Splintered Sky

“He’ll keep his radar footprint faint until the satellites are knocked out,” McCarter grumbled.

“Have you prepped for insertion?” Price asked. “Maybe you could figure out where the laser came from.”

“The camouflage paint will cure on the rifles and gear during the flight,” McCarter replied. “There’s nothing on the ground in China indicating a laser with the kind of reach to knock out a satellite. The Skysniper was a huge piece of machinery, the size of a railroad car, and it needed a lot of power. I don’t see anything indicative of such a system.”

“Maybe not on the ground in China,” Price said. “Though I wouldn’t put it past the Chinese to have a laser system.”

“What about the plasma engine missiles? Striker destroyed their production facility, but perhaps enough technicians survived who remembered the basic layout. Those things had enough energy to reach escape velocity.”

“We’re scanning for possible launch sites in Southeast Asia,” Price returned. “So far, nothing matches any signatures that we’re familiar with. The missiles were fast, but that kind of velocity produces sonic shock waves. Listening posts are directed across mainland China to see if there have been such devices still in service, but we’re talking a large land mass, with plenty of valleys to hide those tests.”

“So it’s up to us to go up to our elbows, sifting through the entrails,” McCarter stated. “All while the Chinese government might be setting up a trap for us by making it look like they don’t know about this.”

“Watch your back, David,” Price admonished.

“I will, Barb,” McCarter returned.

The transport plane had given the signal. They were going to take off on a route toward Thailand. Along the way, Phoenix Force would disembark, provided they weren’t blown out of the sky by Chinese interceptors or antiaircraft installations. Then there was the Phoenix Graveyard itself, full of armed guards and potential terrorists.

All of this taking place on a deadline that, by every indication, would run out when the next shuttle from NASA was sent up to the International Space Station.

In one way or another, the stars were going to be bloodied. Whether that blood would drip like venom across the Earth was up to the warriors of Stony Man Farm.

Kennedy Space Center, Cape Canaveral, Florida

C APTAIN J ORDAN B ROOME went over the preflight checklist, looking for the slightest discrepancies that could ground the shuttle flight. The loss of Colombia due to broken heat shielding was proof of the fact that every detail had to be gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Even before the other shuttle disasters, the NASA crews performed “belt and suspender” checks to back up maintenance technicians.

His desk phone rang, and Broome picked up.

“Jordie? We’ve got a problem with the upcoming flight,” Dr. Alexander Thet, the ground control coordinator for the upcoming mission, spoke hurriedly into the line. “Could you pop over to my office?”

“You can’t tell me over the phone, Xander?” Broome asked.

“Your office doesn’t have a secure link. Mine does,” Thet answered.

“Secure link?”

“That bad. And the man on the other end doesn’t want to run up a phone bill,” Thet told him. “Move it.”

Broome hung up and rushed down the hall to Thet’s office. Thet was a small, pale man with a receding hairline and washed-out blond hair, so light it could almost be white. In comparison, there was a large, burly guy in a rumpled suit.

“Jord, Hal Brognola. Hal, Captain Jordan Broome,” Thet said by way of introduction. He gestured to the video monitor with a small camera on the top. “I suppose I don’t have to introduce the President, do I?”

Broome shook his head. “What’s wrong?”

“Around midnight, there was an incident at a scientific testing facility in southern Arizona,” the President said.

“The new hydrogen cell maneuvering thrusters?” Broome asked.

“Exactly. We lost the shipment,” the President told him. “Mr. Brognola is going to be my liaison to you on this. We believe this might be more than just a sabotage attempt against technology.”

“Why not handle this through Dr. Griffey?” Broome inquired.

“I appointed Stewart to manage the scientific end of things. Hal, here, is one of my most trusted associates in regard to matters of national and international security,” the President said. “He is my right hand, and he can make any decision as if it were under my authority.”

Broome nodded and offered a hand to Brognola. “It’ll be good working with you.”

