Regan's Reach 2: Orbital Envy (35 page)

In Moscow Sokolov emerged tired and scowling from his private rooms. "Well, why have you woken me again, what is happening?"

"We don't know sir, no one will talk to us but something is clearly about to happen. All news stations around the world are reporting it." The aide looked extremely uncomfortable. He knew it would be like this. Don't say anything and be disciplined for incompetence. Say something and risk discipline for incompetence. He chose the latter, it was a numbers game.

Sokolov settled into an available armchair. "Screen!" he barked.

The screen lit up on CNN. Behind the reporter speaking he could see the thousands sunning on a brilliant day. It only served to increase his foul midnight mood. "Get me chocolate drink," he called over his shoulder then settled into the hard chair. "And get me Coran commander!" he yelled it through the open door.

Nervously the aide poked his head around the corner. "Sir, as I said, it's no good, no one will speak to us."

"Chocolate!" he yelled again.

* * *

Port and starboard deck crew disappeared out of view into the vast flight deck interior. A slight lift of the crafts nose indicated impending movement then the Bombers drifted forward, piercing the fields as they passed through, soaring out into vacuum. Although tiny by comparison to the huge warship Regan allowed her left hardware to calculate the size, knowing they must in themselves be significant vessels. The answer was swift. They looked larger than the figures suggested. Forty meters long and with a wingspan of thirty meters she realized the cargo area must be bulkier than first impressions. The wings, if that is what they were, seemed to take up about half the flight deck opening.

The two craft drifted casually away from the behemoth before powering up and accelerating rapidly. She didn't need to check the data on likely destination. They were clearly skirting the globe. In only a few hours at their present speed they would be over the pacific.

[Ham, can we get a view from underneath?]

[Onto it]

The rapidity of response thrilled her. It seemed only a second and she was looking upward at what obviously were bomb doors beneath the vessels. It somehow seemed antiquated but she was under no illusions. The missiles deposited from those doors would have all the smarts to accomplish their goals.
They must shoot first.

[Give me a good look at them]

Again the response was thrilling. Experiencing the new ADF's in action was a revelation. Faster, more maneuverable and ultimately far more adaptable the performance was a stunning revelation. Ham was right. They were light years ahead of the Coran's. It seemed inconceivable, yet obviously true. Having acknowledged that, these Coran vessels carried death and they were light years ahead of anything Earth could throw up in defense, other than the ADF's .
We might be smart and advanced but those missiles are projectiles that will still achieve their end given half a chance.

Swinging into atmosphere over the Antarctic one craft accelerated away northward.
They're coordinating their attack; they're going to hit both targets at once.

With nothing better to do Leah scanned the crowd, watching one man in particular although she covered her interest well. It was instinctive. Something about his look when they had made eye contact much earlier, when he was further back on the road. He had quickly looked away, the reaction drawing her attention. Now she noticed he was at the foot of the interceptor, looking away but slowly shifting sideways, gaining better line of sight, to Regan.

"Ham?" She whispered.

"Leah." His reply came instantly to her earpiece, a redundant whisper.

"The man in blue, edge of the ship to my right, blond hair . . ."

"Really . . . now?" He was still whispering.

She could see him reaching into his pocket and beginning to turn.

"Ham, snatch him, now!" . . . and he was gone.

Rising nonchalantly she slipped down over the hot black surface and entered the Interceptor. Standing shocked and encased in a blue field she could see Ham had left only his Head free. The man's hand was still in his pocket.

"What's going on, how did I get in here?" He sounded genuinely panicked.

"What have you got in your pocket?" she asked, eye to eye.

"Nothing . . . Just cigarettes."

"Ham . . . let him go please."

The field relaxed and he appeared to drop as if the field had held him up. As he moved the hand came from the pocket like a flash. She could see metal and smacked him hard in the throat putting everything into the blow right on the Adams apple. He winced closing his eyes for an instant only to feel her foot smash into his forearm, the resulting crack audible even to people outside the vessel. If he could have screamed he would have but it was too late. As he doubled forward in pain she backhanded him snapping his head so violently to the side he dropped to the floor with a sickening thud.

