Starfire (4 page)

“The president has assured me that my future will be secure, sir,” Ilianov said. “Even if I am arrested, all the Americans can do is deport me, which I will gladly see happen just to get away from this corrupt and decrepit country.”

Ilianov was an idiot, Chirkov thought—Gennadiy Gryzlov discarded human beings like used tissues, and had done so for decades. But the world geopolitical situation was far more serious than Ilianov's brainless actions. This could completely destroy American-Russian relations, Chirkov thought—although, truth be told, those relations were already pretty bad right now. He knew Gennadiy Gryzlov's father, Anatoliy Gryzlov, had issued orders that killed tens of thousands of Americans and even hundreds of fellow Russians on Russian soil, and he had no doubt that his son was capable of similar unspeakable acts. Although Chirkov was the fourth-highest-ranking member of the Russian diplomatic delegation to the United States of America, Gryzlov's family was far wealthier and vastly more politically powerful than his own. Whatever Gryzlov had in mind beyond grave robbing, Chirkov probably couldn't stop him. But he had to try to dissuade him somehow.

Chirkov half turned in his seat. “What else is President Gryzlov planning, Ilianov?” he asked. “Defiling and looting a crypt is bad enough.”

“When that crypt held the remains of Mother Russia's most murderous aggressor since Adolf Hitler, I am happy to participate,” Ilianov said. “McLanahan is a criminal that murdered the president of my country. He does not deserve to be honored.”

“That attack was a long time ago, and it was during a time of war.”

“A war of McLanahan's making, sir, completely unauthorized and illegal,” Ilianov said. Chirkov sat motionless, suppressing a shake of his head. Former Russian president Anatoliy Gryzlov had retaliated against an attack led by Patrick McLanahan by unleashing waves of nuclear-tipped supersonic cruise missiles and nearly wiped out America's entire land-based nuclear deterrent—along with several thousand Americans—in what became known as the “American Holocaust.” McLanahan's subsequent nonnuclear attack on Russia with America's last remaining long-range bombers was the response, which left both nations with near parity in the numbers of nuclear warheads. The final attack, led by Patrick McLanahan himself, was against Gryzlov's alternate underground command post at Ryazan, a pinpoint strike that had killed the Russian president.

Whoever was responsible for starting the bomber war that led to the American Holocaust and the attack on Ryazan, McLanahan or Gryzlov, was debatable and probably pointless, but Gryzlov was definitely not an innocent bystander. A former commanding general of Russian long-range bomber forces, he had responded to an almost insignificant attack on Russian air defense sites by unleashing nuclear warheads and killing thousands of Americans in a sneak attack. These were not the actions of a sane man. When McLanahan captured a Russian air base in Siberia and used it to stage attacks on Russian mobile ballistic-missile sites, Gryzlov ordered another nuclear cruise-missile attack . . . but this time
targeting his own Russian air base
! His obsession with killing McLanahan resulted in the deaths of hundreds of Russians at Yakutsk, but McLanahan escaped and killed Gryzlov several hours later by bombing Gryzlov's alternate and supposedly secret command post.

“Give me the urn and the other items, Colonel,” Chirkov insisted. “I will return them at the appropriate time, and I will explain that you acted out of extreme emotion and have been sent back to Moscow for grief counseling or something that will hopefully arouse a little bit of sympathy.”

“With respects, sir, I will not,” Ilianov said in a toneless voice.

Chirkov closed his eyes and shook his head. Ilianov was a brainless stooge of Gennadiy Gryzlov and would probably die before handing over the things he had stolen. “What will the president do with them, Colonel?” he asked wearily.

“He said he wishes to place the urn on his desk and use it as an ashtray,” Ilianov said, “and perhaps pin McLanahan's medals inside his commode whenever he urinates. He deserves nothing less than a proper place of honor.”

“You are behaving like a child, Colonel,” Chirkov said. “I urge you to reconsider your actions.”

“The first President Gryzlov was forced to respond to McLanahan's aggression or face more attacks and more killing,” Ilianov said. “McLanahan's actions may or may not have been authorized, but they were certainly sanctioned by President Thomas Thorn and his generals. This is but a small example of what President Gryzlov intends to do to restore honor and greatness to the Russian people.”

