by Dale Brown
It took the team thirty-seven minutes to run twenty miles east of the Khomeini Library—they attracted a lot of incredulous stares from farmers and townspeople, and Hal Briggs was sure there were going to be some frantic phone calls to local gendarmerie, but they continued on without any interference. For safety, they changed their main battery packs for fresh ones before moving into the target area—their batteries were almost depleted, and it would not be prudent to have to defend their destination area with spent batteries installed. Eight miles west of the Kavir Buzurg dry salt marsh and three miles north of a smaller dry lake bed, on the very western edge of the Dasht-e Kavir wastelands, they came across a stretch of paved construction highway in the center of a narrow valley. There were dozens of natural gas wells along the road, and Hal remembered passing a large industrial complex several miles back that had to be the natural gas processing plant for these wells.
In the center of the highway, just east of a bend, sat their objective: an XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane, the “magic carpet” that took them from Dreamland to north-central Iran in less than two hours.
“I was starting to get worried, sir,” Captain Hunter “Boomer” Noble said as the four Tin Men approached.
“We radioed you we were on our way,” Hal said.
“Not about you, sir—I was worried we’d miss lunch back at the Lake,” Boomer deadpanned. “Sounds like it went well.”
“We got lucky, Boomer,” Hal said.
“That Iranian commander sure has balls of steel, eh, General? Not one, not two, but six truck bombs—and he decides he’s going to drive one of them? Gutsy.”
“The man’s a coward, Captain,” Hal said acidly. “He probably said he’d drive one because he’d rather die in a blaze of glory than be tortured or killed by the same bastards he trained to torture and kill.”
“Still, you gotta admit his timing couldn’t have been better. He initiates his attack just before the Pasdaran forms up to attack, and right when you…”
“You want to go back there and give him a big wet sloppy one, Captain, go right ahead,” Briggs snapped. “Otherwise, let’s mount up and get the hell out here. Briggs to McLanahan.”
“I’ve been listening, Hal,” Patrick responded via their subcutaneous global transceiver system. “Good job. We see a possible sign of pursuit—several small vehicles heading your way, about fifteen minutes out. No general defense alert yet, just a lot of confused radio traffic from your area, but I expect they’ll issue a nationwide mobilization order soon. The regular military’s got to get involved sooner or later.”
“We’ll be out of here in ten, if only your boy Noble would just shut his face for a second,” Hal said.
After taking one more security scan of the area to be sure there was no pursuit, the four commandos climbed inside the passenger module in the Black Stallion’s cargo bay. Boomer and his copilot started the engines, and in less than ten minutes they were racing down the highway-turned-airstrip and airborne.
“Just airborne, and we’re already close to emergency fuel,” said the Black Stallion’s copilot. The spacecraft flew east, but only long enough to just clear the Alborz Mountain range on the coast of the Caspian Sea, then they headed north, not more than sixty miles east of Tehran.
“No such thing as ‘emergency fuel’ on this flight, Dr. Page—there’s no friendly place to abort to within range,” Boomer said. “We either reach the tanker or we jettison the passenger module, then punch out.”
“Hey, I signed for this aircraft—no one is ‘punching’ or ‘jettisoning’ anything,” the copilot, Ann Page, said.
“I second the senator’s remark,” Hal Briggs said.
“I told you boys to call me ‘Ann,’” Page said. “Remember it’s costing you a shot of top-shelf tequila at the Bellagio every time you call me something other than ‘Ann.’”
“Crossing the coastline now,” Boomer said. “The computer will start the pre-contact checklist automatically when we’re within fifty miles of the tanker’s Mode Four transponder. You can follow along on the MFD if you’d like; the checklist routine will prompt you when you come to a check and response step.”
“Computers running checklists…what is the world coming to?” Ann mused. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I feel naked without a library full of paper checklists in a cubby around me.”
“You’ll get over it, ma’am,” Boomer said.
