by Ward, Steve
An anonymous voice from CIA, referred to as “Imaging,” was also active on the network. Imaging was the strategic centerpiece, the eyes of the operation.
The clock seemed to be running slow. Pace sat at his control console making small-talk with Gleason who was a pile of nerves. Gleason glanced at the Doomsday box by his side and tried to fathom the act of authorizing a nuclear counterstrike. He nibbled at one fingernail, eyes shifting back and forth across the monitors.
“What if one gets through?” he asked.
“If that happens sir, we’ll nuke ‘em ‘til they glow,” Pace chortled. “Light up their goddam way to paradise.”
Some fifteen minutes after Alpha-Bravo, the tension built to a climax. It was tough fighting a war by remote control. Outside of authorizing a preemptive strike, all Gleason could do was sit by and wait for the enemy to make a move.
Pace showed his frustration, constantly checking on communications.
“All right, all DefComs, one more time, I want another commo check in sequence over.”
“DefCom 1 online.”
“DefCom 2.”
“DefCom 3 here.”
“DefCom 4 standing by,” Christina checked in.
“Hello, Big Daddy, Imaging is on the watch and reporting in. No action yet sir, but we’re on it.”
“Goddammit Imaging! Can we hold down on the chatter for Christ sakes! Keep your responses brief. This ain’t no quilting bee.”
“Imaging, over.”
“What if we’re looking in the wrong place?” Gleason asked. “Could missiles be on the way?”
“Don’t know why it’s takin’ so long sir. Somethin’s fuckin’ wrong.”
“Intel?”
Finally the call came. “Imaging. . .I mean. . .Big Daddy, sir, we’re sending you the video. We got action. . .Iran. . .Grid 2-d, we have a launch! Just outside of Sari. Check that. That would be two launch signatures, two birds out of the box.”
“Roger, Imaging. DefCom1, do we have assets in range?”
“Yes sir, four drones. We’re on it, all attacking, two on each missile. Target acquisition and heat seekers fired. Hold one, hold one. . .no joy, they went for the silo. Standby, all missiles released. . .they’re tracking. . .Woah! Big blast! Got one. . .hold. Yes sir, we did it, got ‘em both. Two ICBMs destroyed as they cleared the silo. That’ll teach those bastards!”
Bolstered with the thrill of success, Pace tried to stay calm. “DefCom 1, direct all active drones to that grid and standby.”
“Yes sir, but what if. . .”
“Big Daddy, this is Imaging. Oh my, God! Sir, two more. . .we have two more launches, same area.”
“DefCom1 any assets?”
“Negative, Big Daddy. . .shot our wad. No armed drones in range. All remaining assets are on the way, ETA ten minutes.”
“Shit, that’s too late! DefCom 1, does Patriot have the launch out of Sari? We got two more birds outta the cage accelerating through five-thousand.”
“Not yet sir, we’re moving radar imaging to that grid. Patriot’s armed and ready as soon as a signature pops up above the horizon.”
“Call me when you got it.” Pace took a deep breath and held it. He looked at the President, and they both looked at the clock.
“Big Daddy, DefCom 1, all missiles armed.”
“Stand at the ready,” Pace ordered. “Should pop up any second.”
“Big Daddy, Defcom 1, Yes, yes we have two signatures! Patriot activated, determining friend or foe.”
“It’s foe goddammit! Pull the fucking trigger!”
“Yes Sir, but Patriot won’t. . .wait one. . .there they go. Four AMMs--anti-missile-missiles--away.”
It was only a couple of minutes, but to Gleason it was an eternity. To think that nuclear warheads were actually on the way to the United States. Even with a lifetime of military training for just such a moment, Pace looked white as a sheet. Finally, the Iranian launch site appeared on the monitors. The pictures were replayed from the first drone to arrive on the scene.
“Look!” Pace exclaimed. “Those bastards had it under the fucking sports center in Sari,” he grumbled.
At long last the report came from Defcom 1 in Iraq, “Pariots engaged!” A cheer came up in the background. “Yes sir, they’re tracking, ten seconds, five, four, three, two, one. Cablooee! Direct hit, both birds destroyed at 35,000 feet. Vaporized, goddammit, vaporized!”
Gleason and Pace joined the chorus of cheers. They yelped like drunken spectators at a soccer game. High-fives were flying everywhere.
“Four birds launched, and four destroyed. Not bad,” Gleason said with a fist raised.
“Attention DefComs, I want all local assets on that location. Defcom 3, I want MIRVs armed and ready to counter the Sari location. Defcom 1, get a B-2 in there with some two-thousand pounders.”
“Roger. On the way.”
“Big Daddy, DefCom 3, NORAD armed and assets at the ready. All we need is the President’s code release, over. They’ll take 1 hour 27 minutes to reach the target.”
“Shit, an hour and a half? I used to think that was damn fast; now it seems a snail’s pace.” Pace was mostly talking to himself.
“Big Daddy, Defcom 1, Stealth approaching Sari, ETA ten minutes.”
