Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “Think they’re on to us?”

  “That would be my guess, Muck,” Luger said. “It may complicate targeting a bit more, but I think that the more they try to run and hide, they’ll make it easier for us to find what they’re hiding, because we already have several days’ worth of comparison imagery—we’ll see pretty quickly where they moved. We don’t see any missiles being erected. Wish we had a better fix on the SS-24s. We’re trying our best to pinpoint them, but no luck so far.”

  “Keep trying, Dave,” Patrick responded. “We’ll just plan on hitting the known garrisons and presurveyed launch points and hope we get lucky. Send a message to the load crews and get an update on when they’ll be loaded up and ready to get out.”

  “Just did that, Muck,” Dave responded. “By the time your guys start launching their first missiles, the MC-17s should be in the air.”

  “I want them off the ground right away,” Patrick said. “Have them abandon all but the classified equipment—they can leave all the bomb jammers, test equipment, power carts, tools, and anything else that won’t reveal important info on our bombers. I want them airborne right behind us.”

  “I’ll pass the word, sir,” Luger said.

  Because they had the longest distance to fly, Bobcat Two-three and Two-four were the first in line to launch, followed by the first Dragon airborne-laser aircraft, Bobcat Three-one, which had to have repairs done on the ground; the other Dragon, Bobcat Three-two, was already airborne, flying cover over the base, along with one Megafortress and one Vampire. The KC-10 was next, to replace the other KC-10 already airborne to refuel the three planes guarding the base; once the second tanker was airborne, the first tanker would land, refuel, pick up the last of the crew chiefs and ground technicians, and fly out to a refueling track five hundred miles south of Yakutsk to await the returning bombers. Patrick was next, in Bobcat One-one, followed by the rest of the Megafortresses and finally the rest of the Vampires.

  So far everything looked good. Every plane but one taxied out on schedule; the straggler, Bobcat One-four, began taxiing once all the others departed, after being swarmed by a dozen maintenance techs. If there were any more maintenance glitches, no one was reporting them. Everything was being done on a strict timetable, so there were no required radio calls unless—

  “Bobcat, Bobcat, this is Three-two, missiles inbound, missiles inbound!” the mission commander of the AL-52 Dragon shouted on the command channel. “We’re picking up numerous high-speed missiles coming in from three different directions, very high altitude. We count at least six flights so far. First missile impacts in three minutes!”

  “All Bobcat forces, all Bobcat forces, launch without delay!” Patrick ordered. “Take ten-second spacing, fan out after liftoff. Move! Move!”

  The first two EB-1C Vampire bombers were off within seconds—they had already lined up on the runway and were about to begin their takeoff roll. The AL-52 Dragon took much longer than expected, but soon it was rolling down the runway, with the KC-10 right behind it, almost obscured in the Dragon’s dark engine exhaust.

  “Go, Summer, go!” Patrick shouted to his aircraft commander. “Get right behind the tanker! Go!” When Summer actually pulled the throttles back to make the turn onto the runway, Patrick shoved the throttles to full military power himself. The tight turn made the wheels slip and skid on the ungrooved pavement, and it felt as if O’Dea might not be able to hold it, but she finally got it lined up on the runway by the time the engines spooled up to full power.

  “Dave, Yakutsk is under attack!” Patrick said over his subcutaneous transceiver. “Get the MC-17s airborne now!”

  “General…” Luger hesitated, then went on. “Sir, there’s no way. They weren’t even halfway from loading up all the personnel—they haven’t even started engines. I directed them to get into shelters.”

  “Damn it, Dave, no!”

  “It’s the only chance they have, Patrick,” Luger said, the anguish painfully evident in his voice. “I…I had to make a decision. There are plenty of underground shelters there—it’s the only chance they have,” he repeated.

  Patrick cursed into his oxygen visor, but there was nothing he could do except watch his supercockpit display as the battle began to unfold.