“You owe me another shot of tequila when we get home, Boomer—that’s the fifth time you’ve called me ‘ma’am’ on this flight,” Ann said. “By the time we’re back on the ground, I won’t have to buy myself another drink long past I retire.”
“Double or nothing if I plug the tanker on the first try,” Boomer said.
“You’re on—and no using any computers,” Ann said, laughing. She found it incredibly easy to relax with this crew. Although she sounded like a rookie, Ann Page actually had more miles in space than anyone on board the Black Stallion—in fact, she had three times as many miles in space as all of the men and women who wore astronaut’s wings in the U.S. armed services combined.
A native of Springfield, Missouri but a Navy brat who had traveled the world with her father, a nuclear guided missile cruiser skipper who had lost his life in a battle with the Russians in the Persian Gulf over a decade ago, Ann Page had never served in the military but had always been considered just as much a part of the armed forces as anyone who wore a uniform. Thin and athletic, with large green eyes and auburn hair she was unabashedly letting turn gray, Ann could have easily been confused with any female senior general officer—and in fact she was regularly treated as such by military and civilian leaders who knew her.
After receiving several degrees in physics, aeronautical and electrical engineering, and astronautics, Ann became the chief engineer and project manager of the most ambitious and topsecret defense program ever devised: Skybolt, a space-based laser weapon system, installed on Armstrong Space Station, America’s first military space station. Originally designed for the SpaceBased Radar system for the U.S. Air Force, Armstrong Space Station—nicknamed the “Silver Tower” because of its special silvery coating to protect itself from enemy laser attacks—with its two large electronically scanned radar arrays three times as big as a football field had been expanded and transformed from an unmanned radar array to a manned military space station.
Armstrong and Skybolt’s involvement in a Russian invasion of Iran over a decade earlier was crucial, and Ann Page and the station’s firebrand commander, Air Force Brigadier-General Jason Saint-Michael, became instant heroes. But the political controversy that arose over the offensive use of Skybolt—it proved to be just as effective as an anti-aircraft and anti-ship weapon as it was a defensive anti-ballistic missile weapon—became too much of a foreign affairs liability for the American administration. Skybolt was canceled, and Armstrong Space Station was converted once again to an unmanned orbiting platform, with only occasional maintenance visits made.
But the end of Skybolt didn’t mean the end of Ann Page. She continued to work on a variety of military, government, and even private space projects, becoming universally acknowledged as the Burt Rutan of space travel—any innovation, any new spacecraft, any risky or dangerous mission, and Ann Page was flying it. At the age of forty-eight she was elected to the U.S. Senate from California on a pro-military, pro-space exploration, and strong science education platform, even flying several times in space as a sitting U.S. senator, making speeches to Congress and doing TV talk shows and educational broadcasts to schools from space.
When the United States was hit in a sneak attack by the Russian Air Force and over a dozen air and missile bases had been destroyed, Ann Page decided not to run for re-election, and she disappeared from the world stage. What she actually did was join the U.S. Air Force as a civilian space systems designer and engineer, helping to build the next generation of space-based offensive and defensive weapons to help the United States defend itself better from a
nother sneak attack. She was director of a secret program out of Los Angeles Air Force Base that sought to rebuild and redeploy the Skybolt space-based laser system when Patrick McLanahan asked her to join the Black Stallion program at Dreamland.
As compartmentalized as the Black Stallion project was, she had never heard of it before—but when she did, she instantly agreed to join. She had been involved with the America hypersonic space transportation system years ago, a combination scramjet-rocket-powered craft three times larger than the Black Stallion but with almost the same limited cargo capacity. Rapid and flexible access to space was the biggest challenge with working and defending space, Ann knew, and now they seemed to have the answer: the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane. Not only were two of this beautiful little aircraft actually flying, but she had been asked to be in charge of building and standing up the first air wing of these amazing spaceplanes.
Needless to say, she jumped at the chance to work with McLanahan and the XR-A9—not knowing that her first mission was just days later, where she would have to fly into harm’s way. But she was in heaven—back in space, where she belonged, leading a brave bunch of airmen in a race to defend the United States of America, just like before aboard Silver Tower.
