by Dale Brown
“A ground op? About time,” Macomber responded gruffly. “Almost all I’ve been doing since you brought me here is sweating—either out doing PT or tryin’ to squeeze into one of those damned Tin Man union suits.”
“And complaining.”
“The sergeant major been yakkin’ about me again?” Marine Corps Sergeant Major Chris Wohl was the noncommissioned officer in charge of Rascal, the Air Battle Force ground team, and one of the most senior members of the unit. Although Macomber was commander of Rascal, everyone fully knew and understood that Chris Wohl was in charge—including Macomber, a fact which really rankled him. “I wish that sumbitch would retire like I thought he would do so I can pick my own first shirt. He’s ready to be put out to pasture.”
“I’m the commander of the Air Battle Force, Wayne, and even I wouldn’t dare say that to the sergeant major’s face,” Patrick said, only half jokingly.
“I told you, General, that as long as Wohl is around, it’ll be his unit and his baggage I’ll have to drag around,” Whack said. “All he does is mope around after Briggs.” Patrick couldn’t remotely picture Wohl moping for a second, but he didn’t say so. “Guys die in special ops, even in tin can suits like that robot thing he was in—he better get used to that. Retire his ass, or at least reassign him, so I can spin up this unit my way.”
“Wayne, you’re in charge, so be in charge,” Patrick said, not liking the way this conversation was going. “You and Chris can make a great team if you learn to work together, but you’re still the man in charge whether you use him or not. I expect you to get your team ready to fly and fight, soonest. If it’s not set up the way you want it in time for the next op, put Wohl in charge until—”
“I lead the unit, General, not the no-cock,” Macomber retorted, using his own personal term “no-cock” instead of the Air Force acronym NCOIC, or “noncommissioned officer in charge.”
“Then lead it, Wayne. Do whatever you need to do to accomplish the mission. Chris Wohl, the Cybernetic Infantry Devices, and the Tin Man armor can all be part of the problem or part of the solution—it’s up to you. The men are pros, but they need a leader. They know Chris and will follow him into hell—you have to prove you can lead them along with the NCOIC.”
“I’ll whip them into line, General, don’t worry about that,” Macomber said.
“And if you haven’t done it already, I’d suggest you not use that term ‘no-cock’ in front of Wohl, or you two might be standing before me bloody and broken. Fair warning.”
Macomber’s expression gave absolutely no indication that he understood or agreed with McLanahan’s warning. That was unfortunate: Chris Wohl didn’t tolerate most officers below flag rank and was not afraid to risk his career and freedom to straighten out an officer who didn’t show the proper respect to a veteran noncommissioned officer. If the situation wasn’t resolved properly, Patrick knew, those two were heading for a confrontation. “It would be a lot easier if I didn’t have to train in that Tin Man getup.”
“The ‘getup,’ as you call it, allows us to go into hot spots no other special ops team would ever consider,” Patrick said.
“Excuse me, General, but I can’t recall any hot spot I ever considered not going into,” Macomber said testily, “and I didn’t wear the long undies.”
“How many men would you need to go in and take out an airfield, Major?”
“We don’t ‘take out’ airfields, sir—we reconnoiter or disrupt enemy air ops, or we build our own airfields. We call in air strikes if we want it—”
“The Battle Force takes them out, Major,” Patrick interjected. “Remember Yakutsk?”
“We didn’t destroy that airfield, sir, we occupied it. And we brought in a hundred guys to help us do it.”
“The Battle Force was prepared to destroy that base, Major—if we couldn’t use it, the Russians weren’t going to, either.”
“Destroy an airfield?” The skepticism in Macomber’s voice was obvious, and Patrick could feel the heat rise up under the collar of his black flight suit. He didn’t want to waste time arguing with a subordinate, but Macomber had to be made aware of what was expected of him, not just busted because he was a junior officer. “How can a handful of lightly armed men destroy an airfield?”