Gleason grabbed the mike, “All DefComs, this is President Gleason. Regardless what happens, I want that B-2 in there with deep penetrators. I want that goddam soccer stadium and the adjacent buildings turned into a massive crater. I wanna see some shock and awe.”
Pace looked at Gleason bewildered. It was common knowledge that the military called him “milk toast.” Pace lifted his eyebrows in wonderment and smiled at the President.
Gleason sucked in air and heaved out his chest. “So. . .what? I know how to fight.”
DefCom 1 came back, “Roger that, Mr. President. ETA seven minutes.”
Gleason was feeling much better about his tiered defense strategy. He slapped Pace on the back and said, “Keep ‘em comin’ General.” He jumped up and down like a kid in a candy store.
Pace gave him a sneer. “Gotta keep our heads, Sir. It ain’t over yet.”
“Hey, we’re four for four,” Gleason beamed.
“Yeah, but it only takes one. We haven’t seen the Russian threat. Better stay on our toes.”
“Big Daddy. . .Big Daddy, Imaging; we have a fifth launch, same location.”
“DefCom 1, do you have it?”
“Roger Big Daddy, Predators in range sir. Engaging.”
“Fire at will DefCom 1.”
“Yes sir, Spikes away. . .Mah Gawd. . . Look at that. Yes sir, got that one too! Confirmation, fifth missile destroyed.”
Pace stared at the monitors nervously for the next several minutes expecting more launches from Sari, but none came. A beehive of drones circled the soccer field awaiting the arrival of the stealth bomber.
Chapter Twenty
General Pace worried about the accuracy of his intelligence. He knew the Russians planned to launch two ICBMs, but the location of the silos and the intended targets were in doubt. He wondered why they were holding back. Maybe, they don’t want to get their ass kicked like the Iranians, he hoped. The day was off to a great start, the Iranian threat decimated, and their aggressive actions well documented for the UN. As a growing world power, Iran was history. There would be a total embargo including oil, and the economy would collapse under its own weight. No doubt, it was the stuff of revolution.
Pace got up and walked around the confines of Air Force One. He was getting antsy. After Gleason gave him a stern look, he went back to his console.
“All DefComs, Big Daddy, anything out of the North?”
“Imaging, not yet, sir, all quiet. We’re sequencing through every known site.”
Pace wondered why the Russians were stalling. They were monitoring a very large area, but it wasn’t clear if coverage was absolute. He worried that a launch might slip by undetected.
“All DefComs, all DefComs, is ther
e any possible way the Ruskies can get one off without our knowledge?”
“Big Daddy, Imaging. No way sir, we have the entire country blanketed with radar, much of it covered with real-time imaging. If they launch, we’ll see it.”
“Big Daddy, this is DefCom 1. Tell the Big Guy we have his B-2 over the target in Sari. Permission to attack?”
“Hell yes!” Gleason snarled. “Permission granted. Level the friggin’ place.”
“Bombs away!”
It took a few more minutes for the B2 to deliver its return Christmas gifts. Precision laser guidance distributed an array of 2,000 pounders across the soccer field and its surroundings. Pace could hear another huge cheer that went up at Imaging as the entire sports complex was pulverized. Massive after-explosions lit up the sky with the destruction of volatile fuels. What had remained of Iran’s nuclear war-chest, remained no more.
Pace beamed with pride when he saw it on his monitor. He grumbled his approval. He shook the President’s hand, then got back on the air. “All DefComs. . .all DefComs, stay on the ready. We know they have at least ten of those birds. Look for another launch site. Stay alert. Imaging, anything. . .out of the North?”
“No sir, not yet. . .check that. . .yes, we have a bogey, a launch signature. . .wait one. . .grid 2-7-Foxtrot; it’s out of Omsk. Four clicks northeast of Omsk, on the western border of Siberia. No resources there. Repeat, we have no assets in that location.”
Pace felt a sharp pain in his midsection. He called his commander in Turkey. “DefCom 2 did you read that transmission, over?”
“DefCom 2, loud and clear, sir. Omsk is on the outer edge of our capability. AMMs armed and ready, but range is a problem. When we see it pop up, it may be too late.”
Pace called Christina, “DefCom 4 we have a launch out of Omsk in western Siberia and no local resources. May need you on this one, Commander.”
“Roger that, sir,” she snapped back a reply. “We’re over northern Europe, moving toward Moscow now. Can you give me the trajectory?”
“Imaging. Sir, we have a second launch, but something doesn’t compute. Radar data shows they’re not heading west like the Sari missiles. Just the opposite: east! Looks like China. That’s it! Trajectory track says Beijing and Hong Kong.”
“Oh shit! They’re goin’ for the goddam Chinks,” Pace let it slip.
“Imaging, this is NASA mission control,” Udahl knew what to do. “Can you uplink the radar data to us pronto? We’ll have to see if our resources are in play.”