  The incoming missiles were all visible, and now, as Patrick watched, the launch aircraft also became visible: The AL-52 Dragon already airborne over Yakutsk had locked on to one of them with the laser’s adaptive optics, so he could see an image of a group of two flights, each with four Tupolev-160 Blackjack supersonic bombers, flying at very high altitude from the south, firing supersonic missiles; another group of three flights of four Blackjacks coming in from the southwest, launching more missiles; and a group of two flights of six Tupolev-22M Backfire bombers coming in supersonic from the west-southwest.

  There were several hypersonic cruise missiles inbound as well; Patrick couldn’t see on his display where they were launched from, but now it didn’t matter—they were going to hit in just a few seconds, unless the anti-ballistic-missile weapons on board his Dragons and Vampires could stop them.

  Gryzlov was launching everything he had at Yakutsk, in the final showdown between American and Russian bombers.

  The Dragon engaged the oncoming missiles from maximum range. At first it engaged the hypersonic cruise missiles heading toward Yakutsk itself, shooting down several of them right away, but then it directed its firepower toward other supersonic missiles being fired by the Backfires—because their target was not Yakutsk, but the AL-52 Dragon itself. The Vampire crew guarding Yakutsk launched four long-range AIM-154 Anaconda missiles, two at Russian cruise missiles and finally two at the Backfire bombers. The Megafortress bomber on guard launched a stream of AIM-120 Scorpion missiles.

  But they weren’t fast enough to catch the mass of AS-17 Krypton missiles fired by the Backfire bombers. Three missiles simultaneously hit the Dragon, sending it crashing in flames to the Siberian tundra.

  The two Vampires that had launched from Yakutsk engaged the Backfire bombers with Scorpion missiles, downing the remainder of the bombers from the first flight and two from the second flight. But the Megafortress bomber that was already airborne had quickly expended its supply of defensive missiles, and when it turned to escape the area, it was hit by two AS-17 missiles and exploded in a tremendous cloud of fire. The Vampires avenged it by downing the remaining four Backfire bombers from long range with Scorpion missiles.

  The second Dragon aircraft turned south immediately after takeoff and began engaging the incoming bombers—but by then every Blackjack bomber had launched its missiles at Yakutsk: supersonic AS-16 “Kickback” missiles, one every ten seconds. Each Blackjack bomber pumped two dozen Mach-2 missiles into the sky.

  “Missiles inbound, missiles inbound!” Patrick cried on the command channel. “Take off two at a time! Hurry!”

  But time had run out. Three Megafortresses and two Vampires had launched, and two Vampires were turning onto the runway just seconds behind another, when the first AS-X-19 Koala missile exploded five thousand feet aboveground and less than a mile north of Yakutsk. Its small, one-kiloton nuclear warhead did not touch the ground, but it didn’t need to—the overpressure caused by the explosion created a ripple of force that radiated outward like an erupting volcano, sweeping over the air base in the blink of an eye.

  Three more missiles also exploded over Yakutsk, but by then the devastation had already been done. Every building, structure, aircraft, and human being aboveground within two miles of each detonation was tossed hundreds of yards across the flat plains of Siberia like dust in a windstorm, crushed beneath several thousand pounds per square inch of pure nuclear horror, or swatted out of the sky and squashed into the ground like a clay pigeon hit by a shotgun blast.

  Ryazan’ Alternate Military Command Center, Russia

  Several hours later

  This is President Thorn.”

  “Greetings, Mr. President,” Anatoliy Gryzlov said, his voice light and
cheerful. His interpreter quickly translated on the hot line. With him in the underground Ryazan’ Alternate Military Command Center was the chief of the general staff, Nikolai Stepashin, and other members of the general staff.

  “Called to gloat, Gryzlov?”

  “I called to express my admiration and respect for General McLanahan and all the brave men and women under his command,” Gryzlov said, lacing his tone with as much triumph as he could. He thought he could hear Thorn gritting his teeth in anger. “I must say, I tried my best to anticipate the general’s actions, and he stayed one step ahead of me the entire time. He very nearly succeeded in attacking my missile bases and mobile-missile units. Very impressive.”

  “Attacking your what?”

  “Did I not tell you, Thorn?” Gryzlov asked sarcastically. “We have sent rescuers in to Yakutsk. They may not stay on the ground for very long, they must wear many layers of protective clothing, and we will allow a man to go in only once, for no more than thirty minutes, but we have communicated with many American survivors.”

