by Dale Brown
Within seconds, Nadia effectively controlled every military-grade Chinese radar on Woody Island. None of their surface search or fire control radars showed an accurate position for the two American ships. And not one of the garrison’s air search radars could offer a clear picture of the airspace anywhere within a hundred nautical miles. They were all dazzled by hundreds of false contacts moving along random courses on dozens of different bearings.
She turned toward Brad with an exultant expression. “SPEAR is active. The enemy radars are completely blind. They cannot provide correct targeting data to any of their missile launchers or antiaircraft batteries.”
“Nice work!” Brad felt his own eagerness for battle rising. He’d hated just sitting helpless while those damned Chinese ballistic missiles plunged down out of space toward their slow-moving ship. Now it was their turn to hit back. He looked at Vasey. “All right, it’s your turn, Constable. Go ahead and slip the leash on our Ghost Wolves.”
The Englishman nodded, with his own fingers already blurring across his interactive displays. “Attack parameters laid in. Flight systems are nominal.” He tapped a final icon with deep satisfaction. “Autonomous programs engaged. The Wolves are on the hunt.”
Ghost Wolf Force, over the South China Sea
That Same Time
Twenty miles south of the two U.S. Navy destroyers, a group of six black flying-wing aircraft orbited in a tight circle barely one hundred feet above the surface of the ocean. Abruptly, one by one, they broke out of the circle and darted north toward Woody Island at more than five hundred knots—accompanied by the shrill howl of wing-buried turbofan engines going to full military power.
All six aircraft were covered in a special radar-absorbent coating that sucked up most of the electromagnetic energy from radar waves and shunted it off as heat. No windows or cockpit canopies broke their smooth lines. On radar, the entire group would have shown up as nothing more than a small flock of seagulls.
These were Sky Masters–designed MQ-77 Ghost Wolf combat drones, unmanned aircraft flown entirely by remote control or under the guidance of their own sophisticated onboard computers. They were a larger and more expensive evolutionary variant of an earlier Sky Masters model—the MQ-55 Coyote—which had proved itself many times over in combat service with the Iron Wolf Squadron against the Russians. Significantly harder to detect, faster, more maneuverable, and with a larger weapons payload than their predecessors, the MQ-77 Ghost Wolves were designed to fly and fight on their own, or in tandem with manned modern jet fighters like the F/A-18 Hornet, F-22 Raptor, and F-35 Lightning II.
Just four minutes after receiving their attack orders from Peter Vasey, the first Ghost Wolf drones screamed in low toward the tiny island. Aboard each batwing-shaped aircraft, bay doors whined open. Dozens of small, tear-shaped bombs rippled out and fell toward the earth along precisely calculated arcs.
One by one these tiny, twenty-five-pound bombs detonated within a few yards of every PLA Navy radar, missile launcher, barracks, headquarters building, and hardened aircraft shelter on the island. But rather than exploding in a fiery cloud of lethal fragments, each device went off in a large and relatively harmless puff of white smoke. Instead of wartime munitions, each Ghost Wolf had just dropped a full load of BDU-33 practice bombs.
Engines howling, the six combat drones banked away and flew back out to sea—vanishing as quickly as they had come.
Watching through their long-range cameras from twelve miles out, Brad grinned appreciatively at the sight of dozens of smoke clouds rising above Woody Island’s tree-lined shores. “Man, I bet there are a ton of guys over there who just pissed their pants.”
Nadia nodded more seriously. “And, I imagine, there are a great many more red faces, both on the island and elsewhere in the PRC.”
To the Chinese military garrison and its masters in Beijing, the message conveyed by those drifting puffs of white smoke was unmistakable: if this had been a real air strike, the island’s defenses would have been obliterated by a single, unstoppable attack. And when it mattered most, every one of the advanced weapons and sensors the People’s Republic had spent so much time and money developing had proved absolutely useless.
With the Stars and Stripes streaming proudly from their radar masts, USS McCampbell and USS Mustin paraded slowly past Woody Island.
