Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  Suddenly they heard on the command channel, “We’re hit, we’re hit, One-seven. Initiating bailout. We are—” And the radio went dead.

  “We lost One-seven,” Borodev said.

  “Bandits, seven o’clock high, six K!” their tail gunner shouted over the intercom.

  “No RWR contact,” the electronic warfare officer said. “He must be using a night-attack system, or night-vision goggles.” They heard the chatter and felt the heavy vibration as the Tu-95’s big twin twenty-three-millimeter tail cannons opened fire. Moments later they heard the roar of powerful jet engines overhead as the Hornets sped past. Like a shark that brushes up against its prey to taste it before attacking, the crew knew that the Hornets’ first pass was an identification run—they’d close in for the kill on the next pass.

  “AWACS radar back up,” the EWO reported. “Our first missile must’ve missed.”

  “Nail that bastard, EWO!” Leborov shouted.

  “No fire-control solution yet.”

  “Bandit, five o’clock, seven K,” the gunner reported. “Coming in fast…six K, five K…”

  “Fire-control solution resolved and entered!” the EWO shouted. “I got it! Stay wings-level! Bomb doors coming open!” Seconds later they launched their second Kh-31 missile. The two pilots watched as the missile seemed to shoot straight up in front of them, and they heard the sonic boom as it broke the sound barrier. “AWACS radar down…-31 is going active…-31 is homing, it’s locked on!” The pilots were surprised when, in another instant, they saw a tremendous flash of light off in the distance, and a large streak of fire slowly tumbled across the night sky, with burning pieces of debris breaking off and fluttering to Earth.

  “You got it!” Borodev shouted. “You got the AWACS! Good shoo—”

  At that moment they heard the tail guns firing again. “Bandit five o’clock four K!” the tail gunner screamed. They couldn’t maneuver while the Kh-31 was being launched, and so they were sitting ducks for the Canadian Hornet. Seconds later the Tupolev-95 rumbled and vibrated as several huge sledgehammer-like blows rippled across its fuselage and wings. One engine on the left wing surged and bucked, yawing the bomber violently from side to side as Leborov fought for control. “Second bandit is at seven o’clock high, six K…. He’s coming down…five…four….” The tail guns opened fire again—and then abruptly stopped. It seemed there was a moment of eerie silence.

  And then more hammer blows pelted the bomber. A flash of light illuminated the cabin. “Fire, fire, fire, engine number four!” Borodev screamed. As Leborov pulled the appropriate prop lever to FEATHER, brought the throttle to idle, and pulled the condition lever to SHUT DOWN, Borodev pulled the emergency fire T-handle, shut off fuel to the number-four engine, and isolated its electrical, pneumatic, and hydraulic systems.

  “The number-two -90 is still reporting okay,” the bombardier said. “I can see the fire on number four—it’s still on fire! I’m preparing to jettison the number-two missile.”

  “No!” Leborov shouted. “We didn’t come all this way just to jettison the missiles!”

  “Joey, if that missile cooks off, it’ll blow us into a billion pieces,” Borodev said.

  “Then launch the bastard instead!”

  “We’re still forty minutes from our launch point.”

  “Forget the planned launch point!” Leborov shouted. “Replan the missiles for closer targets.”

  “But…how can we…I mean, which ones?”

  “Get on the damned radio and coordinate retargeting with the rest of the formation,” Leborov said. “We’ve been discovered—I think we can break radio silence now. Then radio to the other formations and have them retarget as well. You’re the formation leader—you tell them what targets to hit. Hurry! Navigator, help him.”

  “Ack-acknowledged.” The bombardier switched radio channels and immediately began issuing orders to the other planes. Each bomber’s attack computers had been programmed with the same set of target coordinates, so it was a simple matter to look up the targets farther north within range and reprogram the computer. Finally the bombardier radioed the second flight of Tu-95 bombers that they were changing their targets and taking their target sets, so the second formation could reprogram their computers for targets farther south.

  It was very quiet in the cockpit for several long moments, but suddenly the pilots saw a large red RYADAM light illuminate on their forward eyebrow panel. “I have a SAFE IN RANGE light, bombardier.”

