by Dale Brown
“That we’ve either signed off on this Russian cyberwar campaign or, at the very least, that we’re just standing on the sidelines, willing to let it happen,” Rauch said.
“That’s about the size of it,” Barbeau agreed. “Which pretty much screws over any chance we could have used this crisis to strengthen our own position in Europe. Before Gryzlov’s little press conference, we had a shot at peeling away some of the weaker members of the AFN by offering our help. Now we probably don’t.”
Secretary of State Karen Grayson frowned. “I guess I don’t see the problem.” She looked troubled. “I mean, I thought our policy was pretty much to hunker down here in the States while we rebuild the Air Force’s bomber and fighter wings. You don’t really want to expand NATO back into Eastern Europe again, do you?”
Barbeau stared coldly at the other woman until she wilted back into her chair.
Good God, she thought contemptuously, was her secretary of state really that naive? Couldn’t she figure out the difference between a public-relations front and serious strategy?
“This isn’t about expanding NATO, Karen,” she said finally, regaining some control over her temper. “But there’s a big difference between having the countries of Eastern and central Europe act as neutral buffer states that are friendly to us . . . and watching the Russians frog-march them back into submission to Moscow. I may not want them tied to our apron strings, but I’m sure as hell not happy at the prospect of seeing Gryzlov calling all the shots in Poland, Hungary, and the others the way the Soviets used to.”
Rauch cleared his throat. “There might be a way we could regain some influence in the region, Madam President,” he said tentatively. “And help stave off this new Russian onslaught at the same time.”
“Which is?” Barbeau said sharply. From the pained look on her national security adviser’s face, she was pretty sure he knew she wasn’t going to like his proposal.
“Given the changed strategic circumstances, maybe we should ease off a bit on our arms restrictions,” Rauch suggested. “I’m not saying we should supply weapons to Poland and the other countries ourselves. But if we looked the other way while they bought combat systems and munitions from Sky Masters and other companies . . .” Seeing the expression on her face, he trailed off uncertainly.
“Not a chance,” she said. “The restrictions stay.” She shook her head. “I may be pissed off at Gryzlov’s moves, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to risk getting sucked into a war, of any kind, on the side of the Poles and Martindale’s paid killers.” Her mouth turned down in disgust. “Especially since these so-called geniuses appear completely outmatched by Russia’s cyberwar forces.”
“Then what is our policy?” Rauch asked carefully.
“We look to our own defenses,” Barbeau said. She frowned. “I hate playing a waiting game, but I don’t see that we have much choice. Not after Gryzlov managed to poison the well so deftly just now.”
She looked down the table at Admiral Scott Firestone, the new chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Unlike his predecessor, the short, stocky Navy man seemed content to leave high-level policy in the hands of his elected civilian masters. He rarely spoke up at these meetings unless asked a direct question. As a rule, she found that restful, though there were occasional moments when she wished the admiral would be a little more proactive.
“Pass the word to Cyber Command, Admiral,” Barbeau said. “I want stepped-up efforts to harden our key computer systems. Now that we’ve seen what the Russians can do, let’s not get caught with our pants down around our ankles. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear, Madam President,” Firestone said.
“And tell your people to work even harder developing more of our own cyberweapons,” she added coldly. “If that son of a bitch Gryzlov ever decides to sic his goddamned hackers on us, I want to be able to hit him back—and hit him so hard that he’ll wet himself.”
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
THAT SAME TIME
Sergei Tarzarov closed the door to Gryzlov’s office behind him. His face was impassive.
The president looked up from his desk with a satisfied grin. “That went well, didn’t it?”
“If you mean that you successfully humiliated Cohen, and through him, the American president, then yes, it ‘went well,’” Tarzarov said. He frowned. “But I am not sure this was a sound political move, Gennadiy.”
Gryzlov laughed. “You’re such an old woman sometimes, Sergei.” He leaned back in his big chair, folding his hands behind his head. “If Barbeau thought she could use our Operatsiya Mor to scare her former NATO allies back into Washington’s arms, I’ve spiked her guns.”