Ann heard a soft beep in her helmet and scanned the large supercockpit multi-function display for whatever the ship’s computer was trying to tell her. “Is that the tanker?”
“Yep. Acknowledge the alert…that’s it, hit the F-ten button…you got it, and that’s the computer running the pre-contact checklist,” Boomer said. “Step twenty-one is the first crew-response item. F-ten again to go back to the main…” But another beep stopped him short. “Okay, looks like the computer is telling us that our fuel status is outside the safe contact parameters.”
“Which means…?”
“We’re within five minutes of flame-out by the time we reach the pre-planned contact point, which means we’re in deep shit unless we do something,” Boomer said. “Okay. I don’t think there’s time to send a text message to the tanker, so let’s go ahead and break radio silence, use the encrypted UHF radio, and get the tanker over here now. Hit F-three for the comm panel…” But Ann had already switched over to the proper display. “Aha, good, a fast study. You’ve got the number one radio.”
“Sunshine to Mailman,” Ann radioed.
“Check switches,” came the reply on the channel, a warning that she was broadcasting in the clear on an open frequency.
“You need to give them the code-word for…”
“Screw that, Boomer,” Ann said. On the radio again she said, “Mailman, just put the pedal to the metal and get the hell down here now ’cuz we’re skosh on gas. You copy?”
There was a slight pause; then: “We copy, Sunshine. Pushing it up.” Within five minutes, the fuel warning went away as the tanker accelerated and the rendezvous point moved farther south. Once the two aircraft were twenty-five miles apart, the KC-77 tanker started a left turn heading north along the center of the Caspian Sea, rolling out precisely in front and a thousand feet above the Black Stallion in a picture-perfect point-parallel rendezvous.
“Genesis to Sunshine,” Boomer heard on his encrypted satellite transceiver.
“It’s God on GUARD,” he quipped. “Go ahead, Genesis.”
“Just a reminder: don’t zoom past the tanker on this one,” Patrick McLanahan said. “You’ll have one chance to plug him.”
“Do I have to have someone back home looking over my shoulder from now on?” he asked.
“That’s affirmative, Boomer,” Patrick responded. “Get used to it.”
“Roger that.”
The faster rejoin and precision maneuver was sorely needed, because as the refueling nozzle made contact with the XR-A9’s receptacle, the “FUEL CRITICAL” indication sounded again—they had less than ten minutes’ worth of fuel remaining. “Mailman has contact,” Boomer and Ann heard through the boom intercom.
“Sunshine has contact and shows fuel flow,” Ann acknowledged. “You’re a very welcome sight, boys. Drinks are on me back home.”
“We’re a Cabernet crew, ma’am,” the tanker pilot said.
“The copilot doesn’t like being called ‘ma’am,’” Boomer said. “Now you owe her a shot.”
“The tanker crew’s money’s no good in any bar I’m sitting in,” Ann said. “Just keep the gas coming.”
Hunter Noble rejoined with the tanker once more to top off, turned east over the Caspian Sea, and blasted the Black Stallion over Kazakhstan.
“Boomer, I’m altering your flight plan for your return,” Patrick radioed. “Instead of heading southeast and doing two orbits to line up for landing back at Dreamland, I’m going to have you go north direct for home. I want the Black Stallion turned and ready for another mission ASAP.”
“Fine with me, sir,” the aircraft commander replied. He called up the flight plan being datalinked to his flight control computers and made sure it was being properly received and processed.
“You sure you want to do this, General?” Ann Page asked. “This takes us directly over Russia. We’re only at forty thousand feet now. According to the flight plan we’ll still be below one hundred K and Mach five when we cross the border.”
“I know—that’s well within the lethal envelope of Russian SAMS,” Patrick said. “There’s only one known SA-12B brigade in our flight path, near Omsk. You’ll be at one hundred sixty K altitude and Mach five point one and accelerating when you get close to the known missile batteries. Missile flight time is at least ninety seconds. With that much time you should be out of the missile’s envelope by the time it reaches you.”