  “Survivors? There are Americans still there, in Yakutsk?”

  “Apparently the general wisely decided to get the ones into shelters that could not make it off the ground in time,” Gryzlov said. “We count one hundred and four Americans, men and women, in our underground shelters, safe and sound. The officer in charge is Air Force Colonel Harold Briggs. He has given us only his name, rank, and date of birth.”

  “I want those men and women released immediately, Gryzlov,” Thorn said.

  “Don’t be stupid, Thorn,” Gryzlov said. “I would not release them even if I could. They are prisoners of war and will be treated as such. But we have not learned a safe way to get them out without exposing ourselves to radiation. They are quite safe where they are, and we believe they have enough food and water to last until the radiation levels subside. They have sealed themselves inside a prison, and there is where they shall stay until we can put take them out and place them in custody.” “You are obligated to keep them safe, provide them with medical attention, food, and water, let them communicate with the International Red Cross, and abide by all the other provisions of the Geneva Conventions,” President Thorn said. “I don’t care under what conditions they are imprisoned—conditions you are responsible for creating!”

  “And I warn you, Thorn, if those men and women harm any of my soldiers, all of them will be shot dead!” Gryzlov shouted. “I am not in the mood for listening to your whining and bleating. Your troops are responsible for imprisoning several hundred of my soldiers based at Yakutsk—all of whom perished in the attack. Undoubtedly in your troops’ rush to protect themselves, they conveniently forgot to release their captives. I know you have Tin Man commandos among the survivors. They had better think twice before harming any Russian soldiers.”

  “Gryzlov, let’s leave the negotiations for our foreign-affairs officers—”

  “Quite so, Thorn,” Gryzlov said. “As I was saying, however, we have interrogated other survivors, ones that were unfortunate enough not to make it to the shelters in time. They sustained very serious injuries, I’m afraid—”

  “Thanks to you, you son of a bitch!”

  “—despite our best efforts to help them, and they told me before they died many details of McLanahan’s attack plan: about our missile silos at Aleysk and Uzhur, our mobile-missile units, even stories about going out and hunting Russian heavy mobile missiles with multiple warheads. Your General McLanahan is certainly an imaginative fellow.”

  “If he said you still have illegal weapons in the field, Gryzlov, I’m sure it’s true,” Thorn said.

  “We must put an end to this, Thorn,” Gryzlov said. “My analysts suggest that many of McLanahan’s bombers escaped from Yakutsk. Since they have not attacked any of their planned targets yet, and it is just a few hours until daybreak, I think perhaps my analysts are wrong. But if you could verify the whereabouts of all of McLanahan’s forces, I’m sure my commanders will see to it that our nuclear forces and air-defense units stand down, which will obviously relieve the stress on them and will undoubtedly help prevent an accidental launch of—”

  “More threats, Gryzlov?” Thomas Thorn asked. “You threaten me with more nuclear attacks unless I give you the exact location and number of our bomber forces? You can go to hell, Gryzlov!”

  “If you remain uncooperative, Thorn, I must give my strategic commanders full authority to respond to any threat against the Russian Federation with every weapon at their disposal,” Gryzlov said. “You do not seem to realize how serious this is, Thorn! McLanahan landed an entire bomber wing on a Russian airfield! He killed dozens of troops, captured and imprisoned nearly a thousand men and women, stole millions of rubles’ worth of fuel and weapons, and was responsible for the deaths of all his captives by keeping them in a battle zone—in essence attempting to use them as human shields!—instead of evacuating them to a safer area, as required by the Geneva Conventions. You must do more, much more to assure the Russian people, the Duma, myself, and the chiefs of the general staff that you want peace, not war.”

  “I don’t have to give you anything, Gryzlov,” President Thorn said.

  “Where is McLanahan?” Gryzlov asked angrily. “Have you had any contact with him?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Thorn. Tell me if he is on his way back to the United States. Do something smart for a change, Thorn! At least tell me if you have had contact with him.”