“That’s what you’re here to learn, Wayne,” Patrick said. “I told you when we first talked about taking over the command that I needed you to think outside the box, and around there it means not just learning to use the gadgets that you have at your disposal but embracing and expanding the technology and developing new ways to use it. Now I need you up to speed quick, because I’ve got an airfield in Iran I might want destroyed…tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? How can that happen, General? I just learned about the target location just now—if we hustled, we might make it off the base by tomorrow, and that’s with no intel and no rehearsals on how to assault the target! You can’t run a successful infiltration on a military base with no intel and no practice runs! I’ll need at least a week just to—”
“You’re not hearing what I’m telling you, Major: you have to start thinking differently around here,” Patrick insisted. “We locate targets and attack them, period—little or no rehearsal, no strategic intel, first-cut organic intel received while en route, no joint support packages, and small but mobile and high-tech ground units with minimal but devastating air support. I told you all this when I first briefed you on Rascal, Wayne…”
“I assumed you got your intel and tasking from higher headquarters, sir,” Macomber argued. “You mean you launch on an operation without gathering strategic intel from—?”
“We don’t get any help from anyone, and we still launch and get the friggin’ job done, Whack,” Patrick interjected pointedly. “Are you finally getting the picture?” Patrick waited a heartbeat and got no response—considering Macomber’s mercurial, almost rabid personality, the silence was a real stunner. “Now I know you’re accustomed to Air Force special ops tactics and methodology, and I know you’re a good operator and leader, but you have to get with the program at the Lake. I know PT is important, but knowing the hardware and resources we have is more important. It’s a mind-set as well as a job. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Macomber said—probably the first real hint of acquiescence Patrick had sensed from this guy. “Looks to me like I’ll need Wohl’s help after all if I’m going out on a mission…tomorrow?”
“Now you’re getting the idea, Major.”
“When can I get the intel you have, sir?”
“I’m sending it now. I need a game plan drawn up and ready to brief to the powers that be in an hour.”
“An hour…?”
“Is there something wrong with this connection, Major?”
“No, sir. I heard you. One hour. One more question?”
“Hurry it up.”
“What about my request to change the unit call-sign, sir?”
“Not again, Major…”
“That was Briggs’ call-sign, sir, and I need to change that name. Not only do I hate it, but it reminds the guys of their dead former boss, and that detracts from their mission focus.”
“Bill Cosby once said if it was up to him he would never have picked a name for his kids—he would just send them out onto the street and let the neighborhood kids name him,” Patrick said.
“Bill who?”
“When it’s time to change the unit’s name, Major, the entire unit will come to me with the request.”
“It’s my unit, sir.”
“Then prove it,” Patrick said. “Get them ready to roll immediately, learn how to use the tools I’ve busted my butt to get you, and show me a plan—drawn up as a unit—that will get the job done and get approved right away. Get on it, Major. Genesis out.” He broke the connection with a stab at the button so hard that it almost detached him from his Velcro perch. For Pete’s sake, Patrick thought, he never realized how lucky he was to be working with the men and women under his command and not true
prima donnas like Macomber. He might be one of America’s premier specials ops commandos, but his interpersonal skill set needed some serious re-evaluation.
After taking an exasperated sip of water from a squeeze tube, he reopened the satellite link: “Odin to Condor.”
“Condor here, secure,” the senior controller at the Joint Functional Component Command-Space (JFCC-Space) command post at Vandenberg Air Force Base, California, responded. “Saw you on the news a bit ago. You looked A-OK, sir. Good to see you’re feeling okay. That Megyn is a fox, isn’t she?”
“Thanks, Condor, but unfortunately I never saw the host, so I’ll have to take your word for it,” Patrick responded. “I have an urgent reconnaissance assessment alert and request for ground ops tasking message for the boss.”
“Roger that, sir,” the senior controller responded. “Ready to copy whenever you’re ready.”
“I’ve detected a possible covert re-establishment of an illegal Iranian air base in the Persian Republic, and I need eyes-only confirmation and tasking authority for a shutdown if it’s verified.” Patrick quickly ran down what he knew and what he surmised about the Soltanabad highway airbase.
