Strike Force

by Dale Brown

  “It’s Buzhazi, General…he’s here, and he’s got the army, the air force, and large numbers of civilians with him and his insurgents,” the controller responded. “Over fifty thousand insurgents, regular army, and civilians are on the base right now, grabbing everything they can carry and smashing anything they can’t. We’re evacuating the headquarters…”

  “Evacuating…!”

  “My last task before trying to get out of here is to send you the attack message, and here I still am, with an angry mob less than five hundred meters away ready to twist my head off, arguing with you! It might be too late to get out of here already.”

  The duty officer quickly read through the dispatches, and the shock and fear in his eyes told Sardaq that what the frantic, terrified Pasdaran command center senior controller was telling him was the truth. “The army? The army is helping the insurgents?”

  “Don’t waste time asking stupid questions, General,” the senior controller said, the fear rattling his voice now. “The base will fall into rebel hands soon, and then the capital and the government will fall along with it unless they are stopped. The order to attack comes from the Pasdaran commanding general himself, and he received the orders from the chief of the national security directorate. If you don’t believe me, take it up with them. I’m getting out of here. You have your orders. Kill the bastards before they take over the whole damned country.” And the connection went dead.

  Sardaq was completely dumbfounded as he dropped the phone to the desk. “I don’t believe it,” he finally muttered after a long, stunned silence. “Insurgents are overrunning Doshan Tappeh…and the fucking army is helping them!” He turned to the duty officer. “I want the battle staff in here in five minutes with a complete briefing on the status of our attack preparations.” Before the duty officer could pick up the phone to issue the orders, General Sardaq grabbed him by his tunic. “And I want you to warn the regimental commanders that if I learn even one member of their organization is dragging his feet, I’ll personally shoot him in the head. Now move!”

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  “Contact, sir!” one of the new sensor operators aboard Armstrong Space Station crowed. The technician was dressed in a simple blue jump suit and wore Velcro sneakers and Velcro patches on his knees and forearms to help keep himself attached to various places in the main operations section of the station. Three other sensor and computer operators, all newly arrived at Silver Tower to operate its reactivated sensors, were similarly dressed and similarly attached to various parts of the module, studying multi-function touch-screen displays of satellite imagery all around Iran. “Target area two has activity!”

  “About damned time,” Colonel Kai Raydon snorted. “Okay, gang, let’s get ready to rumble.” He switched his console’s display to that operator’s screen. It showed a real-time NIRTSat ultra-wideband radar image of what appeared to be tractor-trailer rigs suddenly appearing out of nowhere in the middle of the mountains of western Iran. The radar image was precisely tuned by computer to squelch out terrain and forest returns and only show moving metallic returns. “Yep, we’ve got the cockroaches coming out of the woodwork for sure.” He flipped on the secure satellite communications channel. “Genesis, this is Odin, you got a copy on our Polaroid?”

  “Roger, Odin,” Patrick McLanahan responded from the White House Situation Room. The high-definition television monitors in the White House conference room had been set up to display images from not only Silver Tower’s sensors but from hundreds of other aircraft, satellite, and surface ship sensors as well, or a mosaic of all sensor data put together.

  “Right where you said they’d be, General,” Raydon remarked. He watched as the station’s computers, networked in with the computers on the ground at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center’s operations center, started calculating the proper orbital mechanics to intercept the mobile missile launchers. “Odin to Stud One-Three, how are you doing down there?”

  “Happy to be back and ready to go, Odin,” Captain Hunter “Boomer” Noble responded. He was on the ground at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center in Nevada, pulling “cockpit alert” in the second of two remaining XR-A9 Black Stallion spacecraft. Noble had been back in the United States for less than a day before being tasked for another mission, but he didn’t hesitate to accept the assignment. “Thanks again for not grounding me, Genesis.”

  “No problem, One-Three,” Patrick replied. “Glad you feel up to it.”

  “We need all the swinging dicks we can to fly, kid,” Raydon said. “Are you getting the pictures and the orbital insertion data?”

  “Roger,” Hunter replied. A fiber-optic data cable connected to the spaceplane was busy feeding orbital information, weapon ballistics data, and precise position updates to the Black Stallion’s flight and payload computers. As he read, the computer beeped at him, warning him that the “BEFORE POWER ON” checklist was underway. He acknowledged the built-in countdown hold. “Looks like I’m counting down, guys,” he said. “I’ll talk to you once I’m airborne.”

