Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “The spacecraft appears to be descending rapidly,” Zypries went on. “We suspect our optics were blinded when the spacecraft fired its retrorockets.”

  “You did brief me that might happen, Colonel,” Darzov said. To avoid detection they had decided to use a telescopic electro-optical acquisition and tracking system and keep their extreme long-range space tracking radar in standby. They locked onto the American spaceplane seconds after it crossed the horizon and tracked it with ease. As they hoped, it had not started its descent through the atmosphere, although the highly magnified image showed it was indeed turned in the proper direction to begin slowing down, flying tailfirst. It was still in the perfect position, and Darzov ordered the attack to commence.

  The next step in the laser engagement was to hit the target with a higher-powered laser to measure the atmosphere and apply corrections to the main laser’s optics, allowing it to focus more precisely on the target before firing the main chemical-oxygen-iodine laser. Darzov and Zypries decided, since the spacecraft was turned in position to fire its retrorockets, to use the main laser itself to make its own corrections in order to engage more rapidly.

  “The crew was obviously expecting an attack,” Zypries said, “because they fired their main engines seconds after our laser hit. We were able to maintain contact for about fifteen seconds, but the optics were still fine-focusing so we were probably only laying sixty percent power on their hull. Then the optronic system broke lock. They must be squishing their crewmembers like bugs inside that thing—they are decelerating at three times the normal rate. I am tracking them on infrared scanners but that’s not precise enough for the main laser, so I need permission to use the main radar to reacquire and engage.”

  “Are they still in range and high enough to engage?”

  “They are at one hundred thirty kilometers’ altitude, sixteen hundred kilometers downrange, decelerating quickly below seven thousand eight hundred meters per second—they are dropping like a stone, but they are well within the laser’s engagement envelope,” Zypries assured him. “The structure of that spacecraft must be incredibly strong to withstand that kind of stress. They will be in the atmosphere soon but they will not be able to fly away fast enough now. I will get him for you, General.”

  “Then permission granted to continue the attack, Colonel,” Darzov said immediately. “Good hunting.”

  “Five point seven Gs…twenty-two K feet per second…seventy-five miles…five point nine Gs…” It seemed to take forever for Terranova to grunt out each readout. “Passing seventy miles…sixty-five miles, reaching entry interface, crew, ‘leopards’ cutoff.” The G-forces suddenly were reduced, followed by a chorus of moans and swearing from throughout the spacecraft. Macomber couldn’t believe he hadn’t passed out from that sustained pressure. He still felt the deceleration forces as the spaceplane continued to lose energy, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it was when the “leopards” were firing. “Crew, report.”

  “You guys okay?” Macomber asked the others in the passenger module. “Sing out.”

  “S-Two, I’m okay,” Turlock said weakly.

  “S-Three, okay,” Wohl responded, sounding as if nothing at all had just happened. The jarhead bastard was probably sound asleep through it, Macomber thought.

  “S-One is okay too. SC, passengers are okay, everything back here’s in the green. That was some ride.”

  “Roger that,” Moulain said. “The laser looks like it’s broken lock for now. We’ve initiated maneuvering to entry interface attitude.” The Black Stallion began to turn so it was nose-forward again, then pitched up to forty degrees above the horizon for atmospheric entry, presenting its bottom heat shields to the onrushing atmosphere to protect the ship against the heat built up by friction. “MC, let’s brief the approach.”

  “Roger,” Terranova said. “We’ve passed the terminal alignment cylinder for Baku, so I’ve programmed in Herat, Afghanistan, as our landing site. We are still on max-energy descent profile, and Herat is fairly close—around thirteen hundred miles—so we have plenty of energy to reach the base. In sixty seconds the airflow pressure will be great enough for the adaptive surfaces on the Stud to take effect, and we’ll shut down the reaction control system, transition to maximum-drag profile, and deviate east over Turkmenistan to stay away from Soltanabad. Once we pass one hundred thousand feet we can transition to atmospheric flight, shut down the ‘leopards,’ start up the turbojets, and head down on a normal approach profile.”

  “How much gas do we have, MC?” Macomber asked.

  “After we start up the turbojets, we’ll have less than an hour of fuel, but we’ll be gliding in at around Mach five so we’ll have plenty of energy to get rid of before we need the turbojets,” Terranova replied. “We’ll start securing the thrusters and get ready to secure the ‘leopards’ so when we—”

  “Warning, warning, search radar, twelve o’clock, nine hundred sixty miles, India-Juliet band,” the computerized voice of the threat warning receiver suddenly blared. Seconds later: “Warning, warning, target tracking radar, twelve o’clock, nine hundred fifty miles…warning, warning, pulse-Doppler target tracking radar, twelve o’clock, nine hundred forty miles…warning, warning, laser detected, twelve o’clock…warning, warning…!”

  “They hit us with radar at almost a thousand miles?” Terranova blurted out. “That’s impossible!”

  “It’s the Kavaznya radar, crew,” Patrick McLanahan said. “The range of that thing is incredible, and now it’s mobile.”

  “Warning, warning, emergency cooling system activated…warning, warning, spot hull temperature increasing, station one-ninety…”

  “What do we do, Odin?” Lisa Moulain cried on the radio. “What do I do?”

