“How’s Fisher doing out here?” Chance asked. “The one time I had him in the field it seemed like he watches too many spy movies.”

  “VR games, more like—he’s barely thirty. Always trying to prove himself. Said we should break into Rowell’s, just disregard the advisement. I was concerned he might go off half-cocked. Could be he did just that.”

  “Shit. Where’s his car?”

  “We move the cars around—he’s probably parked a few houses down on the other side.” He opened his hand-screen and tried calling again. Shook his head. “Not answering.”

  “What’s his car look like?”

  “Old blue Chevy Hybrid rental, two-door.” Frelling drove down half a block, turned, pulled up at the corner so they could see Rowell’s street. “I’m not seeing his car. That spot’s where he’d mostly likely be.”

  The empty parking space by the mossy curb was a half block down from Rowell’s place, chosen so the trees fronting the suspect’s house would cover the car. Fisher would have been able to see from a discreet distance when Rowell came and went.

  “You think he’d have followed Rowell on his own?”

  “He was making noises like I should let him do that, because our drone is too short-range, but… that’d be crazy.”

  “You didn’t tell him flat-out not to do that?”

  “I think my words were, uh, ‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary.’”

  “Christ. That’s not a no.” Chance growled softly to himself. “If he’s following, he’d have the drone up too, right?”

  “I think his idea was let the drone follow, then follow from way back. Follow the drone as it followed Rowell.”

  “What’s Rowell’s car?”

  “Rented white SUV. It’s not here. The driveway’s filled with the landlord’s rusted old RV, so Rowell parks on the street. He’s out and about.”

  “Check the tracker on Rowell’s car.”

  “Sure thing.” The tick-tock sound with his mouth as Frelling took out his hand-screen, unfolded it, tapped it a couple of times. “Fuck.”

  “What?”

  “No signal. Rowell found the tracker.”

  “Which tells you he knew what to look for. How is he not an operative? You got that screen linked to drone view?”

  “Yeah.” Frelling tapped the screen again. The image on it went dark. “It’s not active. Probably in Fisher’s trunk.”

  “How about latest flight video?”

  “Getting it, and… there.”

  Chance leaned over and they both watched the footage of the drone following a big white SUV from on high. The SUV drove in a leisurely way down a highway. Telemetry placed the drone about two miles southeast of Kirke at the time. The footage had been recorded about seventy-five minutes earlier. The SUV turned right, leaving the highway for a side road. It trundled past a cattle-loading pen. The drone followed.

  Followed… followed… more than a mile and around a curve. Then the drone slowed, and hovered. The SUV moved out of camera view, turning left into a bushy cut-out. Twenty seconds later a blue compact car swung into the shot. The camera descended. The blue car stopped, growing in camera frame as it pulled up to wait for the approaching drone. Fisher would retrieve the drone before it ran out of power.

  The drone landed behind the car and the last shot was a glimpse of the agent’s hands as he put it in the trunk. The footage ended.

  “You see that? The shitty drone they gave us?”

  Chance ignored him. “Where he stopped—not far from that cut-out. Maybe fifty yards. Hasn’t occurred to him Rowell might have turned off the road.”

  “Oh Christ, the damned fool,” Frelling muttered.

  “More testosterone than brain cells,” Chance said. “You armed?”

  “Couple guns in the trunk.”

  “We’ll head out there. Stop when we’re out of town and get the guns out.” Frelling nodded and they drove to the highway, and followed it southeast. Chance spotted the steer loading pen off in a field.

  “Turn here and stop.”

  Frelling turned, stopped the car, and popped the trunk. They got out, and Frelling opened the big metal case.

  “I’ll take the carbine,” Chance said.

  Frelling took a double-load niner handgun.

  They got back into the car in grim silence and drove on. A mile… a little more. Chance saw the cut-out, up ahead. Barely visible.

  “Stop the car.”

  Frelling pulled up and Chance got out, crossed the road, looked through a break in some junipers. The SUV had gone. He returned to Frelling’s rental and they drove on. The road’s curve straightened out and they saw they saw the blue compact skewed half into a ditch in the shade of some poplars.

