Stephen Coonts - Combat

When he was finished, Eric leaned back in his seat, pushed his chair away from his workstation, and looked up at the big screen. Slowly, he checked each line he had altered, character by character. When he had finished, he twisted about in his seat and looked up at Bobby Sung. “What do you think, old boy?”

Sung, who had been watching every move Eric had made, took another long look at the big screen before he nodded in approval. “Bloody good show, old boy. I’d say we have a keeper here.”

Though annoyed by their lighthearted manner, Reitter said nothing. The two Cyberknights, like everyone else in the Pit, were under a great deal of pressure.

When the hackers were satisfied, Eric next turned to his left. “Do you see anything that needs a second look?”

Both the systems expert and the language/programs expert took a few extra moments to scan the altered settings and formulas. In turn, each gave Eric a thumbs-up when they were satisfied.

With that, Eric glanced back at the pathfinder. “Okay, Scottie. Take us home.” As was his particular habit, the pathfinder clicked his heels three times, repeating the old cliché, “there’s no place like home,” each time while he backed out of the chemical plant’s main computer and prepared to quit the Internet. Finished, he clapped his hands. “We’re out.”

Without hesitation, Reitter called out over his boom mike. “Comms, break down the link. I say again, break down the link.”

In the Pit, the red banner that warned that they were connected to the World Wide Web suddenly disappeared. Standing up, Reitter looked about the room. “It is now nineteen thirty-five hours. Our initial afteraction review will take place commencing twenty hundred in the main conference room.” Though this briefing was standard, the assembled team let out a collective groan. Then, without further ado, all of the players began to gather up the material they had brought with them and prepared to leave.

From his seat in the Spook Booth, the representative of the National Security Council blinked before he looked over at Shrewsbery, then at the NSA and CIA reps. “That’s it?” he asked incredulously.

As one, everyone connected to the 401st, as well as the special agents from the CIA and NSA, looked about, wondering if they had missed something. Confused, Shrewsbery looked back at the NSC rep. “What were you expecting? Armageddon?”

“Well,” the NSC rep asked, still not sure of what had just taken place, “how do you know if you’ve succeeded?”

Shrewsbery did his best to hide his disgust. It was obvious that this refugee from inside the Beltway had expected to see explosions and death and destruction in real time, just like in the movies. When he had composed himself, Shrewsbery stood up. “Well,” he stated as tactfully as he could, “as far as the Trojan horse goes, it will be a few days before the NSA will know just how effective that is.”

“What about the chemical plant?”

Shrewsbery shrugged. “My advice is to watch CNN tomorrow morning. If we succeeded, it’ll be all over the news.”

“And the ploy to foment distrust between the two nations?” the NSC rep continued.

“That, sir,” Shrewsbery answered, making no effort to hide his irritation, “we may never know.”

Stymied, the civilian advisor stood there, looking about at the men and women gathered about in the Spook Booth. “So, that’s it? This is how we will go about fighting our wars in the twenty-first century?”

Bowing his head, Colonel Shrewsbery reflected upon that comment for a moment. He had asked himself the same question time and time again until the truth had finally sunk in. “Yes,” he answered, making no effort to hide the regret he felt over this state of affairs. “That’s pretty much it.” Then, sporting a wicked smile, he looked over at the NSA rep and gave him a wink. “Last person out, please turn off the lights.”

Without another word, the infantry colonel pivoted about and made for the exit. In so many ways, his job was finished.

HAROLD W. COYLE graduated from the Virginia Military Institute in 1974 with a B.A. in history and a commission as a second lieutenant in Armor.

His first assignment was in Germany, where he served for five years as a tank platoon leader, a tank company executive officer, a tank battalion assistant operations officer, and as a tank company commander. Following that he attended the Infantry Officers Advanced Course at Fort Benning, Georgia, became a branch chief in the Armor School’s Weapons Department at Fort Knox, Kentucky, worked with the National Guard in New England, spent a year in the Republic of Korea as an assistant operations officer, and went to Fort Hood, Texas, for a tour of duty as the G-3 Training officer of the First Cavalry Division and the operations officer of Task Force I-32 Armor, a combined arms maneuver task force.

His last assignment with the Army was at the the Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. In January 1991 he reported to the Third Army, with which he served during Desert Storm. Resigning his commission after returning from the Gulf in the spring of 1991, he continues to serve as a lieutenant colonel in the Army’s Individual Ready Reserve. He writes full-time and has produced the following novels: Team Yankee, Sword Point, Bright Star, Trial by Fire, The Ten Thousand, Code of Honor, Look Away, Until the End, Savage Wilderness, and God’s Children.

The soft whirl of the Environmental Control and Life Support System broke the silence of space, the dead calm that Russian Mission Specialist Sergei Dudayev had grown to detest since his arrival at the International Space Station three months before. He knew he didn’t belong there, in the pressurized cylindrical modules that had been his entire world for what now seemed like an eternity. A place where “up” and “down” had no meaning, no significance. A state-of-the-art rat cage where humans worked, ate, and slept protected from outer space by layers of metal alloys and insulating compounds.

Outer space. Sergei frowned as he gazed out through the Habitation Module’s panoramic windowpanes at the light cloud coverage over southern Africa. The Earth looked peaceful, quiet, majestic.

At five-foot-four, the thirty-year-old Russian cosmonaut was a short man, particularly when standing next to his American or European colleagues. With a neatly trimmed beard, hollow cheeks, and charming smile, Sergei gave the impression of someone who found no pleasure in food. In his long, bony face, Sergei’s alert, rather feminine eyes had an Italian softness that made people feel at ease with him. Today, he was banking on his natural ability to make everyone inside the International Space Station feel comfortable in his presence.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the sound of his own breathing as he prepared himself mentally for what he had to do. He felt his heartbeat increasing, the adrenaline rush, the perspiration forming on his creased forehead.

He opened his eyes and stared at a perfectly round bead of sweat floating inches from his face. He placed his index finger and thumb around it and toyed with it for a few seconds before squashing it. The silent explosion projected hundreds of tiny liquid particles in an isotropic that slowly trended upward as they got sucked in by the airrevitalization-system extractors overhead.

The time had come. With Atlantis heading back down to Earth and the launch of the shuttle Endeavour at the cape being delayed by a week, the ISS’s regular crew of eight had been temporarily reduced to five, including himself.