by Dale Brown
“We definitely got a surprise here,” Tagger went on. “We weren’t looking for them, but they popped up on our overflights anyway: activity at the old SS-24 garrisons at Krasnoyarsk.”
“What?” Patrick remarked. “SS-24s on the move?” The SS-24 “Scalpel” rail-mobile intercontinental ballistic missile was the weapon that changed the course of arms-limitation-treaty talks in the 1990s. The SS-24 was a copy of the American Peacekeeper ICBM, a long-range missile designed to carry ten independently targeted nuclear warheads to ranges out to ten thousand miles. Like the original Peacekeeper missile, the SS-24 was designed from the outset to travel on the national railway system, mixing in with Russia’s substantial train population and making targeting virtually impossible. At the beginning of the 1990s, Russia had 150 three-missile units deployed throughout the country. They could be launched anywhere with just a few minutes’ warning time, and the warheads they carried were the most accurate carried by any Russian ballistic missile.
The second Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty signed between the United States and Russia was supposed to eliminate the long-range rail-mobile SS-24 and Peacekeeper missiles, and to make all land-based ICBMs carry only single rather than multiple warheads. The United States deactivated its last Peacekeeper missile in 2002 and destroyed its silos; the Russians were supposed to transfer the rail-mobile SS-24s to older SS-18 silos and make them carry single warheads only.
“Obviously the Russians have been cheating on START II,” Tagger summarized. “I think we might have as many as twelve SS-24s on the move.”
“Dave?”
“The SS-24s are the biggest threats,” Luger said. “They have the longest range, carry more warheads, and are more accurate than anything else the Russians have.” He sat back in his seat and finally shook his head. “It’s not going to work, Muck,” he said. “Even before we found the SS-24s, we were pushing it—now I don’t think we have a chance. Even if we gain all of the Air Force’s surviving bombers, we just can’t surge enough airframes to drive ten thousand miles and take all these locations at once. Some will leak through.”
Patrick remained silent for a few more moments, then turned to Luger. “I know how to surge our planes,” he said. “I need Rebecca, Daren, Hal, and the entire staff ready to do some planning—but I think I know how we can do it. I’ll need to speak with General Venti in about an hour.” He nodded his thanks to Trevor Griffin, then asked, “Anything else, Tagger?”
“Sure,” Griffin said matter-of-factly. His face broke out with a sly, boyish smile. “Want to know where Anatoliy Gryzlov is now?”
“What? You know where Gryzlov is?”
“Air Intelligence Agency routinely tracks his command posts and monitors radio and data traffic from Russia’s forty-seven various alternate military command centers scattered around the country,” Tagger said. “Gryzlov is crafty. He launched two sets of airborne military command posts before the attacks began, and there’s a lot of confusing and conflicting radio traffic, meant as diversions. But I think we’ve pinpointed his actual location: Ryazan’, at an underground military facility next to a deactivated military base, about a hundred forty miles southeast of Moscow. We noticed shortly after the base closed that a substantial amount of work was being done on Oksky Reserve, a game and forest preserve adjacent to the old military base; when we saw a lot of dirt being moved but didn’t see any structures being built aboveground, we suspected the Russians of building either an underground weapon-storage facility or a command center. Gryzlov also happens to be from Ryazan’ Oblast.”
“How certain are you that he’s there?”
“As certain as we can be, boss.”
“Which is…?”
Tagger shrugged. “Sixty percent sure,” he admitted.
Patrick nodded, thankful for Griffin’s honesty. “Thanks for the info, Tagger,” he said. “Let’s concentrate on nailing those ICBMs, and then maybe we’ll get a shot at the general himself. But I want those missiles—especially the SS-24s.”
Aboard the E-4B National Airborne
Operations Center Aircraft
Hours later
McLanahan is on a secure link, sir,” General Richard Venti said to the secretary of defense, Robert Goff. Along with them were members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or their designees—all of the chiefs did not make it on board the NAOC before it departed Washington.
“Oh, brother!” Goff exclaimed. “Wonder what in hell he wants? Where is he?”
