This ready room was a rectangular conference structure occupying a small corner of the enormous hangar for the S-7 and its one-hundred-eighty-meter side wingspan mothership. The SubOrbital 7 was there, a taut metallic presence that always seemed to be watching and waiting to be taken to the sky.

  Like the old-school ready rooms, there was a central table cluttered with printout checklists, coffee cups—and something new. It looked like a weapon.

  The team was already there, in their digital cammie Army combat uniforms, with tactical trousers bloused into their boots and patrol caps on their heads. Captain Mayweather, dressed in ACU, was standing by the conference table in close colloquy with Lieutenant Colonel Baxter. Mayweather was a burly man with graying brown hair, a lined, weathered face, hawkish brown eyes under heavy brows. As ever, he looked friendly in a detached kind of way.

  In addition to officers, there were eight men and two women in the insert team. Some of them leaned against the walls, others sat in rickety metal chairs, talking, laughing. Most of them were nervous, but psyched for action. Burkett knew six of these soldiers well—battlefield well—but a couple of them were first-timers for a SubOrbital mission insert.

  Even so, they all had Ranger combat experience, and they’d all been schooled in the S-3—the smaller SubOrbital trainer. In addition to being Airborne, the six were certified astronauts.

  Lt. Col. Talley Baxter was standing by the briefing screen. An older, broad-shouldered Black man in an Army Service Uniform and beret, he was the base’s Drop-Heavy commanding officer. Baxter clapped the Captain on the shoulder.

  “Got a hot one for you, Randall.”

  “Suits me, sir.”

  Baxter looked around. “Team S-7,” he bellowed in a deep voice, cutting through the chatter, “shut up and listen up!”

  Everyone fell silent.

  “As much as I’d prefer to go with you today,” Baxter went on, “I’m going to be putting out some fires at the Pentagon. We have some burning finance issues.” Funding was always an issue for Drop-Heavy. While the public knew about the craft themselves, they were explained away as “experimental,” deployed in tests and used only in scientific studies.

  The Army’s SubOrbital vessels were unspeakably expensive, their cost hidden from the public in the black budget. Their true purpose was known only to a few. This was a constant worry to the secretive Congressional subcommittee that signed off on the program.

  “For this mission, you’ve got three new team members,” Baxter went on. “Lieutenant Burkett worked with Alexi Syrkin on a North African paratrooper drop a few years before he signed on with us. Alexi’s an experienced SubOrbital hand, transferred over from S-9.”

  Leaning against a wall, Syrkin gave them a nod.

  “We’ve also got Second Lieutenant Kenneth Carney.” Baxter nodded in the direction of a spindly officer standing with his lips pursed, his hands clasped behind him, looking like a man waiting to have a medal pinned on. Unusually pale for a combat officer, he had a bright new M-20 modular pistol on his hip.

  General Roger Carney’s kid.

  Burkett frowned. He hadn’t been forewarned about the transfer. Another lieutenant? Carney was redundant, and he wasn’t a Ranger. They’d been known to bring Delta Force or a SEAL along on a Drop-Heavy, if the mission called for a specific skill set, but those guys were special forces. Lieutenant Carney was regular Army.

  “Finally, meet Sergeant Destiny Andrews,” Baxter said. “I believe he served with Lieutenant Burkett in South America.”

  Burkett nodded at Andrews and got a salute in return. Standing with arms crossed near the door, Des Andrews was a tall, husky, mixed-ethnicity American. A real Ranger. Definitely more promising than Ken Carney. Burkett had read Andrew’s file when they’d worked together on a mission in Venezuela. Classical music scholarship with a minor in military history. Andrews left the scholarship behind after just two years, for the Army. Not a normal path for a Ranger, but Burkett hadn’t been headed for the military himself, back in the day.

  He’d figured on a career as a mining engineer, like his old man.

  A small-arms-fire specialist, Des consistently won intraservice target shooting competitions. After Venezuela he’d served in three black ops missions in southern Turkey. Silver Star, Bronze Star, three Purple Hearts. Applied for the Army branch of Space Command, took to astronautics so quick they fast-tracked him for SubOrbital Drop-Heavy. There’d been a good deal of fast-tracking after SubOrbital 12 had crashed in the Pacific. No survivors.

  The incident was a puzzle still unsolved.

