Don Pendleton - Splintered Sky

A layer of charcoal filtering underneath the Land Warrior suits would provide some protection, but gamma radiation was of a powerful, high-frequency energy wave that required high-density materials, such as lead aprons, to stop it. Unfortunately, that kind of protective covering would prove too bulky to wear into a stealth operation, and would hinder movement to such a degree that a firefight would leave them as practically stationary targets.

McCarter’s satellite phone warbled and he picked it up. “News?”

“We’ve been digging into SAD internal communiqués. We ended up with a few discarded, zero-filed memos in their trash,” Barbara Price announced. “Someone’s keeping information in SAD from getting out about anomalies in their military launch programs. The higher-ups are not getting discrepancies in field reports on their threat matrix because someone’s deleting them.”

“I knew it didn’t make sense for the Chinese to try something big against the International Space Station,” McCarter said. “It’s too risky a move that could start a nuclear exchange.”

“Renegade factions inside Chinese intel?” Price mused. “Or someone who tapped into them?”

“We’ll have a chinwag with the blokes running the joint when we drop in, Barb,” McCarter returned.

“We’ll keep tracing SAD communications to see if there’s evidence of a larger conspiracy within the government,” Price said. “So far, the way they’re smoke stacking the information, it looks like it might just be a small cadre involved, probably reinforced by international support.”

A beep sounded, distracting Price. She put McCarter on hold for a few moments.

“We’ve got confirmation of activity in Mexico,” Price broke in. “Able encountered a group of enemy soldiers in Sonora, utilizing an airstrip. They reinforced it with antiaircraft machine guns and a full squadron of aircraft on hand.”

“Any escapes?” McCarter asked.

“Carl has confirmed that the same one who got away from them at the border was at the strip. He took off under a wave of suppression fire, but he was the only one who did,” Price said. “We’ve got satellites tracking their plane.”

McCarter rubbed his chin. “Then he won’t get away.”

“You sound doubtful,” Price noted.

McCarter looked at the satellite photographs of the Phoenix Graveyard launch facility. “They obviously have to know that their activities are being watched by us. We’ve got enough eyes in the sky—”

“Image failure,” Price interrupted. “Bear’s reporting that we’ve lost satellite imaging on your insertion point.”

“Looks like the Chinese have found their own copy of the antisatellite laser that Striker took out a while ago,” McCarter commented. “It’s no surprise that the Chinese ‘borrow’ technology from the Russians, whether Moscow wants them to or not.”

“Damn it!” Price exclaimed. “Bear, we need to get on the horn to NRO now. Shift orbits for their birds over Sonora now.”

“It’ll take time to shift aim to take out anything in the sky over Mexico,” McCarter stated. “We’re talking vastly different orbital arcs.”

“Not necessarily,” Price returned. “So far, our flyer is heading due south and skimming the dune tops, hoping to lose himself in ground clutter through Mexican airspace. Obviously, our boy will have a refueling point somewhere in his operational range, and the time it takes to reach that distance, the laser might be recalibrated and ready to take down those satellites.”

“Do you have anything else?” McCarter asked.

“We’re monitoring VOR and local airfield radar, but again, he’s flying nap of the earth,” Price stated.

“He’ll keep his radar footprint faint until the satellites are knocked out,” McCarter grumbled.

“Have you prepped for insertion?” Price asked. “Maybe you could figure out where the laser came from.”

“The camouflage paint will cure on the rifles and gear during the flight,” McCarter replied. “There’s nothing on the ground in China indicating a laser with the kind of reach to knock out a satellite. The Skysniper was a huge piece of machinery, the size of a railroad car, and it needed a lot of power. I don’t see anything indicative of such a system.”

“Maybe not on the ground in China,” Price said. “Though I wouldn’t put it past the Chinese to have a laser system.”

“What about the plasma engine missiles? Striker destroyed their production facility, but perhaps enough technicians survived who remembered the basic layout. Those things had enough energy to reach escape velocity.”

“We’re scanning for possible launch sites in Southeast Asia,” Price returned. “So far, nothing matches any signatures that we’re familiar with. The missiles were fast, but that kind of velocity produces sonic shock waves. Listening posts are directed across mainland China to see if there have been such devices still in service, but we’re talking a large land mass, with plenty of valleys to hide those tests.”

“So it’s up to us to go up to our elbows, sifting through the entrails,” McCarter stated. “All while the Chinese government might be setting up a trap for us by making it look like they don’t know about this.”

“Watch your back, David,” Price admonished.

“I will, Barb,” McCarter returned.

The transport plane had given the signal. They were going to take off on a route toward Thailand. Along the way, Phoenix Force would disembark, provided they weren’t blown out of the sky by Chinese interceptors or antiaircraft installations. Then there was the Phoenix Graveyard itself, full of armed guards and potential terrorists.

All of this taking place on a deadline that, by every indication, would run out when the next shuttle from NASA was sent up to the International Space Station.

In one way or another, the stars were going to be bloodied. Whether that blood would drip like venom across the Earth was up to the warriors of Stony Man Farm.

Kennedy Space Center, Cape Canaveral, Florida

C APTAIN J ORDAN B ROOME went over the preflight checklist, looking for the slightest discrepancies that could ground the shuttle flight. The loss of Colombia due to broken heat shielding was proof of the fact that every detail had to be gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Even before the other shuttle disasters, the NASA crews performed “belt and suspender” checks to back up maintenance technicians.

His desk phone rang, and Broome picked up.

“Jordie? We’ve got a problem with the upcoming flight,” Dr. Alexander Thet, the ground control coordinator for the upcoming mission, spoke hurriedly into the line. “Could you pop over to my office?”

“You can’t tell me over the phone, Xander?” Broome asked.

“Your office doesn’t have a secure link. Mine does,” Thet answered.

“Secure link?”

“That bad. And the man on the other end doesn’t want to run up a phone bill,” Thet told him. “Move it.”

Broome hung up and rushed down the hall to Thet’s office. Thet was a small, pale man with a receding hairline and washed-out blond hair, so light it could almost be white. In comparison, there was a large, burly guy in a rumpled suit.

“Jord, Hal Brognola. Hal, Captain Jordan Broome,” Thet said by way of introduction. He gestured to the video monitor with a small camera on the top. “I suppose I don’t have to introduce the President, do I?”

Broome shook his head. “What’s wrong?”

“Around midnight, there was an incident at a scientific testing facility in southern Arizona,” the President said.

“The new hydrogen cell maneuvering thrusters?” Broome asked.

“Exactly. We lost the shipment,” the President told him. “Mr. Brognola is going to be my liaison to you on this. We believe this might be more than just a sabotage attempt against technology.”