“Battle Mountain, sir.”
“I should have known,” Goff said. He wearily massaged his temples, but nodded. Venti pointed to the communications technician, and moments later Patrick McLanahan appeared on the video-teleconference monitor, wearing a flight suit. Goff recognized most of the officers seated with him: David Luger, the new commander of McLanahan’s old unit; Rebecca Furness, the commander of the high-tech bomber wing at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base; her ops officer, Daren Mace; and one of Furness’s squadron commanders, the one in charge of the modified B-52 bombers, Nancy Cheshire. “I see you are alive and well, General,” Goff said.
“That’s correct, sir,” Patrick replied.
“I also see you’re in flight gear. I hope it’s just for convenience’s sake, General. I believe you’re no longer on flight status, pending the outcome of your court-martial.”
Rebecca Furness looked at McLanahan in some surprise—obviously she hadn’t heard this development. “I’ll fly only if I’m ordered to do so, sir,” McLanahan responded.
“That would be a first,” Goff said dryly. “I don’t have much time, General. What’s on your mind?”
“Upon General Luger’s authority, our attack and support forces are holding in secure survival orbits off the West Coast until we can determine what the Russians intend to do,” Patrick replied. “We have a total of eight strike and six support aircraft airborne, plus five more strike aircraft and two support aircraft safe on the ground, operational and ready to go.”
“That’s good news, General,” Goff said, “because right now you represent about one-third of America’s surviving bomber force.”
Luger’s and Furness’s faces turned blank in surprise, but Patrick’s was as unflinching and stoic as ever. “We count two B-2As, two B-52Hs, and four B-1B bombers that survived the attacks on Whiteman, Minot, and Ellsworth,” he said.
“How do you know that so quickly, General? We don’t even have that information yet.”
“The Air Battle Force routinely monitors all military aircraft movement, sir, especially the heavy bombers and tankers,” Dave Luger said. “We keep up with where every aircraft is, even those that aren’t active—in fact, we keep track of where every aircraft component and part is, right down to the tires. We build a lot of equipment from off-the-shelf parts and non-mission-ready airframes.”
“Impressive,” Goff muttered. “So what’s the purpose of the call, General McLanahan?”
“Sir, I’m ready to take command of Eighth Air Force and begin a counteroffensive against the Russian Federation,” Patrick said.
“I’m not in the mood for jokes, McLanahan,” Goff said. “I’ve already picked officers to replace the men we lost in the attack. Besides, you’re not in line to take command of anything.”
“That’s…not exactly true, sir,” General Venti said.
“What are you talking about, General?”
“Sir, Patrick McLanahan was the senior wing commander of Air Intelligence Agency,” Venti explained. “Upon the death of General Houser, Patrick assumes command of Air Intelligence Agency—”
“What?”
“—and he also becomes the deputy commander in charge of intelligence of several units and agencies, including Air Combat Command, Space Command, the Air Force, and U.S. Strategic Command, and even reports to the National Security Council, the Joint Chiefs, and the White House.”
“Not unless I say so!” Goff snapped. “I’ll put someone else in that position—someone who’s not about to be court
-martialed!”
“As commander of Air Intelligence Agency, General McLanahan is an ex officio deputy commander of Eighth Air Force, in charge of intelligence operations,” Venti went on. “And since there was no vice commander, the senior ranking deputy commander takes charge.”
“McLanahan.”
“Yes, sir. And as commander of Eighth Air Force, McLanahan also becomes a deputy commander in charge of bomber forces for U.S. Strategic Command.”
“Wait a minute—are you saying that McLanahan is going to advise the STRATCOM commander on the bomber force—or what’s left of it?” Admiral Andover asked. “With all due respect, sir, you can’t allow that to happen. No one in the Navy trusts McLanahan. Sir, McLanahan is the last guy you should choose to represent the Air Force or the bomber force in STRATCOM.”
