Dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant in the Voenno Kosmicheskie Sily, Kuhl rode up to the checkpoint station at the north gate of the Cosmodrome in the two-seat cabin of an MZKT-7429 military semi-trailer truck. He was on the passenger side. Oleg, a native Ukrainian with whom he had seen action in many mercenary operations, was at the wheel. In back were Antonio and four of Kuhl's best, most dedicated men from Brazil-- men who had replaced the original occupants of the truck, actual Russian Military Space Police, now dead in a ditch some miles away with bullets from Antonio's .22-caliber pistol in their heads. With Kuhl and his men aboard the trailer was the High Power Microwave cannon--tested and proven when used against the commuter train outside Sao Paulo--and its smaller but far more potent cousin, the long-range Havoc HMP device that would be placed aboard the Russian space station module. Using ISS's solar array as its power source, it would be both reusable and retargetable--allowing Harlan DeVane to virtually destroy the electronic infrastructure of any major city on earth at his remote command.

There were five sentries at the gate. Two wore the dark blue attire of UpLink's security team; three had VKS uniforms like Kuhl's--but with privates' patches on their field jackets.

Kuhl slipped his hand off the MP5K beside his seat. The Russian presence might make using it unnecessary.

As Oleg slowed the truck to a halt before the gate, one of the Sword guards approached, coming around to the driver's-side window.

"We need your identification, please," the guard said in English. Then in choppy guidebook Russian: "Pakuhzhee-tyeh, pa-zhal-stuh rigis-tratsiuh. "

Oleg was reaching down for his own submachine gun when Kuhl nodded slightly for him to be still, unrolled his window, and leaned his head out.

"What is this?" he said, speaking English with a fabricated Russian accent. "Do you realize I am an officer of the military police?"

The Sword guard looked calm but determined.

"I apologize for the inconvenience, sir, but my detail's been assigned security of this entry point, and if you'd just show your papers we can let you right on through."

Kuhl feigned affront and gestured toward the Russian watchmen.

"What is this?" he barked in Russian. "Am I to be insulted by these outlanders?"

The Sword guard might not have understood his words, but his tone made their meaning clear.

"Sir," he said. "I assure you this is strictly a routine check--"

Suddenly one of the Russian guards stepped up past the American, slapped his hand against the truck's rear panel, and waved it forward, signaling one of his men to open the gate.

"Nye byespakoytyes!" he told the driver in Russian. "Go on through!"

Oleg nodded and put his foot on the accelerator.

The Sword guard watched with dismay as the huge semi began rumbling past the checkpoint.

"Just a minute--"