Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “This battle will be one of two kinds: a battle for survival for myself and my men or a fight for freedom and independence against General Gryzlov and the Russian army. Make your wishes known to me—I will be listening. Thank you, and may God bless you and your families, and grant you peace.”

  DIEGO GARCIA, INDIAN OCEAN

  That same time

  The broadcast, played live on world news channels, ended, and the military and political analysts began discussing the speech.

  “He did a good job,” Rebecca Furness said. “But he’s a fucking Taliban. They won’t have him lead their troops. He’ll be lucky to get out of the country alive.”

  She and Daren Mace had been listening to Turabi’s speech via satellite on Diego Garcia. They had already finished their first patrol period after arriving in-theater, a total of eighteen hours and three aerial refuelings—which did not include the sixteen hours and three aerial refuelings it had taken for the first flight of EB-1 bombers to fly from Battle Mountain to Turkmenistan.

  After refueling over the Arabian Sea just south of Pakistan, Rebecca Furness and her First Air Battle Force team flew at very high altitude over Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Turkmenistan, evading their surveillance and air-defense radars. They were able to stay on patrol over their assigned area in Turkmenistan for about three hours before having to depart and go back to the refueling track. Each crew flew three such patrols, a total of eighteen hours, before landing at Diego Garcia.

  They had been on patrol all over the countryside, responding to surveillance and attack requests, but had not fired any weapons. The AL-52 Dragon airborne-laser aircraft were the primary air-defense aircraft, with the manned Vampires flying as backups. The manned Vampire bombers carrying three rotary launchers: the forward launcher carried sixteen AIM-120 Scorpion medium-range air-to-air radar-guided missiles, the middle launcher carrying ten AIM-154 Anaconda long-range hypersonic air-to-air missiles, and the aft launcher carrying eight AGM-165 Longhorn ground-attack missiles.

  Each Air Battle team had two unmanned aircraft in its formation, each of which carried four StealthHawk unmanned combat air vehicles on a rotary launcher in the middle bomb bay. The forward bomb bay contained extra weapon clips for the StealthHawks, and the aft bomb bay carried a spare fuel tank that could be both used to refuel the UCAVs or used by the bomber itself in an emergency. Each UCAV carried six AGM-211 mini-Maverick missiles with thermium-nitrate warheads.

  Rearming and refueling the StealthHawks proved to be a simple engineering feat, accomplished with technology and equipment they already had at Battle Mountain. After retrieval each StealthHawk was locked on to the rotary launcher and rotated to the top of the Vampire’s middle bomb bay, with the UCAV’s own bomb bays open and facing upward. Six-round clips of mini-Mavericks were slid over from the forward bomb bay, lowered into the StealthHawk’s upturned weapons bay, and locked into place; at the same time a refueling line filled the UCAV’s fuel tanks. The forward bomb bay held twenty-four weapon clips. If necessary a StealthHawk could be rearmed and relaunched less than five minutes after retrieval.

  Typically the unmanned Vampire bombers would arrive over their patrol area, release their StealthHawks, return to the air-refueling track to refuel, return to the patrol area, retrieve the StealthHawks, refuel and rearm them if necessary, then repeat the process. As long as they had fuel and weapons, the process could be repeated indefinitely.

  Now Rebecca and Daren were in their detachment headquarters on Diego Garcia on “crew rest”—which meant supervising their team’s refueling and reloading, reviewing intelligence data, and planning their next patrol. They took catnaps when able, alternating attendance in meetings and inspections, then filling the other in as they went off in search of a quiet closet to take a nap. They still had six hours in which they hoped to be able to get some real rest, but that was probably going to be impossible.

  “All Air Battle Force participants, this is Bravo. Stand by for an intelligence update,” Brigadier General David Luger announced via the secure satellite datalink. “As of the top of the hour, satellite-reconnaissance and intelligence data indicates that the Russian air force is mobilizing an additional three bomber and fighter regiments. Along with the fighters at Saratov and the bombers at Engels, we’re now seeing activity at Astrakhan and Volgograd. This makes a total of six bomber and five fighter regiments mobilized in the past six hours. All of these regiments are within normal unrefueled combat radius of the various aircraft involved. In other words, we believe with high probability that all of these regiments are being mobilized for action over Turkmenistan.”