Goff was thunderstruck—but not for long. He thought for a moment, then waved a hand at Andover. “I don’t trust him either, Admiral. But he saw the signs and called this conflict a long time ago, and he was frighteningly accurate.” He paused, then turned to General Venti. “Dick, you know I can make all this hocus-pocus chain-of-command shit go away like that. What are your thoughts on this?”
“Technically, McLanahan should take command because of his rank, but General Zoltrane does have more command and headquarters experience than McLanahan, and I think he knows the force better,” Venti admitted. “Charlie Zoltrane would definitely be the better choice. We’re at war here, sir—we need someone with true command experience to take charge of the strategic nuclear air fleet.”
Goff thought for a moment, then nodded. “I agree. Dick, direct General Kuzner to order Zoltrane to take command of Eighth Air Force, and have him report to us via secure video teleconference as soon as possible,” Goff ordered. “He’ll have to reorganize his staff and line units on the fly. Then have Kuzner direct Colonel Griffin to take command of Air Intelligence Agency, and have him prepare to brief the leadership by video teleconference.”
“Sir, I have a way to downgrade or perhaps even effectively neutralize Russia’s strategic nuclear forces that might threaten North America,” McLanahan interjected. Robert Goff paused and swallowed, but he was going to repeat his order to upchannel his plan through the proper chain of command, when McLanahan added, “I can set it in motion in less than thirty-six hours—and I can do it without using nuclear weapons.”
“I’m going to be perfectly honest with you, General McLanahan: No one, including myself, trusts you,” Robert Goff said seriously, ignoring McLanahan’s words. “You have certainly set a record for how many times a line officer can be busted, driven out of office, demoted, and charged with insubordination, refusing to follow orders, and conduct unbecoming. I think you have even managed at your young age to eclipse Bradley James Elliott as the biggest uniformed pain in the ass in U.S. history.”
“Sir, I’m not asking for a leadership position—let Zoltrane and Griffin keep on doing what they know best,” Patrick said. “But put me back in the field where I belong—here, in charge of the Air Battle Force.”
“Why should I do that, General?” Goff asked.
“Sir, neither General Zoltrane nor the two surviving bomb-wing commanders have any experience with the Megafortresses based out here at Battle Mountain. Generals Furness, Luger, and myself, along with Colonels Mace and Cheshire, are the only ones capable of employing the weapon systems here. On the other hand, all of us have experience leading B-52, B-1, and B-2 bombers into combat.”
“McLanahan, I don’t have time for this. Put it in writing and submit it to—”
“Sir,” General Venti said with a firmness that surprised the secretary of defense. He turned away from the camera, speaking directly to Goff as privately as he could in front of a camera. “Whatever you think of Patrick McLanahan, sir, may I remind you that he predicted exactly what has happened,” Venti said. “He saw the signs and wasn’t afraid to make the call. We all saw the same data, but we never allowed ourselves to believe it would happen.”
“So what, General?”
“At the very least, sir, McLanahan deserves a listen,” Venti said. “We’re threatening to put the guy in prison—I wouldn’t have blamed him if he went home, packed up his family, and hightailed it up to Lake Tahoe. But he didn’t. He made it to Battle Mountain, got into a flight suit, and put a plan together to deal with this emergency.”
Venti was right, Goff thought, but he wasn’t ready to admit it. He turned to the chief of naval operations. “Admiral Andover?”
“I’ve made my opinions known already, sir—McLanahan is a menace and should not even be in a military uniform, let alone being considered to lead a military unit into combat,” Andover responded. “Sir, give me a few days and I’ll brief a combined-forces operation—”
“How many Russian targets can the fleet hold at risk without using nuclear weapons, Admiral?” Goff asked. “A couple dozen? A couple hundred—as long as the shooters can safely move within a few hundred miles of the shore? And how much time do you think we have?”
“We’ve got as much time as we need, sir—and we sure as hell have enough time to consider options other than sending Patrick McLanahan. And I damned well know that the U.S. Navy can put many more targets at risk than one Reserve unit can. And if a nuclear strike is necessary, the Navy can exercise that option, too—McLanahan can’t.”