“Got it, sir. Sending to JFCC-Space DO now.” The DO, or deputy commander of operations for Joint Functional Component Command-Space, would report to his commander after assessing the request, investigating availability of forces, gathering intelligence, and computing an approximate timeline and damage expectancy. It was time-consuming, but probably kept the commander from being inundated with requests for support. “We should get a message back soon if the DO wants to act. How do you feel, sir?”
“Just fine, Condor,” Patrick responded. “Sure wish I could upload my requests directly to STRATCOM or even SECDEF,” Patrick remarked.
“I hear you, sir,” the controller said. “I think they’re afraid you’ll bury them with data. Besides, no one wants to give up their kingdoms.” In a convoluted and rather frustrating mix of responsibilities, tasking and coordination for air missions involving Armstrong Space Station and HAWC’s unmanned B-1 and B-52 bombers flying over Iran had to be channeled through two different major commands, who both reported directly to the President through the national security staff: JFCC-Space in California, who upchanneled the information to U.S. Strategic Command (STRATCOM) in temporary headquarters in Colorado and Louisiana; and to U.S. Central Command (CENTCOM) at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, which handled all military operations in the Middle East and central Asia. CENTCOM and STRATCOM’s different intelligence, plans, and operations staffs would go over the data separately, make their own recommendations, and present them to the Secretary of Defense and the President’s National Security Adviser, who would then make recommendations to the President.
“I don’t understand why these reports should go to STRATCOM at all,” Patrick groused. “CENTCOM is the theater commander—they should get reports, draw up a plan of action, get approvals, and then task everyone else for support.”
“You don’t need to convince me, sir—if you ask me, your reports should go directly to SECDEF,” the senior controller said. There was a slight pause; then: “Stand by for Condor, Odin. Good to talk with you again, General.”
A moment later: “Condor-One up, secure,” came the voice of the Fourteenth Air Force’s commanding officer, Air Force Major General Harold Backman. The commander of the U.S. Air Force’s Fourteenth Air Force, Backman was “dual-hatted” as Joint Forces Component Command-Space, or JFCC-S, a unit of U.S. Strategic Command (which had been destroyed in the Russian air attacks against the United States and was being reconstituted in various locations around the country).
JFCC-S was responsible for planning, coordinating, equipping, and executing all military operations in space. Before McLanahan, his High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, and the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplanes, “military operations in space” generally meant the deployment of satellites and monitoring space activities of other nations. No longer. McLanahan had given JFCC-Space a global strike and ultra-rapid mobility capability, and frankly he didn’t feel they were yet up to the task.
“Odin here, secure and verified,” Patrick said. “How are you doing, Harold?”
“Up to my eyeballs as usual, sir, but better than you, I’m guessing. The duty officer said he saw you on TV but you cut off the interview suddenly without warning. You okay?”
“I got a COMPSCAN warning and got right on it.”
“If it scared the piss out of one of my controllers, it’s going to panic the brass, you know that, right?”
“They should learn to relax. Did you get my data?”
“I’m looking at it right now, Muck. Give me a sec.” A few moments later: “I’ve got my intel chief looking it over now, but it just looks like a bombed-out highway airbase to me. I take it you don’t think so?”
“I think those craters are decoys, Harold, and I’d like some of my guys to go out there and take a look.”
Another slight pause. “Khorasan province, just a hundred miles from Mashhad—that area is controlled by Mohtaz and his Revolutionary Guards Corps,” Backman said. “Well within armed-response distance from Sabzevar, which certainly has a lot of Pasdaran hiding out there. If Soltanabad is really vacant, you’ll still be in the teeth of the storm if the bad guys spot you—and if it’s active like you said, it’ll be a meat grinder. I assume you want to go in with just a couple of your robots, right?”
“Affirmative.”
“Thought so. Your gizmos up there can’t give you any more detailed imagery?”