  “That’s not good news,” Daren said. “Wonder what the boss is going to do?”

  Rebecca looked over at Daren and smiled. “Well, I just want you to know, Daren, that the work you’ve done since you arrived here has been nothing short of amazing,” she said. “I never thought we’d have this capability—that we’d be flying around up here while a couple B-1 bombers are cruising nearby with us with no one on board. It’s a freakin’ miracle.”

  “Thanks, Rebecca,” Daren said. He reached over, took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. He then realized what he’d done and was expecting a rebuff, but he didn’t get one. “It’s been great working with you again—although this cockpit is sure as hell different from the last one we went to war in.” He paused, looking at the satellite imagery and analysis data being presented on the supercockpit display in front of him. “Wonder what the general is going to do?”

  “I don’t see he has much choice. He’s got to withdraw,” Rebecca said. “Nine regiments—that’s as many as a hundred and twenty aircraft, if the regiments are fully staffed. We’re outnumbered twenty to one, and I don’t think even the airborne laser or what few weapons we have in place can make up for that.” She looked at Daren. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re right,” Daren said after a long pause. “It would be better if we had some help—a couple B-2 stealth-bomber squadrons and a few fighter wings for starters. Otherwise, we can hold out just long enough to get our guys out—if that long. The Russians have too many planes too close to Turkmenistan. It’s too easy for them to surge numerically superior forces.”

  “So McLanahan has to pull back.” She gave Daren a wry smile and added, “That’ll be a first. I don’t even think he knows how.”

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  That same time

  “I’m sorry things have escalated to this point, Mr. President,” Thomas Thorn said. He was seated in the Oval Office with Vice President Lester Busick, Secretary of Defense Robert Goff, and Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman General Richard Venti. “The United States does not want a war with Russia or anyone else.”

  “Your military forces have destroyed dozens of aircraft, heavily damaged a communications vessel on the high seas, and killed seventeen men and women, sir, all in one night,” Russian president Valentin Sen’kov said. “If you don’t want war, President Thorn, you have a strange way of showing it.”

  “I take it by your words, Mr. President, that you did not actually declare war on the United States of America?”

  “That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard, President Thorn,” Sen’kov said. “No one in my government has declared war, and certainly not with the United States. Yes, I consider the Taliban a threat to peace in Turkmenistan, but I have not declared war on them or anyone else!”

  “Then Colonel General Kasimov’s declarations and warnings were not authorized or sanctioned by the Russian government?”

  “I don’t even know a Colonel General Kasimov!” Sen’kov retorted. “Is this some kind of game, Mr. President?”

  “We have e-mailed the Russian embassy in Washington with a digital recording and transcript of a conversation I had with Colonel General Kasimov, who said he was the Russian liaison to the Turkmen military general staff. He announced the imposition of martial law in Turkmenistan and said that, because of U.S. actions in Turkmenistan and by author
ity of treaties between Russia and Turkmenistan, a state of war existed between our countries.”

  “I . . . this is outrageous! This is nonsense!” Sen’kov exploded. “I authorized nothing of the kind! It must have been approved by General Gryzlov, my chief of the general staff.”

  “We are also monitoring a very large-scale buildup of tactical and strategic forces in Russia,” Thorn went on, “that all appear to be getting ready for air assaults in Turkmenistan.”

  “I know that General Gryzlov issued a warning order directing mobilization and preparedness,” Sen’kov admitted. “He has that authority. He was very concerned about the shoot-down of the MiG-29 over Turkmenistan—fearing it might have been from a secret attack by the Taliban—and these recent attacks in the Caspian Sea and Krasnovodsk only reinforced his fears. However, I have not authorized any attacks against any forces anywhere.”

  “So you issued no execution order for any attacks in Turkmenistan?”

  “No, I did not,” Sen’kov said. “I understand that General Gryzlov delivered a draft execution order to my office. It is sitting here right in front of me on my desk, still unsigned.”

