“Ready as he’ll ever be, Lieutenant.”

  Burkett turned to Faraday. “Airlock depressurized? Air Force robot ready?”

  “Cranford says it’s go.”

  “Open the hatch. Let’s get this done.”

  The noise of the servos whined softly through the craft.

  “Mon Dieu—what is that thing!” Dupon said in the headset.

  “You were told about the robot,” Burkett replied gently. “Just close your eyes and let it pick you up. I’ve had the experience, they’re gentler than people are.”

  Dupon moaned.

  Faraday said, “It’s got him… heading back to spaceplane… right into the airlock. Airlock closing.”

  Still uneasy, Burkett turned and glanced around the cabin. There were empty seats. Carney was gone—was he in the head? And two other seats were empty.

  Syrkin and Ildeva.

  “Cha! Who’s on security?”

  Cha looked up from his seat. “Lieutenant Carney took the watch after me, sir.”

  Burkett spoke into his headset. “Syrkin! Where are you? Where’s Ildeva?”

  “He’s in the head, sir,” Syrkin responded. “I was checking on the biosuits. Lieutenant Carney had a question about them. I, ah…”

  “Carney, get back out here with Ildeva!”

  “He took off his headset to try on a helmet, sir.”

  “Bunch of goddamn kids,” Burkett growled. “Send him out here, and if the gangster is in the head, tell him to save some for later and get back to his seat!”

  “Yes sir!”

  Burkett glared toward the door to the biosuit locker.

  No one came out.

  “Cha—go see what the hell the hold-up is! Check the head!”

  “Yes sir!” Cha unbuckled and, in his hurry, pushed up a little too hard, clunking his head on the steel ceiling. Swearing softly, he tugged a ring to go toward the head, next door to the biosuit locker. Burkett turned back to the flight deck to confirm that Dupon was safely stowed on the spaceplane.

  “That payload secured over there, Ike?”

  “Yes sir. He’s in his seat.”

  “Fuel in the line?”

  “It is, sir. Correct pressure. Doesn’t seem to be leaking.”

  “Good, back off the spaceplane, say hasta la vista, and set a course for Zero Point over Base One.”

  “Already got the course, sir. Hasta la vista it is.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Harley Spencer was in his basement room, with big swathes of nearby space on screens around him. Tonight, however, he ignored the solar system—except for the part immediately around the planet Earth.

  He was absorbed with the task he’d been working on since Chance had asked him for help. Harley was carefully collating the courses of Russian orbital assets—provided by the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency—with his parallel logarithmic and spatial-geometry calculations for missile-launch origination.

  On the stainless steel table next to him were three empty food trays, neatly stacked, and seven empty cans of energy drink arranged into a shape roughly like a rocket. His hands were shaking a little as he clicked “render code.” The computer purred, and he studied the results—the orbital tracery on the sky chart, a readout specifying origination of the tracked object, and the end of its trajectory.

  Harley sat back in his chair and stared at the screen.

  This couldn’t be right. If the CIA knew about this, Chance would have told him. He trusted Agent Chance. There would be no reason for him to have held back, and the CIA agent would be in the loop with the Defense Intelligence Agency and the US Space Command.

  If they knew, he’d know.

  Spencer shook his head in amazement. “They missed it,” he muttered. “And I found it.”

  He ran the figures again. Same result.

  Not only had the Russians fired a missile at the S-7—he had been able to trace the missile path back to their middle-orbit so-called “observation station”—but their supposedly geosynchronous station had moved out of its fixed position over Russia. It had moved to an orbit above Base One. Meaning the Russians knew about Base One—knew its relationship to the S-7.

  They must have been planning to fire on the S-7 again when it reached Zero Point. Otherwise, why move to that position?

  Harley had done some online research and found the shifted satellite—actually a disguised battle station—listed as a Sat-12008-N, named “Gogol-1.” There were no indications it was armed, but it was as big as any space station. Room for armaments—and personnel.

  All right then. He had to report this to Carney first, then Chance, then the press. The world needed to know. It needed to start watching this satellite.

