by Dale Brown
“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 with 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 yo
u, 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 Turkey 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?”
“The B-1 bombers launched,” the National Security Adviser said. The President’s jaw dropped in surprise. “The tower controller at the air base told the crew to hold their position, but there is no crew on those planes—they’re remotely controlled from Elliott Air Force Base in Nevada—”
“McLanahan.”
“McLanahan is still aboard the space station, so it’s his deputy, Brigadier General Luger, in charge of the bombers out of Elliott,” Carlyle said. “I’ve got a call in to Secretary of Defense Turner to order Luger to get those bombers back on the ground. Je-sus…!”
“He is out of control!” the President snapped. “I want him off that space station and in custody immediately! Send a damned U.S. Marshal up there if you have to!”
“Send a U.S. Marshal—into space?” Kordus asked. “I wonder if that’s ever been done before…or if we could get a marshal to volunteer to do that?”
“I’m not kidding around, Walter. McLanahan has to be slapped down before he starts another damned war between us and Russia. Find out what in hell is going on, and do it fast. Zevitin will be on the phone before we know it, again, and I want to assure him everything is under control.”
BATTLE MANAGEMENT AREA, BATTLE MOUNTAIN AIR RESERVE BASE, NEVADA
THAT SAME TIME
“Headbanger Two-One flight of two is level at flight level three-one-oh, due regard, Mach point nine-one, thirty minutes to launch point,” the mission commander reported. “Due regard” meant that they had terminated all normal air traffic control procedures and were flying without official flight-following or civil aviation monitoring…because they were going to war.
Two officers sat side by side in a separate section of the BATMAN, or battle management area, at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base in northern Nevada, seated at what appeared to be a normal computer workstation that might be used by a security guard or securities day trader…except for the jet-fighter-style joysticks. On each side of the officers were two enlisted technicians with their own bank of computer monitors. The men and women in the room talked into their microphones in muted voices, bodies barely moving, eyes scanning from monitor to monitor. Only an occasional flick of a finger on a keyboard or hand rolling a cursor with a trackball led anyone to believe anything was really happening.
The two officers were piloting two unmanned EB-1C Vampire supersonic “flying battleships” which had launched from their forward operating base in eastern Turkey across northern Iran. Three high-resolution monitors showed the view in front and to the sides of the lead bomber, while other monitors showed performance, systems, and weapons readouts from both planes. Although the two bombers were fully flyable, they were usually flown completely on computer control, reacting autonomously to mission commands entered before the flight and deciding for themselves what to do to accomplish the mission. The ground crew monitored the flight’s progress, made changes to the flight plan if necessary, and could take over at any time, but the computers made all the decisions. The technicians watched over the aircraft’s systems, monitored the electromagnetic spectrum for threats, and looked over incoming intelligence and reconnaissance data along the route of flight that might affect the mission.
“Genesis copies,” David Luger responded. He was back at the battle staff area at Elliott Air Force Base in south-central Nevada, watching the mission unfold on the
wall-sized electronic “big boards” before him. Other displays showed enemy threats detected by all High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center aircraft and satellites and other allied sensors operating in the region. But Luger’s attention was drawn to two other displays: the first was the latest satellite imagery of the target area in eastern Iran…
…and the second was of the satellite space tracking data, which at the moment was blank.
“They’re taking down the laser stuff in a pretty big damned hurry,” Dave commented. “They must have guessed we’d send bombers to blast the hell out of that base. I’m not sure if we’ll get there in time, Muck.”
“Push ’em up, Dave,” Patrick McLanahan said. He was monitoring the mission as well from the command module on Armstrong Space Station. “Get a tanker airborne to meet the bombers on the way back, but I want those missiles on the way before the Russian cockroaches scatter.”
“Roger, Muck. Stand by. Headbanger, this is Genesis. Odin wants the bombers to attack before the target scatters. Push up the bombers and say status of the support tankers.”
“Already got the alert tankers taxiing out, Dave,” the commander of the Air Battle Force’s air forces from Battle Mountain, Major General Rebecca Furness, responded. “He’ll be airborne in five minutes.”
“Roger that. Odin wants the Vampires pushed up as much as you can.”
“As soon as the tanker’s within max safe range, we’ll push the Vampires up to Mach one point two—that’s the max launch speed for the SkySTREAKs. Best we can do with the current mission parameters.”
“Suggest you erase the one-hour fuel reserve for the tanker and push up the Vampires now,” Luger said.
“Negative—I’m not going to do that, Dave,” Rebecca said. Rebecca Furness was the U.S. Air Force’s first female combat pilot and first female commander of a tactical combat air unit. When Rebecca’s Air Force Reserve B-1B Lancer unit at Reno, Nevada, was closed and the bombers transferred to the High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center for conversion into manned and unmanned “flying battleships,” Furness went along. Now she commanded the five tactical squadrons at the new Reserve base at Battle Mountain, Nevada, composed of converted manned and unmanned B-52 and B-1 bombers, unmanned QA-45C stealth attack aircraft, and KC-76 aerial refueling tankers. “We’ll get them, don’t worry.”
