Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  Cheshire was the commander of all of the Air Battle Force’s modified B-52 bomber fleet at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base, a grand total of six planes—all of which were involved in operations near Iran—plus a steadily growing fleet of eight QA-45C “Hunter” unmanned stealth bombers undergoing final flight tests at Dreamland before becoming fully operational. Cheshire, a soft-spoken and very laid-back test pilot turned wing commander, was the first female test pilot at Dreamland before being chosen to command the Air Battle Force’s B-52 bombers at Battle Mountain.

  Although she was checked out in every aircraft under her command at Battle Mountain, plus every aircraft that had been flown at Dreamland for the past ten years, her favorite aircraft was by far the AL-52 Dragon. This Dragon—the only one that survived the American Holocaust and the Air Battle Force’s counterattack over Russia—was the latest variant of the B-52 bomber tested at Dreamland and deployed at Battle Mountain. Originally a test bed aircraft only, the Dragon carried only one weapon, but it was one of the most powerful weapons ever fired from an aircraft: a three-megawatt plasma-pumped electronic laser. Steered by an adaptive-optics mirror system in the nose, the laser beam fired from the Dragon had a maximum range of about three hundred miles and could attack and destroy or disable targets in space, in the sky, and even on the ground.

  “Make sure the computer has designated the targets…there, that’s what that symbol means, remember?” Nancy prompted her mission commander. “Do a quick scan for any other threats—don’t assume the computer will always pick the right targets. A fighter a hundred miles away always has priority…”

  “A fighter? Where?”

  “Just an example, Huck,” Nancy said patiently. Man, this guy was skittish—he either needed a few more combat sorties under his belt, or a roll in the hay. “The targeting computer is programmed to go after ballistic missiles first, but if a fighter is nearby, even if it’s a long way away, it’s a bigger threat in my book. You also want to make sure it hasn’t designated any friendly aircraft or missiles. The system is good, but it’s not foolproof. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “A simple ‘yes’ is good, Huck,” Nancy said. She was only in her early forties, but these young kids in the force today made her feel much older sometimes. “Okay, it looks like the coast is clear, and the Dragon has the two top priority targets. This indication”—she pointed to the upper left corner of Dannon’s supercockpit display—“tells you that the targeting laser has already locked onto both missiles and has measured them and the surrounding atmosphere for attenuation compensation. Dragon does that automatically but not continuously unless you tell it to. Will it fire the main laser automatically?”

  “No…I mean, yes, because we’ve given consent and…no, wait…”

  “You had it right the first time, Huck: no, it will normally not fire the main laser automatically,” Nancy said, starting to lose a little patience. She always insisted on flying with the most inexperienced crewmembers, but sometimes their inexperience and nervousness-induced dumbness aggravated her. “Man-in-the-loop, remember? You have to have consent, pre-attack checklist complete by both crewmembers, targeting lock either manual or auto, and give the order to fire. The only exception is with failure of both supercockpit displays or with other kinds of serious malfunctions, when the Dragon shifts to self-defense mode. The system will…”

  “Uh, ma’am, shouldn’t…shouldn’t we attack now?”

  “What’s the missile flight time remaining until impact, Huck?”

  Dannon checked his display. “Uh…one minute forty-one seconds.”

  “Correct. And what’s our range to target?”

  “One hundred ninety-three nautical miles.”

  “Good. And what’s the speed of light?”

  “One hundred eighty-six thousand miles per second.”

  “Correct. And how long is a typical laser engagement?”

  “Six seconds on an intercontinental ballistic-missile-sized target—a little less with a tactical ballistic missile—plus turret rotation and mirror focusing time. About ten seconds total.”

  “Good. So how long will it take for our laser beam to hit and destroy the Shahab-2, assuming it was an ICBM-class target?”

  Dannon paused, but only for a moment: Nancy was fascinated with the guy’s phenomenal ability to do complex calculations in his head. “Ten-point-zero-zero-one-zero-five seconds.”

  “So what’s your hurry, Huck?” Nancy asked. “You gotta relax, MC.” She patted him playfully on the shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles. He was hopeless. “Okay, Huck, kill the suckers.”