  “Contact, sir!” another sensor operator shouted. “Target area five!”

  “Looks like we’ve got another fish on, Genesis,” Raydon said. He switched to the new target. This one was the most unlikely area they had under surveillance, but if they did detect activity it would be one of the most important ones to address. “Got bad news for you, Genesis: your old friend the Shahab-5 launch site is active.” He studied the latest images from the launch site. “I don’t see any rockets on the launch pad—you took care of the last one very nicely—but the latest ultra-wideband radar scans we took from the Tower tell us they have three occupied silos out there. It’s fair to say they’re all Shahab-5s, and some might have nuclear warheads.”

  “Any chance they could be decoys, Odin?” Patrick asked.

  “You’re the ex intel guru, sir,” Raydon said, peering at the radar images even more closely. “The ultra-wideband radar system installed on Armstrong Space Station has the capability of seeing underground, but atmospheric, angle of sight, and target composition conditions have to be perfect, and with our eighties-era computers we can’t always get a good detailed image even if we are lucky enough to get the perfect shot. The underground missile silos at Kermān are obviously Russian-designed hardened suckers. I just can’t call it for sure, Genesis. The Iranians claim the Shahab-5s are just satellite boosters, and the silos are just secure storage facilities. I don’t buy that for a second.”

  “Neither do I, Kai,” Patrick said. “But we don’t have many assets out in-theater, and I need an assessment of the threat.”

  “Sir, if Iran has issued this alert because of what’s happening in Tehran right now,” Raydon said, “there’s no reason I can think of for them to be warming up a space launch vehicle. I think they’re going to launch their big boys. And we know what the target will be.”

  “Diego Garcia,” Patrick said.

  “It’s the only logical target, sir,” Raydon said. “They can hit Israel, Egypt, Turkey, and all our bases in the Middle East with their Shahab-3s. Most of the bombers that hit Iran back in ’97 came from Diego—the Iranians know that, or if they don’t they’re not as smart as we give them credit for. And if our ‘good friends’ the Russians are sharing intel with them, which we definitely think they are, the Iranians would know that we’ve got stealth bombers out there. They’re going after Diego, sir—I’m positive. Almost.”

  “Almost?”

  “As positive as I’m ever going to be, General,” Raydon said. “If I thought the Iranians had the know-how, or got it from the Russians, the only other logical target for the Shahab-5 would be Silver Tower.”

  “And unfortunately we don’t have the Thor defense systems up and running yet,” Ann Page chimed in from her console in the station’s anti-missile laser’s control module, “so we can’t protect ourselves from up here.”

  There was a pause on the channel; then: “Bo
omer, I’m going to re-task your flight. Stand by.”

  A few moments later: “Updates downloading, sir,” Noble reported. “Genesis, are you sure you wouldn’t want to send Stud One-One on this one and let me take the Strongbox?”

  “I’ve sent you into enough hot target areas, One-Three,” Patrick replied. “You’re going to take out the Shahab-5s. I’ll give One-One the Strongbox.” Both XR-A9 spaceplanes were loaded with air-to-ground weapons—a BDU-58 Meteor re-entry carrier, carrying three 1,500-pound U.S. Air Force AGM-170D “SPAW” missiles, or Supersonic Precision Attack Weapon. The SPAW was a two-stage solid-motor and scramjet–powered missile with a range of over one hundred miles and a top sustained cruise speed of over five times the speed of sound. It used GPS and inertial en route navigation which gave it near-precision accuracy, but then its course to impact could be fine-tuned by datalinks from satellites, target designators on the ground, or by other aircraft. These D-model missiles were specially modified by the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center with thermium nitrate high explosive warheads that gave them an effective explosive yield of ten thousand pounds of TNT.

  “It’s likely to be pretty hot out there near that launch area,” Boomer said. “Maybe I ought to take it instead of the ‘new guy.’” The “new guy” was Lieutenant Colonel Jack Olray, who was new to Dreamland and the XR-A9 project with just two orbital Black Stallion flights to his credit, but was a combat veteran and experienced test pilot.

  “The ‘new guy’ will do just fine, One-Three,” Patrick said.

