Fallen Angel (4 page)

"Where did it come down, Colonel?" Rich put all the jokes aside.

"It hasn't. Not yet, but we know the general area. I will reveal that in a moment. First, Major Scalon will fill in the basics for me."

"Yes, sir." Scalon moved two steps forward, not in front of the monitors, but just far enough so the team could see him. "Part of the Joint Space Operations Center at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California's mission is to monitor everything of importance in space. Space has become more crowded than most people know. They keep an eye on more than one thousand active satellites and nearly four thousand inactive satellites or rocket debris. All told, they watch close to sixteen thousand objects; most moving at five miles per second."

Crispin whistled. "That's . . . what? About eighteen thousand miles an hour?"

"That's right, Sergeant. If we count smaller objects, there are close to half-a-million bits of debris over our heads. An aluminum object the size of your fist carries the same kinetic energy of fifteen pounds of TNT. Imagine the kind of damage something the size of a Buick could do." Scalon rocked on his heels for a moment. "On average, there are seventy-five possible collisions every day. When a collision occurs, the satellite usually bursts into pieces. To give you an example, on February 10, 2009, a busted-down Russian communications outpost called Cosmos 2251 collided with one of our Iridium 33 communication birds. It knocked out some phone calls and left more than two thousand pieces of debris."

"So this happened to Angel-12?" J. J. asked.

Scalon shook his head. "There are similarities. It was a deactivated Chinese satellite that did the deed, but this time it was no accident."

"They intentionally rammed us?" The idea infuriated Moyer.

"We think so. There's been no public discussion of this, of course, but behind-the-scene talks have been revealing. The Chinese claimed they were attempting to park their satellite in a graveyard orbit."

"A what?" Rich said.

"Most satellites orbit in geosynchronous paths 22,400 miles above the earth. Dead or out-of-date devices are pushed to a slightly higher orbit where they won't present a danger to other satellites."

Moyer spoke. "But you suspect the Chinese are lying."

Scalon nodded. "Their satellite was inactive for more than two years. Why the sudden concern about its location? I suppose we'd buy the story if the thing hadn't changed course. It didn't bump into our equipment; it targeted it."

"So we're out a bird?" Rich said. "Won't it just burn up in the atmosphere?"

"Good question. With almost any other satellite, the answer would be yes, but Angel-12 has been hardened."

"Hardened?" Moyer said.

"On January 11, 2007, the Chinese shot down a defunct Fengyun-1C satellite using a 'kinetic-kill vehicle,' an unpowered projectile. They scored a direct hit, shattering the satellite into three thousand traceable pieces. One of the things that keep guys like me and my superior officers awake at night is facing an enemy who can shoot down our satellites. Imagine a war in which only one country has eyes in the sky. We'd be fighting like we did in World War II while facing a twenty-first-century enemy."

"So by 'hardened' you mean Angel-12 is up-armored." Moyer kept his gaze on Scalon.

"Yes. It's a new, lightweight armor you don't need to know about." Scalon inhaled deeply. "Pieces of space junk have made earth-fall before. In 1997, a Delta II fuel tank landed in the yard of a home in Georgetown, Texas. In 2001, a titanium motor casing from a Delta II came to rest in Saudi Arabia. Fortunately, it hit the desert and not a city. Most objects that fall from space burn to ashes; those that don't, land in the ocean or in unpopulated areas. Angel-12 will do the same."

J. J. shifted in his seat. "Do we want to know where?"

"These things can't be predicted with absolute accuracy, but we can get close . . ."

"You're killing us here, Major," Moyer said.

"Siberia."

Rich swore.

"Siberia. As in the Russian wasteland?"

"Some people call Siberia home," Scalon said.

"No one I know," Rich whispered.

"In June of 2010, the Japanese Space Agency guided the Hayabusa spacecraft—the one that landed on an asteroid and returned to earth—to the Australian outback. Unlike them, however, we have lost all control of what's left of our bird; otherwise, we'd direct it into some deep ocean. The best we can do is crunch the numbers and watch it fall."

"To Siberia," Rich mumbled. "First Nebraska, now Siberia."

"Yes, to Siberia."

"There's more." Colonel Mac's voice rolled from overhead speakers. "In fact, it's why you're the ones going and not someone closer. The Air Force sent in one of their Special Ops units. They were captured and we believe they are being held near the area where Angel-12 will impact. Your mission is twofold. First, be the first to the satellite, secure its nuclear power source, and then destroy its sensitive communications and optics. Second, if possible, get the flyboys home. Is that understood?"

"Understood, sir." Moyer paused, then added, "How do we insert into Siberia?"

Mac smiled. "You like fishing?"

CHAPTER 4

"YOU GOT TEN MINUTES,"
Captain Tim Bryan said. "I wish it could be more."

"Not your fault." Moyer's mind believed the words, but his heart was not so agreeable.

