by Dale Brown
The tension exploded early the next morning with a loud, rapid deedledeedledeedle! warning tone, signaling receipt of an emergency action message. Christine Johnson, taking a nap in the crew bunk, immediately bolted upright and hurried over to her deputy crew commander’s seat. Ellerby was already in his seat, and he had his codebook out and open. Seconds later a coded message from the wing command post was broadcast, and both crew members copied the message in their codebooks with grease pencils and began decoding it.
The first indication that this was not going to be a normal day: The message decoded as an “Actual” message, not an “Exercise,” and although they had received several “Actual” messages already that shift, getting another so early in the morning was not normal. “I decode the message as a Message Eleven,” Ellerby announced.
“I concur,” Johnson said, her mouth turning instantly dry. She stood up and removed her lock and the truck seal from the red safe while Ellerby joined her. He removed the proper authentication card from the outer compartment. “Card Bravo-Echo.”
“Checks,” she said. He snapped open the foil card and tore off the top, exposing a combination of six letters and numbers underneath the foil, then laid it down on the message book. The characters were exactly as Johnson had copied.
“Authenticators match and are in exact sequence,” Ellerby said.
“I concur,” Johnson said, her heart pounding now.
This time both crew members did everything together, slowly and carefully. They decoded the rest of the message, entering the proper date-time group and instructions on another page in the message book. When they were finished, they looked at each other — and realized they were about to do something neither one of them had ever done except in a simulator.
Ellerby removed his lock from the red safe, cut off the second truck seal, and opened the main compartment. He handed Johnson a key and three more authenticator cards, then took a key and his cards back to his console. The two consoles were fifteen feet apart, separated to avoid any one person from touching the other’s console — especially the switch into which the launch keys were inserted. Meanwhile, Johnson looped the launch key over her neck, strapped herself into her steel seat with a four-point harness, and tightened the straps.
Both crew members began running their checklists as directed in the emergency action message: They notified the other launch-control facilities in the squadron that they had copied and authenticated a valid message; they began the power-up and data-transfer and alignment sequence; and they alerted the aboveground security and maintenance crews that they had received a launch-alert message. The crew was in a hair-trigger readiness state, waiting for the next message.
The next message arrived a few moments later, with retargeting information. On day-to-day alert, the Minuteman III missiles at Minot and elsewhere had “open-ocean” coordinates programmed into the missiles, so in case of an accidental or terrorist launch, the warheads would not hit any real targets. Now real targets had to be entered back into each missile’s warhead. It did not take long to do, but it was scary for the crew members to realize that they had taken the next step toward actually firing their missiles in anger. If the missiles left their silos now, they would strike their assigned targets minutes later — there was no abort, no recall, and no retargeting while in flight.
After the retargeting was completed, there was nothing to do but sit back and wait to copy and authenticate an execution message, which would direct them to complete their launch checklist. The final step was to insert their launch keys into the launch switch and perform simultaneous key turns, which would enter a launch vote into the time-shared master computer. Successful key turns by at least two launch-control capsules with no INHIBIT commands from any other squadron LCCs was necessary to launch the missiles; three successful key turns in the squadron would send a launch command, no matter how many other INHIBIT commands were entered. The master computer would then decide when each missile would launch, automatically holding some missiles while others launched so the warheads would not destroy each other after—
Suddenly the entire launch-control capsule heaved. The lights blinked, then went out, then came back one by one. The air became heavy, then hot, then seemed to boil with moisture and red-hot dust. The capsule banged against something solid — probably the bottom of the facility — and then bounced and shook like a bucking bronco. Both crew members screamed as their bodies were hurled against their restraints. Equipment, books, and papers started flying in every direction around the capsule, but Ellerby and Johnson didn’t notice as they fought to stay conscious against the tremendous pounding. The heat began to build and build….
And then it all exploded into a wall of fire, which mercifully lasted only one or two heartbeats, until everything went forever dark and silent.