  “We can handle it, One-Three,” radioed Benneton from the second Black Stallion, then added, “Thanks for your vote of confidence.” Boomer knew enough not to try to return her snide remark over the command channel—it would only encourage her to keep on giving him grief.

  Besides, his countdown seemed to be progressing faster and faster, and soon they’d be underway. His crew mission commander, U.S. Navy Lieutenant Lisette “Frenchy” Moulain, another newcomer to the unit, was impatiently prompting him to acknowledge each countdown hold within seconds of it popping up on their screens. With Frenchy’s almost constant urging, it seemed only seconds later when they closed up the cockpit and were moving out. Boomer noticed Olray and Benneton closing their cockpit canopies as they taxied clear of the hangar—they would be airborne shortly afterward.

  Boomer and Frenchy made their first refueling over northern Arizona, then requested and were cleared for a supersonic cruise-climb while over southern New Mexico. They cruised at eighty-five thousand feet and Mach three for just an hour, then descended just east of Puerto Rico for their second refueling. Now safely over the Atlantic Ocean northeast of Venezuela, they accelerated to Mach ten, turned slightly northeast, then began their eight-minute orbital insertion burn. By the time they had crossed the Atlantic Ocean and reached the coast of Africa near Sierra Leone, they were at seventy-seven miles altitude and traveling at twenty-five times the speed of sound.

  “Everything OK back there, Frenchy?” Boomer asked after they were established in orbit.

  “Of course. If it wasn’t, I’d tell you. Why did you ask?”

  “That’s my way of calling for a station check,” Boomer explained.

  “Then why didn’t you say that?” Boomer scowled at the rear cockpit monitor but said nothing. “I’m in the green, oxygen and pressurization good, and the payload shows safe with full connectivity and continuity. The ‘Before Release’ checklist is underway. Eighty-three seconds until the first countdown hold.”

  “Thank you,” Boomer said. Sheesh, he thought, why does Dreamland attract women like these? Aren’t there any…?

  Suddenly there was a steady “DEEDLE DEEDLE DEEDLE!” warning tone, and the message “EARLY WARNING RADAR DETECTED” flashed on the screen. “One-Three, I’m picking up a very strong long-range early-warning radar at your twelve o’clock position,” Raydon radioed. “It’s unidentified—it’s not Iran’s air defense radar.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on it for you and analyze it as soon as possible,” Patrick said. “We show you about three minutes to release.”

  “That checks,” Boomer said. He checked his position: near the southwest corner of Sudan and Egypt in east Africa, within sight of the Red Sea. There wasn’t much he could do about this new threat except perhaps turn right and get away from land, but it was equally possible that this radar was on a warship. Well, early-warning radars were meant to be large and powerful. He forced himself to relax.

  “Stud One-One is safely in orbit and on track,” Raydon reported. “Three minutes to release point, reporting everything in the green.” Boomer knew that Olray’s mission took him on a much more highly inclined track, zooming over the Baltic states and Belarus before launching their Meteor payload. The track was designed to keep them as far away from Russian airspace as possible. Fortunately the desired orbit was perfectly aligned with the optimal track for the Meteor re-entry vehicle, so it wouldn’t waste too much energy having to maneuver to get into position before releasing the JSOW missiles.

  “Last countdown hold,” Moulain announced. “MC’s release consent switch to ‘CONSENT.’”

  “Roger.” Boomer reached for a red switch guard, broke the thin safety wire, lifted the guard, and hit the switch. “AC’s consent switch to ‘CONSENT.’” It was one of the high-tech Air Force’s nods to the old two-person crew concept of having two mechanical safety-wired switches physically separated from one another that had to be actuated manually before any weapons could be released.

  “Roger. Crew consent entered, everything’s in the green, countdown is…”

  “It’s the laser fire control radar!” Patrick radioed. “The Russians installed a Kavaznya laser in southern Iran?”

  “We’ve had the area under satellite surveillance for days, Genesis,” Raydon said, “and we haven’t seen a thing. There’s been normal truck traffic going in and out of the missile site at Kermān. They couldn’t possibly have gotten a laser set up out there in such a short time!”

