Point of Crisis (3 page)

The ship-wide countdown proceeded smoothly according to the time provided by Missile Defense Agency data. At zero, Jeffries detected a slight tremor, which was quickly swallowed by the normal vibrations felt on a warship plying through the water. He turned to watch the Aegis System Display screen at the front of CIC, which showed a live closed-circuit camera image of the rear VLS cells. One hatch after another sprang open, belching fire thirty feet into the air and boosting one of the SM-3 missiles skyward. Cheers filled CIC as the last missile left its canister.

EVENT +3 Days

ISS Mission Control, Russian Federal Space Agency

Korolev, Russian Federation

Alexei Belenkin barked at the mission control specialists before returning the phone to his ear.

“Damn it, we need more warning than this!” he said.

“This is all the warning you get!” insisted the Aerospace Defense Force general.

“We can’t execute a Debris Avoidance Maneuver with the push of a button. This has to be planned carefully! We’re not playing a fucking video game here!”

“I know how rocket boosters work, Doctor Belenkin! I spent most of my career in the Strategic Rocket Forces. You press a button, and they launch!”

“It’s not that simple,” stated Belenkin.

“Well, simplify the procedure, or risk losing the station. You need to move the ISS as far out of its current orbit as practical.”

“I’m not getting any warnings about orbital debris from our sensors, General. This is too radical of an order—even from you.”

“In about sixty-four seconds, Low Earth Orbit may very well become uninhabitable. I have no official authority over you, Doctor. This is a courtesy call before I contact Moscow. By the time they call to issue the order, it may be too late. Do what you need to do.”

“Can you at least tell me what we’re dealing with?”

“You scientists always need a damn explanation.”

“We don’t follow orders blindly, General.”

“Satellite early warning systems detected one hundred twenty sea-based missile launches fitting anti-satellite trajectory profiles. Ground-based space-tracking radars indicate sudden, drastic changes to U.S. military satellite orbits. Our best guess is they’re going for every Chinese satellite in Low Earth Orbit while trying to save their own. Good luck,” said the general, leaving Belenkin holding a disconnected line.

“Mother of Russia,” muttered Belenkin, placing the phone in its cradle.

If the Americans hit the Chinese satellites, they would instantly create hundreds of thousands of pieces of debris, effectively rendering portions of Low Earth Orbit (LEO) completely uninhabitable to satellites and manned space missions. The debris from the Chinese satellites, located at different altitudes and orbital planes, would eventually strike other satellites, triggering the Kessler Syndrome, which would pulverize everything in that orbital range. Navigating in Low Earth Orbit could become hazardous to the point of impossible, with millions of pieces travelling in unpredictable directions at relative speeds in excess of 20,000 kilometers per hour. He wasn’t sure there was any point to moving the station. They would have no way to reach it again.

“Alexei! What are your orders?”

He thought about the situation for a few seconds. They had to try to save the abandoned station.

“Boost the station as high as possible for now. We need to get her out of the busiest orbital altitudes—immediately.”

Ian Kharitonov, senior mission orbital specialist, turned to his section of personnel and nodded.

“Do it!” he said, scattering the men and women to their control stations.

Belenkin watched the screens for the next several seconds, waiting to see the mission parameters change. Kharitonov turned his head from his monitor.

“Secondary thrusters on Zvezda Service Module activated. Maneuvering the station into position for primary thruster activation.”

“Thank you, Ian,” Belenkin said, staring with disbelief at the overhead screens.

“Alexei, what the hell happened?”

“I think the Americans just started World War III.”

PART I

“REASSESS”

Chapter 1

EVENT +5 Days

Limerick, Maine

Jeffrey Brown steadied his hands on a thick branch and surveyed Old Middle Road with powerful binoculars. Sitting in a climber’s harness fifty feet above the ground, he could simultaneously watch the entrance to Gelder Pond and observe several hundred yards of road in either direction. His view through the leaves and branches was far from perfect—but clear lines of sight worked both ways. Since it was practically impossible to identify passengers inside the tactical vehicles, he saw no reason to risk detection by selecting a more exposed site. His job was simple. Estimate enemy troop strength at the compound and identify exploitable patterns. He didn’t need an unobstructed view to accomplish that mission.