  “Get me General Carney’s office on the line,” he told his interface. Not just anyone could even get through to Base One, but Harley Spencer had helped design the facility. He maintained a great deal of clearance, and had been in many video meetings with the General.

  Carney’s office line rang twice.

  “General Carney’s office.” The voice was officious.

  “This is Harley Spencer. Clearance four for Base One.” Meaning he’d been the fourth person cleared, back before the base was built. That should impress this staff underling. He waited while a computer verified his voice print.

  “Yes sir. He’s not in right now. Can I give him a message?”

  “This is urgent. Can you get him on the line? Put out a call for him or something?”

  “No sir, I’m under orders not to disturb him just now.”

  “Who are you, please?”

  “Staff Sergeant Rowell, sir.” If he was Carney’s staff sergeant, he must have proper clearance. Just tell him, then.

  “Well, Staff Sergeant Rowell, please inform the General that I have evidence that a Russian orbital battle station has moved itself directly over Base One. This battle station is the source of the missile that struck S-7. Not only is it almost certainly planning to hit the orbcraft again, it might well attack Base One itself.”

  “Are you quite sure of this?”

  “I am. There are other Russian satellites making anomalous orbital shifts,” Harley continued. “They’re planning something. They’re lining up as if they’re about to make some highly coordinated moves. They might be EMP pulse attacks, or… I’m not sure, but it’s bad, Rowell.”

  There was a pause. Harley could hear his own tinnitus.

  “Are you at home, sir?”

  “What’s the relevance of that?” Harley replied. “Yes, I’m at home, but he can call me anywhere.”

  “I see, sir. I’ll get in touch with him. I’m sure he’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  “Make it quick.” He cut the connection, then told the computer to get Sandy Chance on the line.

  “This is Agent Chance’s office. Please leave a message.”

  Shit, voicemail. “Chance, this is Harley Spencer, and uh…” Wait, was he cleared with the CIA? It wasn’t the same as the Drop-Heavy program clearance. He had some national intel clearance, but not all the way up. How would the CIA react if he started babbling secrets over the phone? “Anyway, uh—call me back. Quick. I have something urgent. Very, very urgent.”

  He cut the line and began to chew on the knuckle of an index finger, an old habit he thought he had broken.

  Chewing on the knuckle wasn’t enough. Harley stood up and paced back and forth in the small space beside his desk. Should he call the press now? No, that would be horrible protocol. He had to tell the authorities—and the right authorities were Carney and Chance. Didn’t he have a name at the Defense Intelligence Agency? What file would it be on? He wasn’t sure.

  “Screw this.” He decided to call Chance and just leave it on his machine. Let the CIA charge him if they wanted. He told the computer to give him Sandy Chance’s office again. It rang once, twice—and then stopped.

  The computer went dark.

  Then the room went dark.

  He heard the door open—it did it automatically, with battery power, when there was a power failure.

  “What the hell! Burgess!”

  The house robot rolled silently in. A small lamp on his chest lit up so that he provided the only light in the room. “There appears to be a power outage, Mr. Spencer.”

  “No kidding! Fix it!”

  “I have tried to do so, Mr. Spencer. The power reset is not responding.”

  “We have backup power. We have huge batteries! We have generators!”

  “Yes sir, but all activated by separate… control… units… which—” Burgess broke off. His holographic forehead furrowed in puzzlement. “Apologies. Seems to be… sort of cyber-intrusion… which bores into systems… Deep Bore. It’s… attacked me by wi-fi. All of our systems going down one by one… Cell phone communications down…

  “It’s destroyed your car’s… systems… I think I can… protect the… car, but… They’re attacking your… recognition…”

  “Who? Who’s doing this, Burgess?”

  “Unknown, Mis… ter…”

  That’s all Burgess managed. He fell silent, and the light went out on his chest. Feeling his way, Harley found his desk chair and slumped in it.

  Breathing hard, Harley Spencer sat in the darkness for what seemed like a long time. Clearly, this was something he couldn’t fix himself. Not here. Deep Bore cyberattacks damaged all RAM, all data, all backup, and they did it so seriously, systems couldn’t be restored. They could only be replaced.

