by Dale Brown
“Two Tin Men and one CID unit, sir.”
“Jesus…that’s not a recon team, that’s a damned strike team! They can take on an entire infantry company! What were you thinking, General? Did you think McLanahan was going to fly that kind of force all that way and not use them? What in hell were McLanahan’s robots going to do in Iran?”
“Sensors picked up unusual and suspicious activity at a remote highway airbase in eastern Iran that had previously been used by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards,” Cannon said. “General McLanahan believes the base is secretly being reopened either by the Iranians or by the Russians. His satellite imagery can’t give him precise enough pictures to tell for sure, so he requested an insertion of a three-person Battle Force squad to take a look and, if necessary, destroy the base.”
“Destroy the base?” the President thundered, angrily slapping the handset into an open hand. “My God, he authorized McLanahan to send an armed spaceplane over Iran to destroy a military base, and I didn’t know about it? Is he insane?” He raised the receiver: “And when were you going to let the rest of us know about McLanahan’s little plan, General—after World War Four was under way?”
“McLanahan’s plan has been passed along to us here at Strategic Command, and my operations staff is reviewing it and will be presenting a recommendation to the Secretary of Defense,” Cannon replied. “We should be making a decision any moment—”
“I’ll make a decision for you right now, General: I want that spaceplane to land as soon as possible back at their home base,” the President said. “Do you understand me? I don’t want those commandos deployed, or that spaceplane to land, anywhere but back in Nevada or wherever the hell it’s from, unless it’s a life-or-death emergency. And I don’t want one thing to be launched, ejected, or otherwise leave that spacecraft that might be considered an attack on anyone…noth-ing. Am I making myself perfectly clear, General Cannon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if that spaceplane crosses one political boundary anywhere on the planet under that damned sixty-mile altitude limit, you will lose your stars, General Cannon…all of them!” the President went on hotly. “You overstepped your authority, General, and I hope to hell I don’t have to spend the rest of my first term in office explaining, correcting, and apologizing for this monumental blunder. Now get on it.”
The President slammed the phone down, then took his seat, fuming. After a few moments of muttering to himself, he barked, “I want Cannon fired.”
“Sir, technically he does have the authority to move his assets anywhere he wants to on routine missions,” National Security Adviser Carlyle said. “He doesn’t need permission from the national defense authority—you or the Secretary of Defense—for day-to-day operations.”
“But we usually tell the Russians before we move any weapon systems that might be confused as an attack, correct?”
“Yes, sir—that’s always a wise precaution,” Carlyle said. “But if the theater commander needed to position his assets in preparation for an actual mission, we aren’t obligated to tell the Russians anything. We don’t even have to lie to them and tell them it’s a training mission or something.”
“Part of the problem with these spaceplanes, Conrad, is that they move too quickly,” Chief of Staff Kordus said. “Even if this was a routine mission, they’re around the world in the blink of an eye. We’ve got to put stricter controls on those guys.”
“If Cannon had something going, something important, he should have told me or Turner before launching that spaceplane,” the President said. “Walter’s right: those spaceplanes are too fast and too threatening to just launch them anytime, even on a perfectly peaceful, benign, routine mission—which this certainly was not. But I thought I made it clear to everyone that I didn’t want the spaceplanes up unless it was an emergency or a war. Am I mistaken about that?”
“No, sir, but apparently General Cannon thought this was a pretty serious indication, because he moved very quickly. He—”
“It doesn’t matter,” the President insisted. “The Russians spotted him, and I’m sure they’re radioing the Iranians, Turkmenis, and half the spies in the Middle East to be on the lookout for the Battle Force. The gig is blown. The Russians are hopping mad, and so will the United Nations, our allies, the media, and the American people be as soon as they find out about this—”
“Which will probably be any minute now,” Kordus added, “because we know Zevitin runs and leaks his information to the European press, who can’t wait to excoriate us on the most trivial matter. On something this big, they’ll have a field day. They’ll roast us alive for the next month.”