  “I promise you, Gryzlov, the United States will be on guard against any other sneak attacks by Russia, and we will deal with them. The next call I get from you had better be an unconditional stand-down of all your military forces.” And Thorn terminated the call.

  Gryzlov hung up the receiver and sat back in his seat, a smile spreading across his face. “What a fool,” he muttered. “If the American people are even a tenth as soft as he is, this war will be over very shortly.”

  “Sir,” Stepashin said, his voice and visage tense and irritable, “you must address the general staff, the Duma, and the press regarding your actions in Yakutsk.”

  “That can wait, Stepashin.”

  “There are reports of hundreds of casualties coming in from the city of Yakutsk,” Stepashin said. “The nuclear bursts have damaged or destroyed billions of rubles in oil-distribution and pumping facilities. All communications in and out of the city and the civil airfield have been disrupted by the electromagnetic-pulse effects.”

  “Stepashin, I did what I had to do,” Gryzlov said dismissively. “The Americans landed a dozen long-range bombers and over a hundred troops in Yakutsk and were in the process of launching attacks against us. What was I supposed to do—ask Thorn or McLanahan to sit tight on our homeland while we negotiate a cease-fire?”

  Stepashin fell silent for a few moments, glancing over at his general-staff officers and receiving concerned, angry glances in return. There was no doubt that the Americans’ staging air raids from Yakutsk was a serious development—but Gryzlov’s using nuclear weapons on Russian soil, killing hundreds or perhaps even thousands of his own people and troops, did not sit well with them at all. Finally he said, “Why did you tell Thorn that we had interrogated American survivors? We have not sent in any troops or medical personnel yet to Yakutsk to see how bad the radiation levels are.”

  “Thorn doesn’t know that,” Gryzlov said. “I wanted to hear his reaction when I mentioned the ballistic-missile bases—and he all but confirmed that those were indeed McLanahan’s intended targets.”

  “Aren’t we obligated to search for survivors and help anyone that might really be in the shelters?” Stepashin asked.

  “And risk the health of our own men by exposing them to radioactivity? Don’t be crazy, General,” Gryzlov said. “Have everyone stay away from Yakutsk and have combat engineers test the air and soil every day or so for radioactivity levels. If any Americans are there, they deserve to die—and if there are any Russian survivors, we will simply tell
the world they were executed by the Americans.”

  Stepashin looked down at the floor to hide his expression of disgust at the idea that they were simply going to abandon any Russians who might still be alive at Yakutsk.

  “Now,” Gryzlov went on, “what more can we expect from the United States in the wake of this episode?”

  “Thomas Thorn did not have much of a stomach to fight before—I see no reason to expect he’d be more willing to do so now,” Stepashin replied. “McLanahan was his Doberman pinscher—with him out of the picture, I think he will wait, size up his forces, and then open negotiations or decide how to respond. But he does not have the conventional forces available anymore to hold any strategic targets in Russia at risk. He can certainly hurt us with his sea-launched ballistic missiles, but I do not think he will respond with nuclear weapons, even in an extremely limited manner.”

  “I am not concerned about Thorn, but I am worried about McLanahan and what remains of his forces—and with any other Patrick Shane McLanahans out there,” Gryzlov said. He thought for a moment, then said, “And there is still the question of the targets we failed to destroy, especially Cheyenne Mountain, Barksdale, Battle Mountain—and Sacramento, California.

  “In case McLanahan surfaces again, Stepashin, he will be naming his own poison,” Gryzlov said. “Just in case one of McLanahan’s bombers does attack any of our ballistic-missile sites, I want Battle Mountain and Sacramento destroyed. Be sure one warhead hits Beale Air Force Base, just so everyone understands that it was the real target—but I want McLanahan’s home town destroyed in punishment. Hopefully, Thorn has the brains to recall him, if he is still alive, but in case he feels like acting the hero again, he and his family will suffer for it.”

  At that moment the conference room’s phone rang. Nikolai Stepashin picked it up. Gryzlov was busy tamping down the tobacco on a cigarette and didn’t notice Stepashin’s confused, worried expression until he said in a loud voice, “I authorized no such thing! Get an identification on that aircraft immediately!”