  “I’ve given Captain Mayweather your orders,” Baxter went on, “and he’ll relay them to you. Now I’ve got to go spin my wheels in DC—trust me, you got the easier assignment.” There was chuckling at that. “This mission was upgraded to urgent, just in the last few hours. It’ll be combat hot, and it’s got to go down fast. Stay sharp! Keep your heads down and your eyes up.” He straightened and saluted them. Everyone went to attention and snapped the return salute.

  Baxter nodded to Mayweather, and strode from the room.

  The captain tapped his interface and the wall screen showed a map of Eastern Europe. A single country was highlighted, shaped like a mock of the Italian boot, but smaller and thicker, toe pointed west.

  “Moldova,” he said, “a republic with more than its fair share of corruption. It’s crammed in between Romania and Ukraine. It’s landlocked, but not far from the Black Sea. Our target is here.” He tapped the hand-screen and a glowing spot pulsed on the map. “The Moldovan Plateau, in a remote corner of the Edinet region—not much there. Our target: St. Basil’s Monastery. Built in the seventeenth century, abandoned in the nineteenth. Briefly used as a prison in the twentieth century. It’s a big fortress-like stone fortification, easy to defend.

  “It’s a prison all over again for three men who were kidnapped a little less than a month ago. The hostages are Professor Frederic Dupon, a Swiss national; Dr. Jacques Magonier, French national; and… Hold on…”

  “Third one,” a voice said from the door, speaking in a soft Texas accent, “is Lucius Dhariwal, PhD and Masters in physics. Born in Burbank, California, parents from Pakistan. MIT scientist.”

  Everyone turned to look.

  Sandy Chance was framed in the doorway, slouching casually, hands in the pockets of a wrinkly charcoal blazer, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. The CIA operative was a middle-aged man with short, graying blond hair under a Houston Astros baseball cap. Small blue eyes behind rimless glasses, dominated by a prominent drink-reddened nose. He toyed with the cigarette he wasn’t permitted to smoke here, as he went on.

  “There was a fourth hostage, Loren Johansen from the Swedish Academy of Sciences. He died in captivity—a heart attack, if our source is correct.”

  “Glad you found some time for us,” Mayweather said dryly. “Sandy Chance, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, for the sake of the few who didn’t know. “Our sometimes-friend at the CIA.”

  “Always Drop-Heavy’s friend,” Chance said. He put the unlit cigarette in his mouth, then plucked it out again. “When I’m allowed to be. You want me to finish the briefing, Captain?”

  “You were supposed to do the whole thing,” Mayweather said, gesturing for him to take the place in front of the big screen.

  “Unavoidable delay.” Chance sauntered in, taking a flexible hand-screen from an inside pocket. He unfolded it, tapped it a few times, then said, “SubOrbital wouldn’t be involved if these guys were just hostages held for ransom. Sure, money was demanded, some even paid, but that’s just a cover. These men were kidnapped because of what they know, not what people will cough up.

  “This particular cadre of the Eastern European crime syndicate,” he continued, “‘Thieves in Law,’ if you can believe it, is controlled by Moscow. We call them ‘TiL.’ They’re working for the Russian GRU, though only some are aware of it. Normally they’re just thuggish, heavily armed, greed-crazed gangsters infesting Bulgaria and Serbia, with tentacles across Eastern Europe. In this case their puppet master is one Vladimir Krozkov, a top GRU spymaster and a big deal in Moscow. Plays footsy with leading high-dollar oligarchs.

  “Krozkov’s point man in TiL is Mikhail Ildeva—the Bulgarian mob boss of this cadre. He’s a man with many skills and specialties, including sex trafficking, counterfeit money distribution, drug smuggling, and extortion.”

  Ildeva’s a Bulgar, Burkett thought, and so is Syrkin. Probably why Syrkin was transferred to S-7 specifically for this mission.

  Chance gestured with his futile cigarette. “The cash paid to release the prisoners—a release that’ll never happen—is the TiL’s fee, along with anything Krozkov wants to kick to them. We think Ildeva’s been taking Moscow money for a while now.” He paused, stared at his cigarette, shook his head, and went on.

  “The prisoners at St. Basil’s were working on different classified projects that relate to the orbital military—all of which can be applied by Moscow’s Orbital Army. Dupon was working on a neural interface with spacecraft controls—”

  Sgt. Linda Strickland, the orbcraft’s co-pilot, whistled softly.

