“Captain—did they fire on the base?” Lang asked.

  “Yes, they—”

  “Explosions in the upper troposphere Zero Point over Base One!” Strickland announced, breathless and rapid-fire. “ABM effective. And… no nuclear signature!”

  Burkett blew out a long breath of relief.

  Mayweather smiled. “They knocked down the incoming!”

  “You think Gogol will fire again, sir?” Strickland asked.

  “Almost certainly. Maybe they’re working on a way around the interceptors. We’d better move!” Mayweather and Burkett pushed toward their own seats as Mayweather bellowed, “Soldiers and scientists get your butts in seats! You’ve got thirty seconds! Ike—a thirty count and then burn out of here.”

  * * *

  Agents Chance and Frelling drove rapidly toward the checkpoint outside Base One. Frelling was at the wheel; Chase stared up through the windshield.

  He caught white flashes high up in the thin overcast, then two slowly dispersing clouds of red and brown. Missile impacting missile. Less than twenty seconds later a chunk of steaming metal fell in front of Frelling’s car, and he had to swerve hard to avoid the smoking crater from missile debris.

  They were relieved to reach the checkpoint without being hit by anything. There they found three Army MPs gawking at the sky. Chance was annoyed.

  “What the hell, Petersley?!” he called, leaning close to Frelling to yell out the driver’s side window. Petersley was the one MP here Chance knew, a gray-haired man, mouth open, squinting at the sky. “You can’t do anything about what’s up there—stick with what might be around here!”

  “That you, Chance?” Petersley said, squinting at him now.

  “Thought I heard gunfire,” a younger MP said. He looked like a football linebacker stuffed into the wrong uniform. “Then—” He laughed. “—I realized it was stuff falling out of the damned sky.” He pointed to the big blacktopped space behind them. Three plumes of gray smoke rose in the fifty yards between their location and Building A.

  “We called in to have a man arrested,” Frelling said, his voice dripping irony. “You hear anything about that?”

  “Yes, we did,” Petersley said, pressing a button to lift the barrier. “Go on in, you should find him in cuffs in the brig. First time we used that brig. Carney—General Carney—is probably reading the guy the riot act now.”

  “Carney’s here?” Chance asked.

  The older MP nodded just once. “Refused evacuation.”

  Frelling gave them a small salute and drove on, weaving around craters. Off to the left they saw a building with a smoking hole in its roof, but no flames. Chance had a quick cigarette as Frelling parked alongside the short line of cars outside the front of the administrative center.

  “So you think Rowell’s here?” Frelling asked. “Why didn’t he just bolt after killing Fisher?”

  “Maybe orders. Maybe something he has yet to do here. Come on.”

  “Not many cars,” Frelling said, as they got out.

  “Skeleton crew only,” Chance said, tossing the half-smoked cigarette away as they got out of the car and hurried toward the front. “Rowell may have taken advantage of that. His background is commando training, and he’s known to have killed enemy troops hand-to-hand. He doesn’t look like it in person, acting like a secretary, but that’s who he is.”

  “There are MPs inside, right?”

  “Yeah.” They pushed through the front door. There was a small lobby, with a US flag on one side of the tile-floored room, a US Army flag on the other. Normally there’d be an armed military cop seated at the check-in window, but it was conspicuously vacant.

  “Huh,” Frelling said.

  “Yeah, huh,” Chance said. “Go out to the car, get our guns, bring ’em in here lickety-split.”

  “Should we get some MP backup from the checkpoint?”

  “Not yet. Maybe the guy’s just taking a pee break and they’re short-handed—but bring the guns. You take the carbine, I’ll take the automatic.”

  Frelling hurried out. Chance went to the open window in the wall and looked through into the next room. He didn’t see anyone at all. There was a desk phone with a blinking red light on it, out of his reach. It was a corded phone, which often was better for security. A swivel chair was pushed away from the counter. There was an outdated desktop PC and the door buzzer.

  Beyond was a small room and an open door to a hallway. He started to call out, then thought better of it. If he had to, he could get through.

