by Dale Brown
But at that extreme range, even with a sophisticated laser-radar attack system and ultraprecise guidance systems, the weapons were not perfect. The Anaconda missiles fired from the unmanned air-defense Vampire missed the fourth MiG-29 and one of the MiG-25 Foxbats bearing down on the stricken Vampire bomber—and moments later the MiG-29 opened fire from short range with two AA-11 air-to-air missiles. The AA-11 missile was Russia’s most maneuverable and most reliable antiaircraft missile—but it didn’t need to be to hit Rebecca and Daren’s EB-1C Vampire bomber. One missile detonated just aft of the number-one and -two engines; the other missile punched away most of the Vampire’s vertical stabilizer.
The warning and caution panel was lit up like a keno board. Rebecca now had both hands on the control stick, trying to keep her Vampire under control.
“You got it, Rebecca?” Daren shouted.
“Shit . . . damn it . . .” She never answered, but she didn’t need to—Daren could tell that she’d lost control. “I am not going to lose this plane . . . !”
“Time to jump out, Rebecca,” Daren said, managing to reach over and touch her hand. “It’s over. You did a good job—we did a good job.” She continued to fight the controls, but it was no use. The attitude indicator began to spin; the spin was verified by the rapidly unwinding altimeter and the pegged vertical-velocity indicator. Even the flight-control computer offered no suggestions. Rebecca’s Vampire was indeed dead. “Let’s get out of here.”
Rebecca swore, then gave the controls one more try. She saw the altimeter go below two thousand feet aboveground—and she couldn’t even tell which way was up anymore. “Get out!” she shouted. “Get the hell out.”
Daren nodded, straightened up in his seat, put his hands on his armrests.
He stood, and pushed his chair back. Rebecca followed right behind him. They squeezed past the technician at the console right behind the aircraft commander’s seat and looked at the flight-path depiction on his computer screen. The Vampire had just hit the vast floodplain of the northern Caspian Sea coast. “Impact,” the technician said. “Couple miles north of Lake Aralsor in Kazakhstan. You flew almost seventy miles with virtually no flight-control system and just two engines, and she still took three Russian missiles before she finally went down. That area is pretty marshy, and the plane was in an almost vertical spiraling dive—it may have buried itself a hundred feet into the mud.”
Rebecca studied the monitor, checking to see if the plane had gone down in an uninhabited area. As far as she could tell, it had. She opened up a bottle of water, took a deep swig, and passed it to Daren. “Crap—I hate losing a plane,” she said. “Even if it is a robot plane.”
Daren gave her a kiss on the cheek, then opened the door to the portable virtual-cockpit control cab. The small warehouse in which the VC had been set up on the tropical island of Diego Garcia was supposed to be air-conditioned, but the heat and humidity they felt as he opened the door were still oppressive. To them, though, after the past five hours in the VC, it felt glorious. Right beside them was a second VC, which another crew was using to control the unmanned air-defense EB-1C Vampire.
“Just remember, Rebecca,” Daren said, smiling as he took her hand and stepped out of the cab, “any landing you can walk away from is a good one.”
“Shut up, Daren,” she said. She smiled back, realized he was still holding her hand—and she gave his a squeeze. “Just take me to my room, get me a drink, get this flight suit off, then take me to bed.”
“Don’t we have to debrief our mission or something?”
She rolled her eyes in exasperation, pulled him to her, and gave him a kiss. “You have your orders, mister,” she said with an inviting smile. “Carry them out.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
OUTSIDE OF CHÄRJEW, REPUBLIC OF TURKMENISTAN
That same time
“Contact, two troop choppers inbound,” Hal Briggs reported. “I’ve got three more attack helicopters coming in farther south.”
“We’ve got a total of six troop and four attack helicopters inbound from the northwest,” Chris Wohl said. “The troop helicopters are outside the range of my weapon. They look like they’re unloading.”
“Three attack helicopters to the southwest,” another of his commandos reported. “Looks like they came right over the city. They . . . they’re firing, Red Team, attack helicopters opening fire with antitank missiles. Incoming, incoming.”