  “Oh shit,” Frelling muttered. He pulled up about thirty meters back and they both looked at the underbrush on the right, a field to the left. Beyond the field was a line of trees. “Let me get out first, chief.”

  “Fuck that, I’ve got the carbine. More range.”

  “You think Rowell’s out in those woods?”

  “I don’t see his SUV. I think he drove on, took another route back to town. Or to the base. But keep watch.”

  Chance got out and looked over the top of the car, peering at the field. No car tracks on it. Blackbirds were pecking around near the trees. Probably no human being hiding in there, or the birds wouldn’t hang around.

  “I don’t think he’s over there,” Chance said.

  Frelling got out, came quickly around to Chance’s side of the car; both of them hunkered, half expecting a gunshot. Nothing but the sound of crows cawing from a nearby treetop.

  His mouth dry, pulse thudding, Chance stepped over the grassy ditch to the underbrush to the right—there was a rusted, half-fallen barbed-wire fence running through the shrubs.

  “Frelling, take cover behind the car, keep down, watch those trees and Fisher’s vehicle. Shout if you see anything.”

  “Chief—seriously, let me do this.”

  Chance ignored him. He was the one who’d chosen Fisher for this job. He’d liked Fisher, despite his way of acting like a dog straining at the leash. Should have known better. Some idiotic avuncular impulse.

  That’s what happens when you get middle-aged and you’ve got no children, he told himself bitterly. Should have pushed to have Rowell taken in before now. He’d been hoping to catch some accomplice, where there probably wasn’t one in the area.

  Stepping over half-fallen wire, Chance pushed through the underbrush, using it as cover, and worked his way up toward the car. Breathing hard. Brush bugs rose up buzzing about him; blackberry vines bit through his trousers. He could smell sage and some other acrid plant, and cow patties somewhere. There was a rustle in the brush, and he froze.

  A grouse flapped out, and away.

  Watching, listening, he moved on. A hawk screeched from far overhead. A couple minutes more and he came up opposite Fisher’s car, about five yards away. Between two scrub oaks, Chance went down on one knee and peered through the open passenger-side window.

  Fisher was behind the wheel, slumped over. His head shattered. Exit wound in his right temple. Angle suggested the shooter had fired from a higher vehicle—like an SUV. There was a bullet hole on the right side of the dashboard, splashed with blood and brains.

  Chance could picture how it had played out. Fisher had been clumsy about surveillance and Rowell spotted him, lured the young agent into the country. Found a place to wait for him—some little turn-out where the SUV was hidden from the road by trees. Fisher passed him, oblivious, thinking Rowell was up ahead.

  Rowell drove up alongside and shot him through the window.

  A sick feeling rising in him, Chance stood up and pushed through the brush. He climbed awkwardly over the fence, avoided a patch of blood-splashed sagebrush, jumped over the ditch, and waved to Frelling.

  Rowell probably didn’t know there was a second agent on his tail, close by, or he wouldn’t have risked killing Fisher. He would have seen Fisher put the drone in his trunk, so he knew about that. Rowell would be planning on ducking out of Base One, pronto.

  Make an agent disappear, whether FBI or CIA, and when the agent failed to report, someone would notice. Rowell knew that. He was probably at his uplink, somewhere off in the countryside, arranging for Moscow to extract him with all possible speed. Maybe today at some point. Maybe he was driving to an extraction point right now.

  Chance leaned the carbine against the fender of the blue compact, got on his hand-screen and called a friend at the Denver FBI. Agent Gabe Steiner.

  “Gabe? Chance. The Agency has a present for the FBI. We’re going to turn over a Russian agent to you, once I’ve had him arrested by the MPs. He’s killed one of our agents. We’ll interrogate him after you’ve booked him.” Chance gave him the lowdown on Rowell and Fisher, asked him to call the sheriff’s department, have them cordon off the area around Fisher’s car till the FBI arrived.

