long, the air filter was overwhelmed.

  Syrkin reached the hatch to aft storage, glanced over his shoulder. Corporal Cha wasn’t in sight. Probably had taken his seat. So Syrkin opened the hatch, floated through, closed it, and pushed over to the weapons locker. Because they had an “enemy combatant” aboard, the metal cabinets were locked up. But Syrkin had a key.

  He opened several lockers, then picked out a semi-automatic pistol, and a KRISS Vector submachine gun. Its recoil suppression would help in weightlessness. Strapping the SMG over one shoulder, he holstered the pistol, thinking that he had to formulate a clearer plan. Should he kill them all and then himself?

  His head throbbed as he tried to think it out. Should he…

  Should he kill Ken Carney and Mayweather—then use the weapons to hijack the S-7? Maybe they could still take fuel and he could force the pilots to fly the orbcraft to his own choice of destination.