by Dale Brown
"My God," Bud Franken gasped, dropping his mask in surprise. "We did it. We nailed it." He had to pull himself back into the present-he was astonished, thinking of the power of this incredible weapon. They were over sixty miles away from the target. In one instant, the image of the MiG-23 fighter, magnified by the laser's telescope and deformable mirror, was sharp and clear-the next instant it was gone, lost in a ball of superheated gas. There was almost no debris-nothing except a wave of fire quickly dissipating in the sky. "Let's tag that last fighter."
"Attack target Dragon," Lindsey repeated, touching the screen again. Seconds later the second MiG disappeared from their screens as well.
"Zero, this is Bud, splash two fighters," Franken said. "Your tail is clear. Clear to head to the rendezvous point. We can cover you almost until you reach Israeli airspace."
As they watched the EB-52 retreat to the northeast, to rendezvous with the DC-10 tanker for its refueling anchor, Reeves also monitored another aircraft-this one a small, slow one, flying at barely treetop level, across the sands toward southeast Tripoli. This aircraft was datalinking its threat receiver information to the AL-52 Dragon, and now a pop-up threat displayed itself on Lindsey's supercockpit display. "The MV-22 has got an SA-10 at his twelve o'clock, thirty miles," Franken said. "His signal is pretty strong-he'll get within detection threshold in less than five miles." On the command channel, he radioed, "Motorboat, this is Dragon, you've got a threat ahead that's locking on you. Reverse course."
"Can you tag him, Dragon?" the pilot of the MV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft asked.
"Stand by," Franken replied. He turned to his young mission commander. "Can you get him, Linds?"
"I'm slaving on him now," Reeves said. She slaved the laser's telescope to the threat location datalinked from the MV-22. "I got the command vehicle," she said happily. She moved the target cursor from the radar dish itself to the command cab, located on the back of the same vehicle. "Let's see what happens-"
But before she could commit, their threat receiver changed from a "SEARCH" warning to a "LOCK" warning and instantly to a "MISSILE LAUNCH" warning. "SA-10 in the air!" Reeves shouted.
"Reverse course, Motorboat," Franken said. "Full countermeasures." To Reeves he said, "Nab that sucker, Linds!"
Lindsey Reeves had already switched from slaving mode to the laser radar, and the system instantly picked up the two incoming SA-10 missiles. "Got the SAMs," she said. "Attack SA-10 missiles Dragon."
"Warning, plasma generator number three not ready," the computer spoke.
"What does that mean, 'not ready'?" Franken asked.
"We've gotten several warning messages from about a dozen different components of the laser," Reeves Said, "but I've bypassed them all. I think the plasma generator vessels are becoming too hot, both from the heat of the fusion reaction and the stray radiation leakage impregnating the aluminum. The magnetic fields can't contain all the particles, and it weakens the reactor vessel."
Franken checked the supercockpit display. "We've got no choice now, Linds," he said. "If a reactor fails, we jettison it and we're done for the day."
"I agree," Reeves said. To the computer she said, "Deactivate generator number three, reset warning, and attack Dragon."
"Laser commit, stop attack," the computer replied. "Caution, plasma generator number one overtemp, stop attack." Computer cautions did not require an override: Lindsey simply remained silent, and the computer processed the attack. Seconds later both SA-10 missiles were destroyed, and Reeves turned her attention back to the saved set of coordinates for the SA-10 command vehicle. "C'mon, baby," she said. "Show me what you got."
The laser radar system couldn't fully compensate for the massive atmospheric distortion caused by shooting down through the atmosphere-but this time, it didn't need to. The plasma laser beam could only focus down to two feet in diameter-but with over two megawatts' worth of power, it was enough. The laser instantly burned through the dielectric fiberglass panel covering the face of the phased array radar, melted several hundred emitter arrays underneath, then burned clear through the thin metal radar structure. The beam stayed on target long enough to weaken the steel supporting the radar, and the radar collapsed backward against the command cab, knocking the entire unit out of commission.
"Oh, man," Lindsey gasped. "The radar's down… I mean, it's down, on top of the command cab. We just destroyed a ground vehicle with a laser fired from an airplane."