  “Listen, Gabe, I’d take it as a big favor if you’d deal with the kill scene personally, if your chief allows it. You guys can transport the body to DC once forensics is done.”

  “Okay,” Gabe said. “It’ll take time to get agents out there. What are you gonna be doing?”

  “I’m going to SB-1, make sure the MPs follow through. General Carney over there’s a little sketchy on security. One way or another, I’m going to take Rowell down.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  You two gents ready to make your appearance before the whole world?” Burkett asked. “Because sure as hell the Pentagon will release it to the media.”

  Dhariwal glanced at Magonier inquiringly. Magonier nodded.

  “We’re ready, Lieutenant.”

  Ike Faraday was the only pilot there. Sergeant Strickland was EVA with Sergeant Andrews, working in one of the modules. Mayweather and Burkett were crowded into the flight deck with the two scientists. Faraday was focused on watching for incoming from Gogol-1.

  The S-7 had come to a geosynchronous position over a point in Colorado, 120 klicks east of Base One. Burkett worried Gogol-1 would fire on Base One. There were anti-ballistic missiles at the base, but there were no guarantees. The Russians had evasion-capable hypersonic missiles.

  They needed to act soon, at least to keep the bastards busy.

  “All right, gents,” Mayweather said. “Step… okay, float… right into the center of the flight deck, and we’ll activate the camera. You’ll see a green light on the control panel. Look toward that.”

  The two scientists pressed gently against the sides of the hatch and floated in, using the back of Ike’s seat to brake.

  “Code Hitchcock,” Mayweather said. “Authorizing camera and sound in flight deck S-7. Go.”

  “Recording,” a computer voice said from the control panel.

  Dhariwal cleared his throat and spoke to the world.

  “I am Dr. Lucius Dhariwal, based at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. With me is my colleague, Dr. Jacques Magonier of Sorbonne University. We were abducted, along with Frederic Dupon, who is now back on Earth thanks to a small spacecraft which did not have enough room for all three of us.

  “The United States Army Rangers arrived in this vessel, designated S-7,” he continued, his voice steady, “and stormed an abandoned monastery where we were held prisoner. The Rangers rescued us. We are now in orbit, in the S-7. We have been given the opportunity to enter a module from the N-22 station, to await rescue, while the S-7 undertakes a military mission in space.

  “The captain has made it clear that the module will be safer than staying with this vessel, but we have both freely chosen to stay here. We feel we can be of help. We were moved by the bravery of these Rangers, we have been touched by their care for us, and we wish to be part of this effort. We feel we can be useful. I am making this statement of my own accord, quite freely, to make it clear that this is something we choose to do.

  “Our situation is not the fault of the personnel of the S-7. I wish to say that I feel a deep love for my parents, and my sister Dani, and I hope to see them very soon.” He took a deep breath. “And now—Doctor Magonier…”

  * * *

  Magonier made much the same statement in French, adding sentimental effusion about his wife and children.

  “Recording ended,” Mayweather said. The green light went red.

  “When will people see that?” Dhariwal asked.

  “Not until after we’ve engaged Gogol-1. We’ll send it as soon as they know we’re taking them on.”

  “Captain,” Faraday said. “Apparently the President of Russia is talking trash about us now.”

  * * *

  “What do you mean their orders have been changed?” Ashley demanded, stalking up and down the living room with phone in hand. Nate was sitting on the couch, watching her with wide eyes. “They’re supposed to be back by now! First you guys bum-rush us to this godforsaken hotel in Denver, and then you tell me he’s not coming home? That’s bullshit! They’ve more than done their duty, Talley.”

  “Ashley, I’m sorry, but it wasn’t my decision. Rangers have to be ready for anything.” Baxter was working hard to keep his temper. She could hear it in his voice. “I’m sure they’ll finish up and, uh…”

  “What is it they’re doing? Are they going into a fight up there?”

  “I can’t tell you that. I… Hold on.” She heard him talking, his voice muffled, to someone in the office. “Ashley—the Russian President is making some sort of statement. You might want to check it out. I’ll get back to you soon as I—” Ashley hung up and, heart sinking, turned to the big flat-screen hanging on the wall.