Hal Briggs steadied the electromagnetic rail gun using his powered exoskeleton, centered the helicopter in his electronic sights, and was about to squeeze the trigger when all three attack helicopters opened fire on his position. He immediately jet-jumped away seconds before a half dozen AT-16 laser-guided antitank missiles hit at exactly the spot where he’d been hiding a second ago. “Looks like they got some longer-range missiles on those choppers—they fired from almost six miles away,” Hal said. He studied his electronic tactical display—almost every one of his men had to dodge missiles launched at them. Whatever sensors the Russian attack helicopter gunners were using, they were extremely effective.
Hal immediately jet-jumped toward where he thought the troop helicopters had touched down. He found the group of two transport helicopters, one Mi-6 and one Mi-8, just as they were lifting off after offloading their troops. Hal raised his rail gun and was about to fire on the larger Mi-6 when the earth erupted just a few feet in front of him. One of the Russian Mi-24 attack helicopters had found him and had opened fire with an antitank missile, narrowly missing him. The rail gun was blasted out of his hands, and he flew thirty feet through the air from the force of the missile explosion.
Hal was able to get to his feet. The rail gun was gone. When he looked up, he heard it—the unmistakable sound of the heavy Mi-24 Hind attack helicopter bearing down on him. His suit registered a laser beam hitting him. He was being targeted with a laser-aiming device from the Hind. Less than two miles away—it couldn’t miss now. . . .
Suddenly two small missiles streaked through the sky and hit the Hind helicopter from either side. The big chopper’s engines exploded, and it plummeted to the ground, cartwheeling for over a mile before the wreck of burning, twisting metal finally came to a stop.
“Ho there, my friend!” he heard a voice shout in Russian. “Byt v glubokay zhopi, eh, Comrade Robot?” It was Jalaluddin Turabi. He was holding an SA-14 man-portable antiaircraft-missile launcher. He handed the expended weapon to an aide and took back his AK-74 assault rifle. “Fancy meeting you here!”
“What are you doing here, Turabi?”
“We were busy retreating, getting out of Chärjew before the Russians dropped a nuclear bomb on us next,” Turabi said. “But then we ran into your little party here, and we thought we’d crash it. You don’t mind, do you?” He retrieved his portable radio and a map and issued orders in Pashtun. Moments later the desert around where the Russian soldiers had just alighted was obscured by mortar and grenade blasts. Several more shoulder-fired missiles flew through the sky, knocking down Russian helicopters.
“I think this would be a good time to get out of here, my friend,” Turabi said. “My men are scattered pretty thin. We can’t hold the Russians off for long.”
Just then Hal heard a beeping sound in his helmet. He shifted his electronic visor to mapping mode—and what he saw made him smile inside his battle armor. “Not quite yet, Turabi,” he said. As Turabi watched in puzzlement, Briggs simply stopped and stared at the Russian exfiltration spot, then turned and stared for a moment at another Mi-24 attack helicopter, about five miles away. “Where else have your men made contact, Turabi?” he asked.
“They are everywhere,” the Afghan replied. “They are coming from all directions. They—”
At that moment the Hind helicopter that was turning and lining up for an attack run exploded in a ball of fire. Seconds later the ground where the Russian soldiers were advancing on them disappeared under dozens and dozens of small but powerful explosions.
“We are u
nder attack!” Turabi shouted.
“Not quite,” Briggs said. He pointed skyward. Turabi looked—just as a small, dark StealthHawk unmanned aircraft passed overhead. “Our little buddies are back.” As they watched the StealthHawk fly away, it launched an AGM-211 mini-Maverick missile on another Hind, shooting it out of the sky.
“Well, I never thought I’d be happy to see those devil birds again,” Turabi said. “I don’t suppose they could inform us as to where our friends the Russians are now?”
“They can indeed,” Briggs said. He took Turabi’s chart and a grease pencil and, using the electronic map projected onto his visor, drew the locations of all the known Russian airborne troops on the ground in the area. “Need some help with them, Turabi?” Briggs asked.
