SubOrbital 7 E-Book

John Shirley

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

A routine rescue mission leaves a team of US soldiers, rescued hostages and a prisoner trapped above Earth in a suborbital craft, in this cinematic action-packed near-future thriller, perfect for fans of Tom Clancy and Jack Carr. "This is the kind of book that gives military SF a good name." Financial Times Lieutenant Art Burkett, US Rangers Airborne, is called up to take part in an urgent rescue mission, using an innovative insertion from orbit. Three scientists have been kidnapped by the terrorist group Thieves in Law and their combined knowledge could result in worldwide devastation. The rescue is swift but violent. Art and his team return to SubOrbital 7, the military space-plane they landed in, intending to return to safety with hostages rescued and prisoners in tow. But Thieves in Law are not the only people looking for SubOrbital 7 and its occupants. With casualties onboard the orbiting craft and a dwindling oxygen supply, Art and his team must fight an ever-growing threat before time runs out for them, and possibly for the rest of the world.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Acknowledgements

About the Author

PRAISE FOR JOHN SHIRLEY

“John Shirley’s acerbic humor is a perfect match for his sense of doom and adventure. One of his best. Buckle in!”

—Greg Bear, author of Blood Music and The Unfinished Land

“One of our best and most singular writers. A powerhouse of ideas and imagery.”

—William Gibson, author of Agency and Neuromancer

ALSO BY JOHN SHIRLEY

Stormland

City Come A-Walkin’

The A Song Called Youth Trilogy: Eclipse

Eclipse PenumbraEclipse Corona

Black Butterflies: A Flock on the Dark Side

The Feverish Stars

ALSO BY JOHN SHIRLEY AND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

Bioshock: Rapture

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SUBORBITAL 7

Print edition ISBN: 9781803363820

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803363837

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: June 2023

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2023 by Alcon Publishing LLC. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To all the US Army Rangers; those fallen,and those still fighting

PROLOGUE

GENEVA, SWITZERLAND

Professor Frederic Dupon strolled beside the Rhone River on a cool night in May. He was walking home from the neuronics lab, and watching the moon rippling on the water. Thoughts of frontal lobe stimuli scans gave way to wondering if he could get his pretty neighbor Hilda to come out and gaze at the moon with him. Didn’t full moons have some sort of romantic effect?

He had never subjected the claim to a scientific test.

Dupon heard a soft motor noise, caught a peripheral glimpse of something slinking up closer, long and specter-white. He turned, frowning, and saw an ivory van pacing him, its windows impenetrably black.

His mouth went dry and he hurried on, walking faster. The electric van kept pace. It was almost silent. The only other sounds were the lapping of the waves against the retaining wall and the distant rumble of a jet.

Dupon stopped, to see if the vehicle would pass him.

It did.

And then it suddenly nosed into the curb, blocking his way.

The professor froze, remembering a smartband call from Hans Quorgasse.

“Dupon,” the EuroIntel operative had said, “your workhas attracted interest in the East. You will need additional security.”

“What do you know of my work?” Dupon asked in irritation. “It is classified!”

“I know about the spaceflight applications. We’re sending some people to support Kessid security.”

Dupon relaxed. The van must contain the men from EuroIntel. As much as he loathed such skullduggery, at that moment it seemed reassuring.

The back of the van opened, and a drone emerged, about the width of a bicycle’s handlebars. It hovered, running a scanning laser over him.

“Professor Dupon?” a filtered voice said. Before he could respond, however, another voice emanated from the drone.

“It’s him you idiot,” the second voice said. “Just do it.”

A screech of tires caused Dupon to jump. A second vehicle pulled up — a long black car. Two men clambered out and drew sidearms. One was Quorgasse, from EuroIntel. The other flashed a badge.

“Professor, get in!” he barked.

Before Dupon could react, quick coughing sounds came from within the van, accompanied by a stuttering of muzzle flashes. The two newcomers sprawled backward as their skulls shattered with a precision that became a bloody mess on the hood of the car. Their lifeless bodies crumpled to the ground.

That did it. Dupon turned to run. He heard the hum of the drones following.

Something hissed, and he felt a stinging on the back of his neck.

Tranquilizer darts… fired bydrone…

He kept moving—another three steps, and then his legs turned to rubber. He lurched face-forward to the sidewalk.

When he hit the concrete, he thought, dreamily: This is what it feels like to shatter mynose…

ONE

ARMSTRONG, ARIZONA, UNITED STATESFIFTY MILES FROM PHOENIX

Art Burkett drove the Chevy Hydro all too slowly through the Cactus Flats suburb of Armstrong. He’d have driven much faster if it wasn’t a Saturday afternoon. The streets were bubbling with kids.