  “Television, WorldTalk channel,” she told it.

  The screen flickered on, and there was the President of Russia, a seam-faced old man with swept-back dyed-blond hair and a nicely tailored charcoal-blue suit, looking stern and oddly paternal as he stood at the UN podium.

  Ashley sat beside Nate and put her arm around his thin shoulders, felt him nestle closer. Through a translator, Veronin spoke from the television.

  “…and so, the United States has committed an act of war by invading our allies in Moldova, through this covert spacecraft operation. This was followed by the American attack on one of our observation stations in orbit.”

  “Why you damned liar,” Ashley muttered. “They did nothing of the sort.”

  “They didn’t?” Nate asked. “Somebody at school said—”

  “Never mind what some idiot at school said. Talley Baxter might not tell me everything, but he doesn’t lie to me. They didn’t commit any acts of war, and they didn’t attack anything in orbit. Hush, now.”

  “The observation station, Gogol-1, is equipped for self-defense. It fired a warning missile, which did minimal damage to the American vessel.”

  “Another lie,” she gritted. “It wasn’t minimal.”

  “The Gogol-1 was then approached in a threatening manner by US Air Force spaceplanes, coming dangerously close to the observation station.”

  That might be true, she supposed. They’d be confirming it wasn’t for observation—it was a camouflaged weapon.

  “This aggression forced Gogol-1 to relocate,” Veronin continued. “It has been moved into a position which can be strategic, if necessary. I must warn you all that if we have to take further steps, we will. We are not going to be pushed out of space by the illegal aggression of the United States.”

  * * *

  “We’ve got incoming!” Strickland called, her voice taut.

  “Where away?” Burkett asked, rushing to the flight deck so fast he almost collided with the bulkhead.

  “Gogol-1’s fired a missile,” Faraday said, staring into the holographic scanner. “But it’s not targeting us. Its trajectory is straight down for Base One!”

  “Get them on comms!”

  “They already know,” Mayweather said, floating up beside Burkett. “They’re watching close, and there’s no cloud cover down there. There’s nothing we can do!”

  “Called it in,” Strickland said.

  “S-7, this is Sgt. Prosser.” Her voice came over the comms. “We’re aware of incoming and ABM interception there is locking on.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not a nuke,” Mayweather said.

  A nuke, Burkett thought. Would they go that far?

  The base’s anti-ballistic missiles were AI-guided and very effective. The latest, top of the line, but if a nuclear warhead was set to detonate on its way in, there’d be a radioactive cloud settling over the whole area. Maybe even as far away as wherever the Army had moved Ashley and Nate.

  They waited, and watched.

  Burkett found himself noticing all the things he tried to ignore. They’d been in space longer than usual, and with the blood and extra sweat and dust, the air filters were clogged. The air was muggy, almost foggy from impurities. While they used hand-wipes and very small amounts of water, one at a time in the space toilet, they had hardly bathed. It was beginning to tell.

  Burkett’s clothes seemed to cling, to scratch at him. Somehow the waiting, the uncertainty, along with the scant sleep they were getting, made all the effluvia, the reek in the air, more pungent.

  There was something else in the air.

  A possibility…

  “Captain,” Burkett said, “Gogol-1 is focused on Base One right now. Suppose we use that distraction? This might be the time to get the drop on them.”

  Mayweather nodded. “The modules set up?”

  “I think so, sir. It should work. Gogol-1 is medium low orbit. We could go to medium high.”

  “They’re probably keeping eyes on that region.”

  “We could be saving Base One by making them turn their attention fully toward us, sir.”

  Mayweather nodded to himself.

  “Ike, let’s go to high medium, as close to geosynchronous with our present position as we can manage, then we’ll figure the optimum approach to Gogol-1 from there. And—” He turned to tell Burkett to take a seat, and they both realized that everyone who’d been seated was up, a floating crowd behind the flight deck.