“They will,” the other man said confidently. “In the meantime, I’ve got a couple more things to show you.” He signaled one of Sky Masters technicians monitoring the robots at the bottom of the tank. “Tell COMS One to cut it short and return to the surface, Mike.”
Patrick and Martindale watched with interest while one of the robots broke off from its work on the space station module. The machine rose slowly — cloaked in a cloud of bubbles from its maneuvering thrusters. Once it bobbed to the surface, a crane carefully lifted the COMS out of the water and set it down gently in a specially constructed cradle that kept it upright.
“So Humpty-Dumpty is safely back in the nest,” Martindale murmured irreverently.
Patrick grinned. Seen out of the water, the spheroid-shaped robot did look a hell of a lot like a big metal egg. He leaned forward, watching closely as a tight-fitting hatch on one of its flanks unsealed and then whined open.
“Meet my star COMS pupil,” Richter said smugly.
A figure wearing a helmet and a silvery carbon-fiber space suit wriggled out through the opening and dropped lithely to the ground. The suit, which used electronically controlled fibers to compress the skin instead of pressurized oxygen, showed off every one of her curves.
“I’ll be damned,” Patrick muttered, seeing Nadia Rozek’s triumphant face beaming back at him through the visor of her helmet. “That woman certainly gets around.”
“Major Rozek is wearing a space suit as protection against vacuum if the COMS’ outer shell is breached,” he heard Richter explaining to Martindale.
“So who are the other two guinea pigs running the robots down there in the pool today?” Patrick asked. “Brad and Boomer?”
“No.” Richter laughed. “That’s my last surprise, General. Nadia was the only astronaut inside a COMS today. Between data links, the power of each machine’s haptic interface and computer, and the advanced autonomous systems we’ve built into these robots, a skilled operator can pilot up to three machines simultaneously — using one for intricate tasks while the others handle easier or more repetitive work.”
Patrick stared at him. “You’re not bullshitting me?”
“Not in the slightest,” Richter replied.
Astounded, Patrick looked back at the strange-looking machine resting quietly on its cradle. Calling the Cybernetic Orbital Maneuvering System revolutionary was almost an understatement, he decided. Sooner or later, humans were bound to rebuild permanent structures in Earth orbit. And when they did, this new technology would give Sky Masters and the United States and all their other allies an enormous competitive advantage.
Twelve
Right on schedule, the orange-and-gray-painted commuter train from Moscow pulled into the Tsiolkovskaya station and squealed to a stop midway along an open platform. Seconds later, passenger car doors slid open and a handful of middle-aged men and women in civilian suits and military uniforms stepped off the train — scientists, engineers, and administrators returning to Star City from high-level meetings at the Kremlin and other government ministries. Each was accompanied by a pair of security officers, hard-faced men who were assigned to keep an eye on them whenever they left the heavily guarded confines of the Star City cosmonaut training complex.
A wire fence topped with cameras and other sensors sealed off the station platform. Soldiers stood guard at the only opening in the barrier, a security checkpoint controlling further access to the compound. One by one, the passengers and their escorts filtered through the checkpoint — handing over their special ID cards for close inspection and submitting to biometric scans.
Unnoticed by any of them, a tiny, brown, birdlike glider circled silently overhead. The ultralight, palm-sized spy drone contained only a miniaturized digital camera and a few cell-phone components creating a communications link.
On the top floor of a dingy apartment building a mile outside the Star City security perimeter, a short, whip-thin young man tweaked the stick on a small handheld controller. His eyes were fixed on the images scrolling across the screen of his laptop computer. “Good pictures coming in now, Sam,” he said in a lilting Welsh voice. “And I’ve no trouble with the Wren Bravo. None at all. The winds are just right and she’s responding beautifully.”
Samantha Kerr nodded. “Thanks, Davey.”
David Jones was one of the veteran Scion operatives assigned to Marcus Cartwright’s Moscow-based intelligence team. The ultralight Wren glider he controlled was a more advanced version of the Cicada, a miniature reconnaissance drone first developed by the U.S. Naval Research Laboratory in Washington, D.C. Cicadas were designed for use in mass swarms after being dropped over targets by manned aircraft and larger drones. They were intended to gather intelligence on large-scale enemy troop movements using a range of lightweight, low-bandwidth sensors. In sharp contrast, the camera-equipped Wren Bravo, like its microphone-carrying cousin, the Wren Alpha, carried out much narrower and more focused missions — conducting photo reconnaissance and surveillance of individual human targets. Floating silently on the wind, riding thermals rising from the ground as it circled, it was almost impossible to detect.
Signals between Jones and the bird-sized Scion spy drone were being relayed through a portable dish antenna he’d set up on the apartment’s balcony. Anyone who noticed the dish would only assume the tenants, an elderly pensioner and his equally aged wife, had decided to sign up with one of Russia’s increasingly popular satellite television providers. Right now, though, the old couple was enjoying a rare vacation trip to the Black Sea — courtesy of the large sum of cash Sam had paid to rent their small, cramped flat.
Sam smiled to herself, remembering their delight and their hushed assurances that they would be “very discreet, very careful.” It was obvious they assumed she was a high-class prostitute who wanted to use their flat as a rendezvous for clients who worked inside Star City. She’d been very careful not to disabuse them of the notion. After all, it was the best kind of cover story, one dreamed up by the very people she wanted to deceive. Hadn’t someone once said the lies you told yourself were always more convincing than falsehoods told by others?
“There we go! I’ve got what you wanted, look now,” Jones said suddenly. He tapped a key on his laptop, freezing some of the pictures on its screen. “See here?”
Sam leaned forward, peering over his shoulder. The Wren had managed to capture good, clear images of at least two of the special Mars Project identity cards. Running those pictures through digital enhancement software should improve them to the point where Scion’s document forgery specialists could work their black magic. “Nicely done, Davey,” she said with delight. “Pull the Wren back now and set it down someplace near the highway. We’ll scoop it up on our way back to Moscow.”
With another small tug at the controller, Jones obeyed — breaking the tiny glider out of its orbit over the Tsiolkovskaya station and sending it sliding away downwind. Once the Wren ran out of airspeed and altitude, it would simply fall into the tall grass beside the road. There wasn’t much risk of discovery even if someone else stumbled across the little spy drone before they could retrieve it. Most people would assume they’d only found a child’s toy.
From across the tiny apartment, Marcus Cartwright caught Sam’s eye. “I still don’t see the point of this exercise,” the big man grumbled. “Even with perfectly forged Mars Project IDs, we won’t be able to break into Star City, or the Plesetsk and Vostochny launch sites. Our names and genuine biometric data aren’t on Gryzlov’s tightly controlled list of approved personnel… and we have no way to add them.”