by Dale Brown
“If you saw smoke, sir, there has to be surface wreckage. Aircraft or weapons that bury themselves in the sand don’t release enough smoke to spot from a distance,” Dendara said. “I checked to be sure the men were probing underneath the sand. There was a short but pretty strong storm that came through here yesterday—the wreckage could be lying just under the surface.” He looked around. Of course, in the darkness, there was little to see. “No landmarks, no exact position—maybe we’re not at the right spot, sir.”
Turabi swore under his breath, pulled out his map, and examined it in the subdued red beam of his flashlight. “All right. Let’s shift five kilometers to the south and do another grid search. We search for one more hour, then we pack up and head back to join up with the rest of the battalion.”
Turabi radioed for the MT-LB, which picked him up a few minutes later. Following his compass, he steered the driver south, then started to set up another grid-pattern search. It would take several minutes for the other members of his detail to move to the new position, so he decided he would need to get out there and start searching himself if he ever wanted to finish this grid and get back to Kerki by dawn. He fixed a bayonet onto his AK-47 assault rifle and started probing the sand with his red-lensed flashlight, looking for evidence of debris.
He soon realized how difficult this search really was. He knew he could step within centimeters of a critical piece of evidence and never see it, or he could step on a land mine and be legless in an instant. He knew he had to use every sense he possessed, and maybe even some kind of extrasensory perception, to accomplish this task. He waved the MT-LB away from him so he wouldn’t be distracted by its engine noise, diesel exhaust, and the occasional shouts of the men on board.
Finally it was relatively quiet. Turabi’s night vision improved, and soon he could start seeing objects on the ground that were not directly in the flashlight’s beam. He could still smell the armored personnel carrier’s exhaust smoke, and he picked up his radio to order the MT-LB farther away.
But he stopped, the radio a few centimeters from his lips, his finger on the push-to-talk switch. Yes, he could still smell engine exhaust—but he was upwind of the MT-LB now. He shouldn’t be able to smell it. It had to be something else. He used his nose like an automatic direction finder triangulating on a radio beacon, steering himself to the source of the smell.
Minutes later he saw it: a mass of metal, blackened and lumpish but definitely an aircraft engine. It was a cruise missile turbojet engine, not more than forty or fifty kilos, about the size of a bedroll. He’d found it! He swept the flashlight beam around excitedly. There were other pieces of debris nearby, too—including a large fuselage piece. It was here! He slung his AK-47 onto his shoulder, put the walkie-talkie up to his lips, and keyed the mike button. “Dahab Two, this is One. I found some wreckage of a small aircraft or cruise missile. I’m a half klick south of the new grid locus. Join on me and—”
At that instant he heard a faint fwoooosh! sound. He dropped to one knee, the flashlight replacing the radio in his left hand, held far out to his side, and his Tokarev TT-33 in his right hand. The muzzle of the Tokarev followed the flashlight beam turned in the direction of the sound. Nothing. No sounds of footsteps running on desert sand, no vehicle sounds. He quickly extinguished the flashlight and picked up the radio: “Dahab, Dahab, alert! Someone else is out here!”
Suddenly a brilliant curtain of stars obscured his vision, and he was unable to tell up from down. The harder he struggled to stay on his feet, the faster he found himself sprawled in the sand. He still felt as if he were upright, crouching low, but he felt the hard-baked sand in his face and knew he was on the ground. He was wide awake and still breathing, but he couldn’t make any of his limbs respond—and he heard voices. Voices, machinelike but definitely human. Voices in English!
“One down, all clear,” Colonel Hal Briggs reported. “He found the StealthHawk. He may have gotten off a report.” He quickly changed the scene in his electronic visor to the imaging infrared sensor aboard the number-one StealthHawk unmanned combat aerial vehicle that was orbiting overhead. “We’ve got company. That armored personnel carrier is headed this way. Give me control of Hawk One.”
“Roger that,” responded Daren Mace, back in the virtual command trailer at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base. He pressed a button on his console and spoke, “Hawk One, transfer control to Tin Man One.”