"Follow me." Tim led them from the elevator and down a long, wide corridor with a floor polished like a mirror. The footfalls of seven men echoed off the hard surfaces. Tim stopped at a door marked Accounting 105, turned the knob, and swung it open. Inside, two airmen and one lieutenant sat at computers. Were they really doing accounting work or something more covert?

The three came to their feet the moment Tim stepped into the room. "At ease, gentlemen." Tim faced the officer. "I need the room, Lieutenant."

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Lock down your stations and then go get a cup of coffee."

"Um, yes sir." The officer turned to the airmen in the room. "You heard the captain. Secure your computers and desks."

The man's puzzled look brought a smile to Moyer's face. He did his best to hide it.

As the three accountants filed from the room, Tim stopped the officer. "I need five more rooms with phones."

"Sir?"

"In about ten minutes, these men are about to take a long trip. I want them to have a few minutes to make a phone call."

"But, sir—"

"You ever been in Minot, North Dakota, in January, Lieutenant?"

"Five rooms empty and with phones, sir. Got it."

Tim turned to Moyer's men. "The lieutenant will escort you to offices where you can make your calls. He'll show you how to get an outside line."

Moyer looked at the former Air Force Spec Ops warrior. "Are you going to get in trouble for this, Captain?"

Tim shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about." He slapped Moyer on the shoulder. "For me, this was always the most difficult part of any mission." He chuckled. "When I was wounded, my first thought wasn't if I'd live or die. I was worried about explaining it to my wife."

"I got one of those wives too. My men and I appreciate this." Moyer held out his hand and Tim gave it a man-to-man shake, the kind of handshake that says more than words.

"Come on, Sergeant Major. Let me see if I can't get you an outside line."

Sixty seconds later, Moyer stood at the lieutenant's desk, phone in hand. He was having trouble drawing a deep breath.

"Hello." The voice was like silk: smooth, cool, and soft. It also carried a hint of suspicion. The voice cut Moyer's heart like a sharp knife. He had been through this before. The caller ID at his home read: UNKNOWN.

"Hi, babe." The image of his wife, shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair, sparkling eyes, and million-dollar smile, flashed on his brain.

"Eric? I thought you . . . oh."

"Yeah, my business trip has been extended. I have to make another stop or two before I can make it home."

Stacy had been a Spec Ops wife for years, but it wasn't something a woman could get used to. Eric knew this because she made it clear several times. Never in anger; never in an accusatory tone. Her love bathed her words the few times they discussed the work he did.

Such discussions were always vague, something required by security, not just for Moyer and his team, but also for his family. Truth was, only a handful of people knew about any mission his team undertook. Not even the president knew when a mission began or ended unless he was the one who called for the action. The military survived on invisible compartments. Captain Tim wasn't being snide when he refused to say what operation he was on when he was wounded. Moyer knew a lot about Spec Ops activities, but the fact he was a team leader didn't give him access to what other teams were doing.

Most men could discuss work with their families: the good, the bad, the frustrating, the layoffs, the awards, the contracts. Moyer and men like him could say nothing to family or friends. Those who know what he did—and they were few—could only watch the news and guess if their son, husband, or father was somehow behind the story.

Moyer didn't want to count the number of times he was called up with just enough time to kiss his wife good-bye and wonder if it would be the last time he ever did so.

"I see. Should I push Gina's birthday party back a week or so?"

Moyer could hear the sadness in Stacy's voice; he could also feel the red-hot emotional knife the question plunged into his gut. "That's a week away. I'll try to be back by then." He paused. He had no idea when he'd be back. "Let her decide. If I can't make it back in time for the party, then we'll do something special when I get back in town." He lowered his head. "Is she there now?"

"She's about to leave for the library."

"Put her on."

"Hang on."

A moment later a familiar, chipper voice poured over the phone. "Daddy!"

"Hey, kid. You doin' okay?"

She put on a Jersey accent. "I do fine. How you doin'?"

Moyer had to laugh. "Listen, munchkin, I'm being called to a special meeting so I won't be home tonight."

"Oh. Okay. I understand."

"I'm still going to try to make your birthday party." His stomach tightened into a knot. "If I miss it, we'll do something special. I know, we'll go to your favorite restaurant." Another second-rate offer to compensate for missing another important date in his family's life.

"Can I bring a boy?"

"Do you mean to be dinner or join us for dinner?"

"You know what I mean."

"Only if I can call you baby names through the whole meal—in front of him."

"Never mind." She sounded pouty and loosened Moyer's heart.

"I'm just kidding."

"I know. Me too. Be safe, Daddy. I miss you. Gotta run. My ride to the library is here."

"I miss you too. See you soon."

Stacy returned to the phone. "You made her day."

"She made mine." Moyer chuckled. "You know, I think she's the only person her age who goes to the library voluntarily."

"She loves it. You know her, books are everything."

"You'll have to cover for me if I miss the party. How many times have I had to do that?"