  “So what does this mean?” Thorn asked. “Is General Gryzlov acting on your orders, or is he provoking a war on his own?”

  “I don’t know if he has access to information I do not, or if he has misinterpreted a directive from my office,” Sen’kov said. “In any case we will investigate immediately. But I assure you most emphatically, Mr. President: Russia is not at war with the United States.”

  “I believe you, Mr. President,” Thorn replied. “But the world will soon see what we see: Russia getting ready to attack someone. We must have some kind of assurance that war is not imminent. The American Congress will certainly want a full explanation, and our military forces will press to go to a heightened state of alert. If that happens, we may not be able to control the escalation.”

  “Then I suggest a meeting, Mr. Thorn,” Sen’kov said. “An emergency summit, in Reykjavik, Iceland, tomorrow morning. We shall issue a joint statement telling the world we are not at war; we shall both pledge to restore peace and democracy to Turkmenistan and work together to solve racial, cultural, religious, and ethnic conflicts all over the world.”

  “Agreed. I’ll be there,” Thorn replied.

  “Very good, Mr. President. I look forward to seeing you in Iceland.”

  Thorn set the phone down and turned to Vice President Lester Busick. “Summit meeting between Sen’kov and me, tomorrow morning, in Reykjavik.”

  “Well, at least the bastard chose someplace more or less in between our two capitals,” Busick said as he picked up his phone to start making arrangements. “The asshole probably denies the whole thing.”

  “I have a feeling he’s as much in the dark as we are, Les.”

  “Real fucking great. That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  “What’s the status of our folks in Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan, Robert?” Thorn asked.

  “Everyone’s standing by, sir,” Secretary of State Robert Goff replied. “Secretary Hershel has been in contact with the Taliban leader, Jalaluddin Turabi, who told her he wants to see what the people of Turkmenistan say. Gurizev is dead; we feel it’s far too dangerous for any American to go to the capital while the Russians control the city. I believe her mission is done.”

  “Same here,” Busick said. “Let’s get her the hell out of there.”

  “All right,” Thorn said. “General Venti, have General McLanahan’s aircraft escort Deputy Secretary of State Hershel’s aircraft out of Uzbekistan and stay with it until it’s safely back on friendly soil. Then have the rest of McLanahan’s force evacuate to Diego Garcia. I want maximum protection for the entire contingent. He’s authorized to use every aircraft he’s got to see to it that Hershel and his ground forces are safely out of the region.”

  “Should McLanahan’s teams stand by on Diego Garcia, in case they’re needed again over Turkmenistan?”

  Thorn thought about it for a moment, then replied, “No, General. As soon as Deputy Secretary Hershel is back on U.S. territory, bring them home. Be sure to pass along my thanks for a job well done.”

  “Yes, sir,” Venti said. He picked up a telephone and began issuing orders.

  Secretary Goff was the only adviser not otherwise occupied. “So what do you think this General Gryzlov is going to do next?” he asked Thorn. “Is he a loose cannon, an opportunist, or just plain crazy?”

  Thomas Thorn thought about the question for a moment. “I think he’s going to make his voice heard,” he said. “He obviously has something to say, and he has the power and authority to force others to listen. We are definitely going to hear from him again—soon.”

  THE RESIDENCE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION, THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW

  That evening

  As soon as Valentin Sen’kov left his official residence at the Kremlin, his security and transportation network went into action. Three shell-game groups of three armored limousines departed the Kremlin, with Sen’kov’s group in the middle, taking a different route than in times past. Each limousine flew the crest of the president of Russia, so it was impossible to tell which actually carried him.

  In general, government flights, especially ones taken by the president, originated from Zhukovsky Airport southeast of Moscow, which was both a military airfield and a government research facility. Two of the shell-game groups headed toward Zhukovsky, each taking a different route. This time, however, the third team broke off from the others and headed northwest, to Sheremetyevo-1 Airport. Normally used for regional and Commonwealth flights, Sheremetyevo-1 was once Moscow’s largest international airport—that honor now belonged to Sheremetyevo-2—so it could easily handle large international flights.