  Dannon took a deep breath and touched the green “ATTACK” soft key on his supercockpit display. “Attack commencing, stop attack,” the computer spoke, and the soft key turned into a red “STOP ATTACK” button. Seconds later they could feel a slight rumbling beneath their feet as the mirror turret in the nose of the AL-52 unstowed, disrupting the airflow around the aircraft. There was no other indication that the attack was underway—no cool science-fictiony laser sounds, no beam of light slicing through the sky, just a small blinking “L” indicator on their supercockpit displays. Seconds later the “L” stopped blinking as the computer refocused on the second missile, and then the “L” began to blink once again. Finally they heard the turbulence rumbling under their feet as the turret stowed itself.

  “Missiles destroyed,” Nancy said, so calmly and self-assuredly that Dannon looked at her to see if she wasn’t hypoxic or semiconscious. “Good work, Huck.” She widened the range on their supercockpit displays to check for any additional launches. None were detected, so she sat back in her seat. “Man, I love this job.”

  ON THE GROUND NORTHWEST OF

  HAMADAN, IRAN

  THAT SAME TIME

  It was the most exhilarating twenty minutes of his life, Hal Briggs thought as he continued his run through his assigned circuit. Just one more Shahab-2 launch site, about three miles ahead, and he could head to the exfiltration point. He had destroyed about sixteen launchers and scores of other vehicles with the incredible Cybernetic Infantry Device’s weapon backpacks, and a few simply by the sheer strength and speed of the CID unit itself—and he was sure he had killed several Revolutionary Guards troops he had encountered at the launch sites or along the way by merely frightening them to death.

  “Condor One, Odin,” Colonel Kai Raydon aboard Armstrong Space Station called via the secure satellite link.

  “Go ahead, Odin,” Hal replied.

  “You look like you’re having more fun than a human should be allowed to have, son.”

  “I shoulda got me one of these things years ago!” Hal exclaimed happily.

  “Well, I got a present for you, One, so don’t waste all your ammo or power—I think we found the laser.”

  “Great! Load me up and I’m on it.” Seconds later Hal studied the route to the new target. It was at a military airfield about twenty miles east of the Strongbox, twenty miles northeast of Hamadan, just west of the town of Kabudar Ahang. It was a very large complex, with two three-mile-long parallel runways and one two-mile-long runway roughly perpendicular to the first. Satellite images showed a “Christmas tree” alert parking area on the north side with hangars for eight fighters; a large weapon storage area on the northeast side; and the main part of the base on the east side, with barracks and housing for several thousand personnel and ramp space for about a hundred aircraft.

  “Check out the big revetment on the southwest side, One,” Raydon said. On the southwest side of the base midway along the southernmost parallel runway was a large aircraft parking area surrounded by twenty-foot-high earth and sand walls. “They made a mistake and operated the radar just as one of our recon satellites crossed overhead and got a direct bearing on it—the radar is sitting in the parking lot near that building southwest of the revetments. We got some excellent pics of the vehicles in the revetment, and I think it’s the laser. Looks like they made the sucker road-mobile. Gene
sis, are you looking at these pics?”

  “Affirmative,” Patrick McLanahan responded from the White House Situation Room. “I’m downloading the pics to a higher-res monitor so I can zoom in and study it closer. But you could be on to something, Odin. If they made the Kavaznya laser mobile, they could set it up anywhere on earth and threaten any aircraft and any satellite with it, and it’d be impossible to locate. But I’m also concerned about them ‘mistakenly’ turning on the radar—that could be a trick to lure us into a trap.”

  “We’ll be in position in about ninety minutes to get a moderate oblique ISAR shot of it,” Raydon said. “In three hours I can get a perfect overhead shot. The NIRTSats are good, but we need better resolution to be sure.”

  “We’re not going to wait three hours, guys—I can be there in forty minutes or less,” Hal said. “Condor Two, if you’re up for it, I want you to finish up my circuit. Just one target left.”

  “Roger, One,” Brakeman acknowledged. “I’m switching my circuit to Condor One’s…got it, I’m on the way.”