“I hope so,” Brognola answered. “But I rarely show up at pleasant circumstances.”

“I’ll leave the important details to Hal,” the President told Broome and Thet. “I just wanted to make certain that there is no ambiguity as to how important Mr. Brognola’s input is going to be.”

The pair nodded, and the screen went dark.

“We have a feeling that there might be a problem on the International Space Station,” Brognola announced, getting right to the point. Broome frowned at the implications as he looked at aerial photography of a Chinese launch facility. Broome could tell what it was because of the effort to duplicate the NASA facilities, as well as the equipment. If there was one thing that the Red Chinese could do, it was to replicate “borrowed” technology, and it was in full evidence here.

Brognola pointed to a training camp off to the side, and a scale-model layout of what could only be the ISS. “It’s not concrete evidence, but we’ve been running this particular mock-up against every other facility, and nothing but the ISS matches it. And because it’s a tire house, we can only assume that combat training exercises are being conducted inside.”

“Can’t be firearms based,” Thet stated. “This isn’t like an airliner where one bullet only adds another vector for depressurization. We’d be talking a major atmosphere leak, as well as a weakening of the station integrity.”

“What’s this that you have circled?” Broome asked.

“Those are deposits of Iridium-192,” Brognola replied. “Whoever is responsible for the training camp setup—”

“It’s not the Chinese?” Broome interrupted.

“We’re digging. And while there might be elements of Red Chinese security involved, we don’t believe that they are acting alone,” Brognola stated. “Which is why I want to make a substitution on your shuttle crew.”

Broome raised an eyebrow. “At the last minute?”

“He’s a highly trained asset,” Brognola told him. He handed over a file, heavily edited. Broome picked it up, looking over the dossier for “Henry Miller.”

“I’m going to have to take some time on this,” Broome replied. He glanced at Brognola. “He had been previously cleared for a shuttle mission?”

“Two in fact. Only one incident was meant as a ruse. The shuttle never launched,” Brognola explained.

“So he’s experienced. I do want to meet him. There’s only so much that a piece of paper can tell me, and in case you haven’t noticed, Mr. Brognola, we’re going into space. Even if he’s somehow managed to get on a shuttle before, this ‘Miller’ cat had better be on top of his game,” Broome said. “I know you’re only an administrator…”

“Hands on,” Brognola countered. “And I am well aware of unit integrity. Ideally, we’d have loved to have Miller gain more experience with your crew, so that you could operate together more fluidly, but we just don’t have the luxury to do so. As it is, he will be arriving here inside the hour.”

Broome nodded. “We’ll have to have Komalko sit this one out then, Xander.”

The administrator nodded. “At least this guy has the creds to sit in for him.”

“On paper,” Broome retorted.

“That’s another thing,” Brognola said. “The crew going up to the ISS check out well on paper. But have you been getting any bad vibes from them?”

“Bad vibes? The crew is full of U.S. military personnel who have passed extensive background checks, Mr. Brognola,” Broome protested.

Brognola sighed. “I know it seems like I’m insulting people, but in my line of work, I’ve run across a lot of sinners posing as saints.”

“And in my line of work, you have to have good instincts about your people and your equipment,” Broome countered.

“So no one on your crew has made you suspicious,” Brognola surmised. “Good. That’s all I wanted to know. Just keep your eyes and ears open for anything that might be suspicious.”

Broome relaxed. He realized that it wasn’t the Fed’s intention to offend, that he was looking at every possible angle on how the opposition might want to damage the International Space Station. “I’ve got a shuttle to go over from nose to engine cones,” he replied, the anger drained from his voice. “It’s hard enough being suspicious of circuits and frame welds when you have to add in possible terrorists posing as astronauts.”

“I know. That’s why I’m bringing in Miller. He’s not only qualified to ride with you, he’s got a good sense for whoever might want to sabotage this mission or help hijack the ISS. Besides, you’ll need someone with training on the station in case this group does launch a takeover attempt from China,” Brognola explained.