Boomer looked at the rear-view monitor in the cockpit and saw Ann Page looking at him through the camera, the doubt evident in both their eyes. “Cutting it awfully close, aren’t you, General?” she asked.
“The problem is initiating the return over Kazakhstan and the lack of secure recovery bases in the north,” Patrick responded. Many of the military air bases in Alaska, Washington State, Montana, Wyoming, and North Dakota were destroyed by the Russian Air Force four years earlier—it would be many years, possibly even decades, before they were inhabitable again. “Flying south over safer territory means an extra orbit, which reduces your reserves, which means bringing you down early at a civilian airfield near Seattle, Vancouver, or Calgary. I’ll do it if necessary, but I’d like to have you land at a military base if possible.
“My calculations show you’ll be out of the SA-12 envelope by the time the missile reaches you—it’ll be close, but you’ll be out,” Patrick went on. “If they fire the less-capable A-model missile or don’t react very quickly you’ll be even safer, but you’ll be OK even going against the B-model SA-12 fired within seconds of coming in range. As always, the final decision is up to you guys. I’ve already put you through a lot on this mission.”
“I’ll say,” Boomer muttered on intercom.
“Unfortunately, you only have a few more seconds to decide,” Patrick said.
“Figures.” He clicked on the radio: “Stand by, General.” He looked at the rear cockpit monitor again into his mission commander’s eyes. “What do you say, Ann?” he asked on intercom.
“I know McLanahan by reputation only—he hired me to help with the program just a few days ago, and I’ve only met with him twice,” she said. “I know he has a reputation of doing what he thinks best, which is not necessarily what his superior officers want.”
“Checks.”
“But he also has a reputation of getting the job done and looking out for the men and women under him. I know everybody blames him for inciting the Russians to attack us and kill thousands of people, but I believe it was because Gryzlov was a nutcase, not because of what McLanahan did, which was protecting his forces from another attack.”
“I don’t know much about what McLanahan did to piss off Gryzlov,” Boomer admitted, “but I do know that McLanahan kicked the Russians’ butt pretty good afterward. He knows what he’s do
ing. And he’s definitely not a glory-hound. I’ve seen the man’s office in the White House—the janitor has a nicer work environment.”
“So you trust him.”
“I trust him.”
“Same here.”
“Maybe they’ll write that on our headstones, huh?” Ann did not respond. “General Briggs? What do you say, sir?”
“We’re just passengers back here, Captain,” Hal Briggs replied. “Whatever you do is fine with us.”
“Not on my ship it’s not,” Boomer said. “Everyone gets a say.”
“I’m all for getting home earlier,” Briggs said. “I’ve put my life in General McLanahan’s hands for most of my military career, and he’s never let me down yet. I don’t think he will this time either.”
“The rest of you guys agree?”
“Affirmative, sir,” Master Sergeant Chris Wohl replied immediately. The other Tin Men responded likewise.
“We who are about to fry salute you, General McLanahan,” Boomer deadpanned. He clicked open the radio channel: “We’re ready to activate the new flight plan, sir.”
“Very good. See you back at the barn. Good luck.”
“I wish he hadn’t said that last thing,” Boomer muttered. He recalled the flight plan and pressed the “ACTIVATE” soft button on his multi-function display. The flight control computer immediately entered the countdown for igniting the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System, and he and Ann had to scramble to complete the pre-programmed countdown holds on time before their flight path window closed on them. Within seconds the engines rumbled to life, and they accelerated quickly and blasted skyward at a very steep climb angle. At Mach three and sixty thousand feet, the computer altered course, and they headed almost directly north toward the Russian border.
“Unidentified aircraft, unidentified aircraft, one hundred and fifty kilometers south of Omsk, this is Russian air defense sector headquarters,” they heard moments later. “Warning, you are entering the Russian air defense identification zone. Respond immediately on any emergency frequency.”