“And in the process, you may also have managed to persuade her that we are a dangerous enemy worth opposing,” Tarzarov pointed out. “Rather than an equal with whom she can negotiate.”
Gryzlov shrugged. “If so, who cares? Barbeau may be a foolish bitch, but the scales were bound to fall from her eyes sooner or later. Besides, what can she do?”
“The Americans have their own cyberweapons and computer specialists,” Tarzarov said. “Is it not likely they will redouble their own cyberwar efforts, both to defend themselves and to act offensively against us?”
Again, Gryzlov laughed, but this time without any real humor. “You still don’t see what’s going on, do you, Sergei?” His eyes were cold, full of calculated cruelty. “When I finish with the bastard Poles and their toadies, it will be Barbeau’s turn to suffer. And when that day comes, she will learn that all the cyberweapons and computers in the world cannot save her.”
FOURTEEN
MCLANAHAN INDUSTRIAL AIRPORT, BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA
THE NEXT DAY
The evening sun sent long shadows slanting across McLanahan Airport’s runway and hangars. It was setting fast, sinking toward the steep, rugged hills and peaks lining the horizon about thirteen miles beyond the Sky Masters field’s fenced-in perimeter.
“Masters Three-Zero, McLanahan Tower,” said the tower controller seated in front of six large high-definition monitors forming a panoramic video arc of the airfield. “Winds two-four zero at twelve gusting to eighteen, runway two-five, cleared for takeoff.”
“McLanahan Tower, Three-Zero cleared for takeoff, runway two-five,” replied the pilot.
“Masters Six-Two, taxi to and hold short of runway two-five via Alpha and Alpha One.”
“Taxi to and hold short of two-five via Alpha and Alpha One, Masters Six-Two,” came the reply from a second aircraft.
Hunter “Boomer” Noble stood in the center of the airport operations room, behind the two controllers on duty. McLanahan Industrial Airport did not have a control tower, but used a network of remotely operated cameras and sensors to give air-traffic controllers a precise and real-time view of not just the airfield but all of the surrounding Class-C airspace for thirty miles in all directions. The controller did not use a normal radar display. Instead, aircraft icons floated across the screens along with their call signs, altitude, airspeed, and route of flight. As the C-130 Hercules started its takeoff roll, Boomer could see its route-of-flight line extend off into the distance, first to the southwest and then to the south.
“Our friendly local G-man is on the way, Boomer,” the shift supervisor told him as he clicked off from speaking with the facility’s security watch commander.
Boomer nodded. He checked his watch. As promised, FBI special agent Raymond Sattler was right on time. It sure was nice to know that you could count on some things in this crazy world, he thought—especially from a government employee.
Ray Sattler and his team of dozens of agents were ever-present fixtures at McLanahan Industrial Airport, Sky Masters Aerospace, and even in the town of Battle Mountain. Plus, Sattler had many more agents stationed at Sky Masters’ facilities all over the country. When the Barbeau administration tried to close down Sky Masters because of its suspected support of Scion in Poland and Ukraine, Jason Richter and Helen Kaddiri hired the best law firm
s, lobbyists, and political operatives to challenge the government’s sanctions. The government finally made a deal with Sky Masters: allow the Justice, Defense, State, Commerce, and Treasury Departments to closely monitor every aspect of Sky Masters Aerospace’s operations, and the company could stay open. The government gave the job to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And the FBI immediately sicced dozens of investigators, lawyers, and accountants onto the task of scouring every possible aspect of the company’s operations. Sometimes it seemed like each and every Sky Masters office, hangar, workbench, and break room in dozens of locations had an FBI agent assigned to it 24/7. It was as if anytime an airplane, hangar door, or wrench belonging to Sky Masters moved, an FBI agent was there to monitor it.
The electronic lock on the door behind him clicked. Boomer glanced at the man behind a separate console. “Here we go, Ned,” he said.
“Ready to rock-and-roll, boss,” the operator responded. Boomer nodded. It was time to raise the curtain.