  The president’s motorcade drove into the airport through a side entrance and was picked up by airport security police and MVA Interior Ministry and OMON special-operations troops. It continued on at high speed to a secure ramp area, where a Tupolev-204 medium-range VIP transport was waiting. Sen’kov and his staff members quickly boarded via the main port-side forward airstair. There was no sendoff, no ceremony, no pomp and circumstance. The president of the Russian Federation was greeted by the captain and the chief of the aircraft’s security staff, a female OMON officer, and shown quickly to his seat in the rear VIP cabin, along with several of his senior staff.

  Once Sen’kov was seated in his plush high-backed seat and positioned for takeoff, he turned to his chief of staff. “General Gryzlov’s location?” he asked.

  “As of ten minutes ago—in official quarters,” his aide replied, checking his notebook. “He made only four phone calls, all to staffers back at his office, routine calls. His computer and cellular phones have not been used. His staffers have made numerous calls, but all callers have been verified and their conversations monitored. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  If he was planning a coup, Sen’kov thought, he was doing it very, very quietly indeed. “Is he aware of this trip?”

  “If he is, sir, he has not contacted anyone that might be considered unusual or suspect,” the aide said. “Minister of Defense Bukayev will contact General Gryzlov when he awakens in the morning and notify him that the president has departed for the summit meeting.”

  “Everyone else in the cabinet sticking to their schedules?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  For the first time since he left the Kremlin, Valentin Sen’kov could relax. General Gryzlov was obviously too busy with his invasion plans to worry about planning a takeover of the government or of the president’s last-minute travel plans. Although it was probably not completely wise to leave Moscow with this showdown brewing between him and Gryzlov, Sen’kov was confident that a meeting with Thomas Thorn would give him the look of a peacemaker and enhance Gryzlov’s image as a dangerous and unpredictable berserker. If Thorn was smart and well briefed, he would treat Sen’kov as his equal; that would help keep the Duma—the Russian parl
iament—and the people on his side so he had a chance of weathering this crisis.

  For the first time security forces showed the world that the president was on board the plane as vehicles with flashing lights escorted the Tu-204 to the runway for takeoff. Sen’kov felt vulnerable and nervous—he wished the escorts would go away so the VIP transport had a better chance of blending in with all the other airliners. But the Tu-204 was a big plane, there were only three others like it in existence, and they were the only ones with the word russia painted in big red Cyrillic letters on the side, along with the president’s crest on the tail. It made a big enough stir by itself, let alone surrounded by a dozen security vehicles. Before he knew it, though, the huge twin-fanjet transport was airborne, heading northwest on the great-circle route to Iceland.

  Sen’kov was finally able to relax. He reclined his seat back, buzzed the galley, and ordered a glass of ice-cold vodka and some toast points and caviar, which were served him in just a few minutes. Sen’kov turned on his computer, checked his messages, and then called up the latest intelligence and cabinet staff briefings. Things actually seemed to be calming down. Even Gryzlov’s airpower mobilizations were slowing a bit. Everyone’s locations and activities appeared normal—no clandestine meetings, no evacuations, no runs on banks.

  Gryzlov still had plenty of time to fuck things up, Sen’kov thought as he sipped his vodka, but right now the government seemed to be plodding along pretty much as usual. He could definitely feel the tension in the air, but perhaps the boiling point had not yet been reached. Iceland was a pretty good place to be right now.

  Sen’kov loosened his tie, removed his shoes, turned on a Western satellite-news channel, and munched on caviar—farm-grown caviar, he hoped, not the crap they were still harvesting from the Caspian Sea. He checked the large computer flight-tracking screen on the bulkhead, which plotted out their position and showed their altitude, airspeed, world times, and estimated time en route. They were just over the Gulf of Finland, safely out of Russian airspace. He was tired, but he needed a little relief from the job before he thought about sleep. Sen’kov briefly considered inviting one of the female OMON security officers back to his private cabin for a little horseplay—she had definitely signaled some interest in some private pleasures, no doubt in exchange for some professional favors—but decided he needed the rest more than he needed—