"Oh!"Ham sounded surprised. "I thought you had plans for him . . . I didn't see that coming."

Leah reached down and extracted the small weapon from the man's hand, a revolver. Quickly searching his pockets she could find no identification. "Shall we just pop him back out there?"

Ham waited "Leah, check his pulse. If I'm right, he's dead."

She didn't bother. "He was angling for Regan . . . When is it going to stop Ham?"

"Maybe never, I have a feeling though, all roads lead to Sokolov. When we've dealt with him, she might have some peace. Leah, get back out there, the attack is underway, and there may be others in the crowd."

With one bomber holding station over the South Pacific the other continued north still in the upper atmosphere but beginning to curl down gathering speed. As with the STEIN craft resistance seemed nonexistent, the bomber appearing to slip through the air effortlessly. No heat, no wind turbulence just unerring accuracy as it honed in on target. As the observers, Regan, Marin, the team at Hillary Station and Ham watched, the second bomber holding station suddenly dipped one wing and began its own approach coordinating it perfectly. Hurtling into atmosphere both craft now lost altitude rapidly eating up the kilometers at incredible speed and only beginning to slow as they leveled out around one hundred kilometers from target and ten thousand meters altitude. Bomber doors opened and the long missiles dropped, one from each craft, falling with their own momentum until seconds' later rockets ignited and they streaked away. The Coran vessels effortlessly fell into pursuit tracking the missiles down, perhaps to protect but more likely to record their destructive impact.

On the split screen Bob and Marin followed the action. As the missile streaked away they knew it was toward Wellington.

"What happens now?" Jarvis voice was flat.

"Marin swung his feet onto the table. This where we hand over to our Minister of Defense Bob, have faith."

In Washington, Cliff Johnston watched with similar feelings. On his third Bourbon his mood was one of quiet resignation. For the president of the United States this was galling, to be powerless, nervous, disbelieving. He had seen plenty of missiles in flight before, but not directed at the States, and not without any real power to respond.

In both locations CNN's coverage was comprehensive. They had one channel dedicated to wellington and one to Hawaii. Flicking between the two showed remarkably similar split screen pictures. On one side the view was of incoming missiles, Ham trailing ADF's to transmit views of the respective Coran chasers and missiles streaking ahead on their deadly paths. On the other side they focused upward, as if searching for the incoming angel of death. As billions watched around the world, whether via the Wellington feed or Honolulu, both pictures revealed the same coordinated response. They showed a single lonely ADF holding position above each city. In the distance, dozens of black shapes hovered, waiting.

Leah joined Regan back on the top of the Interceptor. Swinging her chair around she fully reclined it to lay back and follow what action she could. Once settled she looked up, adjusting her glasses. It worried her that the ADF looked even closer than before, hovering centre Island. Regan seemed in a trance, watching? Organizing? . . . There was no way to tell and she didn't bother her. What could she do? Screams from the crowd drew her attention. People were pointing and looking up; squinting into the distance she too could see the jet trail coming from the south. Behind it she could make out an aircraft, easier to see and clearly following the trail. Looking back inland the ADF was moving. It looked ridiculously small from this distance, like a bird gliding in place. Her eyes began to swing back and forth . . . The missile, still mainly visible from the trail, the ADF constantly moving, like a boxer, the missile a dark dot now, the ADF settling, the missile curving upward, climbing as if it were going to pass overhead, the crowds cheers turning to screams as it curved back into a dive over the Island, streaking down toward the much the smaller ADF, steady now, poised and ready. In that few seconds screams became sobs, hands covered mouths in anguish; many fainted, for some hearts gave out. The missile drilled down into the ADF so quickly it was impossible to follow. Then came the flash, a blur to most including HD cameras. As the tens of thousands opened their eyes the sight of the missile streaking back on a steep climb over the Pacific Ocean left the crowd breathless for a moment. Then the cheers erupted.