Christina’s heart sank. With the suborbital missiles on a trajectory west to east, rendezvous would be that much more difficult. They would have to get lucky enough to fall within a narrow window of opportunity. With the ICBMs moving in the same general direction as the shuttle, calculations would have to be made in a matter of seconds to see if intercept was even possible. The dust cloud attack mode depended on a high relative velocity.
Pace was puzzled what to do. This scenario was not in the game plan. He turned to the President, “Sir you’d better get the Chairman on the horn and let him know he’s under attack. Also make sure he knows where they’re coming from, and that we are doing everything we can to put a stop to it. If he launches a counterstrike, it’ll set off a chain reaction.”
“Gotcha,” the President reached for his hotline to Chairman Lee.
Pace called Christina again, “Defcom 4, they’re heading east. Does that take you out of the picture?”
“Not sure, sir. Ground is uploading the coordinates now. We may be able to get there if our DROIDs have enough fuel. We’re going through the numbers.”
* * *
“New Hope, New Hope, mission control,” Udahl sounded calm.
Christina wondered how he always managed to stay so cool. Must have ice in his veins, she thought. “This is New Hope.”
“Gonna be close, but we need to get those DROIDs moving, forward thrusters now. We want you to move the shuttle in formation until you’re in range to strike. Navigation data is being uplinked as we speak. Good hunting Commander.”
“Roger, sir. We’re rollin’.” Christina and John McCormick worked together in rapid succession. She marveled at the sight of four DROIDs flying in formation with the shuttle as they modified their orbit. The shuttle had to stay near enough to maintain the remote control data link; maximum separation was limited to twenty miles. After ten long minutes, the orbit of New Hope neared the apogee of the first Russian nuke. In minutes the ICBM would be decelerating for reentry.
Christina called the action, “We have one target on the radar sir. DROID is attacking.”
“Defcon 4, you’re gonna have to hustle,” Pace replied. “Permission granted to engage target ASAP.”
“Copy that.” She looked at McCormic who gave her the thumbs up. “DROID closing; ETA three minutes.”
McCormic came on the intercom, “I don’t think that dust pack is enough to take it out in this orientation, so I’m going to override the closing velocity and ram it. The video tracking system should take it right to the point of collision.”
“Will that work?” She hadn’t considered it. It was designed with a proximity fuse, but such a high-speed approach to collision had neither been tested nor simulated.
“If we ram it, it’ll blow.”
“Well, ram it then,” she made the call.
McCormic called the final approach, “Range one-thousand meters approaching at 100 meters per second, and accelerating. Explosives armed. Standby, forward thruster, two-hundred meters per second. Three, two, one, we have contact and detonation. You betcha! Yahooo!” he chortled.
“Michael, check that radar,” Christina said.
“Cross-section shows debris in five large pieces separating. Looks like a clean kill Commander.” He looked to her with a big smile.
“You damn right; I knew it’d work. We blew the shit out of it!” McCormic roared with laughter.
“Big Daddy, this is New Hope, target one destroyed.” She switched to Udahl. “Mission Control, we need immediate uplink for target two.”
Suddenly, out of nowhere, there was a thud, more of a jolt that took her breath away. What was that? Christina felt a stab of panic. Oh my God. . .debris! They were some twenty miles from the target, and she hadn’t expected it. A booming noise shook the entire structure. She knew what it was, and held her breath for the consequences. Any penetration of the skin meant instant death. Serious damage to the tiles meant death on reentry.
Michael turned to her with a knowing look of dread. The shuttle began to roll, then tumble. She dove for the stick and wrestled with the thrusters. Finally, the spacecraft stabilized, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
There was no time to report the impact. Trying to remain calm, she spoke to the crew, “All right people, we’re okay. Any major damage and we’d know it by now. We got a job to do, so buckle up and let’s get ‘er done.” She got back on the horn with a determined voice, “Get that fucking data to us right now, Udahl, or it’ll be too late!”
“Roger Commander, check your uplink. You must proceed to the new orbit within thirty seconds, I repeat thirty seconds, or it’s over.”
“Got it, we’re moving.” Christina and McCormic sorted out the remaining DROIDS. She was sweating profusely. Struggling to stay together in formation, they maneuvered the Shuttle toward the second Russian nuke.
“New Hope, Mission Control,” said Udahl, “target is five-zero-zero miles and closing, eleven o’clock. Target firing retros, rapidly decelerating for reentry. Relative velocity minus 5,000 and growing to ten. Your only chance is to deploy remaining DROIDs in the burst mode behind the target. Drop the cloud in its reverse path, and get the hell out of there.”
“Got it on radar, sir. DROID acquisition, closing. McCormic you got that? Lay ‘em in behind. Gonna to have to eyeball a burst before impact.” Christina hit her forward thrusters to climb to a higher orbit.
“Gotcha,” McCormic was concentrating on the display, sweating bullets,
working the remotes to control both DROIDs. “We’re right on closing trajectory, relative velocity minus nineteen-K, five seconds, four, three, two. . .detonation!”