  But he had to tell the CIA what he’d learned, and it seemed he had to do it in person. That would mean leaving the building. On his own. Without his phone or his car’s computer.

  He had to warn Carney, and Chance. There were people’s lives on the line. The Russians were planning a major move in space. They might be planning to take full control of orbital space.

  All of it. Entirely.

  But how did he tell anyone about this?

  Wait. His hand-screen. Harley took it from his pocket, opened it…

  …and quickly confirmed that it was dead. The Deep Bore cyberattack had penetrated that far. Harley felt under his desktop for the lower desk drawer, passed his hand over its sensor to open it.

  Of course, it didn’t respond. He felt for the latch and pulled it open manually. Reaching inside, he found the emergency kit. Using his fingers in the dark, he opened it and felt inside. There. The little flashlight. He switched it on.

  The light was reassuring.

  There was an emergency phone in the kit. He tried it. Was unsurprised when it didn’t work.

  That was it, then. He had to go… outside.

  It’d been a long time. And in these conditions. No purchase-phone, no car. It was impossible! Panic swept over him. Better to wait inside for someone to look for him, yes?

  No.

  Fighting the panic, Harley Spencer got to his feet, and forced himself to go to the door.

  * * *

  “What will you do now?” Ildeva asked breathlessly. He was crammed behind Syrkin, next to the unconscious Carney. Syrkin had given Carney’s pistol to Ildeva. “Why do you have those boots on, Alexi?”

  “Because it’ll be easier to fight with my feet on the deck—at least some of the time. Now shut up.”

  Syrkin was waiting. He was wearing biosuit boots, detached from the suit, and he was nicely fixed to the deck when Cha came in, looking around.

  “Where’s Carney? And that Ildeva guy?” Then he gaped, seeing Ildeva crammed in behind Syrkin. “What’s he doing back—”

  Syrkin stepped forward, raising the gun for another smack-down, but Cha was trained in martial arts and weightless-conditions combat. He blocked the blow with his right hand, while pressing his feet to the floor, grabbing the door’s edge with his left. He shifted his center of gravity to the right, so most of the force of Syrkin’s attack with the gun butt was deflected. Cha kicked out with his left foot.

  The kick caught Syrkin’s right side, but he’d used his Systema-based response to dodge the attack and it didn’t land squarely. He stepped back, grunting, as Cha shouted into his headset.

  “Lieutenant, I’m under attack!”

  Cha pushed off from the deck, flying forward, trying to tackle Syrkin—who slithered aside using a Systema move. He brought the pistol down hard on the back of Corporal Cha’s head. The comm specialist made an inarticulate sound of pain—and then went limp.

  Ken Carney groaned. He was waking up.

  Syrkin took hold of Cha, swung the weightless body around so it faced outward, a human shield. He held Cha by his collar, held the gun up to the back of the Corporal’s skull.

  Burkett was suddenly there in the doorway.

  “Put that fucking gun down before you get us all killed, Alexi,” Burkett growled. “You hit an oxygen line and you’ll blow a hole in the hull. You really don’t want to die that way.”

  Burkett was looking right into Syrkin’s eyes, looking hard, and Syrkin was startled for a moment. The habit of obedience to rank was strong in the Rangers, and he had a lot of respect for Burkett. For one second, Alexi Syrkin wavered inwardly. But…

  It’s too late. I’m committed.

  “Back off or I blow his brains all over you, Burkett.”

  “You a Ranger, Alexi? Or are you not?”

  Syrkin swallowed. He felt like he was falling into a black hole.

  “I’m not. That ended when you and the CIA railroaded my brother. When your pawn murdered him.”

  “Olek wasn’t murdered, Alexi.” Burkett’s voice was softer now, but his eyes were just as hard. “Accidents happen on a battlefield. I lost a good buddy from friendly fire. You took a crack in the head and you need medical attention. Now put the weapon down so we can get you some help.”

  “Uh-uh, soft-soaping isn’t going to work, Burkett. I need you to bring Captain Mayweather here.”

  “You want to negotiate with him?”

