One by one, they assured him the current forecasts were good, with only the minor possibility of a mild storm front pushing through Plesetsk before their scheduled launch date. Leonov, listening closely to these seemingly enthusiastic reports, nevertheless caught the faint undercurrent of anxiety emanating from his subordinates. Like him, they understood the grave dangers involved in flying so much new equipment without adequate tests. But like him, they also understood that they no longer had an alternative.
By now, the Americans, alerted by pictures taken by their spy satellites, would know that something very strange was going on at Russia’s space complexes. Moving seven rockets simultaneously toward launch readiness represented an unprecedented level of activity. Very soon, Moscow could expect a flood of pointed, suspicious queries from Washington.
No, Leonov thought, there was no going back. Russia was committed. And win or lose, they stood on the brink of a new age.
However, it still came as something of a shock when he heard Gryzlov issue the final necessary and irrevocable order to the military cosmonauts on standby at Star City. “Colonel Strelkov,” he said flatly. “You will proceed immediately to Baikonur with your first Mars One crew and prepare for launch.”
Thirteen
President John Dalton Farrell let the satellite imagery displayed on the Situation Room’s large wall screen speak for itself. Hours ago, the pictures collected during routine passes over Plesetsk, Vostochny, and Baikonur had sent shock waves rippling through the federal government’s intelligence, defense, and space agencies — first among the analysts who interpreted them and then upward through level upon level of management. Now, finally, those shock waves had reached Washington’s top decision-making echelon, the president and his national security team.
He looked down the crowded table toward his secretary of state, Andrew Taliaferro. Shorter than Farrell by a head, the former congressman from North Carolina already had a good working knowledge of foreign affairs when he’d been tapped to run Foggy Bottom. Almost as important in the president’s eyes was Taliaferro’s reputation as a top-notch amateur poker player. The way Farrell saw it, anyone that skilled at reading other people under pressure ought to have a distinct advantage in diplomatic negotiations. “Well, Andy? Did you hear back from Moscow yet?”
“I spoke to Foreign Minister Titeneva an hour ago, Mr. President,” Taliaferro said. He snorted. “While she denied any personal knowledge of specific space program plans, the foreign minister assured me that the Russian Federation remains committed to the peaceful exploitation of outer space.”
“Basically, just the usual diplomatic boilerplate.”
Taliaferro nodded. “But Titeneva also sounded somewhat nervous to me. More than I would have expected, considering the way she’s backed all of Gryzlov’s aggressive moves from the moment he took office.”
Farrell raised an eyebrow. That was interesting… and worrying, too. As Russia’s chief diplomat, Daria Titeneva was famous for her uncompromising willingness to defend her leader’s actions — no matter how far they strayed outside diplomatic norms and the rule of international law. Her slashing verbal attacks on the United States, Poland, and other Western allies both in public forums like the UN Security Council and in private talks were equally notorious. So what did it mean if one of Gryzlov’s closest political allies — a woman even rumored to be his mistress — was so obviously on edge about whatever he was doing?
Frowning, Farrell glanced at his White House science adviser, Dr. Lawrence Dawson. “Any luck with Roscosmos, Lawrence?” Roscosmos was the government megacorporation in charge of Russia’s civilian space program.
“I reached out to Director Polikarpov,” the tall, rail-thin astrophysicist said dryly. “He was not very helpful. When I asked him why they were prepping so many space vehicles at one time, he claimed it was nothing more than random chance — the result of their new Energia program ramping up to the next phase of flight testing earlier than expected at the same time as other, older rockets were scheduled to carry replacement communications satellites into orbit.” He shook his head in disgust. “In my former academic life, I flunked many undergraduates who came to me with far more plausible excuses.”
Farrell shared his science adviser’s assessment. Polikarpov’s explanation had the distinctive odor of “the dog ate my homework” about it. He looked around the table and focused on the pragmatic, gray-haired woman he’d named to head the CIA. Unlike the incompetent but telegenic nonentity Stacy Anne Barbeau had foisted on Langley, Elizabeth Hildebrand was a talented, hardworking intelligence service professional with decades of experience in both analysis and operations. “Anything to add here, Liz?”
Hildebrand shrugged. “Not as much as I would like, Mr. President,” she admitted. “Our HUMINT networks inside Russia are virtually nonexistent at the moment. Until we can recruit new sources, which could take years, my analysts are largely dependent on what they can glean from satellites and signals intelligence — or even from trying to read between the lines in public news sources.”
Farrell nodded sympathetically. Even under competent leadership, HUMINT, or “human intelligence”—the art of recruiting and running agents — had never been the strongest suit of America’s different intelligence agencies. That was part of the reason he’d reached out to Kevin Martindale and Scion for help right after taking the oath of office. Nevertheless, he judged it would be useful to hear the CIA’s views. After all, even a blind squirrel could find a nut once in a while. “Taking that as a given,” he pressed her gently, “how do your people see this?”
“Their general view is that the Russians may be feeling pressured by the recent successes of our American private space enterprises — and also by your determination to bring the Sky Masters spaceplanes back into active service. The consensus is that Moscow is planning a space ‘spectacular’ of its own to capture the imagination of the world and the interest of potential commercial customers.”
“A spectacular,” Farrell repeated flatly. He nodded his chin at the satellite pictures still frozen on the Situation Room’s big screen. “Like firing off those seven rockets from three different launch complexes?”
“Quite possibly,” the CIA director agreed. “According to stories circulating in the trade press and on some of the more reliable space news blogs, the Russians hope to radically compress their historically slow development and test cycle for new space hardware — especially those Energia heavy-lift rockets and their advanced Federation crew capsule. Launching so many rockets in such a short time would also demonstrate their ability to outbuild and outfly NASA or any other potential Western competitor.” She shrugged. “Those reports do seem to match up with what our satellites are seeing.”
“Except that those stories are nothing but a combination of speculative bullshit and deliberate Russian disinformation,” a cool, hard-edged voice broke in abruptly from the back of the room.
Around the table, startled faces turned toward the man who’d spoken out so bluntly.
Farrell hid a grin. He’d been warned that Patrick McLanahan had both a flair for the dramatic and a take-no-prisoners attitude when it came to shredding arguments with which he disagreed. “Go on, General,” he said with a small nod. “What are we missing?”