  Frelling came in with guns and ammo. Chance took the niner. “Go to that side door there, I’ll see if I can buzz you in.”

  Frelling went to the door; Chance reached in, pressed the buzzer. No buzz. He pulled the little button console closer—and saw that a wire had been pulled out of the back. “Christ. I hate climbing through windows. Come on, Frelling.”

  He pushed the PC out of the way, put the gun on the counter inside, and clambered clumsily through the window, barking a shin in the process. “Shit.” He had to crawl onto the counter and swing his feet to the floor. “Hold on.”

  Chance went to the door into the lobby. It was locked, and the unlocking mechanism had been yanked out. “Can’t open it. You'll have to use the window.”

  Gun in hand, he waited for Frelling, who grunted and knocked the broken buzzer onto the floor as he climbed in.

  “Sorry, chief.”

  Chance picked up the phone, pressed a button marked “Front CP.”

  Petersley answered. “Yo.”

  “There’s nobody at the front desk, and someone’s pulled the buzzer wire. I don’t know where the MPs are. I need a couple of your guys in here.”

  “General Carney gave me strict orders, no one leaves their post. I can’t take orders from you, Chance.”

  “This is no time to get all grandma about chain of command!”

  “You don’t know General Carney like I do.”

  “I know him better than you do. Get in here!”

  “No can do. Maybe you can find someone else. Supposed to be guys patrolling the fence perimeter, but I haven’t seen them.”

  “Well, get ’em on the horn and… fuck, never mind.” He hung up and pressed a button that said “GM Office.” The phone rang. No answer. Then he heard Rowell’s voice. A recording.

  “General Roger Carney is not currently available. Please leave a message with your name and…”

  The bastard sounded so calm and professional.

  Chance hung up. “Come on.”

  He led the way down the hall behind the greeting counter, heading toward the administrative offices. The overhead lights fluttered. There was a smell in the air. A mixture of two rank scents. He remembered it from Beirut.

  They got to a cross-hallway. To the right were the administration offices, including Carney’s. Chance signaled Frelling to hang back, and edged up to peek around the corner. The hall was empty.

  No—no it wasn’t. There was something in a shadowy place, down at the end of the hall. A man sprawled on the floor. Chance turned to Frelling and spoke softly.

  “I think we’ve got a man down. Which could mean Rowell is free—and armed.”

  Frelling’s eyes widened. “All righty then.” He took a deep breath. “You going to let me go first this time, chief?”

  “Naw, just… watch my back. This hall runs both ways. Come on.” Chance looked around the corner again toward the figure sprawled on the floor, then started off, the gun heavy and cold in his hand. The smell he’d caught earlier grew stronger. Blood and gun smoke.

  Chance listened closely as he went, and heard muted voices, two angry men in a room farther down. No words emerged, just the tone, the short, sharp shape of the phrases.

  He and Frelling came upon the splayed body of an MP lying on his back, arms flung out: young, blond, with a startled look on his face, his eyes wide as if amazed at so early a death. His jaw was swollen, misshapen. There were three bloody holes in his chest and his sidearm was missing from its holster.

  Looked like Rowell had smashed the guy’s jaw—then disarmed him, shot him with his own gun.

  “Oh jeez,” Frelling muttered.

  “Quiet,” Chance whispered. They stepped carefully around the body and a congealing pool of blood, came to a partly open door. Chance raised his gun and pulled the door toward him. Another Army cop, dark skinned and black haired, lay face down, head at an awkward angle, his helmet lying beside him. No blood. Someone had broken his neck.

  No one was visible in the hallway beyond the dead man.

  Chance took a deep breath, his mouth paper-dry, and they stepped around this body, too. They were beside Carney’s office now. The door was open. No one inside. Papers littered the floor, and a couple of the framed pictures had been knocked from the wall. They looked around, and then went on. Chance came to a closed door that was clearly marked:

  INTEL CYBER A

  Authorized Personnel Only

  He’d been one of the authorized personnel, last time he was here, talking to Sergeant Susan Prosser and looking at photography of Russian satellites, including Gogol-1. They’d moved Susan to a mobile command post.