“Takeover?” Broome asked. “You mean they’d send up a shuttle full of soldiers to take over the ISS? Why not just blow it out of the sky?”

“Because otherwise, they’d have no way to drop large amounts of highly radioactive isotope with a high resistance to reentry on the cities of the world,” Brognola answered.

“Iridium 192…It’s an externally hazardous material, but doctors use it all the time to treat certain forms of cancer,” Thet advised. “Because it’s so dense, however, it passes through without leaving trace amounts.”

“But as shrapnel, it’d be hazardous because it would be embedded in the environment, giving off gamma radiation to irradiate survivors,” Broome concluded. “Externally it produces radiation burns and induces radiation poisoning.”

Brognola spoke up. “That’s a dichotomy I’m having a little trouble wrapping my brain around. You’d think it’d be more hazardous inside a human body.”

“We’re talking different amounts,” Thet replied. “The seeds that are ingested are tiny seeds. Internal radiation burns could occur in the digestive system if a quantity of industrial pellets were ingested. It’s not completely harmless inside the body, otherwise it wouldn’t be used to burn out cancer. As a shrapnel injury, exposure would be far worse.”

Brognola nodded, understanding. His teams had had several close calls with various forms of radioactive material, and so far, they had all gotten through without major incapacitation. The foes of Able Team and Phoenix Force usually weren’t so lucky, and the head Fed had seen the results of massive radiation exposure.

Thet’s phone rang and he picked it up. “Miller’s about to land,” he said after hanging up.

Brognola looked to Broome. “Want to come meet him? Or do you still have checks to run?”

Broome shook his head. “It can wait a few minutes. I do want to meet your man and see if he’ll fit in with the team.”

“Can we get a driver, Xander?” Broome asked.

“I had one on standby when Mr. Brognola told me he was coming. I called before you came in,” Thet explained.

“Thanks,” Broome said. “I don’t want to waste too much time.”

“I certainly hope it is going to be a waste of time,” Brognola stated. “Because if it isn’t, the next few days are going to be hell.”

Broome nodded in agreement, believing that the big Fed was correct.

“I KNOW YOU’RE NOT in love with the idea that we’re splitting up,” Schwarz told Lyons over his satellite phone as they approached to Cape Canaveral, “but Hal needs someone inside the shuttle.”

“Yeah,” Lyons mumbled. “I remember the last time we were an official part of the shuttle crew. That was a plain fucked mission. I just wish we still had you on the streets with us.”

“There’s always a chance the launch will be scuttled,” Schwarz offered.

“I don’t think so,” Lyons replied. “They’ll need someone up there. Right now, you’re the best option. Shoving all three of us on the shuttle will make things too crowded, and will tip off any infiltrators at NASA that we’re on to them.”

Schwarz sighed, knowing that his friend was right. “Just be careful out there.”

“Careful gets you killed, Gadgets,” Lyons returned. “I’ll just have to put a little more ball to the wall to make up for you not being at my back.”

Schwarz chuckled through a nervous shudder. “You been holding back all this time, Ironman?”

“Just watch your ass. We’ll be fine,” Lyons admonished.

Schwarz hung up and looked out the window as the plane taxied to a halt. A silver Hummer with blue trim rolled up to the tarmac, and he saw Hal Brognola looking out one of the back windows.

Sabrina Bertonni stirred in her seat, looking up at him. “We’re there?”

Schwarz nodded, grabbing his gear. “Yup. Are you sure that you’re up to this?”

Bertonni shrugged. “Someone has to implement the upgrades on the samples we sent on ahead. Besides, I’m not the one riding tons of thrust into space.”

Schwarz rolled his eyes. “When you put it that way, it sounds scary.”