“Sir, Battle Mountain’s planes, the Megafortresses, are some of the most high-tech aircraft left in our arsenal,” Venti went on. “They are designed for SEAD—suppression of enemy air defenses—and antiballistic-missile defense, but they also pack a considerable precision standoff attack capability. Although the unit itself is not operational and all of its aircraft are considered experimental, McLanahan’s Air Battle Force and Furness’s One-eleventh Attack Wing of the Nevada Air National Guard have proven themselves in combat many times, from United Korea to Libya to Central Asia to western Russia.” He shrugged and added, “And no one else in the Air Force except General Terrill Samson knows much, if anything, about them—and Samson is apparently one of the casualties at Offutt.”
Goff shook his head. He expected Venti, an Air Force general, to support his fellow blue-suiters. Most Joint Chiefs chairmen had biases toward their own services. “And I’m supposed to forget the fact that he disregards directives and busts the chain of command to suit himself?” Goff asked. He rubbed his eyes in exasperation. “Richard, McLanahan is a good guy, but I just can’t trust him. He’s the definition of ‘loose cannon.’ The president doesn’t trust him. Even Gryzlov wants his head on a plate. Why on earth should I allow him back in uniform? Damn it, General, I sure as hell shouldn’t allow him back at Battle Mountain, with access to all those fancy high-tech aircraft and weapons—God knows what he might do, or what he might be doing right now!”
Venti took a deep breath, ready to argue—but he couldn’t. He found himself nodding agreement. “Sir, at least consider this: It’ll take Zoltrane and Griffin a few hours to get up to speed and report in—and they won’t have a plan ready until they can assemble their own battle staffs and pull packages off the shelf. Until we assess the status of the ICBM and bomber fleets, the only other option is the sea-launched nukes. Long before we have a plan, the subs will be in position—and the Russians know this.”
“So?”
“Whatever the Russians will do next, sir, they’ll do it before the boomers get into launch position,” Venti said. “The sub bases in Washington State and Georgia, the remaining bomber bases, Europe, NATO, Washington, they’ll all be at risk—unless you believe that the Russians really will stop?”
Goff’s eyes unconsciously widened. “Do you think this could be the prelude to a wider attack?”
“I don’t know, sir—but right now we’re totally on the defensive until the subs get into launch position,” Venti said. “The Russians have the complete advantage of surprise and position. We can’t do much no matter where they move next. It could take us days or weeks to plan and organize a respon
se by sea or a special-operations mission, and weeks to months to plan a ground offensive.” He took another deep breath. “I see two options right now, sir: Listen to McLanahan’s plan, or plan a strike using the subs in about forty-eight hours.”
“A nuclear strike?” Goff asked.
Venti nodded. “But I don’t think the president will authorize it,” he said. “Do you, sir?” Goff responded with silence. “Then I recommend we hear what McLanahan has to say.”
One Hundred Fifty Kilometers Northeast
of Shemya Island, Alaska
That same time
Stand by for final launch run, crew,” radioed the bombardier aboard the lead Tupolev-160 Blackjack bomber. “Final radar fix in progress, stand by for transfer-alignment maneuver. Radar to radiate…now.”
The bombardier activated his radarscope, already preset to the proper range and tilt for the fastest and sharpest return—and there it was, right where he predicted it would be: the American island of Shemya, almost at the very end of the Aleutian Island chain. This little flat rock in the ocean was one of America’s most important surveillance outposts: Its COBRA DANE radar could monitor each and every Russian land-and sea-launched ballistic-missile test fired into the Pacific instrumented target range, and electronic listening posts collected broadcasts from Russian and Chinese military bases half a world away. It was also a linchpin in America’s new and highly illegal ballistic-missile defense system.
In short, it was going away—right now.
Although they had initiated their attacks on America’s bases in Alaska hours ago, it had taken this long to fly back across the Bering Sea to get into position to strike this last but no less important target. After this, it was an easy cruise back to the air-refueling track to rendezvous with the tankers operating out of Yakutsk, and then an easy ride home.