A low rumbling drew his attention west, his magnified view of the road competing with wavering green foliage. He spotted the rising dust trail before the vehicles—two fast-moving tactical vehicles, tan camouflage pattern, full turret configuration.

Son of a bitch.

Brown watched as they approached, hoping they would continue toward Limerick. A random military patrol didn’t represent a showstopper. He wasn’t surprised when they veered onto Gelder Pond Lane, tires screeching.

Scratch Eli’s plan.

He pressed the remote transmit button attached to his tactical vest. “Relay One, this is Overwatch. SPOTREP. Two Matvees approached from the west and turned into compound. Estimated enemy strength at compound follows. Three, possibly four Matvees with turret-mounted weapons. Possible addition of squad-sized unit. Maximum of twelve. Minimum of six based on previous observations. Number of personnel at compound estimated at eighteen. Overwatch remains unobserved. How copy? Over.”

A short delay preceded the next station’s recitation of his report. They must be writing his words down verbatim. Finally. Their first few attempts at repeating his top-of-the-hour reports had been abysmal. He shuddered to think what might reach Eli’s ears after passing through four or five relay stations.

“Solid copy, Relay One. Send the message. Out.”

Brown lifted himself by the anchor lines and shifted in his harness, finding a slightly less uncomfortable position. He unconsciously glanced at his watch and shook his head. 0722. Fourteen hours until he climbed down and occupied OP Bravo for the night. A long fourteen hours. Leaning into the tree, he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths—listening. A few minutes later, the familiar throttling of a diesel engine echoed through the trees. One of the tactical vehicles sped into sight and skidded onto Old Middle Road, heading for Limerick.

Interesting.

Chapter 2

EVENT +5 Days

Sanford, Maine

“Jackson, I need you down from the turret,” said Alex.

He’d visited Harrison Campbell’s farm twice while writing an informational piece about the York County Readiness Brigade. Once to formally interview selected militia leadership, the second time to attend one of the organization’s public potluck dinners. He remembered that the main house and barn sat close to a quarter mile back from the road, hidden by a deep stretch of pine trees.

“Stop in front of the mailbox, but stay off the property. I’ll walk it in from the fence.”

“Walk it where?”

“Past those trees,” said Alex.

The Matvee stopped in front of a deeply rutted dirt lane. Gently winding around a cattail-infested pond, the road disappeared into a dark stand of pines. He had no doubt they were watching his vehicle from a concealed position in the distant forest scrub.

“I don’t know, sir. You’re awfully exposed on the approach. Once you get in the trees, we can’t do shit for you.”

“I’ll be fine. These are the good guys.”

“You willing to bet your life on that, sir?”

He considered the marine’s question, before grabbing the door handle. Deeper examination of Homeland’s Recovery Zone protocols reinforced the critical importance of partnering with Campbell’s organization. Failure to secure the brigade’s cooperation could lead to severe consequences for the people of southern Maine—his family included.

“I don’t have a choice. Grady needs these people on his side before Homeland starts calling the shots.”

“I’ll park this rig across the street, pointing
that
way,” said Corporal Lianez, nodding toward the forest. “Say the word, and we roll up guns blazing.”

“I’ll send regular updates. Every ten minutes or so. If you don’t hear from me and I don’t respond to your call—guns blazing,” Alex said, stepping out of the vehicle.

“Sounds like a plan. Sir, you forgot your rifle!” yelled Lianez.

“I won’t need it,” he said, shutting the door on the marine’s continued protest.

His earpiece crackled.

“Sir, you cannot—”

“Lianez, Jackson, radio check. Over.”

“This is Jackson. Lima Charlie. Lianez. Lima Charlie. Captain, I need you to take—”

“Keep the channel clear for further instructions. Out,” Alex said, walking briskly down the dirt road.