Boys raced on electric skateboards and scooters. Two girls played drone-ball in the middle of the street, one throwing the ball, the other directing a drone to catch it. For a distracted moment Burkett thought he saw an orbcraft soaring above, but then he spotted a smiling dad showing his son how to operate the flying model of a spaceplane.

Maybe get Nate one ofthose…

His house was part of this development—anyway, it used to be his house, before Ashley insisted on the separation. Technically he was still the co-owner, but it didn’t feel that way. The first lieutenant lived on the Army base now—SubOrbital Base Three, a good eighteen miles away from the housing project they’d lived in for four years. Rangers quarters for officers weren’t bad, but they weren’t home.

These were big houses, all from the same developer, with some variation to break up the architectural monotony. Burkett thought the minor differences so predictable they were just as monotonous, but the development had been built fourteen years ago, in 2027, and its inhabitants had given it character. People painted the houses distinctively, put up quaint little lawn sculptures, seasonal flags, their own choices in foliage—trees, rose bushes, small palms, and desert plants in Spanish-style pots.

The tract mostly housed military families or locals whose businesses catered to the armed forces. There was USAF Sergeant Carlson, in jeans and T-shirt, working in his driveway on a classic muscle car from the 1970s. Carlson glanced up from beneath the hood of the Trans Am and waved at him, and Burkett waved back. He and Carlson had both served in the Second Venezuelan War, and Carlson had flown the heli for Burkett’s team, dropping them over a coca plantation with two other squadrons of the 75th Airborne Rangers.

Burkett tried to steer his mind away from that memory, but he seemed to see again the pink-gray dawn light outlining glider chutes, attracting heavy fire from the cartel-funded nationalists camped at the plantation. “Slim” Mersener and Gabrielle Velasquez, shot to pieces on both sides of him before they even hit the ground. Gore, blossoming in the sky.

Feldman’s armor protected him some—he only lost an eye, and a lot of the feeling in the right side of his body…

Don’t think about that. There’s the house.

My house, and not my house, he thought bitterly, pulling up in front. Ashley didn’t want him pulling into the driveway. Said it blocked her little Hydro II, but it was more than that, or so Burkett suspected. It was symbolic.

“You don’t get a place in my parking space, Art, until you change your mind.”

Stepping out of the car, Burkett walked up the driveway. He felt a buzzing in his shirt pocket, and grimaced. This was his day off, he was fresh in his civvies, ready for miniature golf with his son. So naturally…

Stopping at the front porch, he took out the phone—awarethat Ashley was watching him through the front window—and read the text.

PER USSPACECOM, IC2, 1LABURKETT: R-INTEL ORDERS:RETURN TO OPS 3 WITHOUT DELAY, SADDLE UP FOR QRFBRIEFING & DEP PER. GEN. CARNEY, USAR

“Dep.” Deployment.

They were going up.

“QRF” for Quick Response Force, a loose usage of the term considering their style. Another time Burkett would have welcomed these orders. The team had been kept on tenterhooks for weeks, prodded by hints about a deep-insert covert op in Eastern Europe. He’d been feeling that inner keenness, that welcome tension, since the first briefing, and was more than ready for the mission.

But not today.

“Well, what’s the word?” Ashley asked. She stood on the other side of the screen door, arms crossed, gazing calmly at him with her crystal-blue eyes. She was trying to keep her expression neutral, but Burkett thought he saw sadness in the set of her mouth. Or was that anger?

“Deployment.” Burkett sighed. “Report immediately.”

She snorted. “Really?”

“Yeah, Ashley,” Burkett said. “Really.”

Crisply attractive, slim, long-legged, and tanned, Ashley was five-nine to his six-two, wearing shorts and a peach-colored blouse. Her silky blond hair was short on the sides now, with a ruffled spikiness on top. He missed the long blond hair that had fallen past her shoulders. That style had said “relaxed.” This new one was fashionable and pretty but off-putting—at least to Burkett.

Message received, Ashley.

Now she had a Māori-style tattoo as well, resembling a bracelet around her right wrist. The skin still slightly red and puffy around the ink. He decided not to ask her about the tat. Burkett reached out and opened the screen door. The text wasn’t classified so he showed it to her. She glanced at it and gave a quick nod.

“The Army has unerringly shitty timing,” she said. “As usual.”

“Dad!” It was Nate, coming up behind his mom. Eight years old, he had her slimness, her blond hair, and blue eyes, but he had the faint makings of the craggy planes of Burkett’s face. Looking around his mother, the boy looked worried, glancing questioningly at Ashley as she continued to block Art’s way at the door.

“Hey, Private First-Class Nate Burkett,” Art said, forcing a smile. “What’s up?”

