Europa Strike:
Book Three of
the Heritage Trilogy
Ian Douglas
For Dave Plottel, who helped with the numbers; for
Heather Foutz, research assistant and first editor, par
excellence; and, as always, for Nina.
Contents
Prologue
The sounds of celebration—the bang and snap of firecrackers,…
One
“Incredible,” Major Jeffrey Warhurst said, his face pressed against the…
Two
The sign above the place on Highway One, just outside…
Three
Why, Colonel Kaitlin Garroway asked herself, do I come to…
Four
Major Jeff Warhurst made his way along the narrow access…
Five
Captain Jeremy Mitchell entered the officer’s wardroom with his tray…
Six
Rena Moore came down the stairs to the e-room and…
Seven
By the second half of the twenty-first century, there was…
Eight
Major Jack Ramsey stared into the monitor, shock transforming into…
Nine
Major Jeff Warhurst looked up from his desk as the…
Ten
General Xiang Qiman sat strapped into his couch, watching the…
Eleven
The refueling was almost complete.
Twelve
Descending Thunder No. 4 bucked and kicked as the pilot…
Thirteen
Jeff Warhurst was linked in.
Fourteen
Jeff had designated a small room off of the compartment…
Fifteen
Jeff shook his head sadly. “What the hell were you…
Sixteen
“So,” Jeff said with a wry grin. “Is this wonder…
Seventeen
“Please, God,” Kaitlin said with a rush of emotion that…
Eighteen
The steady, rattling vibration of the Tommy J’s A-M drives…
Nineteen
“Gentlemen, it’s about damned time we took this fight to…
Twenty
The Mantas rested side by side, their tapering aft sections…
Twenty-One
The city illuminated the night, holding it at bay with…
Twenty-Two
“Hold it!” Hastings said. “I’m getting something!”
Twenty-Three
Two of the Chinese assault troops were down, fist-sized holes…
Twenty-Four
The Chinese assault down the spine of the E-DARES complex…
Twenty-Five
“I’ve got something, sir,” Hastings said. “Ten Kilometers ahead, and…
Epilogue
Major Jack Ramsey looked up at Dr. Alexander. “What did you…
Other Books by Ian Douglas
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
10 JULY 2067
People’s Bureau of
Astronomical Sciences
Beijing, People’s Republic
of China
1925 hours (Zulu plus 8)
The sounds of celebration—the bang and snap of firecrackers, the cheers of the crowd, the rattle and throb of drums—rose from the street, hammering at the broad window overlooking the mob-packed Dongchan’an Jie. Dr. Zhao Hsiang sipped green tea from a porcelain cup and watched the festivities a moment. A huge dragon was snaking through the throng almost directly below the office window, making its sinuous way on dozens of human legs along the block midway between the southern gates of Tiananmen Square and the burned-out ruin of the old McDonald’s restaurant.
Zhao sighed. Great Zhongguo reunited at last. China, the Middle Kingdom, a major power once more. It would have been politic for Zhao to have joined the revelers, to have attended, perhaps, the ongoing parties at Tiananmen Square and the Hall of the Revolution in order to be seen by the Authorities celebrating the end of the Great Division, but he’d been too excited by this new insight. He had to know…had to. There would be time for parties later, once the results of his discovery had been confirmed and published.
“The simulation you requested is ready, Doctor,” a cool, male voice said in singsong Mandarin. The voice’s source was the IBM KR4040 on his desk—archaic technology by global standards, but the best available for the Bureau.
“Xièxie,” Zhao said, thanking his secretary. Turning, he set the cup down on a table by the window, walked across to his desk, and seated himself in the power chair, which lowered its back as he stretched against it. Taking a trio of colored leads, he began plugging in…the red in the socket behind his left ear, the green at the base of his neck close by the Atlas vertebra, and the white into the nerve plexus on the inside of his right wrist. “I am ready,” he said, enunciating the words carefully. “Safeword ting-zi. Run program.”
A crackle of static snapped somewhere in the back of his brain, and his vision winked out in a white fuzz of electronic snow. As with the Bureau’s computers, the virtual