  “The only choice you have is to roll the spacecraft to keep the laser energy from focusing on any one spot for too long,” Patrick said. “Use the reaction control system to roll. Once your mission adaptive system is effective, you can use max bank angle to fly away from the laser and do heading changes as much as possible to keep the laser off you. Dave, I need you to launch the Vampires from Batman Air Base and knock out that laser site! I want Soltanabad turned into a smoking hole!”

  “They’re on the way, Odin,” Luger responded.

  But as the seconds ticked by, it was obvious that nothing Moulain could do was going to work. They were getting almost constant overtemperature warnings from dozens of spots on the hull, and some began reporting leaks and structural integrity losses. Once Moulain accidentally looked directly at the laser light shining through the cockpit windshield and was partially blinded even though they both had their dark visors lowered.

  Terranova finally muted the threat warnings—they were doing them no good anymore. “Frenchy, you okay?”

  “I can’t see, Jim,” Moulain said on the “private” intercom setting so the crewmembers in the passenger compartment couldn’t hear. “I glanced at the laser beam for a split second, and all I see are big black holes in my vision. I screwed up. I killed us all.”

  “Keep rolling, Frenchy,” Terranova said. “We’ll make it.”

  Moulain began nudging the side control stick back and forth, using the thrusters to turn and roll the spacecraft. Terranova fed her a constant stream of advisories when she was going too far. The temperature warnings were almost constant no matter how hard she tried. “We’ve got to jettison the passenger module,” Moulain said, still on “private” intercom. “They might have a chance.”

  “We’re way over the G-force and speed limits for jettison, Frenchy,” Terranova said. “We don’t even know if they’ll survive even if we slowed down enough—we’ve never jettisoned the module before.”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Moulain said. “I’m going to initiate a powered descent to try to slow us down enough to jettison the passenger module. We’ll use every drop of fuel we have left to slow us down. I’ll need your help. Tell me when we’re ass-end backward.” She gently rolled wings-level, then wit
h Terranova’s assistance turned the Black Stallion so they were flying tailfirst again. On full intercom she spoke, “Crew, prepare for max retrorocket fire, powered-descent profile. ‘Leopards’ coming online.”

  “What?” Macomber asked. “You’re firing the ‘leopards’ again? What—?”

  He didn’t get to finish his question. Moulain activated the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System engines and immediately pushed them up to powered-descent profile power, then to maximum power, far exceeding the normal G-limits for passengers and crewmembers. Their speed dropped dramatically—they were still flying at over Mach 5, but that was over half of the speed they would normally be flying. Everyone in the passenger module was hit with G-forces so severe and so unexpected that they immediately blacked out. Jim Terranova blacked out too…

  …and so did Lisa Moulain, but not before she opened the cargo bay doors on the upper fuselage of the XR-A9 Black Stallion, unlocked the securing bolts holding the module to the cargo bay, lifted a red-guarded switch, and activated it…

  …and at the very instant the doors were fully open, the securing bolts were free, and the module’s jettison rockets fired, the Black Stallion exhausted every pound of propellant left in its tanks…and it was ripped apart by the Russian laser and exploded.

  “Target destroyed, General,” Wolfgang Zypries reported from Soltanabad. “Showing massive speed loss, multiple large targets probably debris, and quickly losing radar and visual contact. Definite kill.”

  “I understand,” General Andrei Darzov responded. Many of the technicians and officers in the room triumphantly raised fists and gave low cheers, but he silenced them with a warning glare. “Now I suggest you get out of there as fast as you can—the Americans have certainly sent a strike force out to destroy that base. They could be there in less than an hour if they launch from Iraq.”

  “We will be out of here in thirty minutes, General,” Zypries said. “Out.”

  Darzov broke the connection, then activated another and spoke: “Mission accomplished, sir.”

  “Very well, General,” Russian president Leonid Zevitin responded. “What do you expect will be their reaction?”

  “They are undoubtedly launching unmanned B-1 bombers from Batman Air Base in Turkey, fitted with the hypersonic attack missiles to attack and destroy the base in Iran,” Darzov said. “They could be in position to fire in less than an hour—even as quickly as thirty minutes if they had a plane ready to launch. The target will be struck less than a minute later.”

  “My God, that’s incredible—we need to get our hands on that technology,” Zevitin muttered. “I assume your people are haulin’ ass and getting away from that base.”

  “They should be well away before the Americans attack—I assure you, they feel those hypersonic missiles on the backs of their necks even now.”

  “I’ll bet they do. Where was the spaceplane when it went down, General?”

  “Approximately one thousand kilometers northwest of Soltanabad.”

  “So by chance does that place it…over Russia?”

  There was a short pause as Darzov checked his computerized maps; then: “Yes, sir, it does. One hundred kilometers northwest of Machackala, the capital of Dagestan province, and three hundred kilometers southeast of the Tupolev-95 bomber base at Mozdok.”

  “And the debris?”

  “Impossible to say, sir. It will probably be scattered for thousands of kilometers between the Caspian Sea and the Iran-Afghanistan border.”

