Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “You sure you want to do this, General?” Ann Page asked. “This takes us directly over Russia. We’re only at forty thousand feet now. According to the flight plan we’ll still be below one hundred K and Mach five when we cross the border.”

  “I know—that’s well within the lethal envelope of Russian SAMS,” Patrick said. “There’s only one known SA-12B brigade in our flight path, near Omsk. You’ll be at one hundred sixty K altitude and Mach five point one and accelerating when you get close to the known missile batteries. Missile flight time is at least ninety seconds. With that much time you should be out of the missile’s envelope by the time it reaches you.”

  Boomer looked at the rear-view monitor in the cockpit and saw Ann Page looking at him through the camera, the doubt evident in both their eyes. “Cutting it awfully close, aren’t you, General?” she asked.

  “The problem is initiating the return over Kazakhstan and the lack of secure recovery bases in the north,” Patrick responded. Many of the military air bases in Alaska, Washington State, Montana, Wyoming, and North Dakota were destroyed by the Russian Air Force four years earlier—it would be many years, possibly even decades, before they were inhabitable again. “Flying south over safer territory means an extra orbit, which reduces your reserves, which means bringing you down early at a civilian airfield near Seattle, Vancouver, or Calgary. I’ll do it if necessary, but I’d like to have you land at a military base if possible.

  “My calculations show you’ll be out of the SA-12 envelope by the time the missile reaches you—it’ll be close, but you’ll be out,” Patrick went on. “If they fire the less-capable A-model missile or don’t react very quickly you’ll be even safer, but you’ll be OK even going against the B-model SA-12 fired within seconds of coming in range. As always, the final decision is up to you guys. I’ve already put you through a lot on this mission.”

  “I’ll say,” Boomer muttered on intercom.

  “Unfortunately, you only have a few more seconds to decide,” Patrick said.

  “Figures.” He clicked on the radio: “Stand by, General.” He looked at the rear cockpit monitor again into his mission commander’s eyes. “What do you say, Ann?” he asked on intercom.

  “I know McLanahan by reputation only—he hired me to help with the program just a few days ago, and I’ve only met with him twice,” she said. “I know he has a reputation of doing what he thinks best, which is not necessarily what his superior officers want.”

  “Checks.”

  “But he also has a reputation of getting the job done and looking out for the men and women under him. I know everybody blames him for inciting the Russians to attack us and kill thousands of people, but I believe it was because Gryzlov was a nutcase, not because of what McLanahan did, which was protecting his forces from another attack.”

  “I don’t know much about what McLanahan did to piss off Gryzlov,” Boomer admitted, “but I do know that McLanahan kicked the Russians’ butt pretty good afterward. He knows what he’s doing. And he’s definitely not a glory-hound. I’ve seen the man’s office in the White House—the janitor has a nicer work environment.”

  “So you trust him.”

  “I trust him.”

  “Same here.”

  “Maybe they’ll write that on our headstones, huh?” Ann did not respond. “General Briggs? What do you say, sir?”

  “We’re just passengers back here, Captain,” Hal Briggs replied. “Whatever you do is fine with us.”

  “Not on my ship it’s not,” Boomer said. “Everyone gets a say.”

  “I’m all for getting home earlier,” Briggs said. “I’ve put my life in General McLanahan’s hands for most of my military career, and he’s never let me down yet. I don’t think he will this time either.”

  “The rest of you guys agree?”

  “Affirmative, sir,” Master Sergeant Chris Wohl replied immediately. The other Tin Men responded likewise.

  “We who are about to fry salute you, General McLanahan,” Boomer deadpanned. He clicked open the radio channel: “We’re ready to activate the new flight plan, sir.”

  “Very good. See you back at the barn. Good luck.”

  “I wish he hadn’t said that last thing,” Boomer muttered. He recalled the flight plan and pressed the “ACTIVATE” soft button on his multi-function display. The flight control computer immediately entered the countdown for igniting the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System, and he and Ann had to scramble to complete the pre-programmed countdown holds on time before their flight path window closed on them. Within seconds the engines rumbled to life, and they accelerated quickly and blasted skyward at a very steep climb angle. At Mach three and sixty thousand feet, the computer altered course, and they headed almost directly north toward the Russian border.