Five
Command Center, Central Military Commission of the People’s Republic of China, Beijing
That Same Time
For a long, painful moment, a shocked and dangerous silence pervaded the underground command center. No one had expected the two U.S. Navy destroyers—which were not even the most advanced of their type—to so easily swat away China’s “accidental” ballistic missile attack. No one had foreseen the sudden intervention by the enemy’s hypersonic-capable spaceplane as it struck like a lightning bolt sizzling down out of a clear, cloudless sky. Nor had anyone anticipated the overwhelming counterstroke launched against the island’s defenses by a previously undetected group of stealth attack aircraft. At every turn, the Americans had defeated them with contemptuous ease.
As the silence lengthened, none of the assembled PLA officers and high-ranking Party officials dared look at their nation’s new president. Li Jun’s loss of face was staggering, especially since this catastrophe had occurred under the cold gaze of his invited foreign guest, Marshal of the Russian Federation Mikhail Ivanovich Leonov.
At last, Li made a single, curt gesture. “Get out. All of you. Now.”
His subordinates obeyed, quickly and quietly filing out of the room. But as Leonov started to push his own chair back from the table, China’s president held up a hand. “A moment, if you please, Comrade Marshal.”
With a polite nod, the Russian sat back down.
When they were alone, Li sighed and took off his wire-frame glasses. Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose hard, and then put his glasses back on. Wearily, he looked at Leonov. “I suppose I should have listened to your earlier warnings about the effectiveness of these new American weapons—their spaceplanes, manned combat robots, remote-piloted attack drones, and all the rest.”
Leonov shrugged. “In your place, I would have done the same, Comrade President. Secondhand reports are never particularly persuasive. Seeing these war machines in action, however, is . . .” He let his voice trail off suggestively.
“Remarkably unnerving,” Li agreed sourly.
Leonov only nodded. He knew how important it was not to rub the other man’s face in this failure. After all, Russia had suffered its own embarrassing defeats in recent confrontations with the United States and its Polish ally—defeats made even more painful because they had been primarily inflicted by a private military company, Scion, and its Iron Wolf Squadron. Now it was China’s turn to suffer humiliation at the hands of these technologically advanced mercenaries.
It was a matter of bitter irony for both men that English was the only language they had in common. Like that of most middle-aged and younger Chinese technocrats, Li Jun’s education had focused on America, rather than on the crumbling Soviet Union and its successor state, the Russian Federation. For similar reasons, his Russian counterpart’s early training as a fighter pilot and cosmonaut had encouraged him to learn the language of his nation’s most dangerous adversary.
“It is not pleasant to see an enemy grow so strong,” Li Jun said finally.
“No, it is not.” Leonov nodded toward the display screens around the room, which still showed satellite images of the two U.S. warships steaming on unmolested across a now-empty sea. “If nothing else, this unfortunate incident demonstrates that America, particularly under its current political leadership, possesses a significant military edge. One that would make it difficult for either your country or mine to prevail in any purely earthbound conventional conflict.”
“A situation that Russia’s own meddling helped create,” Li reminded him tartly.
“True,” Leonov admitted. “Former president G
ryzlov was not always the wisest of men.”
Now there was an understatement, he thought grimly. Nearly two years before, Gennadiy Gryzlov had struck against the United States with his own mercenary force. Using Russia’s own war robots, reverse-engineered from captured enemy equipment, these troops had smashed American military bases, aircraft factories, and research facilities. The then-American president, Stacy Anne Barbeau, had dithered in the face of this crisis, unwilling to admit her country might be under attack by a hostile power, rather than by stateless terrorists. But then Gryzlov had gone too far. Hoping to spark a political crisis that would consume the United States for years to come, he’d ordered his war robots to assassinate Barbeau’s opponent in the upcoming presidential election, Texas governor John Dalton Farrell.