  Chance listened—and heard someone talking, more quietly now—and maybe the tone was bitter. The door to Intel Cyber A wasn’t completely closed. Chance carefully edged it a few inches open so he could hear what they were saying.

  “They’re going to rain hell on us.” Rowell’s voice. “And you’re going to die, Carney, unless you open the safe. Then we can both get out of here.”

  “I’m going to die anyway,” General Carney said, and he laughed acidly. “You’ll kill me. Maybe I deserve it. My son… I should have known better. I’ve lost a tubful of blood already, and I just don’t care.” He laughed again. “You haven’t got time to torture me, either. Just kill me and leave, you damned fool.”

  “I won’t kill you, Carney. You’ll make a great hostage.”

  “I won’t cooperate with being a hostage. And I don’t have the combination.”

  “If anyone has it, you do.”

  “You didn’t have to kill Lucy. She wasn’t going to get in your way.”

  “She ran. She’d have brought help. Now there’s no help coming. I’d have had all I need from here and been gone if you hadn’t changed the codes. It’s down to you, Carney.”

  “What happened to you, Rowell?” the General asked. “Brainwashed when you were captured, or what?”

  “No one brainwashed me!” Rowell seemed angry at the suggestion. “I’m going to be a millionaire many times over. I need those codes, Carney!”

  “Can’t help you. Not even my fault the codes are sequestered. The CIA was getting nervous, so they locked up the interceptor codes—and I do not have access.”

  “You’re lying, and I’m not tolerating any more stalling!”

  Chance pulled open the door and stepped softly into the hall beyond. Ahead was Intel Cyber A-2; to his right, frosted-glass double-doors to A-1 stood open. A big room humming with computer stations and screens. About eight meters inside the room, Rowell stood almost within reach of Carney, pointing a Glock pistol at him. The General was on his knees, his face swollen, blood dripping from his torn mouth.

  “Just fucking shoot me, asshole,” Carney barked, his head drooping.

  Chance extended his right arm and got a bead on Rowell, but even if he caught Rowell in the head, the man might get off a shot and kill the General.

  With his left hand, Chance reached back, gesturing hold there to warn Frelling not to make any quick moves.

  But Frelling was already stepping out, aiming his gun.

  “Rowell!” he shouted. Probably hoping to get Rowell to turn the gun away from Carney.

  It worked. Rowell swung the gun around but instantly fired, and Frelling grunted and fell back. Chance fired in return, and one of Rowell’s ears vanished in a small puff of blood.

  Rowell fired again and Chance felt a big steel baseball bat hit him in the left shoulder. The impact of the bullet in the bones of his shoulder spun him and he fell on his face.

  “No!” Carney yelled.

  There was a scuffling sound. In a strange state of detachment and numbness from the shock of the bullet, Chance rolled over and sat up, raising his gun. His right arm felt droopy, unnaturally heavy, but he willed it to raise the 9mm. Carney had tackled Rowell, knocked him over, but Rowell was aiming the gun. Another gunshot. Carney’s body jerked and went limp.

  Rowell got to his feet in time to turn to Chance, raise his gun—and get two quick rounds from Chance’s. The bullets caught Rowell in the throat and he staggered backward, trying to keep on his feet. His gun fired once, shattering one of the glass doors. Then he fell on his arching back, and his feet shook as he bled to death.

  Hellfire, Chance thought. We needed that prick for interrogation. Dammit, I need a cigarette.

  Frelling…

  Then the shock and pain rippled through him, and everything went velvety black.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Anatoly,” Krozkov said, “now is not the time for indecisiveness. You must give the order.”

  They were in the Russian President’s private conference chamber, as he styled it. In fact, it was merely an old-fashioned den, an elegant library where the books were probably never consulted. A very expensive antique, gold-inlaid mahogany table was placed in the center of the Persian carpet. Here the two men sat opposite one another, each with a crystal flute of vodka.

