by Dale Brown
“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-32 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?”
“They wouldn’t say, sir.”
“TellATC that we’re going to land at Offutt unless further notified,” Houser said. “Remind them, again, that we’re a military SAM flight. Then get the Fifty-fifth Wing commander on the line immediately.”
“Sir, we’ve already tried to communicate with him directly—no response.”
“I’ve got General Samson with me. He’ll authorize us to divert to Offutt.”
“Sorry, sir, but this directive comes down from NORAD through the FAA.”
“Then request General Samson speak with General Shepard at NORAD ASAP—he’s probably already at Offutt for the meeting we’re supposed to attend, for Christ’s sake. If he’s not available, get General Venti at the Pentagon. We’re not going to divert to a civilian airfield, especially not if an emergency exists that we need to respond to. Hurry it up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Samson looked up from his laptop computer. “What’s going on, Gary?”
“ATC says someone’s declared an air-defense emergency,” Houser said. “They’re trying to get us to land at the nearest civilian airfield.”
“They know we’re a SAM flight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Base ops at Offutt will have to contact FAA directly.”
“The crew has tried to contact the Fifty-fifth Wing commander directly. They’re going to try to get General Shepard to get us permission to land. He should be right there at the STRATCOM command center.”
The phone buzzed again, and this time Samson picked it up. “General Samson.”
“Major Hale up on the flight deck, sir. ATC says to divert immediately to Lincoln Municipal. Offutt is out. They say base ops at Offutt advised ATC not to allow anyone to land there, including inbound SAMs. No response from General Shepard.”
“What in hell is going on, Major?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the copilot responded, “but I’m monitoring the radios, and it sounds like Offutt launched one of their AOCs.” AOCs were the Airborne Operations Center E-4Bs based at Offutt, modified Boeing 747 airliners with the ability to communicate with and direct military forces worldwide.
“So the runway itself is okay?”
“Sounds like it, sir.”
“Then advise ATC that we’re landing at Offutt,” Samson ordered. “If they still want you to divert, declare an emergency for national security reasons and proceed to Offutt.”
“Yes, sir.”
Samson hung up the intercom, picked up the in-flight phone, and dialed his command post’s number. No response. He tried his office number—still no response. “Well, what the hell is going on?” he muttered. “I can’t get through to anyone.”
“Maybe we ought to land at Lincoln as they ordered,” Houser suggested nervously, “and then sort it out on the ground.”
“We’re less than forty miles from landing—we’re not going to divert an extra fifty just because ATC has got a bug up their ass about something,” General Samson said. “Besides, if something’s going on, the best place for us to be is at Offutt in the command center. We’ll go there, even if we have to land on the taxiway.” Samson had a bit of trouble relaying that desire to the pilot, but once the C-21 pilot was reminded exactly who in the back of the plane was calling the shots, the decision was quickly made.
They watched out the small jet’s windows as they broke through a thin overcast layer and caught a glimpse of the air base off in the distance. Nothing looked out of the ordinary—no smoke or fire from a plane crash, no signs of any sort of terrorist attack or of an approaching tornado or severe thunderstorm. They appeared to be lining up for a straight-in approach. Gary Houser felt relieved when the landing gear came down, indicating they were cleared to land.
On the five-mile final, Houser was busy packing up his briefcase and getting ready for landing when he noticed a bright flash of light, like a nearby bolt of lightning. At that exact moment, the lights inside the airplane cabin popped out.
“Holy crap!” Terrill Samson said, “I think we just got hit by lightning.”
“It sounds like the engines are spooling down, too,” Houser said. It was hard to tell with the noise from the landing gear and flaps—or was that noise from the gear…or something else? This was bad. They might be able to drag it in from this altitude, but these jets didn’t glide too well. He tightened his seat belt and waited for the impact. He could hear the jet engine’s starters roaring and the igniters clicking as the pilots frantically tried to restart the engines. They had flown through that thin overcast, but there didn’t seem to be any thunder-heads nearby—where did the lightning come from? He glanced out the window.
And saw what he thought was a huge tornado, like something in a disaster movie, that had instantly materialized out of nowhere right in the middle of the base. It was an immense column of dirt rising vertically, at least a mile in diameter—wit
h what looked like orange, red, and yellow volcano-like rivers of fire mixed in. He opened his mouth to yell out a warning to the cockpit when he heard an earsplitting blast, like a thousand crashes of thunder.
Then he felt, saw, and heard nothing.
7
Aboard Air Force One
A short time later
President Thomas Thorn sat at his desk in the executive office suite in the nose section of Air Force One, staring at a computerized map of the United States. Several dots on the map, representing military installations, were blinking; others had red triangles around them. Another flat-panel digital monitor had images of the vice president at the Mount Weather Continuation of Government Special Facility, known as “High Point,” in Berryville, West Virginia; another showed images of Secretary of Defense Robert Goff and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Venti, both airborne aboard the E-4B National Airborne Operations Center, orbiting out over the Atlantic Ocean with two F-15C Eagle fighters in formation with it. Several members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff—the ones that managed to make it to Andrews in time for takeoff—were also present in the NAOC’s conference room and listening in on the teleconference, but were not visible on the screen.
“NORAD is showing no more tracks, Mr. President,” Goff said somberly over the secure videoconference link. “Looks like the attack is over.”
It was over, all right—over for thousands of military men and women, their families, and many thousands more innocent civilians living near the military targets.
As hard as he tried, Thomas Thorn found himself growing angrier by the second. He knew before receiving any estimates that the death toll was going to be huge—ten, twenty, maybe thirty times greater than the number of lives lost in New York, Washington, and Pennsylvania on September 11. How could the Russians do something like this? It was such an unbelievable act of pure homicidal madness. Calling this an “act of war” just didn’t seem to cut it. This was an act of insanity.