“What else are you planning to do, Colonel?” Chirkov repeated. “I assure you, you have already done quite enough.”

“The president's campaign against the memory of General Patrick McLanahan has only just begun, Excellency,” Ilianov said. “He intends to destroy every institution of which McLanahan ever had any part. Instead of celebrating and memorializing the life of Patrick McLanahan, America will soon curse his name.”

Chirkov's encrypted cellular phone beeped, and he answered it, saying nothing, then terminated the call a few moments later. “The American secretary of state was notified by the Federal Bureau of Investigation of the robbery in Sacramento,” he said tonelessly. “Your henchmen will probably be arrested within the hour. They will talk eventually.” He half turned again in his seat. “You know that if the American FBI obtains a warrant from a federal judge, they can enter your premises in Washington, and because your activity was not an official act you can be arrested and prosecuted. Diplomatic immunity will not apply.”

“I know, Excellency,” Ilianov said. “I did not really think the Americans could react so quickly, but I planned for this in case I was discovered. I have already arranged for a private jet to take me from Woodland, California, to Mexicali, and from there home via Mexico City, Havana, Morocco, and Damascus. Diplomatic security forces are standing by to assist with local customs.” He handed the consul a card. “Here is the address of the airport; it is not far from the freeway. Drop us off, and you can continue to the consulate in San Francisco, and we will be on our way. You can deny all involvement in this matter.”

“What else do you have planned in this escapade of yours, Colonel?” Chirkov asked after he handed the card to the driver, who entered the address into the car's GPS navigator. “I sense it is a lot more serious than a burglary.”

“I will not jeopardize your diplomatic status or career by involving you any further in the president's activities, Excellency,” Ilianov said. “But you will know it when you hear of the incidents, sir . . . I guarantee it.” He produced the aluminum urn from his large grocery bag, running his fingers across the three silver stars on the side and the shield of the U.S. Space Defense Force on the lid. “What a joke,” he muttered. “Russia has had a true space defense force for almost ten years, while this unit was never activated, except in McLanahan's twisted brain. Why did we fear this man so much? He was nothing but a work of fiction, both alive and dead.” He hefted the urn experimentally, and a puzzled expression crossed his face. “You know, I have never seen cremated human remains before . . .”

“Please, do not further desecrate the man's remains,” Chirkov said. “Leave them alone. And reconsider leaving them with me. I can concoct some sort of story that does not implicate you, and the president's anger will be directed toward myself, not you. Russian thieves and hooligans did the deed, but when they tried to sell them on the black market, we caught them and are holding them under arrest in the consulate. Sincere apologies, return of the artifacts, promises to prosecute those responsible, and an offer to pay to repair the damage and restore the columbarium should be sufficient to satisfy the Americans.”

“I do not wish to implicate you any further, Excellency,” Ilianov repeated, “and I have no wish to return these things or restore that bastard's monument to himself. Hopefully, having these things not properly interred will result in McLanahan's soul wandering the universe for all eternity.”

That, Chirkov thought, was
exactly
what he was afraid of.

Ilianov hefted the urn once again. “It is much lighter than I thought,” he muttered, then twisted off the lid. “Let us see what the great General Patrick Shane McLanahan looks like after taking his last sauna bath at one thousand degrees Centigrade.”

Chirkov did not turn to look, but stared straight ahead and fought to hide his disgust. But he soon became puzzled after several long moments of silence, and he turned to look over his shoulder . . .

. . . to see the Russian air force colonel's face as white as a consulate dinner tablecloth, his mouth open as if trying to speak. “Ilianov . . . ?” The colonel looked up, his eyes as round and big as saucers, and now Chirkov saw Korchkov's face with an equally shocked expression—very, very unusual for such a highly trained security officer and assassin. “What is it?”

Ilianov was stunned into silence, his mouth still hanging open. As he shook his head in utter disbelief, he slowly tilted the open urn toward Chirkov . . .