“Our only other option is a direct flyover by a satellite or unmanned aircraft, and that’ll alert the bad guys for sure. I’d like to get a peek first before I plan on blowing the place, and a small force would be the fastest and easiest.”
“How fast?”
“I haven’t looked at the orbital geometry, but I’m hoping we can launch them within four, have them on the ground in seven, airborne again in eight, and home within twelve.”
“Days?”
“Hours.”
“Shit,” Backman cursed. “Pretty friggin’ unbelievable, sir.”
“If I had my guys based up here, Harold, like I briefed you and STRATCOM I’d like to do, I could possibly be out of there and back home in four hours.”
“A-friggin’-mazing. I’m all for that, Muck, but I think that idea is just boggling too many minds down here on plain old planet Earth. You know that we’ve been directed by the National Command Authority to restrict all spaceplane missions to resupply and emergency only, right?”
“I consider this an emergency, Harold.”
“I know you do…but is it really an emergency?”
Patrick swallowed down a flare of anger at being questioned about his judgment, but he was accustomed to everyone second- and third-guessing him, even those who knew and liked him. “I won’t know for sure until I get some of my guys out there.”
“I don’t think it’ll be authorized, sir. You still want me to ask the question?”
Patrick didn’t hesitate: “Yes.”
“O-kay. Stand by.” The wait was not very long at all: “Okay, Muck, the DO of STRATCOM says you can get your guys moving in that direction, but no one puts boots—or whatever the hell your robots wear on their feet—on the ground, and no aircraft crosses any lines on any maps, without a go-ahead from CENTCOM.”
“Can I load up a few Black Stallion spaceplanes and put them in orbit?”
“How many, and loaded up with what?”
“One or two with operators, staggered and in different orbits until I can get a firm A-hour; one or two cover aircraft, loaded with precision-guided weapons; perhaps one or two decoys that will double as in-orbit retrieval backups; and one or two Vampire bombers airborne from Iraq ready to destroy the base if we find it to be operational.”
“That many spacecraft might be a hard sell—and the armed spacecraft might be a deal-breaker.”
“The more I can forward-deploy, an
d the more support stuff I get into orbit, the quicker this will be over, Harold.”
“I get it,” Backman said. The pause was longer this time: “Okay, approved. No one crosses any political boundaries in the atmosphere without a go-ahead, and keep the re-entry weapons tight until given the green light.” He chuckled, then added, “Jeez, I sound like friggin’ Battlestar Galactica Commander Adama or something. Never thought I’d be okaying an attack from outer space in my lifetime.”
“It’s the way things need to be from now on, my friend,” Patrick responded. “I’ll have the complete package plan out to you within the hour, and the air tasking order for movement of spacecraft will be out to you sooner. Thanks, Harold. Odin out.”
Patrick’s next videoconference call was to his battle management area at Elliott Air Force Base: “Macomber notified us that you had given him a ground op in Iran and that he was in a time crunch to do some planning, so we’ve already jumped in,” his deputy commander, Brigadier General David Luger, said. The two navigators had been together for over two decades, first as fellow B-52G Stratofortress crewmembers and then assigned to the High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center as aircraft and weapon flight test engineers. Tall, lean, quiet, and deliberate in personality as well as appearance, Luger’s best attribute was acting as Patrick McLanahan’s conscience whenever his irascible, determined, single-minded side threatened to obliterate all common sense. “We should have something for you in no time. The guy’s fast and pretty well organized.”
“I knew you’d be on it, buddy,” Patrick said. “Surprised to hear from Whack?”
“Surprised? How about thunderstruck?” Luger deadpanned. “Everyone in the Air Battle Force goes out of their way to avoid the guy. But when he gets down to business, he does okay.”
“Any thoughts on Soltanabad?”
“Yeah—I think we should skip the prelims and just put a couple spreads of SkySTREAKs or Meteors with high explosives down there, instead of wasting time inserting a Battle Force team,” Luger replied. “If the Iranians are hiding something there, our guys will be landing right on top of them.”
