Dark Star. Don Pendleton
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softly glowing screen only registered the AMZ fighters and SuperPumas, but nothing else. As far as radar was concerned, the sky was clear.
“By the blood of Christ, how is this possible?” a civilian technician cursed, thumping the console with a clenched fist.
“Who cares?” a gruff sergeant growled, crossing the room to yank open a metal locker. Inside the cabinet were neat rows of Imbel assault rifles, stacks of ammunition clips, rows of 30 mm rounds, and one large, bulky fiberglass tube.
Yanking out the Carl Gustaf rocket launcher, the sergeant checked the batteries, zeroed the aft port, then started to rummage for 83 mm shells. Damn it, there only seemed to be armor-piercing rounds designed to take out an APC or hovercraft. But there had to be at least one. Please, Lord, just one, single… yes! Sliding the antipersonnel round into the gaping maw of the huge weapon, the sergeant closed it tight, flicked off the safety and grimly strode for the door. A corporal and the civilian tech were already there, working the arming bolts of their assault rifles and thumbing in fat 30 mm rounds.
“Ready!” the sergeant announced, leveling the weapon.
But as the others threw open the door, hell itself exploded into the room, slamming the weapons from their hands and the very flesh from their blackening bones. The delicate equipment short-circuited in a wild display of electric sparks as windows blew out in a glittering rain of glass, then the roof flipped off as the concrete floor cracked, exposing the black box recorder. The resilient device briefly resisted the monstrous onslaught, then it was gone, reduced to red-hot slag and glowing vapors.
Just then there was an unexpected creaking noise as the maze of steel struts supporting the radar array above the installation began to soften and the huge confinement globe started to tilt. Instantly the cone streaked into the sky just in time to avoid being hit by the collapsing tons of advanced electronics.
By now the entire launch facility was in chaos, the soldiers and guards still firing at the bizarre flying machine to no avail whatsoever as hundreds of terrified people ran about screaming. The Main Assembly Building was on fire, and burning cars continued to explode as a spreading cloud of smoke began to completely swamp the base.
Moving above the death and destruction, the cone headed directly toward the Skywalker.
Streaking across the sky, the first AMZ fighter banked sharply toward the aerial machine and promptly unleashed a pair of Sidewinder missiles. Incredibly, the deadly heat-seekers streaked past the cone as if it didn’t exist and disappeared into the distance.
Cursing vehemently, the pilot began to turn for another try. How was this possible? The damn thing was sitting on a column of flame! he thought. There were no markings on the machine, whatever it was, to announce the country of origin, but clearly it had to be from one of the superpowers.
Suddenly a warning light flashed and the pilot of the AMZ fighter banked sharply to get out of the way of the incoming delta of SuperPumas.
Reaching the Skywalker, the cone washed its exhaust across the gantry, sending swarms of burning people flying into the jungle. As the gunships began to fire their 20 mm cannons, the fuel lines attached to the shuttle snapped and out gushed torrents of liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen. The semifrozen elements instantly combined and ignited. Looking horribly similar to fuses, the burning fuel lines raced up the side of the huge shuttle, then disappeared inside the armored hull. For a long second, it seemed as if nothing would happen.
Then the shuttle bulged slightly just before violently exploding, the blinding detonation spreading across the entire base like the wrath of a prehistoric god. Caught in the titanic shock wave, the gunships and jet fighters were smashed to pieces, the grisly remnants sent tumbling away to splash harmlessly into the gentle waves cresting on the white sandy beach.
As the lambent corona finally faded away, there was no sign of the cone. But standing on the bridge of the aircraft carrier, the captain of the São Paulo felt deep in his guts that the enemy machine had not been caught in the massive explosion. Although, how anything could have escaped the gargantuan blast seemed absolutely impossible.
As a second wing of SuperPumas rose from the flight deck to head for Compose Island to start emergency rescue operations, there came a low rumble of something breaking the sound barrier. But the soft noise was lost in the combined roar of the gunship’s engines and the horrible crackling of the spreading inferno that completely engulfed the ruined launch facility.
CHAPTER ONE
Washington, D.C.
Passing through the sturdy concrete barrier that encircled the military airfield, three identical limousines rolled across the smooth asphalt and onto the airfield. Separating, each of the armored vehicles rolled toward a different waiting 747 jumbo jet, the huge planes parked on converging runways.
Covering hundreds of acres, Andrews Air Force Base was located close to the capital and was charged with the primary defense of the city. Dozens of Apache and Cobra gunships were parked in orderly rows, ready to launch in a moment’s notice. More than a dozen hangars edged the field, the sliding doors pulled aside to reveal ranks of jet fighters and interceptors: F-15 Eagles, F-16 Tomcats, F-18 SuperHornets and even a handful of the brand-new F-22 Raptors.
Riding in the back of the second limo, Hal Brognola snorted at the massive display of firepower and wondered what type of disaster had recently occurred in the world that required his immediate presence. The big Fed had been on a rare fishing trip with his family in upstate New York, but when the President of the United States called he had rushed down here immediately, barely stopping long enough to change out of his old denims into a business suit. As the head of the Sensitive Operations Group, Hal Brognola was only contacted by the Man after the blood had already hit the fan.
As the limo braked to a halt at the foot of an air stairs, the man from Justice waited as a Marine in full dress uniform opened the door and moved aside. Stepping onto the tarmac, Brognola noticed two other men dressed in business attire getting out of the other limousines.
Most impressive, Brognola noted professionally. Things must really be bad for the Secret Service to make such complex security arrangements to mask which jetliner I’m boarding. The man was under no delusion that the precautions were for his benefit, but for the august passenger on the waiting 747, better known to the world as Air Force One.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the Marine said, checking a photograph attached to a clipboard. “Password, please.”
The honor guard made the request in a friendly tone, but Brognola knew the man’s response would be lightning fast and decidedly lethal if the wrong response was given. “Agamemnon,” Brognola muttered, for some reason suddenly feeling the urge for a cigar, even though he had given them up years ago.
Nodding, the Marine looked at him much closer now. “Wife’s maiden name?”
Puzzled, Brognola tilted his head slightly, only to notice the other men dressed like him at the other planes doing exactly the same thing. Damn, they could even copy his body language? Damn, the Secret Service was good.
“The name, sir?” the Marine repeated in a more insistent tone.
Brognola provided the required information, now very eager to get out of the open and inside the waiting 747. The sky was a clear blue, with scarcely a cloud in sight, yet he felt oddly vulnerable.
Easing his stance slightly, the big Marine motioned toward the air stairs. “Right this way, sir.”
Nodding, the big Fed quickly walked up the portable staircase, his sharp eyes checking in every direction. There were snipers lying on the rooftops of the terminal buildings, and several Harrier Jumpjets parked on the grassy strips between the runways, the air in front of them blurry from the heat of the idling turbo engines. What in hell had happened that he didn’t know about yet? There had been nothing on the news. But these were the sorts of safeguards normally reserved for a shooting war, not a tense peacetime.
As he reached the top of the stairs, a pretty female Secret Service agent checked his ID again, and Brognola gave the