Ian Douglas - The Complete Heritage Trilogy - Semper Mars, Luna Marine, Europa Strike

But evidently, Cheyenne Mountain had other things in mind.

Shepard MOP was not exactly a spaceship. It had all of the maneuverability of an elephant in free fall. Still, a rack of strap-on B-30 maneuvering thrusters attached to the external tank’s framework gave them the ability to change orbit within certain fairly narrow parameters, enough to pass over a particular target on the ground at a specified time. If Colorado wanted them to engage in a burn within the next few minutes, it was because they had a particular destination in mind, one with a fairly narrow access window. That argued that they were trying to manage an orbital rendezvous.

Seven minutes wasn’t much time. The Hecate laser was a delicate piece of equipment, and parts had to be strapped down before any delta-v maneuver.

“Let’s hump it, Fred,” Dahlgren called. Together, they began securing the laser. Two hundred miles below them, the cruise missile continued streaking north, just a few feet above the Gulf of Mexico.

SATURDAY, 9 JUNE: 1929 HOURS GMT

Office of the President

White House Basement,

Washington DC

1529 hours EDT

The president looked a lot older now than he had the last time Admiral Gray had seen him, less than twenty-four hours before. The familiar, easy, politician’s grin, the engaging and confident manner, both were gone. Markham was slumped into the big executive’s chair behind the desk, head supported on one hand, eyes bleak as he stared at the muted images flickering across the wall screen to his right. Net News had gotten back on the air again this morning, despite the cruise missile strike that had taken out its broadcast antenna in Silver Springs.

“So?” Markham’s voice was muffled by his hand. “How are we holding, CJ?”

“We’re doing better than we expected, Mr. President.” Gray laid a folder on the president’s desk. “Our air-defense forces, air national guard, naval air groups, and other assets, we estimate, have accounted for approximately four hundred cruise missiles, or roughly sixty-five percent of what they’ve thrown at us so far.”

“You’re saying over two hundred missiles have gotten through.”

Louis Harrel, standing at Gray’s side, nodded. “Two hundred fourteen, as of the latest count, Mr. President.”

On the big wall screen, Carlotta Braun’s dark features stared down at the three men, her too-red lips moving soundlessly. Abruptly, the scene shifted to an aerial view of Washington. The Mall was visible, a long green rectangle reaching toward the familiar, white-domed majesty of the Capitol Building. Something—a tiny, white something like a child’s glider—was streaking along the Mall, chasing its own shadow on the ground. In a heartbeat, it streaked past the Air and Space Museum, passed Fourth and Third Streets and the Capital Reflecting Pool, and arrowed squarely into the Capitol’s west side, detonating inside the Rotunda.

The explosion blew out windows, pieces of stone wall, and several Greek columns. The Capitol steps, mercifully, were empty of people, but the blast flipped several hydrogen-fueled cars parked on the drive below and lashed nearby cherry trees with hurricane winds. For an agonizing several seconds, nothing more happened. Then the huge dome seemed to settle slightly, cracked, then collapsed inward as chunks of white stone crashed down in a billowing avalanche into the gutted center of the building.

Braun’s face reappeared, lips moving.

“They’ve been showing that same damned news clip for three hours now,” President Markham said bitterly. “Can’t they find some other piece of death and mayhem to bombard the public with?”

“This must be playing holy hell with national morale,” Harrel said.

“It is,” the president agreed. “And the answer is, what? Invoke government censorship?”

“This is war, Mr. President,” Harrel said.

“Those days are long over,” the president said. “Even if we could censor the netnews—and I’m not sure we could—the people would just get their news from outside the country, and you know the spin they’re putting on things.” He gestured at the screen. “At least they know they’re getting an honest account here, and we’ll need that when the tide turns.” He looked at Gray.

“We can expect a turning, can’t we, Admiral? Please tell me there’s a bright side to all of this.”

“We expect a break in the attack soon, Mr. President,” Gray said. “Our estimates of the number of missiles in their stores suggest they can’t keep up this level of bombardment for much longer. They’ll need time to rearm and reequip. The likeliest scenario has them announcing a dramatic cessation to the bombardment after today or possibly tomorrow, and giving us a chance to think things over. Their ultimatum still stands. They’ll want some kind of a reply to that.”

“And if we don’t?”

Gray shrugged. “They’ll continue the bombardment, I suppose, until we comply.”

“There is a chance, Mr. President,” the national security advisor added, “that they will escalate in the next phase.”

“Nukes?”

“It’s a possibility. The DCI says they might try using one or a very few tactical nukes as a demonstration against military bases, or possibly our launch facilities at Canaveral and Vandenberg. It is not likely, at this juncture, that they will resort to chemical or biological weapons.”

The president grimaced. “‘Not likely.’ But it’ll happen sooner or later, if I don’t back down.”

Gray found himself holding his breath. The UN ultimatum had been blunt and to the point. The United States was to disarm completely. Its military forces were to stand down, its aircraft to remain grounded, its bases open to UN inspection teams and occupation forces. A United Nations Special Governing Committee was to take charge of the Washington bureaucracy; elected officials would remain in power, but subject to UN directives. It was nothing less than a blueprint for complete and unconditional surrender.

And Admiral Gray was afraid that Markham was going to agree to it.

“What kind of a chance can you give us, Admiral?” Markham wanted to know. “Tell me you have a secret weapon or two squirreled away that I don’t know about.”

“Well, sir, we don’t have anything like that, but we can buy us some time. Operation Freedom is on track. Launch is scheduled for 0700 Pacific Time Tuesday. We’re in the process of nudging Shepard into a better orbit, so they can provide backup and fire support.”

“Operation Freedom. That’s the ISS mission?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how is that going to help us?”

Gray drew a deep breath. “It’s a symbol, Mr. President.” He nodded toward the screen, where the destruction of the US Capitol Building was being played out again. “Most of their strikes, so far, have been against high-visibility, newsworthy targets. Public buildings. State capitols. Things with propaganda value, that demonstrate that we can’t protect ourselves from this kind of attack.”

The White House had been badly damaged several hours ago. A near miss had damaged the Washington Monument, too, though it was still standing.

“Go on.”

“The International Space Station is also a symbol, Mr. President. A station that passes over our heads every ninety minutes or so and proves that we can’t protect our interests in space…an area where America historically held a strong lead over everyone else.”

“Hell, we were giving up on space,” Harrel pointed out. “At least until we found that alien shit on Mars.”

“That ‘alien shit,’ as Mr. Harrel calls it, may well be the key to this whole war,” Gray said. “It’s Ken Morrow’s contention that Mars is the main reason the UN jumped us. Not Aztlan. And not US unwillingness to go along with the UN’s agenda.”