  “Johansen was with Professor Dhariwal, both of them kidnapped near CERN where they were working on a breakthrough in particle beam technology. A technology that, among other things, might be used for a damned scary orbit-to-surface weapon. Krozkov’s interrogator of choice is a former scientist with a gift for slow and careful torture, psychological and otherwise—Ivan Lutzoff.”

  Burkett growled to himself. Anybody using torture pissed him off big-time. Russian interrogators ignored the studies proving that torture yielded unreliable, even bad information. They didn’t seem to care if it worked or not. Engaging in torture had to eat holes through the interrogator’s soul.

  “He’s trying to squeeze every bit of applicable tech out of these three,” Chance went on. “The prisoners may be cooperating. They won’t know that they’ll either be shipped to Russia or shot after Lutzoff is done with them.” He paused and swept a pointing finger around the room. “We can’t let Russia exploit this data—or these men. We didn’t know where the prisoners were till yesterday morning—and now that we do, we have to act. They’re the key to a top-secret program—if what they know is tortured out of them, the Russians acquire an edge like never before.”

  “Good enough, Sandy,” Mayweather said, cutting in. “Consider us motivated. What’ve you got on defense personnel and ground conditions?”

  “The outer walls of St. Basil’s are ten meters high, constructed of granite blocks. Inside, most of the central building is still standing, and solid. It’s three stories high, top story partly ruined. There’s a courtyard with a crumbling old chapel, and two outbuildings. The TiL soldiers bunk in the main building. We think there’s twenty-six of them total, mostly on hand for defense due to the size of the place. There are six men who walk a scaffolding snugged to the inside of the outer walls, and they send a patrol out from time to time.

  “They’re all combat experienced—some of them ex-military, Russian expatriates kicked out of FSB’s border troops for their association with TiL. Some are former Bulgarian Army, and eight others are just TiL street soldiers. Weapons—everything from Bizon-4 submachine guns to Kalashnikov-style assault weapons to grenades.”

  “Ammo supplies?” Mayweather asked.

  “Enough for an extended fight, at least. They do have a couple of Kamov drones armed with 40mm mini-missiles. Our source doesn’t think the area is mined, but you should use a scanner drone to check. Ground conditions: rocky plateau, some cover from boulders and a stand of trees. The S-7 will insert in a valley that’s not much more than a wide crevice at the top of the plateau, about two klicks to the south of the target. You’ll get a deeper briefing from your captain before you debark from the orbcraft.

  “We can’t slam this target with mortars or missiles,” he continued, “except maybe precision mini-rockets. Prisoners are down under the main building, and it could collapse on them. It’s got to be mostly small-arms assault, with drone support. We don’t have time for anything else. You’re going to have to breach walls and outer doors, move fast, overwhelm the opposition, and get the prisoners out safely, quick as you can.

  “We’re hoping you can capture Ildeva, as well. Krozkov won’t be on the premises, but Ildeva knows a lot about him—he can provide a wealth of useful info.” Chance shrugged. “That’s it from me. Your captain has satellite photography of the target area. Any questions—ask him.” He put his hand to the Bluetooth in his ear, frowning. “I’ve got to answer this. Good luck!” He hurried out the door, flicking the cigarette into his mouth.

  “Don’t light up till you get out of the hangar!” Mayweather called after him.

  “Captain?” Burkett pointed at the weapon on the table. “Is that a Pike launcher?”

  “You called it. Heckler and Koch. Works more or less like the last one… but better. We’ve got two of them.”

  “So we’ll be testing them in-country—in a firefight?” Burkett didn’t like the sound of that.

  Mayweather just shrugged. “If we get a chance,” he replied. “There were some field tests, but…” He looked as if he was going to say something more, but cut it off, glancing at 2nd Lt. Carney. “Anyway, I’ll try it out first myself. Besides, it’s not the only special ordnance we’ll be testing…”

  Mayweather winked at Corporal Dabiri.

  * * *

  Every few years another “world’s biggest plane” was announced, and it was usually a mothership configured roughly like the old Roc, Paul Allen’s Stratolaunch prototype. The S-7’s Mommy Dearest was a freakishly wide eight-engine aircraft with a wingspan that was huge even for an orbit launcher. Twin fuselages made the huge vessel look like two planes fused together.