As the MV-22 continued toward its objective-the presidential palace in Tripoli-the AL-52 Dragon moved farther west until it was in a patrol orbit north of Tripoli. There were fighters everywhere, but Lindsey dared not use the laser to shoot at any of them-she had no idea what it would do. She could do nothing but stay in orbit, watch the last aircraft in their attack formation make its way in to the target, and wait.
But minutes later, just as the MV-22 had lined up for its final few miles to its objective, Lindsey expanded her supercockpit display and took another laser radar snapshot. "I've got a formation of two enemy aircraft, MiG-25s, twelve o'clock, thirty miles from Motorboat and closing, descending, speed eight hundred forty knots," Lindsey reported. "I've got a second formation of aircraft right behind them-my God, they're MiG-29s, four MiG-29s. I'm not sure if the laser will get them all."
"Bud, can you keep these guys off us until we make it to the infil point?"
"I'd bug out if I were you," Franken responded. "We're getting continuous faults on the laser, and we've already lost one generator."
"Give us thirty seconds and we'll be outta here," the pilot of the MV-22 aircraft said. "Keep 'em off us for as long as you can."
"No promises, boys," Franken said. To Lindsey Reeves: "What's it look like, Linds?"
"Pretty bad-we should be bugging out of here ourselves," Reeves replied. "I'm getting overtemp warnings on the plasma generators even though the system isn't powered on, and I think the heat is affecting the magnetron that channels the plasma field into the laser generators. If the magnetic field's not strong enough, and the plasma field touches the inertial confinement chamber before the reaction stops-we'll be turned into Stardust in a millisecond."
"Roger that," Franken replied. On the command channel: "Sorry, boys, but I suggest you bug out now-we'll use the last bit of juice we have left in the laser to cover your retreat."
'Twenty seconds, Dragon. Fifteen."
"Lindsey…"
"We're pushing it, Bud-but okay." She touched the icons for the MiG-25 fighters, then spoke: "Attack commit Dragon."
"Warning, overtemp on plasma generator number one… caution, magnetron voltage approaching tolerance limit… caution, overtemp on plasma generator number two."
"Override overtemp warning and attack."
"Warning, magnetron voltage at tolerance…"
Franken looked over at his young mission commander. No sign of airsickness this time-she was all business, steady and focused. "Override all magnetron warnings and attack," Lindsey said.
"Warning, plasma containment-"
"Override all warnings and attack!" Lindsey shouted.
"Attack commit Dragon, MiG-25, stop attack."
Suddenly there was a deep, high-pitched vibration coming from the back of the AL-52 Dragon, so great that Franken had to take a firmer grip on the control stick. He was about to order her to stop the laser from firing, but at that moment she announced, "MiG one destroyed." But the vibration didn't stop-in fact, it was getting worse.
"Lindsey-"
"Attack commit Dragon," she announced.
"Warning-"
"Override all warnings and attack," she ordered.
"Lindsey-"
"Attack commit Dragon, stop attack," the computer warned.
The vibration was getting worse-finally, Lindsey was starting to notice it. "What is that?" she asked.
"Eject," Franken said flatly.
"What?"
"I said eject!" Franken shouted.
"I'm getting this second MiG," Lindsey
said.
"No!" Franken shouted. But at that moment the laser fired, and the second MiG-25 bearing down on the MV-22 disappeared in a cloud of fire.
The vibration was louder and harder now, so hard that Franken had trouble taking a normal breath. He had to force the air out of his lungs to scream, "Eject! Eject! Eject!"
All aircrew personnel at Sky Masters Inc. had extensive training in aircrew survival, including twice-a-year ejection seat qualification. Lindsey Reeves was not prior military, like John Franken, but she had been so thoroughly indoctrinated by Patrick McLanahan and his staff that every flying scientist was as thoroughly familiar with aircrew survival procedures as their military counterparts.