  “One, this is Three, wait up,” Charlie Turlock radioed. “I’ll cover you. I’ve got one more launch site to go and then I’ll rendezvous with you. Two and Four can finish their circuits, get picked up at Foxtrot, and then meet us at point Mike for exfil.”

  “Three, I’ll be heading toward the airfield, but I’m not going to wait up,” Briggs said. “I’ve got one partial and one full backpack and battery pack. Looks like the whole south side of the airfield is wide open space. I’m going in.”

  “It smells like a trap to me, guys,” Patrick McLanahan said. “I see all kinds of buildings, gullies, and revetments south of the perimeter fence—they can hide an entire armored battalion in there. Remember the Russians have been helping the Iranians the whole time—we might as well be fighting the Holocaust all over again in Iran.”

  “Condor One, this is Stud One-Three,” Hunter Noble radioed. “I’m beginning deorbit procedures and I’ll be on the ground in fifteen minutes. I’ll be rearmed and airborne again in less than an hour, and thirty minutes after that I’ll place a spread of SPAWs on that spot. You don’t need to risk it—I’ll take it out for you.”

  “Negative, One-One,” Hal said. “I can be there and out by the time you launch. I’ve been kicking Iranian ass all morning—I’ll take out this laser site for breakfast and join you back at the Lake for a steak dinner celebration tonight.”

  “Condor One, don’t be a hero,” Boomer radioed. “I can take it. Assemble your troops and get the hell out of there.”

  “Hey, stud, mind your manners,” Hal said. As soon as he saw Brakeman on his electronic tactical display heading for the last Shahab launch site, he started running toward the Hamadan military airfield. “I’m taking out that laser emplacement. If I miss or didn’t get it all, you can clean it up for me—but I’m not gonna miss. Worry about that last Shahab-5 site you missed instead. Deal? Condor One out.”

  It took less than thirty minutes for Hal Briggs to reach Hamadan Air Base. The entire south side of the base was alfalfa fields and olive and date orchards, with a few rocky hills scattered about—Hal could see the base’s perimeter fence from five miles away. The scanners aboard the Cybernetic Infantry Device robot detected all of the outbuildings, irrigation pipes and pumphouses, guard shacks, the perimeter fence, the mobile radar vehicle, and the large building next to the revetment where the mobile laser was placed. Hal was able to compare the latest NIRTSat imagery with his telescopic view of the actual area and was able to correlate everything. “I’ve got a good eyeball on the objective area,” Hal radioed. “I can’t see the laser yet, but I see the radar and the few troops they have guarding the place. Piece of cake, guys. Are you guys getting all this?”

  “We’re getting it, One,” Patrick responded. The sensor data from Hal Briggs’s CID unit was being uplinked to the Air Battle Force’s network and to Silver Tower, so it could be shared by virtually the entire American military. “I can see a few patrols nearby, and those buildings look like they can hold several platoons and armored vehicles. The other Condor units have completed their circuits and are awaiting pickup at Foxtrot. Hold off for twenty minutes and they can join you to assault the area together.”

  “In twenty minutes I can polish off these turkeys and be at point Mike by the time you guys arrive,” Hal said. “I’m going in. Meet me at Mike. Condor One, moving out.” He took one last scan of the area, made sure his grenade launchers were chambered and ready to fire, and dashed off.

  Hal hit thirty miles an hour across the fields and orchards, and within a minute he was within sight of the perimeter fence. His sensors picked up movement to his right—a Russian-made BMD light infantry support vehicle, firing its puny 7.62-millimeter coaxial machine guns at him. Hal fired one high-explosive round and silenced it quickly and cleanly…

  …and he immediately detected and struck two more BMD vehicles to his left, with one 70-millimeter tank round missing him by several yards and an AT-3 anti-tank missile whizzing just a few yards away from his head. He picked up speed, reaching almost fifty miles an hour now. The BMDs and their weapons seemed as if they were standing still. He hit another BMD even before the aged Soviet-era light tank could get a shot off at him.

  “That was three Russian armored vehicles on you, One!” Patrick radioed. “I think it’s a trap! Back on out of there and wait for the others.”