They had failed. Gryzlov’s mercenaries had been defeated in a bloody battle by a small covert force sent by Poland and Scion’s Iron Wolf Squadron. With Russia’s guilt laid bare before a furious American public, the ensuing political firestorm had cost Barbeau the election and carried Farrell into the White House.
Since then, the new American president had strengthened the alliances Barbeau’s ineptitude and isolationism had weakened. Worse, from Leonov’s perspective, he had insisted that the U.S. military embrace the revolutionary new weapons technologies and tactics pioneered by Scion and Sky Masters. Slowly at first, and then faster, America’s defense establishment had begun to shake off the torpor and stale thinking of recent years.
Faced with this mess of his own making, Gennadiy Gryzlov had rolled the dice again—ordering Russia’s top secret Mars One armed space station rushed into orbit to destroy America’s military satellites and seize control of the high ground—outer space itself—before the United States could react. In Leonov’s judgment, this action had been woefully premature. He had been proved right when Scion-flown spaceplanes and combat machines successfully stormed and captured Mars One, along with all its highly advanced weapons and fusion power system.
Only Gryzlov’s death in the ruins of the Kremlin—shattered by a Russian-made Rapira ground attack missile fired from Mars One as it orbited over Europe—had saved Leonov himself from being arrested and summarily executed as a scapegoat for this latest fiasco. The attack had made Russia’s unstable leader a martyr, yet another victim of America’s brutal Scion mercenaries.
Leonov hid a thin smile. Only a handful of others in Russia knew that he was the one who’d actually launched the Rapira, using secret fail-safe protocols built into the space station at his insistence. Years of watching Gryzlov use and then brutally discard competent officers he blamed for his own errors had taught Leonov the importance of striking first. On the outside, like most of his countrymen, he mourned the loss of Russia’s charismatic president. On the inside, he reveled in his newfound freedom to restore his country’s fortunes and military greatness.
This secret visit to the People’s Republic of China was a vital step toward achieving those ends. Events had shown that Russia, by itself, could not defeat the United States. So a renewed and strengthened alliance with Beijing was imperative.
Coolly, Leonov looked across the table at the Chinese president. “No matter what may have sparked the Americans’ current quest for absolute military supremacy, neither of our two great nations can allow them to succeed.”
“Indeed not.” Li Jun’s fingers drummed lightly on the table. “But if the Americans have an overwhelming advantage in conventional weaponry, what other avenues lie open to us?” His mouth tightened. “A coordinated, preemptive nuclear strike . . . using both our strategic arsenals—”
“Would be unthinkable,” Leonov countered bluntly. He gestured toward the display screens, where the waters of the South China Sea glimmered with reflected sunlight. “No matter how much damage we inflicted on America’s already-weakened ICBM and bomber forces, its ballistic missile submarines would survive, lurking deep beneath the earth’s oceans—ready to strike back with devastating force.” He shook his head. “Neither of us would profit from ruling over a handful of savages roaming across a radioactive wasteland.”
The other man frowned. “Then what do you suggest?”
“That we combine our technological and military resources—and our most advanced research programs—to open a new battlefield, a new arena of conflict,” Leonov said. “One where the Americans will have fewer advantages.”
“And where is this new arena of yours?” Li demanded.
“In space.”
One of the Chinese president’s eyebrows rose. “In space? Are you serious?” he asked skeptically.
Leonov nodded. “Space technology is an area where our two nations are much closer to parity with the United States. And in some areas, I believe we are ahead. The fact that the Americans were forced to capture my country’s new plasma weapon and fusion power system merely to match our own achievements proves this.”
Li looked thoughtful at that. Russia’s breakthroughs in directed-energy weapons and fusion power were undeniably impressive. And the implied promise to share those amazing advances with an ally certainly made the proposal more tempting.
“But even if that was not so, it would be a terrible mistake for us to surrender the exploitation and control of space to the Americans,” Leonov continued forcefully. “It would be a blunder which history would not forgive. After all, whoever controls outer space will inevitably dominate the world . . . both economically and militarily.”