She did hesitate when he said it once-every crew member has a moment of disbelief when they hear that word. But the real command to eject was the word "Eject" three times. So when Franken gave the proper command to eject, Lindsey Reeves didn't hesitate again. She sat back in her seat, pressed her head, back, and butt as deeply into the seat as she could, jammed her heels back, kept her elbows in tight, tucked her chin down, rotated the ejection handles upward, and squeezed the exposed triggers. Her overhead hatch ripped away, and the seat disappeared in a cloud of gray-blue smoke that disappeared in the sudden vacuum as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cold fog and an impossibly loud roar of wind.
"Hope you make it okay, kiddo," Franken said into his oxygen mask. He entered some commands into the attack computer-a complete system data dump, sending the entire mission's worth of stored system information to a satellite, where the engineers at Sky Masters Inc. could retrieve and analyze it. That was something Lindsey would do, if he had given her a chance to do it. She turned out to be a pretty good crewdog, Franken decided-she overcame her fear and nearly debilitating airsickness enough to take an untested warplane into combat halfway around the world. Amazing. The least he could do for her is to make sure that everything she worked and sacrificed so long and hard to build survived.
There were dozens of warning and caution indications on the instrument panel, but Franken no longer cared. He turned the AL-52 Megafortress north, toward the-pncoming MiG-29 fighters. At this closure rate-the MiGs were flying at almost twice the speed of sound to catch the MV-22-he would catch them in no time.
Sure enough, Franken could actually see two bright flashes of light, then two more, as the lead MiGs fired airto-air missiles. He saw the four streaks of fire arc across the sky-but suddenly the sky seemed to brighten, as if dawn was approaching, but at ten times the normal speed. The dawn then seemed to turn silvery and warm.
The Dragon, the four missiles, and then all four MiG-29 interceptors disappeared in an uncontrolled plasma field that had formed, expanded to nearly ten miles in diameter, engulfed its prey in a cloud of free electrons and ions, and then disappeared without a trace-all in the space of a few millionths of a second.
Bud, this is Zero. Is our tail clear? We're losing our electronic countermeasures system. What's your status?" No reply. "Where are they, Gonzo?"
"No sign of 'em," Wickland replied.
"What?" Tanaka switched one of his multifunction displays to the LADAR tactical view. There were no aircraft at all within fifty miles. "Oh shit, they're gone. All of them-the fighters and the Dragon. They must've taken each other out."
'They're deadT Both men fell silent. Then Wickland checked his display again. "Holy shit-a target in the air, but almost hovering. I'm getting another LADAR shot." Wickland activated the laser radar again, then magnified the new target. Neither of them could believe their eyes-it was the first time they had ever seen something like this on a laser radar display. "My God, it's a parachute! Someone in a parachute! I can't believe it! What do we do? What can we do?"
"We turn around and follow it down, then hope there are some friendlies we can send into the area in case it's one of ours," Tanaka said. "I have a feeling it's one of our guysjudging by how slow it's going down, I'll bet it's Lindsey Reeves. At this rate, she'll be falling all night. My God, I wonder what went wrong…."
OVER THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, TRIPOLI,
UNITED KINGDOM LIBYA
THAT SAME TIME
"Twenty right," Hal Briggs said. The pilot of the MV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor assault aircraft banked in response. Briggs was studying the data display on the electronic visor of his Tin Man battle armor's helmet, watching the range and bearing of his objective countdown as they flew closer. They had followed the clear path of destruction created by the second Megafortress and had zoomed in at treetop level right to the Presidential Palace, virtually unmolested. "Five more right… hold it. Range point four hundred meters… three hundred… steady at three hundred… steady at three hundred."
"Matches range to the rooftop," the copilot reported, checking the range straight ahead displayed on his targeting visor. After checking the range, he switched his targeting visor to slave the chin turret and infrared sensor and used the twenty-millimeter Galling gun in the turret to force down any small-arms fire from security units on the roof he could see.
"Make a couple holes," Briggs said. "Night Stalkers, stand by."