“Just when things were starting to settle down,” the President said wearily, lighting another cigarette, “Cannon, Backman, and especially McLanahan have managed to stir it all up again.”
“The spaceplane will be on the ground before the press can run with this, Joe,” the chief of staff said, “and we’ll just refuse to confirm or deny any of the Russians’ allegations. The thing will die out soon enough.”
“It’d better,” Gardner said. “But just to be sure, Conrad, I want the spaceplanes grounded until further notice. I want all of them to stay put. No training, no so-called routine missions, nothing.” He looked around the suite and, raising his voice just enough to show his irritation and let anyone outside the suite hear, asked, “Is that clear enough for everyone? No more unauthorized missions! They stay grounded, and that’s that!” There was a chorus of muted “Yes, Mr. President” responses.
“Find out exactly when that spaceplane will be on the ground so I can notify Zevitin before someone impeaches or assassinates his ass,” the President added. “And find out from the flight docs when McLanahan can get off that space station and be brought back to Earth so I can fire his ass too.” He took a deep drag of his cigarette, stubbed it out, then reached for his empty coffee mug. “And on your way out, have that stewardess bring me something hot.”
CHAPTER SIX
It is difficult to overcome one’s passions, and impossible to satisfy them.
—MARGUERITE DE LA SABLIÈRE
ABOARD THE XR-A9 BLACK STALLION SPACEPLANE
THAT SAME TIME
“Two minutes to re-entry initiation, crew,” Major Jim Terranova announced. “Re-entry countdown initiated. First auto countdown hold in one minute. Report when your checklist is complete.”
“S-One, roger,” Macomber responded.
“How are you feeling, Whack?” Terranova asked.
“Thanks to copious amounts of pure oxygen, a little Transcendental Meditation, not using the eye-pointing electronic checklists, and the mind-numbing routine of still more damned checklists to perform, I feel pretty good,” Macomber responded. “Wish this thing had windows.”
“I’ll put it on the wish list, but don’t count on it anytime soon.”
“It’s a pretty spectacular sight, guys,” Frenchy Moulain said. “This is my eleventh flight in orbit and I never get tired of it.”
“It looks pretty much the same after the first orbit,” groused Chris Wohl. “I’ve been on the station three times, and it just feels like you’re standing on a really tall TV tower, looking down.”
“Only the sergeant major could minimize a sight like this,” Moulain said. “Ask to spend a couple nights on the station, Whack. Bring lots of data cards for your camera. It’s pretty cool. You’ll find yourself waking up at all times of the night and scheduling window time a day in advance just to take a picture.”
“I doubt that very much,” Macomber said dryly. He received a notification beep in his helmet. “I’m getting another data dump from the NIRTSats, guys.” NIRTSats, or Need It Right This Second Satellites, were small “microsatellites,” no bigger than a refrigerator, designed to do a specific task such as surveillance or communications relay from low-Earth orbit. Because they were smaller, carried less positioning thruster fuel, and had substantially less solar radiation shielding, the NIRTSats stayed in o
rbit for very short periods of time, usually less than a month. They were launched from aircraft aboard orbital boosters or inserted into orbit from the Black Stallion spaceplanes. A constellation of four to six NIRTSats had been put into an eccentric orbit designed to maximize coverage of Iran, making multiple passes over Tehran and the major military bases throughout the country since the military coup began. “Finish your checklists and let’s go over the new stuff before we get squished again.”
“I don’t think we’ll have time unless we delay re-entry for another orbit,” Terranova said. “You’ll have to review the data after we land.”
“Listen, we have time…we’ll make the time, MC,” Macomber said. “We already launched on this mission without any proper mission planning, so we need to go over this new data right away.”
“Not another argument,” Moulain said, exasperated. “Listen, S-One, just run your checklists and get ready for re-entry. You know what happened last time you weren’t paying attention to the flight: your stomach gave you a little warning.”