The scientist’s lips tightened. She’d been brought into this knowing there was the possibility of sabotage or infiltration on the flight to the International Space Station. There was a good chance that this flight would end up in flames, just like the Challenger and Columbia. Instead of voicing her doubts, she picked up her bag and disembarked with Schwarz. They clambered down the roll-up steps as Jordan Broome and Brognola got out of the NASA Hummer.

“Captain Broome, this is Henry Miller,” Brognola introduced. “Miller, Captain Jordan Broome, the commander of the USS Arcadia. Have you met Dr. Sabrina Bertonni, Broome?”

The astronaut nodded. “On a few instances, usually while going over testing protocols for the thrusters.”

Schwarz offered his hand. “Permission to come on board, Captain?”

Broome took the offered hand and shook it, a moment of challenge rising as he applied a strong grip. Fortunately, the Able Team electronics genius was used to such testosterone-soaked rituals. His own hand was tight, and Broome’s efforts to make the handshake uncomfortable were foiled by his own strong grasp. “Permission granted, Lieutenant Miller.”

Schwarz grinned. “Call me Gadgets.”

Broome nodded. “Kind of figured that Miller wasn’t a real moniker.”

“Oh, it is. But people keep wanting me to recite from Tropic of Cancer. ”

Broome chuckled. “So, how is June?”

Schwarz winked. “I’m sure you’ve seen the movie, Captain Broome.”

The astronaut laughed. “Call me Jordie.” His tone returned to seriousness after a moment. “You’re going to have some trouble. The rest of the crew isn’t going to like Pie Komalko being kicked to have you put in.”

“Is there an official explanation as to why?” Schwarz asked Brognola.

“You’re one of the few Burgundy Lake survivors in any condition to work with the experimental prototypes that survived the assault,” Brognola replied. The big Fed glanced at Sabrina Bertonni, whose expression had darkened at the mention of the incident that had claimed the lives of so many colleagues.

“Right. A few had been sent on ahead,” Schwarz replied with a nod, giving Bertonni’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Her green eyes flicked to him, and her mouth turned up in the closest thing to a smile she could manage. Schwarz sympathized with her. “We’ll work on upgrading the test samples to meet the current generation that was lost.”

“We?” Broome asked. “So the nickname fits. You can work on the thrusters?”

“I’ve been discussing the work with him on the flight over,” Bertonni noted. “He’s a quick study, and assisting me, we’ll get everything running better than the modules you were going to take up.”

“Of course, that’s between my preflight responsibilities,” Schwarz noted.

“Komalko will help you out with that. With the two of you working on it, you’ll be able to halve the time needed for the checks, freeing up room for the module upgrades,” Broome stated. “But first, you’re going to have to meet the rest of the crew.”

Schwarz nodded. His introduction as an outsider would leave him vulnerable to anyone in NASA who could have been a turncoat. If the enemy had been able to slip an insider into Burgundy Lake, a top-secret facility with only a small staff, the sprawling Cape Canaveral could potentially be a minefield of danger.

That was Schwarz’s job, though. To flush the enemy by setting himself up as bait. Glancing at Bertonni, he realized that she would be under the gun, as well, so he had more than his own life at stake.

Staring into the bright blue Florida afternoon, he knew both of their lives were on the line to keep the sky from falling.

CHAPTER SIX

Union Park, Florida

Andre Costa took the glass topper off his carafe of brandy to pour his third drink in as many minutes. His phone had rung five minutes ago, informing him of a new arrival at Cape Canaveral, taking the place of one of the crew of the space shuttle Arcadia.

It was supposed to be because of a need to upgrade the experimental prototype thruster modules that had been lost at Burgundy Lake. His hand shook, liquor sloshing around inside his crystal tumbler, and he wished that the alcohol would take effect faster. He took a hard pull on the brandy, then choked as he drank too quickly. The brandy burned in his sinuses and he wiped tears from his eyes. A sneezing fit left him dizzy, compounded by the alcohol burning through his bloodstream.