Over Central Utah
That same time
Attention all aircraft on this frequency, this is Salt Lake Center, I have received an emergency notification from the U.S. Defense Department and the Department of Homeland Security,” the message on the radio said suddenly. “You are instructed to divert to the nearest suitable airport and land immediately. Any aircraft not in compliance within the next twenty minutes is in violation of federal air regulations and will be prosecuted, and you may be shot down by ground or airborne air-defense weapon systems without further warning.”
Patrick McLanahan, sipping on a bottle of cold water while at the controls of his own Aerostar 602P twin-engine airplane, nearly gagged when he heard that announcement. He immediately punched the NRST button on his GPS computer, which gave him a list of the nearest airports. Luckily, there were a lot to choose from in this area — a few minutes farther west, out over the vast high deserts of western Utah and eastern Nevada, and he’d be in big trouble.
His Aerostar was a rather small, bullet-shaped twin-engine plane, built for speed, with short wings that needed a lot of runway for takeoff, so he had to choose carefully or he might have trouble departing; Patrick also remembered that thousands of air travelers had been stranded for several days after they were grounded following the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, and several hundred general-aviation aircraft were grounded for weeks if they were based near Boston, New York City, or Washington, D.C. The nearest airport to him now, Nephi Municipal, was only six miles away, which would take him about two minutes, but Provo Municipal was only twenty-eight miles farther north and would only take him an extra nine minutes to reach; it had a longer runway and better airport services. He figured he’d be much more likely to get a bus or train ride home from Provo than he would from Nephi.
The channel was clogged with voices, dozens of pilots all trying to talk at once. “All aircraft on this frequency, shut up!” the controller shouted. It took several such calls for the frequency to clear. “Everyone, listen carefully and cooperate. Don’t acknowledge my calls unless I ask you to, and keep all channels clear unless it’s an emergency — and by God, it had better be a big emergency.
“All VFR aircraft using radar flight following: Radar services are terminated, squawk VFR, and land immediately at the nearest suitable airfield,” the controller went on, struggling to remain calm and measured. “Aircraft below flight level one-eight-zero on IFR flight plans in VMC, remain VMC, squawk VFR, and land at the nearest suitable airfield immediately.” Patrick was on an IFR, or Instrument Flight Rules, flight plan, which meant his flight was being monitored by federal air traffic controllers. Because the controllers were responsible for safe aircraft and terrain separation, IFR pilots had to follow precise flight rules. All aircraft at or above eighteen thousand feet were required to be on such a flight plan.
Below eighteen thousand, pilots flying in good weather (called VMC, or “visual meteorological conditions”) had the option of filing an IFR flight plan or flying under VFR, or Visual Flight Rules, which allowed much more freedom. Pilots flying VFR were responsible for their own traffic and terrain separation, but could request radar service,
called “flight following,” which controllers would provide if they weren’t too busy with their IFR responsibilities.
“IFR aircraft in positive control airspace, if you are so equipped and can ensure your own terrain and traffic separation, squawk VFR and proceed immediately to the nearest suitable airport for landing — I should be able to figure out which airport you’re headed for and change your flight plan.
“All other aircraft, I am going to be giving you initial vectors, so listen up. Approach controllers will be giving you further vectors for landing. Do not acknowledge radio calls, just do what I tell you to do. As soon as you descend below one-eight thousand feet in VMC, squawk VFR and proceed to the nearest suitable airport for immediate landing. Keep your eyes and ears open for traffic advisories and monitor GUARD for emergency messages.”
Patrick adjusted the autopilot for a quick descent, set his transponder to “1200,” which meant he was accepting responsibility for his own navigation and collision avoidance, pulled out his approach charts, and began running his checklists for landing. The Center frequency was hopelessly clogged with radio calls, despite the controller’s pleas, so Patrick tuned the radio to Salt Lake City radar approach control, checked in, and received approach instructions. Weather was good. He popped the speed brakes to increase his rate of descent, careful not to pull too much power off, because his engines were warm and a rapid descent plus low power settings might damage the Aerostar’s big-bore turbocharged engines.