“Gettin’ ready to go.”

Burkett gave his son a rueful look. “Afraid something’s come up.” His heart sank as he said it. He handed Nate the phone. The boy peered at the message.

“Saddle up?” the boy said. “Now?”

“Yep,” Burkett replied, “and you know how it is with the Army. When they say jump, I gotta jump. It’s in my contract.”

“A fifteen-year-old recruitment contract,” Ashley said dryly. “That has to be renewed next year.”

There it was—the thorn in their marriage. He wanted to re-up. She didn’t. Ashley thought he was crazy not to take a civilian job, one that had been on offer for months now, at triple his current salary. Security consultancy, no risk. Nobody shooting at him.

“You should’ve been a captain years ago,” she continued. “A silver star, two bronze stars, five purple hearts, more combat leadership than…”

Never shouting, laying it out coolly. An assistant prosecutor for seven years, she had all the arguments down. Ashley taught a law class at Armstrong Community College, and wanted to go for a full professorship somewhere, but didn’t feel as if she could do it with Burkett gone so much. Not when there was a damned good possibility he wouldn’t come back from one of these deployments.

Nate poked around on Burkett’s phone, looking a little sullen. Burkett gently took it back.

“You know how it will be when you get to the base, Arthur,” Ashley said. “They’re just going to make you wait. Why don’t you and Nate—”

“No, Ashley,” he said. “Last time I pulled that they sent a drone to find me. The S-7 is always fueled and ready.”

“What you gonna have to do on this mission, Dad?” Nate asked, squinting up at him with his head tilted, his mouth squiggled like he was trying not to cry. Burkett went down on one knee and hugged him. The boy put his head on Burkett’s shoulder.

He felt a twisting feeling of shame at letting his son down.

Get a grip, he told himself.

“Nate, it’s a combat deployment,” he said. “That’s all I can tell you, except that I’m going to be super, crazy, way-way careful, and the people I’m going with are going to watch my back. They’re the best, son.” He leaned back to look into Nate’s eyes. “Listen, the instant I’m back, I’m going to apply for special furlough and we’re gonna do a lot together…” Mentally adding, if your mom allows it. “But right now, I’ve got to go. Rangers always stand ready.”

Burkett gently drew away from the boy, stood up, and stuck out a fist. Lower lip quivering, Nate dutifully fist-bumped him back. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Burkett turned to Ashley.

“We’ll talk when I get back.”

“Yes,” she said, crossing her arms. “We will.”

“What are the odds of a hug, Ash?”

Her eyes glinted at the edge of tears. Suddenly she reached out, hugged Burkett—once, and quickly—her arms taut on his shoulders. She never said it aloud, but he knew what she was feeling.

This time is it. This will be the one.

Oddly enough, he hoped it was the real reason for the separation. That would mean she still loved him. Ashley pretended it was about money and her career, but she had knowingly married a Ranger. He figured she was afraid he’d leave her a widow and Nate fatherless.

But what if he was wrong? What if there was some other reason? Something he didn’t know about.

She drew back and took Nate’s hand.

“Come on, Nate. Me, you, and Jerry’ll go to the PCS picnic. There’s some fun stuff set up.”

“Jerry?” Burkett said. “You and Jerry have plans?” He kept his voice level.

She rolled her eyes. “Police Community Services picnic, Art. I told you about it a week ago. We’re doing the face-painting booth for the kids.”

Jerry. Sheriff’s Deputy Gerald Baker. A vet and an old friend, but one who often let his eyes linger on Ashley. Maybe, Burkett thought, it really is time to leave the Rangers.

But not yet.

“Right,” he said. “The picnic.” Burkett took a deep breath, winked at his son, gave Ashley all the smile he could manage, and walked back to the car, feeling like he’d just slung a hundred-pound rucksack on his back. As he pulled out and drove slowly away from the house, he passed a familiar black SUV.

Jerry didn’t look his way.

Growling to himself, Burkett wove through the obstacle course of children and families and out to the desert highway.

Now he pressed down on the accelerator.

SubOrbital 7 was waiting to take him, his captain, and a squad of men into orbit for a black-op insert. In less than three hours he might be in a battlefield on the other side of the Earth.

Burkett pushed the car to eighty-five, driving down the long straight highway that split the desert. To either side, cacti were effulgent with thick yellow blooms, almost glowing in the bright sun, and in the distance red-stone outcroppings rose with a curious wind-carved grace. Sometimes Burkett savored the view, but now he focused on the necessary mental acrobatics. Changed his inner center of gravity, turning to fully face the mission.

Closer to the base, his inward shift was almost complete. Through the gate, past the checkpoint. By the time he had changed into his ACU—Army Combat Uniform, complete with the Rangers tab—he was mission-ready. It was something a Ranger learned. Especially an officer bound for combat.