  “Acknowledged. Consent switches.”

  “Bandit, eight o’clock high, seven K…”

  “Consent! Launch the damn missiles!”

  The RYADAM light began to blink. “Missiles counting down…Start a slow climb, pilot, wings-level….”

  “Six K…five K…”

  The RYADAM light went to steady as the tail started violently swaying from side to side. “Hold the nose steady, pilot!”

  “I think we’re losing the number-three engine,” Borodev said. “Oil pressure is surging…losing control of prop pitch on the number-six propeller…. Should I shut it down?”

  “No. I’ll hold it.” Leborov took a crushing grip on the control wheel, and he was practically lifting himself off the seat as his feet danced on the rudder pedals to keep the tail following the nose.

  The RYADAM light began to blink once more—the first missile was counting down again. Suddenly the light flashed brightly. “Missile one away!” the bombardier shouted. There was nothing for what seemed like a very long time—and then there was an earsplitting roar that seemed a thousand times louder than the Kh-31’s rocket-motor ignition, and the first Kh-90 missile fired ahead, then started a steep climb and fast acceleration, disappearing quickly into the night sky. “Missile two counting down…”

  Just then they heard the gunner yell something—and then an instant later the number-one engine blew apart in a dramatic shower of fire. An AIM-9L Sidewinder missile launched from one of the Canadian CF-18 Hornets had found its mark.

  “Fire, fire, fire on engine number one!” Leborov shouted as he pulled prop, throttle, and condition levers. “Shut down number one!” He glanced at the RYADAM light—it was steady, the missile holding its launch countdown until the proper aircraft flight parameters were met. Leborov struggled to keep the plane steady, but it seemed to be swaying, yawing, and turning in every direction at once.

  “Number one isn’t shutting down!” Borodev shouted.

  “What?”

  “Fuel control must’ve been cut—I can’t shut off fuel to the engine. It’s still burning. I can’t isolate hydraulics or bleed air either.”

  The cabin started to fill with smoke, getting heavier and heavier by the second. “Crew, bail out, bail out, bail out!” Leborov ordered.

  “I’ll take it, Joey,” Borodev said, grasping the control wheel.

  “Negative. Blow the hatch and get the hell out.”

  “I told you before, Joey—I’m staying here, in Canada,” Borodev said, a smile on his face. “You have someone to go home to, remember? You’re a family man now. I’m staying.”

  “Yuri…”

  “I have the airplane,” Borodev said. He jabbed a thumb aft. “Get going, Commander.”

  Leborov could see that he wasn’t going to change his copilot’s mind, so he quickly unstrapped, pressed the ESCAPE button, then patted Borodev on the shoulder. “Thank you, Yuri,” he said.

  “Maybe I’ll see you on the ground, Joey. Get going. I’ve got work to do.” Borodev started concentrating on keeping the plane steady so that the last remaining missile could continue its countdown.

  Caution lights illuminated on the forward instrument panel as both the bombardier and gunner blew their escape hatches. The flight engineer, navigator, and electronic-warfare officer were already on the lower deck. The lower entry hatch was open and the escape slide rail extended. They attached their parachute slide rings to the rail, faced aft, put one hand on the emergency parachute D-ring, one hand on the rail, and d
ropped through the hatch. The escape slide rail kept the crew members from getting caught in the bomber’s slipstream and sucked back into the fuselage. At the end of the rail, a mechanism pulled the automatic parachute-activation knob, which used a barometric device to control parachute opening—since they were at very low altitude, the pilot chute came out immediately, followed by the main chute less than a second later.

  Leborov was the last man under a parachute. At first he couldn’t believe how quiet it was. He could hear a faint humming sound, probably his Tupolev-95 flying away, but he thought it must be very far away, because he could barely hear the sound. He wondered how far….

  And then the silence was shattered by an incredibly deafening roar, and a tongue of flame seemed to erupt right in front of his face. It was the last Kh-90 missile: Yuri Borodev had managed to keep the stricken bomber straight enough for the missile to finish its countdown.