  “Krozkov, you are underestimating American pride,” Veronin said. He picked up the small glass of chilled vodka, held it under his nose, sniffed at it, and put it back down. “They will not stand for it. Our missiles are no longer faster than theirs.”

  “The Americans will cringe in fear if we use a nuclear warhead on their Base One, Anatoly. We can use the Putin II. Not a hydrogen warhead but it will make its point. They will accept that we have them under our guns from space, and they will surrender. At long last they will surrender to us!”

  “Or they won’t surrender.”

  “Historically, they have backed off. Except for the Cuban business, but that was so long ago—and in this game, with our orbital battle stations, we will have them checkmated.”

  Veronin rubbed his eyes wearily. “Krozkov, all our intelligence data suggest the Central Intelligence Agency knows full well that Gogol-1 is the only armed battle station we have in orbit, and they have so advised their President. The others have no personnel as yet. We do not have crews ready. We do not have nuclear warheads in our battle stations. We could not move a nuclear warhead to the battle station without it being detected.

  “We could bluff,” he continued, “but—they would not believe us because they have very good intelligence on the matter. You got us in too deeply, too soon, when you fired on the S-7. And now this attack on Base One! They shot down our missile quite handily.”

  “We were only trying to get an estimate of their anti-ballistic capability,” Krozkov countered. “We had heard these new ones installed at Base One were not reliable, but that data was outdated. So now we know, Anatoly. We make adjustments, and we will fire two missiles at their anti-ballistic system—”

  “They launch from within a hardened bunker, Krozkov,” the President said, sighing. “There are launch tubes inside the bunker.”

  Krozkov was a little surprised that the elderly President was so up-to-date on military intelligence. Krozkov cleared his throat and took a sip of vodka.

  “Very good vodka. Your own brand?”

  “From one of my distilleries.” Veronin sipped a little and then said, “I am still considering my options with regard to Gogol-1, Vladimir. It may be that we have gone too far to stop this. Their Congress is already calling for sanctions against us, and the sanctions will come. They have moved their new stealth battleships—the Zumwalt destroyers—into the Bering Sea and the Arctic Circle.”

  “It was I who sent you that memo. They imagine that we’re unaware of the stealth ships, but they can be seen if you know what to look for. It’s only saber-rattling.”

  Veronin snorted. “They have moved to Defcon Two! The United Nations is more unified than usual in this matter—they, too, will mount sanctions against us. Already we are excluded from the security council.” He scowled and shook his head. “It may be that we are indeed left no viable choice but a decisive military option.

  “Perhaps if Gogol-1 can destroy the command base,” he said, “the American SubOrbitals will be thrown into confusion and we will have time to man the other battle stations and supply them with nuclear warheads—as covertly as we can. After the base is destroyed, we could stall them by calling for a ceasefire—the Americans rarely turn them down. Then, we decide if we’re to break the ceasefire.”

  “With sanctions already underway, and the Americans moving toward war, there is no point to holding back—you are saying it yourself,” the spymaster crowed.

  “The point? The point, Krozkov, is that they have at least as many nuclear weapons as we do, and most of their S-series spacecraft are at other bases. They could easily arm them. There are rumors of the US Air Force working on retrofitting the SubOrbitals with nuclear weapons. So, you see… I don’t know. Not yet.”

  Perhaps, Krozkov thought, it was time to make his move. He had planned to wait till next year. He had the sequence worked out with certain of his agents, and certain high functionaries. They would drug Veronin’s bodyguards, then remove Veronin himself in a “medical emergency.”

  They would say he’d had a stroke—and he would be under guard, cut off from communication, unable to deny it. Then Krozkov would be made “president pro tem”—a supposedly temporary takeover that would become permanent. After a respectable time, Veronin would “die peacefully in his sleep.”

  If he acted forcefully against the American space command, he would seem to all Russia like the right man at the right time. Strong, and proactive.