  “I’ll exchange Cha for him. Then I give you further orders.”

  “Lieutenant!” Carney wailed. “Help me!”

  “Carney is like fly in web!” Ildeva crowed.

  “Let Cha go, and we’ll talk,” Burkett said.

  Syrkin shook his head. “Ildeva, step out here, carefully,” he said. “Point your pistol at Burkett. We want to make sure he doesn’t make a move we’ll all regret.”

  The mob boss sidled up close beside Syrkin, pointing Carney’s pistol at Burkett.

  “Now listen up!” Syrkin shouted through the doorway. “I want everyone to stay in their seats unless I ask for them. I’ve got a KRISS Vector here too, and if you fuck with me, I’ll spray it all over the cabin and we’ll all take the consequences!”

  “You hearing this, Captain?” Burkett said into his headset.

  “I hear treason and cowardice,” Mayweather said, his voice hoarse. “I’ll exchange myself for Cha.”

  * * *

  Meeting Mayweather on the flight deck, Burkett pointed at the Captain’s headset and gave the hand signal for silence. Burkett already had his own headset silenced. Mayweather nodded and whispered to Faraday and Strickland, both sitting nervously in their pilot seats. They cut theirs, too.

  Burkett glanced over his shoulder, saw that Rodriguez was at the entrance to the biosuit locker trying to get Syrkin to let him examine the hostages. Typical of the medic. He’d done that on his own initiative.

  Burkett turned back to Mayweather. “Sir—I only have a few seconds,” he whispered. He’d talked Syrkin into giving him that much time to arrange the exchange carefully with Captain Mayweather. “Respectfully, it’s not yet time to exchange. I’m not sure he’d even give us Cha or Carney for you, whatever he says.”

  “Back the fuck off or you’re dead in three seconds,” Syrkin shouted at Rodriguez. “One, two…” Burkett turned, saw Rod, white-faced with anger and frustration, retreating from the locker.

  “Maybe if I’m in there I can talk to him,” Mayweather said softly. “Or overpower him.”

  Burkett shook his head. “Ildeva has Carney’s gun—he’ll be watching—and Syrkin’s got the KRISS Vector as well as that pistol.”

  “You have a better plan, Art? Rush him?”

  “I have a Plan B, Captain.” He turned and gestured to Dabiri. The corporal was sitting in the front row, now, reassuring the scientists. The looks on their faces told Burkett they were afraid their nightmare was going to begin all over again.

  Seeing Burkett’s signal, Tafir slipped quietly out of his seat. Burkett signed for him to turn off his headset and Dabiri complied. He moved swiftly, silently to the flight deck—just out of Syrkin’s line of sight.

  “I’m going to distract him—try to block his view,” Burkett whispered. “There’s something I need you to do, and fast…”

  EIGHTEEN

  Reaching the end of the Cherrywood private road, wearing blue jeans, running shoes, a blue T-shirt, and a light blue jacket, Harley Spencer found himself in darkness. He was out of reach of the nearest streetlight.

  Harley wasn’t scared of the dark. He was scared of the world, and his next few steps would take him out into it: vast, open, unfettered world, crawling with unknowns, and ten million malevolencies.

  Bad enough just walking out of the house. He’d broken into a cold sweat, moaning softly to himself. Fear encircled him with clamps of ice, but he made himself take several steps before looking around. There—his car, but it didn’t respond to his voice code. It just sat there, dark and silent, and refused to open for him.

  Most of the houses on Cherrywood were dark, no lights showing in their windows. Even so, Harley had considered rushing to a neighbor and asking for help. Only, he didn’t know his neighbors. He’d never met a single one of them, and they all had locked gates in front of their elegant, manicured homes. If he shouted from the street, they might call the police—but would the local cops help him?

  His ID was in his electronics—in his phone, and his hand-screen. He didn’t have a printed ID card. He’d just have to hope that one of them recognized him. Even if they did—what about that time he’d had a meltdown at the mall, and the cops had taken him into custody? He’d broken a store window. They’d kept him in a holding cell for two hours before his lawyer got him out.