“I’ll be ready, SC,” Macomber said. “Ground team, finish your checklist, report when complete, and let’s get on the new data dump. S-One is complete.” Turlock and Wohl reported complete moments later, and Macomber reported that the passengers were ready for re-entry. Moulain acknowledged the call and, tired of arguing with the zoomie again right before an important phase of flight, said nothing else.
Cautiously, Macomber opened the new satellite data file using voice commands instead of the faster but vertigo-causing eye-pointing system, allowing the data to flow onto the old imagery so he could see changes to the target area. What he got was a confusing jumble of images. “What the hell…looks like the data’s corrupted,” he said over private intercom, which allowed him to talk to his Ground Force team members without disturbing the flight crew. “Nothing’s in the right place. They’ll have to resend.”
“Wait one, sir,” Wohl said. “I’m looking at the computer frameholders on the two shots, and they’re matching up.” As Macomber understood them—which meant he didn’t understand them hardly at all—the frameholders were computer-derived marks that aligned each image with known, fixed landmarks that compensated for differences in photograph angle and axis and allowed more precise comparisons between images. “Recommend you do not delete the new data yet, sir.”
“Make it quick. I’ll rattle HQ’s cage.” Macomber cursed into his helmet, then switched over to the secure satellite communications network: “Rascal to Genesis. Resend the last TacSat images. We got garbage here.”
“Stand by, Rascal.” Jeez, I really hate that call-sign, Macomber complained to himself. A few moments later: “Rascal, this is Genesis, set code Alpha Nine, repeat, Alpha Nine. Acknowledge.”
“What? Is that the abort code?” Macomber thundered. “Are they telling us we’re not going in?”
“Shut up, S-One, until we get this figured out,” Moulain snapped. “MC, did the authentication come in?”
“Affirmative—got it just now,” Terranova said. “The mission’s been scrubbed, crew. We’re directed to remain in present orbit until we get a flight plan change to a transfer orbit that will bring us back for a refueling and landing ASAP. Canceling re-entry procedure checklist…‘leopards’ secure, checklist canceled.”
Macomber punched a fist into his hand and was instantly sorry he did so—it felt as if he punched a steel wall. “What in hell is going on? Why didn’t we get a clearance? This is bull—”
“Rascal, this is Genesis.” This time it was David Luger himself, calling from the battle management area at HAWC. “That data dump was valid, Rascal, I repeat, valid. We’re looking it over, but it looks like the landing zone is hot.”
“Well, that’s the reason we’re going in, isn’t it, Genesis?” Macomber asked. “Let us drop in there and we’ll take care of business.”
“Your mission was scrubbed by the White House, Whack, not us,” Luger said, the tension obvious in his voice. “They want you guys back home right away. We’re computing a re-entry schedule now. It’s looking like you’ll have to stay up for at least another day before we can—”
“Another day! You’ve gotta be shitting me—!”
“Stand by, Rascal, stand by—”
There was a moment’s pause, with a lot of encryption clicking and chattering on the frequency; then a different voice called: “Rascal, Stud, this is Odin.” This was from McLanahan, up on Armstrong Space Station. “Recon satellites are picking up strong India-Juliet radar signals coming from your target area. Looks like a long-range search radar. We’re analyzing now.”
“A radar, eh?” Macomber commented. He started studying the new NIRTSat images again. Sure enough, it was the same Soltanabad highway airbase…but now all the craters were gone, and several semi tractor-trailers, troops and supply trucks, helicopters, and a large fixed-wing aircraft were parked on the ramp. “Looks like you were right, Odin. The bastards are setting the place up again.”
“Listen to me, guys,” McLanahan said, and the tone of his voice even over the encrypted satellite link was plainly very ominous indeed. “I don’t like the smell of this. You’d be safer if you deorbited, but you’ve been ordered to return to base, so we have to keep you up there.”
“What’s the problem, sir?” Moulain asked. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”
“You cross the target’s horizon in eleven minutes. We’re trying to compute if we have enough time to deorbit you and have you land in central Asia or the Caucasus instead of overflying Soltanabad.”
