does it kill them?” Kurtzman asked. “Damage to the brain tissue, destroys the nervous system, or invokes artificial leukemia?”
“Leukemia,” Wethers stated. “Exactly the same as the technicians who work on improperly shielded power lines and cheaply built electrical substations, but on a much more intense level.”
“Really? How soon would it affect them?” Brognola demanded. “If we’re talking years…”
“At the levels of power necessary to boost a ten-story spacecraft, I’d say no more than a few days at the most.”
“At least that gives us a place to start,” Price said.
“Unless each crew only does one mission,” Wethers amended. “Then another team takes control of the ship…no, wait, that would be a logistical nightmare. The terrorists might have hundreds of refueling depots hidden around the world, but to also have each one staffed with a reserve crew is ridiculous.”
“Could the ships be fully automated?” Price inquired. “Computer operated with no live crew?”
“Impossible,” Kurtzman countered. “Good work, Hunt. Start looking into whatever would be needed to build the microwave…beamers?”
“Impellers.”
The man gave a curt nod. “As you say, impellers. Carmen, check into any large purchases of antileukemia medicine purchased within the past month.”
“I’ll also look for any shipments that have gone missing, or been stolen,” the former FBI agent added from behind the VR helmet, her gloved hands rapidly opening and closing files.
“In the meantime, I’ll access the logs of the NSA Keyhole satellites to try to find out where the ships first launched from,” Kurtzman stated, heading for his workstation. “If we can pinpoint their place of origin, that could tell us—”
Suddenly a printer set against the wall started humming and pushed out a single sheet of green-tinted paper. Changing direction, Kurtzman rolled toward the machine, but Price got there first.
“The FBI was checking the two American companies trying to build SSO transports and found only smoking ruins,” she stated. “The working models, blueprints, schematics—everything is destroyed.”
Brognola bit back a curse. So far, the terrorists were way ahead of them, with Stony Man playing catch-up and doing a poor job. “What’s the official story?”
“That each airfield was struck by lightning, which caused a wildfire.”
The big Fed grunted. That was close enough to the truth for the present. But pretty soon somebody was going to figure out the truth and then it would be chaos in the streets. “Were there any survivors?” he asked hopefully.
“Lots. As soon as they get out of the hospital, the FBI will debrief them.”
“I’ll want a copy of those reports.”
“No problem, I’m already in their system,” Kurtzman replied, the FBI emblem fading into view on his computer screen. “As soon as there is something, I’ll have a blacksuit deliver it to your office.”
“Don’t bother, I’m here for the duration,” the big Fed replied, going to the wall and claiming a spare chair.
“What’s the status of the field teams?” Price asked, glancing at the clock on the wall. “It’s been over an hour since we sent the recall signal.”
“No response yet,” the cyber wizard replied gruffly, looking at a submonitor. “Which means they’re either in the middle of a fight or have gone silent.”
“Or they’re dead.”
There was no possible reply to that, so everybody in the room continued with their work. But the air seemed a little bit colder now as the people pointedly ignored the clock on the wall, the frenzied typing suddenly sounding painfully similar to machine-gun fire.
CHAPTER THREE
Fayetteville, South Carolina
A cool rain fell across the sprawling military base, washing the red clay dust from the side of the stout brick buildings.
“Here we go!” a burly sergeant shouted, gnarled fists resting on his hips. “You have five minutes, then we leave without you!”
Bursting into action, the elite troop of Marine specialists dived off their bunks and scrambled across the barracks, grabbing duffel bags and yanking on unmarked jackets to cover the handguns riding in their shoulder holsters. There were no sirens to announce the intentions of the combat troops, only a small red light flashing above the exit to signal the call to war.
Through a rain-smeared window, the sergeant could see the brilliant columns of combat searchlights sweeping the stormy clouds, and he knew that a dozen radar globes were probing the sky far beyond the range of visible sight. The balloon had gone up only minutes earlier, but already the gate to Fort Bragg was closed and locked, a full platoon of armed soldiers in body armor standing guard, along with a pair of Bradley Fighting Vehicles. The Bradleys were angled toward one another, forming a narrow channel too small for any truck or car to get through, and spike strips had been laid in case somebody tried to ride a motorcycle through or around the imposing the blockade.
Located near the artillery range were half a dozen long-range cannons, their barrels pointed at the sky. Everything the base had was primed and ready for battle, big antiaircraft shells set to explode at different heights to fill the sky with a deadly maelstrom of shrapnel.
Massive Abram battle tanks were parked on the parade grounds, positioned back-to-back in a large circle for fast deployment. Wearing slickers and “hot com” helmets, grim soldiers walked the flat roofs of the PX and library, carrying Stinger missile launchers and lugging cumbersome, four-barrel, HAFLA multirocket launchers.
“One minute!” called the sergeant, checking his watch. “Move it or lose it, people!”
“About time we finally saw some action,” a private said, grinning as he lay his black letter on a shelf. Everybody going into combat was strongly urged to leave a goodbye note for his family in case he didn’t come back. That was just standard operational procedure for the U.S. Marines.
“Don’t get too excited, kid, until we find out what we’re fighting,” a corporal replied gruffly.
Whenever some boot heard that they were being trained to fight in space, a specialist in zero-gravity combat, they always started to make jokes about Space Marines as if nobody had ever thought of it before. Nine times out of ten that started a fight, but it was often held behind a barracks or in the motor pool after reveille, where such matters could be settled with quiet and decorum. What the CO didn’t know couldn’t get you cashiered.
It confused and offended the troops that so many people thought it was odd that America had taken steps to protect its interests in space. A paratrooper was specially trained to fight while falling out of the sky. Commandos did it behind enemy lines, snipers did it from a mile away, scuba divers did it under water and Navy SEALs could fight anywhere, hanging upside down from mountain peaks if necessary. The United States of America had thousands of satellites in low-Earth orbits and a fledging space