  The radar threat warning receiver sounded again, this time with the warning, “HEIGHT-FINDER ACTIVE. They’ve got a pretty good lock on One-Three,” Raydon said. “He’s forty seconds to the launch point. What do you want to do, Genesis? If he releases the Meteor, I think that’s when they’ll fire the laser. Do you want him to withhold?”

  “It’s a bluff, Genesis,” Boomer said. “Like Odin said, they couldn’t have gotten a big laser out here quick enough. They want us to withhold.”

  “Zevitin warned us that Russia would act if we attacked Iran,” Patrick said. “This could have been what he was talking about.”

  “I’m ready to withdraw consent, Cap…” Moulain said.

  “Keep your hands away from that switch unless I tell you otherwise, Lieutenant!” Boomer shouted over the intercom. “It’s a bluff, Genesis,” Boomer repeated over the command channel. “Let’s do this thing.”

  There was a long pause on the channel, going almost all the way to the end of the countdown; then, Patrick radioed: “Continue, One-Three.”

  “Good choice, sir,” Boomer muttered. “Final release check, MC.”

  Moulain verbally ran through the eight steps of the checklist, then verified that the computer had already configured the system for release. “Checklist complete. Stand by on the bay doors…doors coming open…payload away…doors coming…” At that instant the threat warning receiver blared again, this time with a fast-paced “DEEDLEDEEDLEDEEDLE!” tone, and the monitor warning read “MISSILE WARNING” and “LASER ILLUM,” meaning they were being hit by a laser. “They got us!” Moulain cried out. “They’re firing the laser!”

  “Relax, Frenchy, relax,” Boomer said. He was fixated on just one readout—the exterior skin temperature. “It must be a targeting or rangefinder laser—hull temperature hasn’t moved.” He checked the rear cockpit monitor and saw Moulain frantically scanning her own readouts, looking for confirmation. “Just keep your protective visor down. We’ll be over their horizon i
n a minute or two.”

  The Meteor re-entry vehicle fired its small retro-rocket to slow itself down, then assumed a nose-high attitude as it started to descend through the atmosphere. As it slowed to below Mach ten, the mission-adaptive systems on board activated, and the craft began to do a series of S-turns to slow itself down even more. As the atmosphere got denser the mission-adaptive flight controls became more and more active, and the Meteor was able to fully maneuver.

  “Meteor passing through one hundred thousand feet, range two hundred,” Moulain reported. “Still in the green. Threat warning receiver has identified the target illuminator as an SA-12 ‘High Screen’ sector scanner…passing through seventy-five thousand, range one-fifty…coming within SA-12 lethal range…now.” The SA-12 “Giant” surface-to-air missile system was one of the most advanced anti-aircraft systems in the world. Purchased from Russia and widely publicized, the SA-12 was designed to protect Iran’s most valuable nuclear weapons production facilities from stealth bomber and cruise missile launches as well as from attack aircraft.

  Another threat warning tone sounded, this time with the text warning “MISSILE LAUNCH. SA-12 in the air,” she reported. “SPAW missiles powering up, and data transfer in progress…thirty seconds to separation…second SA-12 is up…another SA-12 in the air…SPAW missile data transfer complete, missiles ready to go…now we have an SA-10 target acquisition radar up…coming up on separation point…now.”

  The Meteor vehicle split apart and ejected its three weapons. The AGM-170D SPAW missiles stabilized themselves in the slipstream, took their initial GPS satellite position and velocity updates, did a fast self-check, then fired its first-stage solid-motor rocket engine. In less than twenty seconds the SPAW missiles had accelerated to Mach three and streaked across the sky toward their assigned targets. A few seconds later, the first two SA-12 missiles plowed into the empty Meteor vehicle, blowing it to bits.

  When the SPAW missiles’ motor casings were empty, small air intakes on the SPAW missiles’ bodies extended. The interior shape of the motor casing compressed the incoming supersonic air. Fuel and a spark were introduced, and the missiles’ scramjet engine flared to life. Seconds later the missiles passed Mach five. The SA-10 anti-aircraft missiles had a max speed of Mach six, but their solid-fuel rocket motors had already burned out so they were simply coasting toward a spot in space where their targeting computers predicted their quarry would be. The more they turned to chase down the SPAW missiles the slower they flew, until seconds before intercept they could no longer maintain altitude and simply fell to Earth.