  “Too bad. Track that debris carefully and advise me if any reaches land. Order a search team from the Caspian Sea Flotilla to begin a search immediately. Have our radar stations alerted our air defense systems?”

  “No, sir. The normal air defense and air traffic radar systems would not be able to track a target so high and traveling so fast. Only a dedicated space tracking system would be able to do so.”

  “So without such radar, we wouldn’t know anything has happened yet, would we?”

  “Unfortunately not, sir.”

  “When would you expect the debris to be detected by a regular radar system?”

  “We are not tracking the debris anymore since we are breaking down the Fanar radar system at Soltanabad,” Darzov explained, “but I would guess that within a few minutes we might be able to start picking up the larger pieces as they re-enter the atmosphere. I will have our air defense sites in Dagestan report immediately when debris is detected.”

  “Very good, General,” Zevitin said. “I wouldn’t want to complain about the latest American attack against Russia too soon, would I?”

  ABOARD AIR FORCE ONE

  THAT SAME TIME

  “My, my, Mr. President,” the female staff sergeant said as she rose from her knees and began rebuttoning her uniform blouse, “you certainly get my vote.”

  “Thank you, Staff Sergeant,” President Gardner said, watching her rearrange herself as he zipped his fly. “I think there’s a position available on my…staff for someone as skilled as you.” She smiled at the very much intended double entendre. “Interested?”

  “Actually, sir, I’ve been waiting for an opening in Officer Training School,” she replied, looking the commander-in-chief up and down hungrily. “I was told a slot might not open up for another eighteen months. I finished my bachelor’s degree and put in my application just last semester. I’m very determined to get my commission.”

  “What was your degree in, sugar?”

  “Political science,” she replied. “I’m going for a law degree, and then I’d like to get into politics.”

  “We could sure use someone of your…enthusiasm in Washington, Staff Sergeant,” the President said. He noticed the CALL light blinking on the phone—an urgent call, but not urgent enough to override the DO NOT DISTURB order. “But OTS is in Alabama?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s too bad, honey,” the President said, acting disappointed—the last thing he wanted was for this one to show up in Washington. Maxwell Air Force Base in Alabama would be perfect—far enough away from Washington to avoid rumors, but close enough to Florida for her to sneak down when he was at his estate in Florida. “I’d sure like to work with you more often, but I admire your dedication to the service. I’m sure I heard of an OTS slot opening up in the next class, and I think you’d fit in perfectly. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. President,” the steward said, smoothing out the rest of her hair and uniform, then departing without even a backward glance.

  That’s the way he liked them, Gardner thought as he took a sip of juice and started to get his heart rate and thoughts back in order: the ones bold and aggressive enough to do anything necessary to get an advantage over all the others, but wise enough to go back to work and avoid getting emotionally involved—those were the real powerhouses in Washington. Some did it with talent, brains, or political connections—there was nothing wrong, or different, about the ones who did it on their knees. Plus, she understood the same as he that both their careers would be finished if word ever got out about their little rendezvous, so it benefited both of them to do what the other wanted and, more important, keep their mouths shut about it. That one was going to go very far.

  Seconds later, his mind quickly refocused on the upcoming events and itinerary, he punched off the DO NOT DISTURB button. Moments later his chief of staff and National Security Adviser knocked, checked the peephole to be sure the President was alone, waited a moment, then entered the suite. Both had cell phones up to their ears. Air Force One could act as its own cellular base station, and unlike passengers on commercial airliners there were no restrictions on the use of cell phones inflight on Air Force One—users could light up as many terrestrial cell towers as they liked. “What’s going on?” the President asked.

  “Either nothing…or the shit has just hit the fan, Mr. President,” Chief of Staff Walter Kordus said. “Air forces in Europe headquarters got a call from the Sixth Combined Air Operations Center in Turke
y requesting confirmation for an EB-1C Vampire bomber flight of two scramble launch out of Batman Air Base in southern Turkey…the same ones we grounded after the missile attack in Iran. USAFE called the Pentagon for confirmation since there was no air tasking order for any bomber missions out of Batman.”

  “You mean, McLanahan’s bombers?” Kordus’s panicked face had the answer. “McLanahan ordered two of his bombers to launch…after I ordered them grounded? What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know yet, sir,” Kordus said. “I told USAFE that no bombers were authorized to launch for any reason, and I ordered them to deny launch clearance. I have a call in to McLanahan and to his deputy Luger out in Nevada, trying to find out what’s going on.”

  “Are the bombers armed?”

  “We don’t know that yet either, sir. This mission was totally unauthorized.”

  “Well, we should assume they are—knowing McLanahan, he would keep weapons on his planes even though they’re all grounded, unless we specifically ordered him not to, and even then he might do it. Just keep them on the ramp until we find out what’s going on. What’s the story with the spaceplane? Is it still in orbit?”

  “I’ll check as soon as McLanahan picks up the phone, sir.”

  “It’d better be, or I’ll nail his hide to my bathroom door,” the President said, taking another sip of orange juice. “Listen, about the ‘meet-and-greet’ thing in Orlando…” And then he heard Carlyle swear into his phone. “What, Conrad?”