“Central Asia! You want us to land where…?”
“Button it, Whack!” Moulain shouted. “What’s going on, Odin? What do you think is down there?”
There was a long pause; then McLanahan responded simply: “Stud One-One.”
He could have not made a more explosive response. Stud One-One was the XR-A9 Black Stallion that was shot down over Iran in the early days of the military coup, when the Air Battle Force was hunting down and destroying Iranian medium- and long-range mobile ballistic missiles that threatened not only the anti-theocratic insurgents but all of Iran’s neighbors as well. The spaceplane was downed not by a surface-to-air missile or fighter jet but by an extremely powerful laser similar to the Kavaznya anti-satellite laser built by the Soviet Union over two decades earlier…that had appeared not over Russia, but in Iran.
“What do we do, sir?” Moulain asked, the fear thick in her voice. “What do you want us to do?”
“We’re working on it,” Patrick said from Armstrong Space Station. “We’re trying to see if we can start you down right now in time to stay out of line of sight, or at least out of radar coverage.”
“We can translate right now and get ready,” Terranova said.
“Do it,” Patrick said immediately. He then spoke, “Duty Officer, get me the President of the United States, immediately.”
“Yes, General McLanahan,” the computer-synthesized female voice of Dreamland’s virtual “Duty Officer” responded. A moment later: “General McLanahan, your call is being forwarded to the Secretary of Defense. Please stand by.”
“I want to speak with the President of the United States. It’s urgent.”
“Yes, General McLanahan. Please stand by.” Another long moment later: “General McLanahan, your ‘urgent’ request has been forwarded to the President’s chief of staff. Please stand by.”
That was probably the best he was going to do, Patrick thought, so he didn’t redirect the Duty Officer again. “Inform the chief of staff that it’s an emergency.”
“The ‘urgent’ request has been upgraded to an ‘emergency’ request, General. Please stand by.”
Time was running out, Patrick thought. He thought about just having the Black Stallion crew declare an inflight emergency—there were dozens of glitches occurring on every flight that could constitute a real no-shit emergency—but he needed to be sure the Stud had someplace to land before ordering them to drop out o
f orbit.
“This is Chief of Staff Kordus.”
“Mr. Kordus, this is General McLanahan. I’m—”
“I don’t like being called by your computerized staffers, General, and neither does the President. If you want to talk to the President, show us the simple courtesy of doing it yourself.”
“Yes, sir. I’m on board Armstrong Space Station, and I’m—”
“I know where you are, General—my staff was watching the live broadcast with great interest until you abruptly cut it off,” Kordus said. “When we give you permission to do a live interview we expect you to finish it. Mind telling me why you cut it off like that?”
“I believe the Russians have placed an anti-spacecraft weapon of some kind, possibly the same laser that downed the Black Stallion over Iran last year, in an isolated highway airbase in Iran once used by the Revolutionary Guard Corps,” Patrick responded. “Our sensors picked up the new activity at the base and alerted us. Now our unmanned reconnaissance aircraft are picking up extremely high-powered radar signals from that very same location that are consistent with the anti-spacecraft laser’s acquisition and tracking system. I believe the Russians will attack our Black Stallion spacecraft if it passes overhead still in orbit, and I need permission to deorbit the spacecraft and divert it away from the target area.”
“You have positive proof that the Russians are behind this? How do you know this?”
“We have satellite imagery showing the base is now completely active, with fixed-wing aircraft, trucks, and vehicles that appear similar to the vehicles we detected in Iran where we believe the laser that downed the Black Stallion came from. The radar signals confirm it. Sir, I need permission immediately to divert that flight. We can have it come out of orbit and maneuver it as much as possible with all but emergency fuel until it reaches the atmosphere, and then we can fly it away from the target area to an alternate landing site.”
“The President has already ordered you to land the spaceplane back in the United States at its home base, General. Did you not copy that order?”
