Orbital Velocity. Don Pendleton

around their necks.

      “No response from the Farm?” Manning asked.

      McCarter confirmed Manning’s query. “On the bright side, they might have had the kind of data you couldn’t access over a TV news screen.”

      “And far superior physics simulation programming to allow for air current effects upon objects in motion,” Manning replied.

      “Would that make it easier to determine what the weapon was?” McCarter asked.

      “Slightly,” Manning answered. “They’d also know if a radioactive element was utilized in the kinetic darts.”

      “Radioactive metal? You think we’d have to deal with that again?” McCarter asked.

      Manning shrugged his brawny shoulders. “I always assume the worst, but even with the rod assault being made of conventional materials, it carries enough kinetic energy to obliterate entire city blocks and infrastructure. You noted the flames.”

      “Gas mains and electrical lines disrupted,” McCarter agreed. “They haven’t confirmed the dead, but if just one of those rods hit a crowded tube, er, subway…”

      Manning grimaced at that thought. “It wouldn’t have to hit dead-on. If my calculations of the mass of the orbital impact objects are correct, we’re looking at a landing within a quarter mile of a subway tunnel. According to the map I was working from, we’re looking at between four and seven tunnels collapsed, as well as at least three transit platforms. The death toll underground can reach over two thousand, independent of above-surface structural collapse.”

      McCarter’s mood matched the expression on Manning’s face. Since the Canadian was a demolitions expert, the Briton had little cause to doubt his friend’s calculations. McCarter returned his attention to the hooligans, whose numbers had tripled as they met up with more groups of their comrades. He felt a moment of uncertainty, judging the superior numbers he and Manning would face if their quarry decided to turn en masse and confront them. The Phoenix Force veterans were survivors of multiple riots, having fought off dozens of crazed opponents alongside their other three Phoenix Force partners, but in those situations, they had terrain and training advantages. The hooligans were something different from what they would be used to—men who used their strength of numbers as a lethal weapon against foes unlucky to get into their path.

      McCarter spotted hammers and sharpened shanks of steel in some of the hooligans’ hands, and the football fans were uniformly buzzed on beer, drunk enough to surrender their individuality to the madness of the mob but not so inebriated that they couldn’t concentrate on targets of rage and opportunity. With weapons in hand, these men were a threat to anyone they encountered, and even though the group had tripled in size, they still hadn’t reached their final destination. Manning slipped his backpack off his shoulder, allowing McCarter to reach in surreptitiously and withdraw the stubby shotgun and transfer it under his windbreaker. Suddenly the ex-SAS commando was wishing that he had his preferred Cobray submachine gun, a well-tuned little chatterbox that could spit out its deadly 9 mm kisses at 800 hits per minute.

      “It’s not going to be much if they turn on us,” Manning noted.

      McCarter managed a smirk. “As long as they don’t have guns, we can at least use the shotguns as clubs.”

      Manning nodded at the suggestion. “Sometimes your optimism can be contagious.”

      McCarter snorted. “But this isn’t one of those times.”

      “You read my mind,” Manning replied with a chuckle.

      McCarter’s cell phone beeped, letting the Briton know that he’d received a text message from Stony Man Farm. He fished out the phone.

      “Message received. Network shows thugs assembling at Piccadilly Circus,” the text read. From the use of full words, but terse wording, McCarter could tell that it had been Carmen Delahunt who had sent the message. Akira Tokaido would have used abbreviated terms, while Huntington Wethers would have written out entire sentences, including prepositions.

      McCarter quickly typed a reply. “Alert locals, incl Flying Squad.”

      The growing mass, headed to one of the most famous shopping districts in the free world, would turn into a rampaging stampede of bulls in a proverbial china shop. The sight of hammers and shivs in various hands showed a capacity for violence. He checked his watch. At 10:00 a.m. there would be hundreds if not thousands of shoppers on hand for the buzzed, hostile hooligans to menace. The mention of the Flying Squad, London Metropolitan Police’s premier emergency response team, was one of McCarter’s hopes for evening the odds, as well as limiting the chances of fatalities. The Met’s Flying Squads were made up of rough-and-ready men, many of them veterans of the SAS like McCarter himself, or of the Royal Marines. But they were more than just gun-toting civil servants. The warriors in the “Sweeney” units, named for the Flying Squad’s rhyme of Sweeney Todd, were also trained in emergency first aid, as well as riot suppression. If the Flying Squad wasn’t on hand to immediately squelch the hooligans’ violence, they could provide vital life-saving assistance to their victims.

      “Notified,” Delahunt’s message returned.

      McCarter ran his thumbs across his phone’s minikeyboard. “Moscow news?”

      “Situation remains fluid,” Delahunt told him.

      “Fluid,” Manning grumbled. “Moscow’s football gangs are of a slightly more violent level of hostility than London’s.”

      “Not by much,” McCarter said. He typed a quick question to send to the Farm. “Riots in Moscow?”

      “Confirmed,” Delahunt answered. “Moscow police overwhelmed.”

      McCarter and Manning looked to the sky. If London was going to be the site of flash mob violence, there was the possibility that the city on the Thames would receive a hammering from the same weapon that had scarred the Russian capital. The Briton typed in another question. “We expecting rain?”

      “Wish we could tell,” Delahunt answered.

      McCarter grit his teeth. “So while we’re looking at these berks, someone could be targeting my city?”

      “Berks?” Manning asked.

      “Berkshire Hunts,” McCarter explained. It was more rhyming slang, and Manning shook his head as he figured out the curse that his term stood in for.

      “It’s unlikely that our opposition could stage a second orbital weapon launch, nor probable that they would assault this city without a declaration of intent,” Manning said. “According to the news, Moscow broadcast sources received a threat a few hours before the attack.”

      “And Carmen would have told us if there was something for London,” McCarter said. He texted again. “No warnings?”

      “None. Yet,” was the response.

      McCarter’s brow wrinkled in concern. “Get C, R and T.J. on deck.”

      “Already done.”

      McCarter pocketed his phone. They were already on Haymarket Road, and in the distance, even in the morning daylight, he could see the bright, glowing signs of the Piccadilly Circus. McCarter could tell that they were on Haymarket due to the presence of four rearing horses off to one side. They were carved in black marble, and were beautifully polished. This statue, nestled in a semicurved corner over a small fountain, was one of McCarter’s favorite pieces of art in London, a visage of natural beauty and power. Its fame would always be in the shadow of Eros at the center of Piccadilly Circus, the massive cherub that was poised on one foot, aiming its bow at some distant lover’s heart, surrounded by the blazing neon of Piccadilly’s shops. McCarter squinted and he could barely make out the tall form in the distance over the heads of the massing hooligans.

      The throng they trailed had swelled even further in size. Four more groups had hooked up to form a mob of potential rioters that seemed like an army. Throughout the crowd, he and Manning took note of dozens of