  “Unidentified aircraft, unidentified aircraft, one hundred and fifty kilometers south of Omsk, this is Russian air defense sector headquarters,” they heard moments later. “Warning, you are entering the Russian air defense identification zone. Respond immediately on any emergency frequency.”

  “Not too late to turn around,” Ann said.

  “In four seconds it will be,” Boomer said. “Suborbital burn commencing in three…two…one…” Seconds later the airspeed indicator clicked past Mach four, and the three remaining LPDRS engines kicked on.

  “Warning, warning, warning, unidentified aircraft approaching Omsk, you are in violation of Russian sovereign airspace,” the warning messages on all of the emergency channels declared. “Turn right and reverse course immediately or you will be fired upon without further warning. Acknowledge on any emergency frequency. Over.” The messages continued in Russian and Chinese, then repeated.

  Moments later the threat warning receiver announced, “Warning, warning, air defense search radar locked on, three o’clock, one hundred miles, SA-12…warning, warning, missile tracking detected, SA-12, four o’clock, eighty miles…warning, warning, missile launch, SA-12, five o’clock, seventy-five miles…”

  “Pedal to the metal, Boomer,” Ann Page said.

  “Eat my exhaust, Russkies,” Boomer said confidently—but he did keep a close watch on both the airspeed readouts and the threat display.

  “We’re right on the edge of its envelope,” Ann Page said. “We should be able to fly away from it here in a second.”

  Sure enough, a few moments later: “Warning, warning, missile tracking, SA-12, six o’clock, eighty miles…warning, missile tracking, SA-12, one hundred miles…” Finally, as the Black Stallion continued its climb and gradual acceleration, the warning indications went away.

  “Never outran a Russian SAM before!” Boomer exclaimed. “Incredible!”

  “The hotline is already heating up,” Patrick McLanahan radioed a few minutes later. “Russia is already complaining about your overflight.”

  “Do we care today, sir?” Boomer asked.

  “Not particularly.”

  Boomer took the spaceplane right up to three hundred and sixty thousand feet, above most of the atmosphere, then throttled back and stabilized the airspeed at Mach nine. “We’ll start the descent in eighty-three minutes, everyone,” he said. “Check your oxygen, check your buddy, and report in when the station check’s done.”

  “Everyone’s good back here,” Hal Briggs said from inside the passenger module. “We had to wake ‘the Kid’ up to do his safety check—the guy can sleep in the middle of a typhoon. The Kid,” U.S. Army First Lieutenant Russ Marz, was the Battle Force ground ops team’s newest and youngest member, and Hal had taken “The Kid” under his wing—probably, Patrick had surmised, because he was very much like Hal himself when he was twenty years younger.

  The time went quickly. In less than an hour they had crossed the entire width of Russia and the Arctic Ocean, and the coast of North America was in sight a few minutes later. “The computer has started the pre-descent checklist, everyone,” Boomer announced. “We’re going to do a one point five G descent profile this time instead of three so
NORAD won’t think we’re another Russian cruise missile sneak attack, and I’d like to keep the belly cool in case we have to do a quick-turn and launch again. Keep ahead of the plane and G-forces and sing out in case you’re having any problems. I’d like you all to…”

  Suddenly the threat warning receiver blared, “Warning, warning, target tracking radar, two o’clock, one thousand three hundred fifty miles.”

  “What did it say?” Boomer remarked. “I’ve never heard of any radar tracking at that kind of…”

  “Warning, warning, warning, laser spike, laser spike…warning, warning, warning, emergency cooling circuit activated…warning, spot hull temperature increasing, station three hundred…warning, spot hull temperature increasing, station three-eighty…warning, warning, warning, hull temperature reaching critical, station four-twenty…”

  “What in heck is going on?” Ann Page asked.

  “I don’t know, but we’re going to melt here in a second,” Boomer said. He immediately disconnected the autopilot and rolled the Black Stallion hard left using the control thrusters.

  “What are you doing, Boomer?”