Slowly, Li nodded. The Russian defense minister’s belief was shared by China’s communist theoreticians, military strategists, and scientists. Watching him, Leonov knew he’d made his point. After a few more moments of silence, Li looked up. “I concur, Marshal Leonov. Such an alliance would undoubtedly be in the best interests of the People’s Republic.”
“Thank you, Comrade President,” Leonov said sincerely.
“But for the moment, I consider it essential that the details of any new military and scientific pact between our two countries remain a closely guarded secret.”
“Absolutely,” Leonov agreed. He smiled coldly. “After all, what the Americans do not know, will hurt them.”
Six
McLanahan Industrial Airport, Battle Mountain, Nevada
A Week Later
It was midmorning when the solid black executive jet came in low over the rugged slopes of Antler Peak and down across the Copper Basin. Even this late in the spring, snow still clung to the higher elevations. Twin turbofan engines rumbling, the jet crossed south of the city of Battle Mountain and then made a sharp turn back to the northwest.
Inside the Gulfstream G600’s luxurious passenger cabin, the pilot’s crisp voice came crystal clear over the speakers. “McLanahan Tower, Scion Six-Zero-Zero, six thousand descending, fifteen miles southeast, full stop.”
“Scion Six-Zero-Zero, McLanahan Tower, winds light and variable, runway three-zero, cleared to land,” the control tower replied immediately.
Immediately, the jet slid lower. Hydraulics whined and thumped softly under as its underwing landing gear and nosewheel came down and locked in position.
Nadia Rozek glanced across the aisle at Brad McLanahan. The tall, blond-haired young man sat straight up, intently peering out through the Gulfstream’s large oval windows at the harsh Nevada landscape. Despite the aircraft’s astonishingly comfortable furnishings, he looked on edge.
She understood that. Like a great many skilled pilots, Brad was definitely not happy being flown by someone else. She doubted he’d slept much during their ten-hour flight home from Japan. His attitude wasn’t really a lack of trust in other professionals. It was just that he preferred being the master of his own fate whenever possible.
Nadia smiled privately. He was definitely not one of nature’s placid passengers, content to drift on life’s currents wherever they carried him. Then again, she admitted to herself, neither was she. They were well matched in that respect, despite their differences of nationality and upbringing.
With a
very slight jolt, the Scion executive jet touched down. It rolled along the runway, braking smoothly as its turbofans spooled down. Outside the windows, the Sky Masters Aerospace complex slid past in a sprawling maze of huge aircraft hangars, office buildings, machine shops, labs, and warehouses.
Nadia reached across the aisle and touched Brad’s arm. “Welcome home,” she murmured.
“You, too,” he said, smiling now himself. “At least to one of them, anyway.” He nodded out the window at the snow-dusted brown heights towering a couple of thousand feet above the high desert plain. “It’s not exactly Kraków, though.”
“Not exactly, no,” she said with a quick, amused snort. “But we will be there soon enough.”
Brad nodded seriously. The date they’d picked out for their wedding was now just a few months away. What had once seemed like a far-off, fairy-tale dream took on more substance with every day that passed.
They’d first met almost five years before, at a time of grave crisis for Poland and its people. With the Russian Army massing on the border for a threatened invasion, the Poles had turned for help to Scion and its fledgling Iron Wolf Squadron. Nadia had been assigned as Polish president Piotr Wilk’s military liaison to the multinational unit. Later, she’d joined the squadron as a combat officer in her own right, serving at Brad’s side on several risky covert missions deep into Russian territory and later even into the United States itself. And what he’d thought might just be a short, fun fling—a “beautiful local girl takes pity on a lonely foreigner” kind of deal—had very quickly blossomed into a much deeper, lasting, and far more passionate romance.
The Scion jet taxied off the runway, swung through a wide turn, and came to a full stop not far from the airport operations center. Ground crewmen bundled up against the unseasonal chill were already rolling a mobile boarding ramp toward the Gulfstream’s forward cabin door.