“Was that what you wanted me to see, Dr. Noble?” Sattler asked, nodding toward the monitor showing the big four-propeller cargo plane taxiing onto the runway. Sure, Sattler was a nice guy and very thorough, Boomer thought, but he was so damned quiet and too darned fast. Which made him scary as well. Boomer turned around. Everything about the FBI agent, from his perfectly knotted red silk tie and dark blue suit coat to his neatly creased slacks and polished black wing tips, practically shouted “rising Bureau star slated for a headquarters job at the Hoover Building in D.C. any moment now.”
“That old Four Fan Trash Can?” Boomer said, using the common Air Force slang term for the C-130 Hercules cargo plane. He laughed. “No way. She’s just on the daily milk run, carrying some spare parts to one of our production facilities out in California.” He waved the other man forward to the screens at his left side. He pointed down toward the sleek, jet-black, batwinged XCV-62 slowly taxiing out of Hangar Five. “No, that’s the baby I knew you’d be interested in.” He shrugged. “In this case, I figured it made more sense to clue you in up front, instead of writing endless reports explaining why this test hop was no big deal later.”
“Your zealous cooperation with my surveillance team is always greatly appreciated, Dr. Noble,” Sattler said.
“Just doing my bit as a loyal citizen,” Boomer said virtuously. Sattler snorted, accustomed to hearing it but never really sure if Noble believed his own patter. “Okay, I guess that was a little over-the-top,” Boomer allowed.
“Maybe a little,” the FBI man said, smiling now. He nodded at the futuristic-looking aircraft as it swung toward the runway. “So what kind of plane is that? Some kind of new prototype stealth bomber?”
“The XCV-62 Ranger?” Boomer shook his head. “She’s one of our old experimental aircraft, originally designed as a stealthy tactical airlifter. We lost that contract a few years back, and since then the Ranger’s been in storage. So we’re sending her up for a short checkout flight.”
“And just why would you want to do that, Dr. Noble?” Sattler asked, sounding a little suspicious suddenly. “Why send an old aircraft like that up at this point?”
“It’s no big mystery,” Boomer assured him. “My bosses have heard rumors that the next defense appropriations bill may include money for a new stealth-cargo and airlift program. If the rumors pan out, they’d like to get a jump on the competition by being able to show we’ve already got a flyable contender. Hence my orders to make sure that’s the case.” Seeing the embarrassed look on Sattler’s face, Boomer shrugged. “Okay, yeah, I know. You don’t have to spell it out. Sky Masters is totally screwed right now as far as securing new government contracts is concerned. And I’m pretty sure the suits in corporate are fully aware of that, but they wanted it done anyway. My best guess is this is mostly a PR exercise to keep our shareholders happy.”
The FBI agent nodded sympathetically. “The same kind of thing happens in the Bureau whenever Congress starts asking awkward questions about the size of our budget. We get frantic orders from on high to make some high-profile arrests, and pronto.” He looked pained. “Lots of otherwise solid criminal cases go south when that happens.” Sattler pointed toward the batwinged stealth plane as it made its final turn onto the main runway. “So who drew the short straw and gets to fly that crate? Seems like that could be kind of dangerous if it’s been sitting cold in a hangar for so long.”
“You’ve heard the saying that there are old pilots and there are bold pilots?” Boomer said with grin.
“But there are no old, bold pilots,” Sattler said, unable to conceal his pained expression. “Yeah, I’ve heard it before. Like about a thousand times since my team and I set up shop here. So?”
“Well, the old fart who’s going to take the Ranger up this evening is a guy named Tom Rogers,” Boomer said. “And he’s sitting right over there.”
Surprised, the FBI agent swung around. Rogers was seated at a console equipped with a joystick, throttles, and several large MFDs, multifunction displays. The gray-haired Sky Masters pilot wore a headset and was dressed in worn blue jeans, sandals, and a Tommy Bahama tropical shirt with World War II airplanes on it. Hearing his name, he looked up from his controls and sketched a mock left-handed salute.
“The XCV-62 can be configured for remote piloting,” Boomer explained. “That’s a Sky Masters specialty and it’s one of our advantages when it comes to competing against some of the bigger defense contractors.” His cell phone vibrated gently. He checked the message it displayed: DCMP. The text was from the crew of the C-130 that had taken off only minutes before, reporting that they’d completed their drop. He punched in a quick acknowledgment.