  “We’re getting a sudden uneven heating of a small section of the fuselage,” he replied. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I need to expose a different part of the fuselage to whatever that heat source is and give the emergency cooling system a chance to bring the temps down, or it’ll fail. General, are you reading this?”

  “Just keep turning, Boomer,” Patrick McLanahan radioed. “Don’t stop maneuvering. We’re analyzing the information now.” And then they heard him say under his breath, “My God, I don’t believe it. They couldn’t possibly have done it…”

  “Warning, warning, laser spike, laser spike…warning, warning, spot hull temperature rising, station…warning, warning, hull temperature reaching critical, station one-forty…”

  “Boomer! Keep rolling!” Patrick radioed frantically. “As hard as you can! Don’t worry about depleting thruster fuel now! Move!” Boomer rolled the spaceplane hard to the right, nearly going inverted…

  …and then he saw it—a bright orange-blue dot on the horizon with the familiar shimmering three-dimensional texture of collimated laser light. “We’re being hit by a laser—a big mother laser hot enough to almost burn through our heat shields!” he shouted. At that instant, it winked out. “Did you see that, Ann?”

  “No—I was too busy praying we wouldn’t turn into a shooting star.”

  “We saw it down here, Boomer,” Patrick said. “It’s something I prayed we’d never see again…but it’s back, and it’s operational.”

  CHAPTER 3

  QOM, IRAN

  LATER THAT DAY

  A flight of three Mi-35 attack helicopters swooped in from the west in perfect formation. As two helicopters hovered and took up a protective position, the third landed just a hundred meters from the outer wall of the Ruhollah Khomeini Library and shut down its engines. A general officer and three bodyguards stepped out moments later. They carefully surveyed the outer walls of the library compound; then, one of the bodyguards made a radio call, and the two hovering attack helicopters moved away and out of sight.

  As the general waited, a captured armored personnel carrier emerged from the library compound and drove out to him. The general’s bodyguards had assault rifles and grenade launchers at the ready, but the general did not try to take cover, standing defiantly, almost impatiently, fists on his hips.

  Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi emerged from the APC with Mansour Sattari and three bodyguards of his own surrounding him. He saluted the newcomer, and the general returned the salute. Both men were silent for a few long moments; then General Hoseyn Yassini, chief of staff of the Iranian armed forces, said, “Well well, Hesarak, it seems you have been quite busy lately.” Buzhazi said nothing. The officer looked at the men assembled behind Buzhazi, nodding to Sattari. “Hello, Mansour. Quite the daring raid you pulled at Doshan Tappeh. That’ll teach the Pasdaran not to be so cocksure next time, eh? Think you taught them a little lesson?”

  “I hope so, sir,” Sattari said, nodding respectfully.

  “Unfortunately you didn’t use the opportunity to get out of the country with your hides intact,” Yassini said. “Instead, you decided to throw in with the general’s plan to…” He turned to Buzhazi: “What, Hesarak? What’s the plan? Where do you go from here?”

  Buzhazi took a thick packet of files from Sattari and handed them to Yassini. “Copies of the evidence we’ve gathered from Orumiyeh,” he said, “proving that Badi ordered the conspiracy to attack the base and kill Iranian soldiers with Pasdaran forces disguised as Kurdish rebels in order to discredit the Internal Defense Force and further his own political ambitions.”

  Yassini took the files but didn’t look at them. Keeping his eyes on Buzhazi, he dropped the files to the ground beside him. “You are too funny, Hesarak,” he said, shaking his head with a wry smile. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Are you seriously trying to tell me all this is just you wanting to get back at that worthless piece of walking crap Muhammad Badi for concocting that ridiculous plan to discredit your precious Basij? It was obvious to everyone with half a brain in Tehran what happened in Orumiyeh. Do you expect what’s in that folder to make one bit of difference for what you’ve done in the past few days?”