It wasn't over. As the missile streaked away its trajectory drew all eyes to the air battle around the Coran bomber. Forty nine ADF's harassing it in swirling incredibly tight turns, heading it off, diving in close then swerving away, causing it to steadily lose altitude and slow. Suddenly, in close formation, six ADF's swept in from behind, incredibly fast, three on each side and simply latched on to the stricken bomber. Like limpets they clung there. Leah sat up excited. They weren't just attached, they were in control. Slowly the bomber was turned and drawn back toward land.

Leah felt a hand clasp hers and looked down at Regan, her eyes were open, a broad warm smile on her face. "Phase one complete. Good work Ham."

Regan sat up and stretched then both stood and embraced, before turning to wave to the cheering crowds.

In Washington Cliff Johnston sat with his head in his hands, exhausted. Anne Marshall, tears trickling down her cheeks watched the two beauties embracing on the Interceptor and shook her head in amazement. "There's no doubt about it Cliff."

He looked up, "what's that?"

"It's the STEIN Age, that's for sure."

"We live to fight another day."

"I sure hope they've got plans for tomorrow too, because there's going to be one pissed Coran Commander in orbit right now."

"Anne, get on the phone to that Russian putz, he must be shitting himself by now. I give you full license to say whatever you want. Tell him what we think of him. He's a traitor to humanity."

* * *

In Wellington Marin coolly swung his feet off the table and extended his hand to the prime Minister. "Congratulations sir, I think we can safely say you have victory in this phase of the battle. My work here is done and I'm needed elsewhere. You know how it is, war to win and all that."

Jarvis was still recovering, drenched in sweat and heart still racing. He reached for the phone to ring family in Auckland. Marin gently closed the door behind him as he left . . . and disappeared.

The saucer lifted quietly from the Beehive, swinging out over the city, across Mt Victoria and down to the Airport tarmac. [Can you pop them straight in here?]

[No problem. There
are
two you know]

[No problem, I have a gun]

[You are
not
firing a gun in here]

[Only if I have to]

They settled beside the Coran Bomber, still draped with ADF's, trapping it on the grass. Marin readied himself, gun in hand and gave the word. Two bubbles materialized, with the figures collapsing backward onto the floor. Ham had snatched them from their chairs. Shocked they scrabbled clumsily around and shunted back against the wall.

"Hi," He smiled, "
I
, am King Marin, Regent of Dahlia . . . and
this
is a gun."

In Hawaii Regan took a slightly different approach. Settling beside the Coran ship she displaced across with Leah. The two watched quietly from the back of the Coran control as two women, Pilot and Navigator no doubt, concentrated on their work desperately trying to contact the mother ship in orbit.

"Hello there." The Coran's looked around, stunned. Regan smiled, stepped forward and extended her hand. I'm Regan . . . and you are?"

* * *

"We're on my friend . . ."

Rod jerked up from his slouch, searching the forward screen for threats. It was instinctive. There was nothing to see and he immediately relaxed, disappointed. He was not a good passenger.

"Nothing's changed then; I just sit here and do nothing."

"That's it, work to your strengths, you're good at it and anyway you're not doing 'nothing'. You keep that heart beating, it's a very important role, and you'll be remembered for it."

They began the steady nudge forward.

"WHERE ARE MY BOMBERS?" Merryl stalked control smacking a short metal pipe on any available surface, each blow producing a crack that had the control crew jumping.

His rage at the ADF intervention made the area deadly, like being in a minefield and the crew literally feared for their lives. No one risked answering and perhaps as a result wearing responsibility for what had occurred. Fear permeated the room, not just of Merryl but the unknown. Views of the attack that at Merryl's command had been transmitted throughout the ship had proved a disaster. Taken from the chasing bombers nothing was hidden and all were stunned as the missiles were redirected with ease. For the first time chill doubt infected the vessel. One look at any neighbor and it was obvious where their attentions were focused. They were anxiously thinking of home.