“StealthHawk flight-control transfer to Tin Man One, stop transfer,” the computer responded. Seconds later: “StealthHawk flight-control transfer to Tin Man One complete, awaiting commands.”
“Hawk One, sitrep,” Briggs ordered.
The response took only moments: “Warning, unidentified moving armored vehicle, bearing zero-six-two degrees, range one point three miles, heading two-seven-three degrees, speed twenty-one knots, designate Tango One. Warning, unidentified stationary armored vehicle, bearing zero-one-four degrees, three point one miles, designate Tango Two. Tango Two now turning south, accelerating, speed now one-five knots. Warning, numerous infantry targets approaching at slow speed, range three miles, bearing zero-one-six.”
Briggs used his eye-pointing system to place a target cursor over the image of the nearest vehicle in the StealthHawk’s scan—the MT-LB—then pointed to the menu selection for voice commands and spoke, “Hawk One, attack this target.”
“Attack Tango One, stop attack,” the StealthHawk responded. Moments later it peeled away from its patrol orbit and swooped in on the target. The StealthHawk’s attack was flawless. It locked on to the target shape and fired a mini-Maverick missile at it, sending it down through the thin upper skin of the armored vehicle atop the hottest portion of the vehicle—the engine compartment. The engine exploded in a brilliant burst of fire. Three men were able to run clear before the entire vehicle was engulfed in flames.
“We got a kill!” Hal Briggs said. “Way to go! Man, I’m starting to like these gadgets you guys make, Doc.”
“We aim to please,” Jon Masters said from Battle Mountain.
“Hawk One, sitrep.”
“Tango One immobilized,” the drone reported. “Tango Two turning west bearing three-five-zero, two point eight miles. Unidentified numerous infantry targets still proceeding southbound bearing zero-one-six.”
“Looks like the second APC is going to stay away and check us out before he attacks,” Briggs surmised. “Hawk One, proceed to ten-mile cover patrol at one-five thousand feet.”
“Hawk One proceeding to ten-mile cover patrol, stop command.” The StealthHawk began a “wobbly circle” flight pattern around Briggs’s position, changing the center of the circular orbit by several hundred feet each time so it would not pinpoint Briggs’s location as it circled overhead.
Daren nodded happily. “The StealthHawk found all the targets and prosecuted a successful attack by voice command from the ground!” he crowed. “Excellent!”
“Okay, Sarge, you got the last target,” Briggs said.
“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Major Chris Wohl leveled his electromagnetic rail gun, centered the electronic gunsight on the second armored personnel carrier, and fired. A sausage-size tungsten-steel projectile shot from the muzzle at an incredible ten thousand feet per second. The projectile had no explosive warhead—it didn’t need one. At that velocity the projectile easily pierced the GSh-575 vehicle’s armor, went through one Taliban fighter inside as if he were as thin as a soap bubble, pierced the engine block, passed outside through a drive wheel, and buried itself two hundred feet into the sand before it finally stopped. The armored vehicle’s engine cracked, then blew apart like an overinflated balloon.
“Target neutralized,” Wohl reported matter-of-factly.
“Tango Two neutralized,” the StealthHawk reported moments later.
“No shit,” Wohl commented. He stepped over and motioned to the Taliban fighter lying on the ground. “I think he’s awake. He probably saw everything. Should we take him with us?”
“Stand by. Thr
ee, this is One. How much stuff have you recovered so far?”
“I’ve got about two hundred pounds of components, One,” responded Air Force Lieutenant Mark Bastian, one of Hal Briggs’s first officers assigned to the First Air Battle Force Ground Operations team. At six feet four inches tall, Bastian was one of the tallest men ever to wear the Tin Man electronic battle armor. “I need to separate out about another three hundred pounds.”
“Roger that. Two, we won’t have room on the Dasher for a prisoner. Question him, get any info you can on him, then make sure he stays near what’s left of his APC and let’s get ready for extraction.”
From his spot on the desert floor, Jalaluddin Turabi watched the death of his first armored vehicle, then heard the death of his second. He could finally move his arms and legs, but it was as if his own body now weighed thousands of kilograms—he had absolutely no strength in any of his muscles.