  Leborov pulled a parachute riser so he could turn around—and then he saw the missile streaking away into the night sky, followed by a stream of fire arcing off to the right. It was the Tupolev-95, its leftmost engine burning fiercely. As he drifted down in his parachute, he saw the fire completely consume, then burn apart, the left wing. Leborov scanned the underside of the fuselage in the glow of the fire, hoping he could catch a glimpse of his copilot sliding out of the hatch. But soon the bomber spiraled into the darkness and crashed into the tundra below, and Leborov never saw if Borodev exited.

  He hit the hard, half-frozen ground a few moments later, in the typical aircrew member’s parachute-landing fall—feet, butt, and head. Dazed, Leborov just lay on his back, not daring to move. The still-billowing parachute tugged at his harness, asking to be released, but he ignored it. If the parachute dragged him, he didn’t much care right now.

  As he lay there trying to recover his senses, he saw them—streaks of fire across the clear night sky. His teammates had done it—one by one they were launching their missiles, too. He lost count after fifteen, but they kept on coming. He blinked every time a sonic boom rolled across him, but it was a happy sound.

  The sound of success.

  Cheyenne Mountain Operations Center

  That same time

  Tell Village to launch every plane they’ve got to their patrol orbits now,” Joanna Kearsage said. “Armed or unarmed, get them up in the air before they get their asses blown away. Order Ferry and Argus to get their alert planes up into their patrols as well, and tell Vigil and Feast to disperse all available aircraft.” Those were the other air-defense units in central Canada and the western United States—she needed to get as many planes into the sky as she could to deal with the bombers attacking Alaska.

  “Warning, MWC detects multiple strategic events via DSP three in central Canada,” the Missile Warning Center’s senior controller reported. “MWC determines the events are hostile. This is not a drill. We confirm, repeat confirm, multiple missile launches. Track and impact estimations in progress.”

  Joanna Kearsage nearly catapulted out of her seat as she saw the numerous lines beginning to appear over the map of Canada. Swearing softly to herself, she lifted a clear plastic cover on a button on her console and pressed it, waiting for it to turn from red to green. When it did—signifying that everyone on the NORAD Aerospace Reporting System network was online—she said, “Warning, warning, warning, this is Anchor with a Flash Top Secret PINNACLE FRONT BURNER report. Missile Warning Center has detected numerous events over central Canada and is resolving track and impact predictions. This is not a drill. All stations stand by.”

  It was her second warning in just the past few minutes—the first being the attacks in Alaska by bombers carrying cruise missiles. This was no rogue or terrorist action—this was an all-out attack on the United States ofAmerica!

  “Triple-C, ADOC, Village reports fighters have engaged multiple Russian bomber aircraft, Tupolev-95 Bear-H bombers,” the senior controller of the Air Defense Operations Center cut in. “The bombers are launching small missiles from their bomb bays and have apparently shot down the AWACS—”

  “They what?”

  “—and the Bear bombers have also launched larger missiles from wing pylons. Each Bear seems to have two very large wing missiles and an unknown number of the smaller missiles in its bomb bays.”

  “How many Bear bombers, ADOC?”

  “They’ve counted over a dozen so far, Triple-C, and there may be many more,” the ADOC controller replied. “They’ve shot down three so far. There’s only two CF-18 Hornets up there, and without the AWACS they don’t have a complete picture.”

  Kearsage keyed the Aerospace Reporting System button again: “Warning, warning, warning, all stations, NORAD air forces have engaged multiple Russian bomber aircraft, position near Great Bear Lake in Alberta, Canada. Enemy aircraft have been observed launching multiple hypersonic attack missiles. All NORAD regions are being ordered to launch alert aircraft to their assigned patrol orbits and to launch all other flyable aircraft to dispersal or survival anchors immediately.”

  The phone lights started blinking, but all Kearsage could see were the growing track lines of missiles speeding south toward the United States. She flipped open her codebook to the next section and started to compose a new missile-track report, working as quickly as she could: “Warning, warning, warning, all stations, Missile Warning Center issues the following special hostile track report Sierra-Bravo-seven. AWACS issues Flash special hostile track report Tango-Alpha-one-three, stand by for—”

  And then she stopped. Because now the computers were issuing their predictions for missile impacts. Her mouth dropped open in surprise. The codebook forgotten, she pressed the ARS button and spoke, “All units, this is Anchor, inbound track reports…missile targets—Oh, my God, we’re under attack! America is under attack. For God’s sake, America is under attack!”