“If you would be so kind as to take care of the attack helicopters with your devil birds up there,” Turabi said after he reported the Russians’ positions to his men deployed around Chärjew, “my men can take care of the infantrymen.” He extended his hand and smiled broadly, his teeth gleaming white against his dark, burned skin. “I believe that makes us even now, doesn’t it, Comrade Robot?”
Hal Briggs couldn’t help but smile inside his battle armor. “Yes, we’re even, Turabi—I mean, Colonel Turabi.”
“I am happy enough just being Turabi, thank you,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind, we have a city to defend. If you would kindly exit my battlefield by the most expeditious route, my army and I will get to work.”
“Sure thing—General Turabi,” Briggs said. The Taliban fighter smiled, nodded, and hurried off to lead his men into battle once again.
Epilogue
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The next morning
We have your aircraft, we have your air raid on Engels Air Base on tape, and we have footage of your drones and bombers attacking our base,” General Anatoliy Gryzlov shouted into the phone. “This is a complete outrage! An unprovoked sneak attack on a Russian military installation by two American strategic bombers! It is an act of war! We have your dead crew members as positive proof that you attacked our country in a sinister act of aggression!”
“You have our crew members?” President Thomas Thorn asked. He had to stifle a smile.
“Their crumpled bodies were found not far from the crash site,” Gryzlov said. “Their pictures will be on the front page of every newspaper and magazine on earth if you do not halt this aggression and immediately recall all your forces!”
“As I told you, General, I have already recalled our forces,” Thorn said. “My forces were deployed to Turkmenistan only to protect our deputy secretary of defense’s flight as it departed the region. We had permission and full authority from President Gurizev to enter Turkmenistan.”
“Gurizev was a liar and a traitor to his people,” Gryzlov said. “If he hadn’t allowed those murderous Taliban forces to roam around inside his country so freely, none of this would’ve happened. They were certainly in collusion. Soon they would have stolen those American oil and gas pipelines and wells from you, but by then it would have been too late to stop them.”
“The Taliban commander has just been commissioned by the new Turkmen president as commander of the army,” Thorn pointed out. “He’s being called a hero for repelling those Russian troops from Charjew.”
“He’ll have to pay dearly for that,” Gryzlov said. “I don’t care if the Turkmen parliament or so-called interim president authorized or sanctioned his attacks after the fact. It was an act of cold-blooded murder.”
“It seems to be a legal resolution to me, General, voted on and signed into law by the interim president.”
“That new president was not elected by the people,” Gryzlov said, “and a state of martial law is still in effect.”
“But the Turkmen parliament meeting in Uzbekistan has voted in a new interim president,” Thorn said. “Surely the Russian military authorities will recognize the new government and allow the president and legislators back into the country safely?”
“You’re getting off the point of my call, Thorn—namely, the air attack on my military base!” Gryzlov interjected. “The death toll will certainly reach two hundred, and the damage will easily exceed one billion dollars. You will issue an apology to me, to the men and women of Engels, to the people of Russia, and to the world. You will pay reparations to alleviate the suffering of the families who lost loved ones in that dastardly attack and to rebuild what you have destroyed. You will pay, or, by God, Thorn, I will see your country burn hotter than the fires of hell. Do you understand my meaning, Thorn? What is your answer? Will you apologize? Will you pay reparations? Or does a state of war exist between our two countries?”
“Stand by, General.” Thomas Thorn put the call on hold, then looked at the others in the Oval Office with him: Vice President Busick, Secretary of Defense Goff, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Venti, Deputy Secretary of State Hershel, General Patrick McLanahan, and former president Kevin Martindale. They had all been silently reacting to Gryzlov’s tirade with scowls, astounded expressions, and shaking heads. Everyone was amazed that the president managed to keep his cool so easily while talking to this homicidal maniac.
“Tell him to go fuck himself, Mr. President,” Busick said. Everyone else seemed to agree, some by encouraging expressions, others by nodding heads. “He’s a damned nobody—he can’t tell the president of the United States what to do.”