  It had to be big to carry its baby, SubOrbital 7. The Drop-Heavy program’s delta-wing orbcraft, fueled by the latest methane-oxygen mix, was nearly twice as long as the old space shuttles, with a fuselage twice as broad; sleekly flatter, and far more sophisticated. It was also unmarked, because all S-series missions were covert.

  The orbcraft that would transport Burkett and his team was clamped to the underside of Mommy Dearest’s center wing between the long narrow twin fuselages. Its outer wings each sported four pulsejet engines. As Burkett walked up, the orbcraft’s hull was almost belly-down on the concrete.

  Every Drop-Heavy mission felt new. Gazing up at the conjoined aircraft, Burkett always felt a sort of awe. The mothership with the attached orbcraft made him think of an old symbol he’d once seen for the 345th Bomber Squadron—an eagle in flight clutching a large bomb in its talons. The mothership was the eagle—but the death-dealing ordnance it was clutching wasn’t a bomb.

  Bombs don’t come back. The S-7 always had.

  There’s always a first time, he thought.

  Burkett walked under the vast, sheltering wings of the mothership to the ramp where the crew filed up into the S-7. Each of the Rangers carried a backpack slung over a shoulder. First came the pilot. 2nd Lt. Ike Faraday had piloted three S-7 Drop-Heavy missions. A compact man, he’d had to cut off his dreadlocks for the Rangers. Athletic, light-hearted but tough, Ike was always willing to fight.

  Walking beside him was Sgt. Linda Strickland, twenty-nine years old, from Georgia. Masters in international relations and a degree in astronautic navigation. An up-and-coming star in women’s college basketball, she’d blown it all off for the Rangers. Her friends and family had talked about having her committed. A tall, attractive redhead who stayed coolly professional around men, Linda had been a pilot for the 75th Airborne Rangers regiment.

  After her came Sgt. Megan Lang, late twenties, with only one SubOrbital mission under her belt. Half Seminole, she was short, dark, powerfully muscular. Lang was usually quiet, but when she spoke it was with a bold incisiveness. Megan had a black belt in karate and had been a women’s boxing competitor in college. Southern Christian background.

  Next up the ramp was Specialist Alexi Syrkin. Born in Bulgaria, grew up in Oregon. Gunnery specialist and translator. Wore an Eastern Orthodox cross around his neck. Narrow eyes and high cheekbones. He spoke several Slavic languages. A martial arts master of Sambo—Alexi had once told Burkett it stood for “Samozaschita Bez Orushiya”—and the deadly Systema.

  Syrkin had been a sergeant but had killed a man in a particularly grisly way, with his bare hands—a man he was supposed to take prisoner. Because the guy was an armed insurgent, Syrkin was cleared of war-crime charges, but was busted down to corporal. Syrkin’s problematic history could’ve made him a no-go for these elite missions, but they needed him as a translator. He was the only orbcraft-trained man who could speak Bulgarian and Russian. Standoffish, usually close-mouthed.

  Burkett would keep an eye on him.

  Next up was Second Lieutenant Carney, the General’s son. Boarding the S-7 he gaped like a kid going on a Star Wars ride at Disneyland.

  Des Andrews followed him up the ramp—smiling, excited to be going on the mission.

  Hope he feels that way when we get there, Burkett thought. This one’s going to be a bitch.

  Lance Cpl. Kyu Cha strode eagerly on board. Gifted in electronics, especially high frequency radio communication, he was their comm specialist as well as a good combat soldier. Burkett knew the Asian-American had come from a rough neighborhood in Oakland, California. Two brothers in a gang, dad in jail for fencing stolen goods. Raised for a time in foster care. Rough life, but sometimes guys like that made the best Rangers—they were motivated. Never close to his old man, Cha had wanted to be a cop, but also had a powerful interest in space travel. Only orbital military could combine both.

  Three others were already on board: Medical Specialist Rod Rodriguez; PFC Lemuel Dorman, a lethal quiet-kill expert; Cpl. Tafir Dabiri, gunnery badass, suit-armor tech, and translator.

  It was a good team, Burkett mused.

  If and when they rescued the prisoners in Moldova, that’d make fifteen. They barely had room for sixteen people on the S-7, so if they managed to get Ildeva alive—Burkett doubted it—that would be capacity for the orbcraft.