  6

  Kansas City, Missouri

  That same time

  The chief of the Presidential Protection Detail of the Secret Service didn’t call first before rushing into the president’s hotel suite, but he wasn’t surprised to see President Thomas Thorn hurriedly putting on his trousers in the sitting area. The president had always exhibited a weird second-sight ability to anticipate events before they happened. “What’s happened, Mark?” the president asked.

  “NMCC called a ‘campfire,’ sir,” the PPD chief said, his voice wavering in terror. The president’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and he was going to ask the PPD chief to repeat, but one look at the man’s face told him that he’d indeed heard the right code word—the one for an “enemy nuclear attack on the United States under way”—and that this was no exercise. In moments the president was dressed for quick travel, wearing his dark brown leather flying jacket over a white shirt, a dark blue Air Force One ball cap, dark gray business slacks, and thick-soled casual shoes.

  “Let’s get moving, gents,” the president said, and he rushed past the astonished agents and out into the hallway, toward the staircase. Members of the Secret Service were trained to physically take control of their charges in the process of evacuation—usually the evacuees were too confused, sleepy, or scared to know which way to go, and they never moved fast enough to suit the PPD—but Thorn, an ex–U.S. Army Green Beret, was moving so quickly that the agents couldn’t get a grasp on his arms.

  Inside the armored limousine, Thorn met up with the U.S. Navy officer who carried the “football,” the briefcase containing coded documents and communications equipment that would allow him to issue orders to America’s nuclear forces anywhere in the world. “Marine One is ready to fly, sir,” the chief PPD officer said as they peeled out of the hotel entryway, surrounded by police cars and flanked by Secret Service armored Suburbans. “We’ll be at Union Station pickup point in three minutes.” He listened to the reports through his earpiece. “Your staffers are asking us to return to pick them up.”

  “Negative. Let’s roll,” the president said. He obviously did not want to wait for a
nyone—which suited the PPD just fine. The chief made a report on his secure cell phone, then handed it to the president. “This is Séance,” he responded, using his personal call sign. “Go ahead.”

  “Thank God you’re all right, Mr. President,” came Vice President Lester Busick’s voice. When he was excited, Busick’s thick South Florida drawl became obvious, almost indecipherable. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine, Les. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know yet. The Secret Service blew the whistle, and I’ve been on the move ever since,” Busick replied. “I thought those bastards were going to rip my arms off carrying me out of the residence. I do know we’re on our way to Andrews, not High Point. I think I’m going airborne.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  “Nobody,” Busick responded. “Hell, I couldn’t even get the old lady out of bed.”

  “I’ll talk to you after I’m airborne, Les.”

  “Okay, Thomas. I’ll see you back at the ranch after they’re done screwing with us.” The heaviness in his voice said much more than his words—they both knew that something serious was happening, and they most likely wouldn’t be going back to Washington for quite some time.

  “Everything will be okay, Les,” the president said. “I’ll call as soon as I hear anything.”

  “You take care, Thomas,” Busick said. Thorn was about to hang up when he heard, “Thomas?”

  “Go ahead, Les.”

  “You need to be tough now, Thomas,” Busick said. “I got a feelin’ the shit’s hittin’ the fan. I want you to be strong, Thom—I mean, Mr. President.”

  “Since when do you call me ‘Mr. President’ when we’re—?”

  “Damn it, Mr. President, please listen,” Busick said earnestly. “We may not be able to talk for a while, so just listen. I’ve seen this before, sir—”

  “Seen what?”

  “Seen this shit that’s happenin’ right now,” Busick said. “The last time was in ’91, when we thought the Iraqis were launching biochem weapons at Israel and we were getting ready to drop a nuke on Baghdad. I was the Senate majority whip. We were hustled out of Washington faster than shit from a goose. And it wasn’t just to the Mountain—we were dispersed to preserve the government, sir.”