Thorn looked to his friend and chief foreign-affairs adviser, Robert Goff. “He’s nothing more than a two-bit military strongman, Thomas,” the secretary of defense said. “Eventually the Russian parliament and the people will rise up and toss his ass off—it’s just a matter of time. The United States needs to lead the resistance against him, or he’ll turn into another Stalin.”
Thorn turned to McLanahan and Martindale. Both wore stony expressions. Martindale jabbed a finger at Thorn and said, “You’re the leader of the free world, Thorn, whether you like it or not. Be the leader of the free world, for Christ’s sake.”
Thorn remained expressionless. He looked at McLanahan impassively—Patrick thought he detected a bit of resentment or maybe betrayal in the president’s face. The president pushed the line button. “General Gryzlov?”
“What is your answer, Thorn?”
“My answer is this: The United States will pay reparations,” Thomas Thorn said. Busick, Martindale, and even his good friend Robert Goff wore absolutely stunned, then disgusted expressions.
Even Anatoliy Gryzlov sounded surprised. “Well . . . I’m glad to see you show some common sense, Thorn,” he said.
“The United States will pay a sum to the government of the Russian Federation equal to what the Russian Federation pays to the United Nations to rehabilitate and rebuild the government and infrastructure of Turkmenistan,” Thorn said. “In case any hostilities break out between Russia and the United States, the money is cut off forever.”
“What? Russia pay the United Nations to rebuild Turkmenistan?” Gryzlov retorted. “What kind of deal is that? That pissant country was about to be taken over by Taliban desert rats—we saved it from ending up like Afghanistan or Pakistan! We’ve already invested trillions in that country. We’re not going to invest one more ruble into it! Is this what you mean by taking responsibility for your actions, Thorn?”
“I hope you’ll reconsider, General,” Thorn said. “The United States will pledge twenty million dollars to help rebuild Turkmenistan, in the hopes that Russia will match that gift, and we shall also pledge the same amount for the families of the victims of our attack.
“As far as an apology goes—yes, I will apologize to the people of the Russian Federation and the world,” Thorn went on. “In my apology, which will be broadcast live around the world, I will explain why we conducted the attack on your bomber base: I will explain about how your Russian liaison officer murdered President Gurizev; how Russia firebombed Mary, as it did Chechnya, to kill Muslims—”
“That is a lie!” Gryzlov shouted.
“—and I will tell how you sent a Russian fighter plane to shoot down an American diplomatic mission, and how you sent a massive armada to bomb a small city in Turkmenistan into submission so you could invade it with hundreds of airborne commandos,” Thorn continued. “I will explain why we chose Engels Air Base as our target—because Russia was massing over one hundred supersonic long-range bombers there to continue pounding Turkmenistan into the sand so you could walk in and take over.”
“You call that an apology, Thorn?” Gryzlov retorted.
“I call it the truth, General,” Thorn said. “I’m willing to admit to the truth—the question is, are you?”
“This matter is not settled between us, Thorn,” Gryzlov said in English after several long moments of shouting and epithets in Russian. “You will not be permitted to wantonly attack a Russian military base like that—a Russian bomber base. In case you don’t know, I was a bomber commander—your striking that target was like striking at my own children.” There was a slight pause, then, “May I speak with Major General Patrick McLanahan, please?”
The president turned toward Patrick, switched on the speakerphone, then said, “Go ahead, General. General McLanahan can hear you.”
All eyes were on Patrick. “What is it, General?” Patrick asked.
“I know it was you who planned that strike on Engels Air Base, McLanahan,” Gryzlov said. “You spoke with General Kasimov and told him precisely which Russian targets in Turkmenistan were going to be struck and when—you could know all that only if you were in direct command of those attacks as well. This is the same McLanahan who participated in the air attacks against Russian forces in the Balkans and near Zhukovsky Flight Test Center recently. This is also the same McLanahan who participated in attacks against Russian military forces in Lithuania and, I presume, even participated in the attack against the Kavaznya laser ballistic-missile defense site in Siberia some years ago. I am sure that, with a little analysis, we can probably trace your involvement in many other significant covert military actions by the United States over the years—China, Taiwan, Iran.”