The two strange figures in the dark outfits and full bug-eyed helmets marched in front of him. While the one with the large, futuristic-looking rifle stood guard, the other stopped to examine pieces of the crashed aircraft. Turabi was surprised when the figure picked up the cruise-missile engine as effortlessly as if he had picked up a pebble. Who were these men? They had to be Americans—only they had this kind of technology. Either Americans or Martians.
The figure with the large rifle approached him. “Ismak eh?” it asked him in Arabic.
“I won’t tell you anything,” Turabi said. “Who are you? Why are you attacking us?” At that he felt a surge of electricity flowing through his temples, seemingly trying to push his very eyeballs out of their sockets. Turabi screamed.
“What is your name?” the figure repeated.
“Turabi. Jalaluddin Turabi.”
The electric shock ceased. “Are you Taliban?”
Turabi said nothing—but when the electric shock recommenced, he couldn’t help but blurt out his response. “Yes, damn you! I am Taliban!”
“What is the name of your commanding officer?”
“General.”
“General what?”
“Just ‘General.’ “
The electric shock started again, not as bad as before, but Turabi remembered how bad it could be. “His name?”
Turabi kept silent until he thought he might scream again from the pain. “Wakil Mohammad Zarazi.” The pain instantly ceased. Turabi prayed he would black out, but the figure apparently knew how to control the electric shocks well enough to keep his victims conscious.
“What is your rank?”
“I do not have any rank. I am jihadi.”
“But your commanding officer is a general?”
“He calls himself a general, yes. But we are jihadi. We are Taliban. We are servants of God and loyal members of our clan.”
“This whole operation is a jihad?” Even with his voice electronically altered, Turabi could hear the surprise in the stranger’s voice. “You invaded Turkmenistan because you’re on a jihad?”
“We left our homes and villages in Afghanistan and came into Turkmenistan to escape you Americans and your robot killing machines!” Turabi shouted angrily. “We stayed in Turkmenistan because we found loyal soldiers and sympathizers. It was easier to keep moving west than it was to head back to our own homeland.”
The figure paused, and it sounded to Turabi as if he might be speaking inside his helmet to his comrades. Then the man asked, “How many in this jihadi army of yours?”
“We are no threat to you.”
“I said, how many?”
“Several thousand. I don’t know. We get more defectors every day. The Turkmen will fight for whoever pays them more money.”
“What is your objective after taking Kerki?”
“Whatever the general wants. He says God gives him instructions and guides him to victory.”
“Wa’if hena min fadlak,” the figure said to him in a monotone, machinelike electronic voice.
“Where do you expect me to go, Mr. Robot?” Turabi responded. “You have destroyed my two vehicles and killed my soldiers. The rest of my army is a hundred kilometers from this place.”
But the menacing figure had already strode away. Turabi snatched up a chunk of metal, a piece of his destroyed armored personnel carrier, and threw it at the figure. He didn’t even turn—but a blue-white bolt of electricity shot out from an electrode atop his shoulders and hit the chunk of metal, causing it to burst in midair like an overripe melon. Who in God’s holy name were these men?
The MV-32 Pave Dasher tilt-jet aircraft moved in from its hiding place a few miles away from the crash site, picked up the Tin Men and the critical components of the downed StealthHawk unmanned combat air vehicle, and headed off. But just as they did, Patrick did a long-range scan of the area with the laser radar aboard the EB-1C Vampire. “Two unidentified airborne contacts, seven o’clock, thirty-one miles, level at one thousand feet above ground, airspeed one hundred thirty knots,” the attack computer reported. “Designate bogeys one and two.”
“You got these newcomers, Daren?” Patrick asked.
“Yes, sir, I see them,” Daren responded. “Vampire, IFF check on bogeys.”
“Negative IFF,” the computer responded. The Vampire could send out coded interrogation signals and scan for a response from a friendly aircraft using the IFF, or “Identification Friend or Foe” system—if it did not receive a response, the aircraft was considered hostile. “Designate as bandits one and two.”