“Anything important?” Sattler asked.
Boomer donned an abashed grin. “Depends on how you look at it. I had to cancel a hot date tonight when this test flight came up. It seems the woman I’d asked out is kind of upset about that. As in ‘see you later, jackass’ upset. Probably because this is the third or fourth time lately I’ve had to stand her up for something work-related.”
The FBI agent winced in commiseration. “It goes with the job, I guess.”
“Seems to,” Boomer agreed. Shrugging, he swung round toward Rogers. “How’s she looking, Tom?”
The remote pilot glanced up from his displays. “Pretty good, Boomer,” he said. “No problems so far.”
“Then feel free to take her up anytime you’re ready.”
“Just running through my final checklist now,” Rogers said. “Number two was a little slow coming up on taxi power, but it looks okay now.” He was busy tapping his multifunction displays to set various controls and check different aircraft systems. When he was finished, he radioed, “McLanahan Tower, Masters Six-Two, number one, runway two-five, ready for takeoff.”
“Six-Two, McLanahan Tower, winds two-two-zero at twelve gusting to eighteen, cleared for takeoff runway two-five. Have a good one.”
“Six-Two cleared for takeoff two-five.” The XCV-62 began taxiing onto the runway.
With the FBI agent at his side, Boomer moved closer to the wall-size displays. “Below” them, the stealth aircraft finished lining up for takeoff. The aircraft stopped on the runway centerline. Slowly, with a steadily rising roar, the Ranger’s four jet engines ran up to full military power.
“Compressors look good, temps look good, takeoff mode selected,” Rogers muttered. “Heading, instruments, temps, safety check . . .” Below them, the XCV-62 roared down the runway, picking up speed fast. “Engines in the green, airspeed alive,” Rogers intoned in a half voice, not on the radio. “Engines to idle, antiskid warning light out, engines to idle, stop straight ahead . . .”
“Who’s he talking to?” Settler asked. “He doesn’t have a copilot.”
“He’s talking to himself,” Boomer replied. “He’s running through a series of what-if scenarios in his head, already planning on what he will do in case this or that happens, and those readouts cue him in for the next what-if.”
Just a thousan
d feet or so down the runway, Rogers muttered, “Vr . . . now. Rotating.” The batwinged aircraft nosed up slightly and a few short seconds later it leaped off the tarmac and into the night desert sky. “Gear down, go down. Land straight ahead.”
Boomer heard the FBI man mutter “whoa” and grinned to himself. He glanced at the other man. “That’s why we call the Ranger a short-takeoff-and-landing plane,” he said, pointing at the black aircraft as it soared skyward after using barely one-seventh of the available runway. “She’s designed to get in and out of small, improvised fields pretty much anywhere in the world.”
Outside, the XCV-62 banked right, turning west toward the nearby range of hills and mountains. “Gear up. Engines look good. Flight controls responding well,” Rogers intoned behind them. His hands danced across the controls, making small adjustments with his joystick and throttles. “All other systems nominal.”
“So what’s your plan for this flight, Dr. Noble?” Sattler asked.
“Nothing complicated. Or long,” Boomer assured him. His gaze was still fixed on the departing aircraft. By now, the Ranger was a small black dot, barely visible against the rapidly darkening sky and steep, brush-strewn ridgelines, highlighted by its computer-generated data block. “If all stays well, we’re going to take her up to fifteen thousand feet or so, put her through a few basic maneuvers, and then come back around for some landings.”
“But why fly this test when it’s getting dark so fast?” the FBI agent asked, more out of curiosity than suspicion. “Won’t that make your landing more difficult—even with instruments and sensors?”
“It’s our standard procedure when flying new-type stealth aircraft,” Boomer told him distractedly, still watching the XCV-62 as it cleared the first ridge by a few hundred feet. “Makes it a bit harder for outsiders, whether they’re amateur aviation enthusiasts, corporate competitors, or Russian or Chinese spies, to get a really good look at stuff we’d rather not show off just yet.”