He’d performed a quick relay of phone calls to the next contact down the line after he’d gotten the call. It had taken only a minute of dialing, but he was shaken, wondering how the hell he’d gotten hooked up in all of this. Costa stood up, trembling from his burning nostrils and tear ducts, wishing that the allure of easy money as a drug lawyer hadn’t brought him to Orlando. Though it wasn’t the kind of hot spot that Miami was, it still received a lot of cases. The lion’s share of cases he took were on behalf of the students at the University of Central Florida, charged with possession, not intent to sell. Of course, this attracted the attention of El Toronado, one of the biggest suppliers in Union Park, who took an interest in some of the students who were selling for him to get a little extra cash on the side for their extracurricular activities.

El Toronado was the only name Costa knew him by, but it was enough. One of the most feared businessmen in Orlando, he had his fingers in cases that stretched from Winter Garden on the shores of Lake Apopka all the way to Titusville.

More than once, Costa had been asked to help out at Cape Canaveral Air Station with civilian employees who had attracted attention. Costa was glad that the Judge Advocate General and the code of Military Justice kept him out of protecting whichever Naval airmen were involved in El Torondo’s operations, but he still had staff members running research to assist the JAG defenders in those cases.

Costa was glad he never was involved in defending any of El Toronado’s shooters, but that pleasure ended when he was approached by a man with photographs of his meeting with the Union Park drug lord.

“You’ll be our conduit,” the man stated.

“For what?” Costa asked.

“Just take the calls and pass them on. You’ll be protected from prosecution under attorney-client privilege,” the stranger told him. “Fail at any point…”

The stranger handed him a shotgun shell.

Costa looked at the brass and red-plastic cartridge, turning it over in his fingers, hearing the buckshot rattle inside. “You’ve already got enough to disbar me and make me useless to El Toronado.”

The man reached out and took the shell. Costa noticed his latex glove.

“This will end up at a crime scene,” the man told him. “You just need to know that when forensics takes your fingerprints off this shell, El Toronado will not be happy with your continued existence.”

The man set down a stack of photographs. As he saw through smears of crimson puddles, Costa’s eyes widened at the horrors that could be inflicted on a human body.

“That man was still alive when those photographs were taken. I am told he lived two days afterward,” the stranger stated. “As you can tell, his quality of life was…negligible.”

Costa looked at the photographs. Toronado’s agent turned and left after depositing a small, nondescript black-leather notebook on the table in front of Costa. It contained the numbers he had to call. The ones he’d spent the past few minutes dialing.

His gut burned with brandy, and he wished that he was somewhere else.

A THOUSAND MILES TO the north, Aaron Kurtzman was leading the effort to pick up any phone calls from the Titusville area. There were hundreds of calls going out, but only one call came from a pay phone all the way to a lawyer’s office in Orlando. While the pay phone was geographically easy to track down, its user wasn’t. The call was only fifteen seconds, hardly a business call. The brevity of the communication, plus the call to a lawyer who was on the DEA’s radar, raised a flag. It was one of twenty calls that could have been suspicious in the hour since Schwarz landed at Canaveral.

It was a warrantless search, and it would have been frowned upon in the press, a mass net thrown out looking for something suspicious. Kurtzman kept rolling on the searches, poring through dozens of phone numbers, correlating the checks between the digits and their owners. In the second hour after Schwarz’s arrival, five more suspicious phone calls were made out of the phone junctures at Titusville, and the Stony Man staff was hard at work tracking everything from point of origin to length of call. Even with Wethers, Tokaido and Delahunt working on it, the twenty-five phone calls that rang their alarms took another hour to go through, checking phone patterns of the callers of landlocked lines.

The only oddball in the stack was the pay phone call to André Costa, but even by then, Lyons, Blancanales and Grimaldi had their helicopter waiting at Space Coast National Airport in south Titusville, ready to move on anything that the cybernetics team had worked up. It was after sunset by the time Kurtzman had narrowed down the phone calls.

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