  “Helicopters!” Raydon shouted over the command channel. “Two…three…four helicopters lifting off from the base, heading your way, One!”

  “Bug out, Hal!” Patrick shouted over the satellite link. “It’s a trap! Get out of there!” Hal could start to pick up the masses of armored vehicles and aircraft converging on him, but he was determined not to let the laser site stay intact. Just two more miles, less than three minutes at his current speed, and he could wipe out every standing building, vehicle, or human within range of him…

  A hail of high-velocity, heavy-mass shells hit him from the right side, unexpectedly toppling him over. It was the first time in his short stint as pilot of a CID that he had ever been down on the ground. He wasn’t hurt, and his systems seemed fully functional, but he was down—that was something he was not accustomed to. He immediately got to his feet, spotted the weapon system that had hit him—an ancient ZSU-23/4 quad 23-millimeter mobile anti-aircraft gun system, elevated down low to engage him—and he fired two high-explosive rounds into it, blowing it clean off its tracks.

  “Hal, get out of there, now!” Patrick shouted. “We can take the site from the air! Get out!”

  Hal took one more scan and thought he detected the laser itself inside the revetment. It resembled a Shahab-3 mobile missile launcher but was at least twice as large, with four service vehicles nearby with umbilical cables attached to it. “I’ve got the laser in sight, Genesis!” Hal called out. “Range less than one mile! I’m going in!”

  “Hal, I said pull out!” Patrick shouted. “Your ammo is low! Withdraw now and switch backpacks! Do it, now!”

  Hal fired two fragmentation and then two high-explosive grenades at the laser unit…which depleted the grenade stores on the backpack. He commanded the spent backpack to drop away. As he ran at almost top speed, he swung his last remaining grenade-launcher backpack off his arm and onto his back…but running so quickly, he couldn’t make it latch into place. He jumped the base perimeter fence in one effortless leap and landed in a low crouching position, less than three hundred yards from the laser site. He readjusted the backpack, felt it latch into place, and received a good “READY” indication in his electronic visor. He quickly aimed at the laser truck…

  …and at that instant he was hit by an SA-19 “Grison” missile from a Russian 2S6M Tunguska self-propelled air defense vehicle. The SA-19 was a radar-guided anti-aircraft missile with a secondary anti-tank role. It had a two-stage solid-motor missile with a maximum velocity of a half-mile per second and a ten-pound high-explosive/fragmentary warhead with a contact and laser-triggered
proximity fuze. Hal was blown clear off his feet and twenty feet in the air by the tremendous force of the hit.

  “Hal!” Patrick shouted. “Do you read me? Hal!”

  “I’m…I’m okay,” Hal said. He saw and heard several warning messages and tones, but his dazed mind couldn’t sort them all out. He climbed unsteadily to his feet. He could feel cannon shells peppering his body, but they weren’t doing a fraction of the damage as the…

  …and at that instant he was hit by a second SA-19 missile, fired from less than a half-mile away. He was blown head over heels in a cloud of fire and smoke. He was still alive, but his electronic visor was dark, and he could barely hear, let alone decipher, all the warning tones beeping and buzzing in his helmet. He struggled to his hands and knees, trying to command the CID system to clear the faults and let him see again. More cannon fire raked his back, and he felt the concussion as the grenade launcher backpack blew apart.

  “Hal, hang on!” Patrick shouted. “PAVE DASHER is on the way, ETE five minutes. Hang on!”

  “No…no, don’t come near here,” Hal breathed. He couldn’t make any of his limbs move. For the first time since training and employing the Cybernetic Infantry Device, he felt like he actually was all along—a human being riding inside a hydraulically operated machine, instead of a running, killing, destroying, avenging superman. “I got hit by some big-ass gun and missile thing, a Tunguska I think. It’ll chew up the PAVE DASHER into little bits for sure. Don’t let it come near here, Muck.”

  “No! We’re bringing in the Vampires! They’ll take out all the air defenses with the Wolverines and the PAVE DASHER will be able to cruise in and pick you up. Hang in there, Hal. They’re just a few minutes out.”