He could feel Lianez pounding the steering wheel behind him but didn’t turn to confirm it. Leaving a rifle behind ranked just below gut-punching your own mother on a Marine’s exhaustive list of rules and conventions. Purposefully walking into an unknown situation without your rifle wasn’t even on that list—it hovered in the gray area between negligent and insane.

In this case, Captain Fletcher made a one-time exception to the rule. Ditching the rifle was a calculated act. Combined with the Matvee visibly idling across the street, he sent a not-so-subtle message to Harrison Campbell:
I come in peace, but retain the ability to wreck your shit at a moment’s notice.
Diplomacy—with the threat of violence.

Roughly fifty paces into the forest, he started to question Campbell’s security measures. He hadn’t expected a guard post at the fence along the main road, but allowing him to get this close to their headquarters seemed a little careless.

“Hands above your head!” yelled a female voice from his right.

A woman dressed in woodland camouflage appeared from a concealed position behind a fallen tree, pointing an AR-15-style rifle at his head. He detected movement on the left side of the road. Purposeful, no doubt. Just to let him know that she wasn’t alone.

“You and your friend know this is private property?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. We have no intention of violating your rights.”

“But here you are—with a firearm.”

“Goes with the territory. I need to speak with Harrison Campbell. I didn’t see any other way to get in touch.”

“Who are you, exactly?”

“Captain Alex Fletcher. United States Marine Corps. I’ve met with Harrison before, in a different capacity.”

“I didn’t realize the Marines were authorized to wear jeans and a T-shirt under their body armor,” she said.

“I’m not part of the regular Marine Corps. Something
very
different. Something Mr. Campbell needs to hear about immediately.”

“You said Alex Fletcher? Captain?” she said, shifting her nonfiring hand to a radio mounted on her vest.

“Provisional Captain. Regional Recovery Zone One.”

“Regional what?”

“Regional Recovery Zone One, formerly known as the state of Maine. Pass that along.”

After a hushed conversation, punctuated by distrusting looks, the woman lowered her rifle.

“You’re cleared to approach the gate. Gary will escort you to the barn,” she stated.

He waited several seconds for another sentry to materialize from the landscape. The severe-looking woman stared at him impassively.

“Where’s Gary?”

“At the gate. Follow the yellow brick road,” she said, pointing deeper in the forest.

“Right,” he said, frowning. “You’re not going to take my pistol?”

“Harrison says you’re legit. That’s all I need to hear—Captain. I’d keep it in your holster, though.”

“Thanks for the sage advice—Miss?”

“Nunya.”

“Nunya?”

“Nunya business.”

“Ex-military?”

“Ex-husbands.”

“Fair enough. Make sure your team doesn’t glass my Marines. They’re a little edgy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.

Alex reported his progress to Lianez and hiked around a shallow turn, running into the headquarters’ primary security barrier. Chest-high timber bunkers flanked the dirt road, supporting a metal gate constructed of three-inch-thick welded galvanized pipes. A strip of road spikes lay across the road thirty feet ahead of the gate. A tall, bearded man in camouflage stepped around the rightmost bunker. He slung his rifle and extended a hand.

“Gary Powers. Brigade training officer.”

He gladly accepted the friendly gesture. “Alex Fletcher. My job is a little hard to explain.”

“Sounds like it. I’ll be right back, Danny,” he said to someone out of sight.

“I’ll be here,” replied a voice from the second bunker.

“How is the brigade holding up so far?” Alex asked.

“Better than expected given the scope of the disaster. The coastal chapters were hit hard. Not much we can do east of the 95. It’s still too early to figure out exactly where we can fit into the bigger scheme of things. Right now, we’re running basic supplies to an empty storefront in downtown Sanford, waiting for the mayor’s office to kick off a countywide relief effort,” Powers said, raising an eyebrow.

“You don’t sound convinced,” said Alex.

“It’s too big in scope, and it’s eating up our reserves. We’ve spent the past four years promising people localized support, by chapter.”

“But you’re the York County Readiness Brigade,” said Alex.

“Which is why we can’t turn down the mayor’s request for help.”