The pilot activated his weapons panel and selected "HELLFIRE." Two weapons pods unstowed themselves from the left and right landing gear sponsons. He activated the missiles and squeezed a trigger. One Hellfire laserguided missile from each weapon pod shot out from its canister, and together the missiles and their twenty-pound penetrating warheads blew a large hole in the roof of the Presidential Palace. The pilot swung the MV-22's nose to the right, and he made a second hole about fifty feet from the first with two more missiles. -
The MV-22 came in fast, then swung quickly to a low hover over the first smoking hole they had just created. Door gunners suppressed machine-gun fire from more rooftop security guards while the rear cargo ramp of the tilt-rotor motored down, and eight men in dark gray electronic battle armor, composite microhydraulic exoskeletons, and electromagnetic rail guns marched from the belly of the tilt-rotor aircraft.
One of the commandos felt bullets ricochet off his armor and instinctively dropped down and tried to take cover. "Don't try to cover from small-arms fire unless your power drops below twenty percent," Hal Briggs radioed over their secure commlink. "And don't waste projectiles on infantry, or doors and walls your sensors can see through. We do different tactics here, gents: You work alone, you work quickly, and you let the armor defend you and feed you information. Follow the position signals, check every room. Let's move out."
"I'm getting a power-level warning," one of the commandos said. "It's reading twenty percent already."
"You have a bad power pack," Briggs said. "Withdraw, change packs, follow us down once it checks out. Move out." The one commando went back inside the MV-22, where technicians in protective armor quickly helped the commando out of his exoskeleton. Meanwhile, the other Tin Man commandos split up into two groups and dropped through the holes in the roof to the floors below.
Hal Briggs led the first group of four. Holding his rail gun on his left hip, anchored to his exoskeleton, he walked quickly without running through the corridors of the Libyan Presidential Palace; the others split up, taking different corridors. Terrified workers and other persons, presumably relatives or other staffers, ran past him, some running headlong into him. He ignored everyone he didn't recognize. Hal used his ultrawide bandwidth sensor to peer through walls and doors, and anytime he saw someone inside, he kicked the door open to see who it was. But he kept on moving, sometimes simply walking right through a wall or door to get inside an adjacent room.
"It's hard to take stairs with this exoskeleton," one of the commandos radioed.
"Don't bother with stairs," Hal responded. When he reached the end of the hallway, he simply turned, tossed an explosive charge onto the floor, blew a hole in the floor, and jumped through.
Once they finished the top floor, the other floors went more quickly. On the ground floor, Hal had to contend with massed Republican Guard soldiers, now with heavier ma
chine guns and grenade launchers. The battle armor's electric shock system took care of any close-in security he encountered; he had to fire one hypersonic projectile at the security booth just inside the front palace entry, where Republican Guards had set up a twenty-millimeter Gatling gun. One Tin Man had to jet-jump outside and retreat back to the roof after taking nearly two thousand rounds from the cannon before Briggs put it out of commission. Briggs left one Tin Man on the ground floor to watch for any heavy security responses, while the rest started down to the subfloors.
The entire search of the above-ground floors took them less than two minutes.
Now that the assault was on, they moved faster through the subfloors, following the location signal. They came across interrogation rooms, zapped anyone inside carrying weapons, and released all others. Chris Wohl found an infirmary, and next door was a makeshift autopsy room and morgue. "I found two of our guys in the morgue," Chris radioed. "Looks like both of them have been tortured to death." His voice started to tremble with rage. "I'm going to kill someone for this." He zipped both corpses into their black body bags and carried them to the roof.
"I found survivors," another of the commandos reported. "I'm bringing them out." Within minutes, eleven more Night Stalkers were on board the Pave Hammer tilt-rotor, all of them injured from torture and near-starvation but all still alive.
Briggs and two other commandos had just moveH to the bottom subfloor when Briggs heard one of the lookouts say, "We've got trouble, One. Heavy armor on the way in. We're engaging, but we're running out of time."
"We'll be finished searching the building in three minutes," Briggs responded.
"No good, sir," Chris Wohl interjected. "We're going to be surrounded in one minute. The Pave Hammer is too vulnerable. Make your way upstairs."
"We can't leave without Patrick and Wendy."
"Sir, we'll be walking out of Libya if we're not airborne in sixty seconds."
"Then get airborne."
"Negative, sir. Everyone gets on board. I've stopped picking up life signs from the general."