He knew he should be concentrating on his plane, approach, and landing, but he couldn’t help it — he had to find out what had caused the air-defense emergency.
“McLanahan to Luger,” Patrick spoke into midair. His original subcutaneous transceiver had been removed—“hacked out” would be more accurate — by the Libyans two years earlier, but the new one, implanted into his abdomen to make locating and removing it more difficult, worked perfectly. All personnel assigned to the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center wore them for the rest of their lives, mostly so the government could keep track of them in case the need arose.
“Patrick!” Dave Luger responded. “Where the hell have you been?”
“On my way to Sacramento to meet up with my family,” Patrick said. “I’m in the Aerostar, about to land in—”
“Muck, all hell is breaking loose,” Luger said. “I’ve just launched four Vampires, five Megafortresses, and six tankers to escape orbits off the coast.”
“What?”
“Muck, the damned Russians actually did what you predicted — they launched a gaggle of Blackjack, Bear, and Backfire bombers and attacked with AS-17s and -19s, exactly like over Uzbekistan,” Luger said. “First they sent two Blackjack bombers in low-level and wiped out Clear Air Station in Alaska, then shot nuclear missiles at Fort Wainwright, Fort Greely, and Eielson—”
“What? Oh, Jesus…!”
“Looks like the targets were all ballistic-missile defense sites, Muck,” Dave went on. “Then they blasted a hole in the North Warning System radars with missiles from Backfires and drove about thirty Bear bombers through. They were caught by the Canadians about three hundred miles after feet-dry and started firing missiles. The Canucks got a couple, but DSP estimates at least fifty hypersonic cruise missiles are on their way.”
“Oh, shit!” Patrick swore. His throat and lips turned instantly dry, there was a buzzing sound in his ears, and his heart felt as if it were going to jump right out of his chest. He could not believe what he’d just heard — but then, he’d been so certain it would happen that he really wasn’t that surprised. “Wh-when will they hit?”
“First CONUS missile hits Minot any minute now,” Luger responded. “Looks like they’re going after ballistic-missile defense bases, bomber bases, missile launch-control facilities…and STRATCOM headquarters at Offutt.”
“My God…what about Washington…?”
“Not yet,” Luger responded. “Just Alaska and the Midwest bomber and missile bases. Where are you, Muck?”
“Getting ready to land in Provo, Utah.”
“It’d be safer for you here, and it won’t take you long in your Aerostar — maybe an hour and a half. Got enough gas to make it?”
“I just refueled in Pagosa Springs, so I have plenty of gas,” Patrick said, “but air-traffic control ordered all aircraft to land. I’ve got ten minutes to be on the ground.”
“I’ll give them a call and see if they’ll let you come on in. Stand by.” But less than a minute later, he came back. “No good, Muck. Every phone line is jammed.”
Patrick hesitated — but only for a moment. He retracted the speed brakes, pushed in the mixture and prop levers, then slowly moved up the throttles, while at the same time continuing his descent. Soon the radar altimeter, which measured the distance between the airplane and the ground, clicked in at two thousand feet above ground level.
“Aerostar Five-six Bravo Mike,” the approach controller radioed a few moments later, “you are below my radar coverage, radar services terminated, frequency change approved. Land immediately and remain on the ground until specifically cleared for flight again by the FAA. Do not acknowledge.”
Don’t worry, I won’t, Patrick said to himself. When the radar altimeter read one thousand feet aboveground, Patrick leveled off — and then he punched the DIRECT-TO button on his GPS navigator and entered “KBAM,” the identifier for Battle Mountain, Nevada. He had to adjust the routing to stay away from restricted airspace around the Dugway Proving Grounds, but soon he was heading westbound as fast as the Aerostar could carry him, as low as he could safely go in the mountainous terrain. “Dave, I’m coming in, ETE one hour twenty-five minutes,” Patrick reported.
“How’d you manage that, Muck?”