“You’ve got to be more ready than the non-coms and the enlisted men,” Major Corliss had told him, when he first got his first platoon. “Because you’re going to lead those men right into the Valley of the Shadow of Death.”

TWO

SUBORB BASE THREEARIZONA

Burkett put on his tan beret—something he wore for briefings, not combat—and reported to what Captain Randall Mayweather liked to call the “ready room,” though the term originated with aircraft carrier pilots.

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—battlefieldwell—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… Holdon…”

“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.

Carney’s berth and Ildeva’s should’ve been occupied by more experienced Rangers. Maybe this would be Carney’s chance to prove himself. General Carney—in charge of the SubOrbital Drop-Heavy program—had wedged his son into the assignment. Burkett had to admit to himself that he had a prejudice against the young officer.

“How’s it look, Art?” Captain Mayweather asked, joining him at the bottom of the ramp. Neither man had rucks or weapons—orderlies from ground crew had already loaded in the officers' gear.

“Good team, mostly. But Carney? Really?”

Mayweather sighed. “He seems to have gotten through most of his commando training…”

Burkett grimaced. “Most of it?” Even after army commando school, Carney couldn’t be half as qualified as the others. He’d never been a Ranger.

Ranger training was famously rigorous. An average of only forty-five percent of trainees made it through. Some died in training—of hypothermia or hyperthermia, of snakebite, of drowning, of heart attack. Ranger training was designed to push soldiers close to death, because combat would take them there later. Having Carney plugged into a squad of Rangers was like a spoiled terrier yipping behind a pack of attack Dobermans.

General Carney wouldn’t understand—he’d never been a Ranger either.

“Can’t we find a reason to scrub him from the mission?”

“He was added to the list last minute—probably so we couldn’t do that,” Mayweather replied. “I suspect Hassner was transferred out to S-9 so Lieutenant Carney could be dropped on us.” He grimaced. “Maybe Rod could say Carney’s got flu symptoms, but the General would know what was up. So—naw.”He rubbed his nose. “And the General wants him in the action, told me that on the phone. ‘Don’t leave him at the orbcraft.’”

Burkett nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on him. Maybe he’s better than he looks. You said something else about new ordnance, Captain?”

“Yeah, it’s another one of those half-tested jobs,” Mayweather said. “Talos III, based on the Talos combat suit.”

“Talos power armor? They finally get one to work?”

“This one’s supposed to.”

“They always say that.”

“It hasn’t been tested in combat, but Corporal Dabiri used to be a tester for Talos prototypes, so he’s got familiarity. He’s going to test this model on the mission.”

“Without having tried it before today.”

“Oh, yeah.” Mayweather shook his head and gave a sour grin. “It’s the General’s way.”

“Why does he do that?” Burkett said. “Has he got some kind of investment in the company that makes ’em?” This was talking trash to a superior officer about an even more superior officer, but Burkett and Mayweather were tight—they’d each saved the other’s life more than once. Mayweather treated him like a man of equal rank.

“Not legally.” The captain shrugged. “But people have ways.” Mayweather clomped up the titanium ramp and Burkett followed him into the S-7’s fuselage.

Thirty seconds later the ramp whirred up and locked firmly into place. A few minutes more, and the S-7 began atmosphere control as the mothership began rumbling onto the runway.

THREE

MONASTERY OF ST. BASILMOLDOVA

Frederic Dupon was certain he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He was already in pain with his broken nose, and he was endlessly terrified. Worse was coming. Today, they would begin the torture.

“In the natural course of things,” Lutzoff had said carelessly.

As Dupon contemplated impending torture, the non-disclosure oath he had signed with the European Union seemed to wither in his mind. It now seemed absurd. Lying on his bunk—heart pounding, belly rippling with nausea—he remembered what Lutzoff had told him, just two nights before.

“You know, Frederic,” the oily, balding Russian said, Adam’s apple bobbing on his long neck, “this monastery was built by monks devoted to St. Basil, who was a true fanatic. They came from Russia to build it, all because Basil had a vision. It took many years to complete it, and much determination. Look at it now! Crumbling at the edges, abandoned but for us! Their precious chapel used to store dried meat and toilet paper.

“Things are built, and they fall apart, Frederic. The European Union crushes national identity a little more each year. Nothing lasts, nothing matters. Loyalty is for family and friends and oneself. I myself do not waste it on anything else. I am—” He shrugged ruefully, and adjusted his white coat. “—justa well-paid hireling. They employ me because I work carefully. I have a special method. Please understand, however, I do not stop till it is finished, Frederic. However—if you choose to help us, we will move you and your mother and father to a safe place.