. . . and that's when the Russian ambassador could see that the urn was completely empty.

ONE

Go to the edge of the cliff and jump off. Build your wings on the way down.

—R
AY
B
RADBURY

M
C
L
ANAHAN
I
NDUSTRIAL
A
IRPORT
, B
ATTLE
M
OUNTAIN
, N
EVADA

S
EVERAL
DAYS
LATER

“Is the guy asleep, Boomer?” the flight surgeon monitoring the crew's physiological datalink radioed. “His heart rate hasn't changed one bit since we put him on the monitors. Is he freakin' dead? Check on him, okay?”

“Roger,” Hunter “Boomer” Noble, the aircraft commander on this flight, replied. He left his seat, climbed back between the two side-by-side cockpit seats, walked through the airlock between the cockpit and cabin, and entered the small four-person passenger compartment. Unlike the more familiar orange full-pressure space suit worn by the two passengers on this flight, Noble's tall, lanky, athletic body was covered in a skintight suit called an EEAS, or Electronic Elastomeric Activity Suit, which performed the same functions as a traditional space suit except it used electronically controlled fibers to compress the skin instead of pressurized oxygen, so it was much easier for him to move about the cabin than it was for the others.

Noble, his mission commander and copilot, retired U.S. Marine Corps pilot Lieutenant Colonel Jessica “Gonzo” Faulkner, and the two passengers were aboard an S-19 Midnight spaceplane, the second of three versions of the United States' single-stage-to-orbit aircraft that had revolutionized space flight when the first, the S-9 Black Stallion, was made operational in 2008. Only three of the S-19s had been built, in favor of the larger experimental XS-29 Shadow spaceplanes. All versions of the spaceplanes could take off and land on runways built for commercial airliners, but each had special triple-hybrid engines that could transform from air-breathing supersonic turbofan engines to hypersonic supersonic ramjets to pure rocket engines capable of propelling the craft into Earth orbit.

Boomer walked up to the first passenger and checked him over carefully before speaking. Through his space helmet's visor he could see the passenger's eyes were closed and his hands folded on his lap. The two passengers were wearing orange Advanced Crew Escape Suits, or ACES, which were full pressure suits designed for survival in case of a loss of pressurization in the passenger compartment, or even in open space.

Yep, Boomer thought, this is one cool cucumber—his first trip into space and he was either sleeping or on the verge of it, as if he was on a wide-body airliner getting ready to take off for a vacation in Hawaii. His companion, on the other hand, looked normal for a first-time space passenger—his forehead glistened with sweat, his hands were clenched, his breathing rapid, and his eyes darted to Boomer, then out a window, then at his companion. Boomer gave him a thumbs-up and got one in return, but the man still looked very nervous.

Boomer turned back to the first passenger. “Sir?” he asked via intercom.

“Yes, Dr. Noble?” the first man replied in a low, relaxed, almost sleepy voice.

“Just checking on you, sir. The flight doc says you're
too
relaxed. You sure this is your first time in orbit?”

“I can hear what they're saying. And I don't think I'd forget my first time, Dr. Noble.”

“Please call me ‘Boomer,' sir.”

“Thank you, I will.” The man looked over at his companion, frowning at the man's obvious nervousness. “Is Ground Control worrying at all about my companion's vital signs?”

“He's normal for a Puddy,” Boomer said.

“A what?”

“A Puddy—a first-time astronaut,” Boomer explained. “Named after Don Puddy, the guy at NASA that used to give shuttle astronaut candidates the good news they'd been accepted to the astronaut training program. It's natural to be supernervous, even for veteran astronauts and fighter jocks—if I may say so, sir, it's kinda creepy to see someone as relaxed as you appear.”

“I'll take that as a compliment, Boomer,” the man said. “How long before takeoff?”

“The primary window opens in about thirty minutes,” Boomer replied. “We'll finish the pretakeoff checks, and then I'll have you come up to the cockpit and take the right seat for takeoff. Colonel Faulkner will be in the jump seat between us. We'll have you go back to your seat here before we go hypersonic, but once we're in orbit you can go back up into the right seat if you wish.”