“The old-fashioned way — terrain masking,” Patrick replied. “I just hope no interceptors think I’m a bad guy. Send a message to NORAD and tell them what I’m doing so their fighter jocks won’t shoot me down.” Undoubtedly the North American Aerospace Defense Command would set up air patrols around the entire region in very short time. “After you do that, you can brief me on the status of your forces.”
“They’re your forces, Muck,” Luger said.
“I’ve been bounced out of my last command, Dave,” Patrick said. “Houser has preferred charges against me. I’m not in command of anything.”
“These are your forces, Muck — always were, always will be,” Luger repeated. “I’m just keeping them warm for you. You realize, of course, that I never received orders confirming me as commander of Air Battle Force?”
“Yes you did. The message from the Pentagon—”
“Only directed that I take control of the force while you were called to take command of the Nine-sixty-sixth,” Luger said. “You’re still the boss — and I think the powers that be wanted it that way. Come on in, and we’ll figure out what we’re going to do next — if we survive this, that is.”
“We’ll survive it,” Patrick said. “Were you able to deploy any of the Tin Men?”
“I’ve got two teams deployed to Eareckson right now,” Luger said. “I’m just awaiting an execution order.”
“Get them out of there — if the Russians are going after ballistic-missile defense bases, it’s likely to be next.”
“Already done, Muck,” Luger said. “We dispersed them to Attu as soon as the air-defense alerts were broadcast.”
Patrick made several rapid mental calculations and quickly determined that the mission was nearly impossible. It was around fifteen hundred miles from Eareckson Air Force Base on the island of Shemya in the Aleutian Islands of western Alaska to Yakutsk, Russia. For the MV-32 Pave Dasher tilt-jet aircraft, it meant five hours and at least two aerial refuelings one way, flown over open ocean as well as over some of the most inhospitable terrain on the planet. The team’s tanker aircraft, a U.S. Air Force HC-130P special-operations tanker, would have to fly over the Kamchatka Peninsula, the Sea of Okhotsk, and probably a good portion of Siberia to rendezvous with the MV-3
2 on its return leg.
If the Pave Dashers missed any of their refueling rendezvous, they would not make it back home.
From the moment the MV-32 and the HC-130P left Shemya, it would be virtually over enemy territory — there was nothing between Shemya and Yakutsk except icy-cold oceans and Russian territory. It was suicidal. No one would ever imagine that such a mission could succeed.
Which made it perfect for the Tin Men. “Have the team stand by, Dave,” Patrick said. “I want to get them airborne as soon as possible — but they’re not going in alone.”
Sixty Miles East of Offutt Air Force Base,
Bellevue, Nebraska
That same time
The intercom phone next to Lieutenant General Terrill Samson’s seat buzzed. He, along with Major General Gary Houser of the Air Intelligence Agency and several of their senior staff members, were flying to Offutt Air Force Base south of Omaha, Nebraska, to meet with General Thomas Muskoka of Air Combat Command and the staff of the United States Strategic Command to discuss activities in Russia and what sort of plans they should recommend to the Pentagon to respond. Samson glanced at Houser, who was seated across from him in the club seating of the small jet, silently ordering him to answer it. Houser reached forward and picked up the receiver. “This is General Houser.”
“Major Hale up on the flight deck, sir,” the copilot of the Air Force C-21 transport jet responded. “We’ve received a notification of an air-defense emergency over the United States.”
“What?” Houser exclaimed. “What’s the emergency?”
“Unknown, sir,” the copilot responded. “Air-traffic control is ordering us to land immediately. Offutt Air Force Base has closed its runway because of operational requirements. The nearest suitable base for us is Lincoln Municipal.”
“We’re not landing at a civilian airfield, Major — we’re a military SAM flight, for Christ’s sake,” Houser retorted. A SAM, or Special Air Mission, was a designation that gave government or military flights priority handling by air-traffic controllers, almost on a par with Air Force One itself. “And what the hell does ‘operational requirements’ mean?”