"Stop it, Eric. Your . . . business is important. Don't beat yourself up." She paused. "Leave that to me."

"You could probably do it."

"Probably? Probably? No probably about it, bub."

Moyer laughed, but it was mirth mixed with regret. "Rob behaving?"

"Yes. Oh, he got that job."

"Flipping burgers?"

Stacy said yes. "He thinks he can earn enough money over the summer to buy an iPhone before he starts college."

"When did I get old enough to have a college-aged kid?"

"Many years ago."

"Watch it." The image of his tall, lanky son played in his mind. Just two years ago he and Rob were at each other's throats, but events changed him; that and some wise counsel from J. J.'s chaplain brother.

"It's good to know he's there for you. I don't suppose he's there."

"No. They're at that age, Eric: always gone; always doing something. Do you remember when we were that way?"

"I remember everything about you."

The conversation fell silent. "Yeah. What you said. Me too."

Moyer chortled. "You are a romantic."

"You know how I get when you make these kinds of calls."

He did know. Two years earlier, Stacy started having nightmares when his work separated them. It began while he was on mission in Venezuela. The dreams returned while he and his team were in Europe and then in Mexico. Stacy kept the last set of dreams from him for three months after his return.

"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry."

She sniffed and he could imagine tears welling in her eyes. His eyes began to burn. He looked at the far wall, as if doing that would take the sting out of his heart.

"Don't be sorry. It is what it is. You were in the Army when I married you. At our wedding I got a husband and a large branch of the military. I'm proud of you and what you do. What you do isn't easy."

"What
you
do may be more difficult."

"Of course it is, but I'm a woman. I can take it."

"There is not a doubt in my mind."

Another pause passed without words but heavy with meaning.

"You know I love you, right?" Her voice was a decibel above a whisper.

"It's my reason to get up in the morning. Well, that and scrambled eggs."

"And the kids?"

"Let them get their own eggs."

She laughed. "Hug yourself for me."

"You too."

Moyer hung up, then spent a minute stuffing his emotions into the basement of his mind. The conversation was tough, but something tougher was coming. He had to get control of his emotions before he stepped back into the hallway to meet the rest of his team. In order to keep his emotions in check, Moyer practiced a trick he learned years ago—stop thinking about his family and start thinking about everything he needed to do to keep himself and his men alive for the next mission.

A dozen deep breaths later, he emerged from the office. His team waited in silence. Rich stood the farthest down the hall. J. J., who had been married less than a year, had his hands in his pocket and his face turned to avoid eye contact. Jose Medina, who was doing his best to bring up his own basketball team, gazed at his smartphone looking at pictures of his children. Pete, like J. J., had been married a short time. Crispin was unmarried, but he showed the good sense to give the others whatever time they needed.

A few steps away, standing at the mouth of the corridor, Tim waited, his hands clasped in front of him. In the lobby, the displaced office workers stood in a group and off to themselves.

Moyer and Tim made eye contact.

"You good to go?" Tim asked.

Moyer inhaled deeply and faced his men. "We ready to rock?"

"Hooah!"

Moyer turned back to Tim. "All right, Captain. Let's catch the first thing smokin' out of here."

TESS RAND-BARTLEY CONTINUED TO
stare at the phone as if she expected it to come to life, or better yet, ring again with her husband's voice saying, "Just kiddin', kiddo. Turns out I'll be home tonight after all."

But she knew it wouldn't. She might be a new Army wife, but she had been around the military enough to know she wouldn't hear from J. J. until he was off mission. Unlike other Army wives, she was often "in-the-know." Her basic work didn't require keeping secret her identity or function. Those who saw the petite, auburn-haired twenty-something woman would not suspect she was an expert in terrorism, female suicide bombers, and international affairs. Although younger than most of her peers, none doubted her right to teach at the War College in Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania.

Her exceptional expertise brought her to the attention of the military where she often served as a military consultant to Spec Ops. Although the material she had to deal with was emotionally distasteful, what she did often helped to save lives—including that of her new husband.

Next to the phone was a military mug shot of J. J. in his dress uniform, colorful ribbons across his chest. It was a new photo and among the medals on his uniform was a Purple Heart. The wound that almost took his life left him with a slight limp. Doctors saved both life and leg, but if you asked J. J. what they really saved was his career.

The phone rang again, and for a moment Tess's heart skipped with hope. "Hello?"

"Tess, it's Mac."

Always first names and informal on the phone. "Yes, Mac."

"You probably haven't heard—"

"He called a short time ago. No details of course, just that his trip was extended."

"Right. I need you on this. Can you handle that?"

He was being obtuse, but she got the meaning. He wanted to know if she could consult on a mission that involved her husband. Bad form. Bad policy. But sometimes necessary.

"Yes. I'll have to check with the dean—"

"Already done."

She smiled. "Did you ask him or inform him?"