“Attack bandit one,” Daren ordered. He waited, then said more insistently, “I said, attack bandit one, Vampire. I say again, attack bandit one, Vampire.”
Zane looked at Daren with surprise. “Uh . . . sir?”
Daren held up a finger, but Zane pressed.
“You forgot to say the magic word, boss.”
“I know—just wanted to see if the computer would go off on its own,” Daren explained.
“Let’s not screw around here, guys,” Rebecca warned. “We can test the gear once our guys are out of Indian country.”
“It was just a test, Rebecca,” Daren said. “Vampire, attack bandit one. Hang on, crew.”
“Engaging bandit one,” the computer responded. The bomber immediately threw itself into a hard right turn and accelerated to zone-five afterburner.
“Weapons arming,” Patrick reported as he scanned the readouts on his multifunction display. He had barely moved from the position he assumed on takeoff—hands firmly holding on to his ejection seat’s armrests, feet locked together, as if ready for the ejection sequence. “Scorpion missile powered up. Continuity check in progress . . . continuity and connectivity checks on all weapons.”
“Thirty seconds to attack,” the computer responded. Then: “Attack aborted.” The Vampire rolled wings-level and maintained its present altitude.
“Weapons just safed themselves,” Patrick reported. “Jon . . . ?”
“Second computer crumped,” Masters said immediately. “Third computer couldn’t accept control with weapons armed. The next computer should assume control any second.”
“Vampire, pursue bandit one, close to ten miles in trail at flight level one-five-zero,” Daren ordered. There was no response. “Vampire, close to ten miles in trail on bandit one at flight level one-five-zero. It’s not accepting commands, guys.”
“Wait until the third computer assumes control,” Jon said.
“ ‘Wait’? What do you mean, ‘wait’?” Rebecca asked.
“Computer transfer complete,” Masters said. “Everything should be okay now.”
“Vampire, close to ten miles in trail on bandit one at flight level zero-five-zero,” Daren ordered. The bomber immediately started a steep dive, and seconds later it passed the speed of sound. “Coming up on missile launch . . . ready . . . doors should be coming open. . . .”
“Won’t happen,” Patrick said. “You didn’t reissue the attack command.”
“Another glitch?” Rebecca moaned.
“It’s not a g
litch,” Masters said. “The computer is programmed not to remember attack commands in case of a computer malfunction. They have to be reissued to be sure the computer doesn’t execute a bogus attack command.”
“Hold on a second,” Rebecca said. “We’d better let this one go until we—”
But at the same time, Daren was already talking to the computer: “Vampire, attack bandit one,” he ordered.
“I said hold on a second!” Rebecca shouted. She reached forward, grasped the control stick, and squeezed the paddle switch. Instantly she felt the pressure of the flight controls in her hands. “I’ve got the aircraft!”
“Rebecca, let the VC take the aircraft back,” Daren said.
“Hey, it’s ‘General’ to you, mister!” she shot back. “And no one tells me what to do on my aircraft, especially not barely qualified navigators sitting on the ground!
“Now, in case you boys haven’t noticed, in case you were too busy gawking over your computers, we were on a five-degree, nose-low descent, going Mach one point two, about ten seconds before going below the emergency-descent altitude for this area and fifteen seconds from dying in a smoking hole in the earth. The plane is trying to kill us, and you’re arguing over computer logic.”
“Rebecca, this is our first test,” Patrick said. “Let’s let the system work so we can flush out the bugs. Let it—”
“ ‘Flush out the bugs’? How many lives are you willing to risk to ‘flush out the bugs’?” Rebecca retorted. “This is not my job, General! You may have spent the past several years stuck on the lake ‘flushing out bugs’ in new, untested, and potentially dangerous aircraft, but I haven’t!” Even angry as she was, Rebecca knew better than to talk about McLanahan’s previous assignment—deputy commander of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center at Groom Lake, now known as Elliott Air Force Base. “I train hard so I can employ operational aircraft in the most effective and efficient ways possible.”
“So you’re terminating the test flight, General?” Daren Mace asked.