  He shook his head. “Hesarak, you magnificent idiot, if you had just stopped with killing Badi and escaping from Doshan Tappeh, you’d have become a legend in the Iranian military,” he said. “Hundreds of very powerful and influential men would have silently cheered for you, including some who could have pardoned you after a short stay in Anzali Prison. Badi got too powerful and pried into too many personal affairs—you just saved some other poor bastard from having to do the job. You could have even escaped to Syria or Yemen—hell, man, I probably would’ve helped you get out of the country! You’d be living like a prince in charge of some sheikh’s personal security detail.” He looked at the walls of the Khomeini Library compound. “But then you did…this. Strategically clever, I must say. If you were going for maximum shock value to the clerics in Tehran, you couldn’t have picked a better spot. Foolhardy, but clever.”

  “‘Shock value’ had nothing to do with it, Hoseyn,” Buzhazi said. “Are you blind, or just preferring to act the obedient, brainless soldier? Don’t you see what the clerical regime has done to our country? The Pasdaran is out of control. There are Pasdaran troops stationed in dozens of countries from Morocco to Malaysia, and they are running al-Quds death squads in every corner of the globe. The Pasdaran has nuclear weapons, long-range ballistic missiles, submarines, and long-range bombers. For what? Some dead cleric’s idea of a global Persian empire? The return of the caliphate? This is the twenty-first century, for God’s sake.”

  “Listen to you, Hesarak—fretting about empire and caliphates and political intrigue.” Yassini laughed. “Twelve years ago you were the clerics’ toughest supporter. You were ready to take on the United States of America in the Persian Gulf in support of the government—the very same government we have today!”

  “I was blind and stupid back then,” Buzhazi said.

  “Perhaps—but when they took the opportunity to get support from China, they abandoned your grand plan. That’s what you’re angry about, isn’t it? So which is it, Hesarak—do you truly feel the government is headed in the wrong direction, or do you just want revenge on them?” He waited for an answer; when one wasn’t forthcoming, he went on: “Do you think you’ve changed anything, Hesarak? There’s an interim government already in place, and I guarantee they’ll be tougher and more bloodthirsty than the current ones. I’ve already spoken to the acting president and defense ministers, and they want action.”

  “We’ll see what kind of stomach they have for fighting.”

  “You’re insane, Hesarak, insane,” Yassini chuckled. “Look, my friend, I think you’ve made your point here. The best thing you can do now is to get out and survive. I don’t know if what you’ve begun w
ill lead to the downfall of the clerics, but alive and in exile in some other country will be better for your supporters and your cause than being dead and forgotten. Take your impressive victories and get out, while you can.”

  “What is it you want, Hoseyn?”

  “Simple: I want the hostages,” Yassini said.

  “Because then you’ll be the hero, their savior, right?”

  “What the hell do you care, Hesarak?” Yassini asked perturbedly. He shrugged, then said, “Their precious Pasdaran couldn’t save them—maybe if I lead them out of there and back to Tehran, they’ll think more of the regular armed forces and less of their ideological goon squads, and restore the military to its proper role.”

  “So you do believe the Pasdaran is misguided and out of control.”

  “I believe in me, Hesarak, and the forces under my command,” Yassini snapped. “Exacting your revenge on the Pasdaran is your battle, not mine. I’m here to protect my country and my government from all enemies, and right now that includes you. If the Pasdaran can’t stop you, it’s my duty to make sure the job gets done.”

  Buzhazi nodded, falling silent. The two men looked at each other carefully, sizing up each other’s words and mannerisms. Then Buzhazi said, “Let’s get down to it, Hoseyn.”

  “Whatever you say, Hesarak,” Yassini said. “This deal is between you and me. Tehran thinks I’m coming down here tomorrow morning to take personal command of the forces that will pry you out of Qom, dead or alive. I’m here early and without the interim Supreme Defense Council’s notice or authority as a colleague, a fellow soldier of Iran, and someone who has learned and studied under you and now has the opportunity to repay you for your dedicated years of service to our country.

  “Let us speak like men and warriors, Hesarak,” Yassini went on, pointing to his right eye, a symbol that he was pledging to tell the truth. “The Pasdaran number approximately one hundred and fifty thousand. You have taken perhaps three percent of that number out of action—an impressive feat, but not nearly enough for your mission to succeed. You and I both know this to be true.