by Dale Brown
“Now you’re getting the idea, Major.”
“When can I get the intel you have, sir?”
“I’m sending it now. I need a game plan drawn up and ready to brief to the powers that be in an hour.”
“An hour…?”
“Is there something wrong with this connection, Major?”
“No, sir. I heard you. One hour. One more question?”
“Hurry it up.”
“What about my request to change the unit call-sign, sir?”
“Not again, Major…”
“That was Briggs’ call-sign, sir, and I need to change that name. Not only do I hate it, but it reminds the guys of their dead former boss, and that detracts from their mission focus.”
“Bill Cosby once said if it was up to him he would never have picked a name for his kids — he would just send them out onto the street and let the neighborhood kids name him,” Patrick said.
“Bill who?”
“When it’s time to change the unit’s name, Major, the entire unit will come to me with the request.”
“It’s my unit, sir.”
“Then prove it,” Patrick said. “Get them ready to roll immediately, learn how to use the tools I’ve busted my butt to get you, and show me a plan — drawn up as a unit—that will get the job done and get approved right away. Get on it, Major. Genesis out.” He broke the connection with a stab at the button so hard that it almost detached him from his Velcro perch. For Pete’s sake, Patrick thought, he never realized how lucky he was to be working with the men and women under his command and not true prima donnas like Macomber. He might be one of America’s premier specials ops commandos, but his interpersonal skill set needed some serious re-evaluation.
After taking an exasperated sip of water from a squeeze tube, he reopened the satellite link: “Odin to Condor.”
“Condor here, secure,” the senior controller at the Joint Functional Component Command-Space (JFCC-Space) command post at Vandenberg Air Force Base, California, responded. “Saw you on the news a bit ago. You looked A-OK, sir. Good to see you’re feeling okay. That Megyn is a fox, isn’t she?”
“Thanks, Condor, but unfortunately I never saw the host, so I’ll have to take your word for it,” Patrick responded. “I have an urgent reconnaissance assessment alert and request for ground ops tasking message for the boss.”
“Roger that, sir,” the senior controller responded. “Ready to copy whenever you’re ready.”
“I’ve detected a possible covert re-establishment of an illegal Iranian air base in the Persian Republic, and I need eyes-only confirmation and tasking authority for a shutdown if it’s verified.” Patrick quickly ran down what he knew and what he surmised about the Soltanabad highway airbase.
“Got it, sir. Sending to JFCC-Space DO now.” The DO, or deputy commander of operations for Joint Functional Component Command-Space, would report to his commander after assessing the request, investigating availability of forces, gathering intelligence, and computing an approximate timeline and damage expectancy. It was time-consuming, but probably kept the commander from being inundated with requests for support. “We should get a message back soon if the DO wants to act. How do you feel, sir?”
“Just fine, Condor,” Patrick responded. “Sure wish I could upload my requests directly to STRATCOM or even SECDEF,” Patrick remarked.
“I hear you, sir,” the controller said. “I think they’re afraid you’ll bury them with data. Besides, no one wants to give up their kingdoms.” In a convoluted and rather frustrating mix of responsibilities, tasking and coordination for air missions involving Armstrong Space Station and HAWC’s unmanned B-1 and B-52 bombers flying over Iran had to be channeled through two different major commands, who both reported directly to the President through the national security staff: JFCC-Space in California, who upchanneled the information to U.S. Strategic Command (STRATCOM) in temporary headquarters in Colorado and Louisiana; and to U.S. Central Command (CENTCOM) at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, which handled all military operations in the Middle East and central Asia. CENTCOM and STRATCOM’s different intelligence, plans, and operations staffs would go over the data separately, make their own recommendations, and present them to the Secretary of Defense and the President’s National Security Adviser, who would then make recommendations to the President.
“I don’t understand why these reports should go to STRATCOM at all,” Patrick groused. “CENTCOM is the theater commander — they should get reports, draw up a plan of action, get approvals, and then task everyone else for support.”
“You don’t need to convince me, sir — if you ask me, your reports should go directly to SECDEF,” the senior controller said. There was a slight pause; then: “Stand by for Condor, Odin. Good to talk with you again, General.”
A moment later: “Condor-One up, secure,” came the voice of the Fourteenth Air Force’s commanding officer, Air Force Major General Harold Backman. The commander of the U.S. Air Force’s Fourteenth Air Force, Backman was “dual-hatted” as Joint Forces Component Command-Space, or JFCC-S, a unit of U.S. Strategic Command (which had been destroyed in the Russian air attacks against the United States and was being reconstituted in various locations around the country).
JFCC-S was responsible for planning, coordinating, equipping, and executing all military operations in space. Before McLanahan, his High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, and the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplanes, “military operations in space” generally meant the deployment of satellites and monitoring space activities of other nations. No longer. McLanahan had given JFCC-Space a global strike and ultra-rapid mobility capability, and frankly he didn’t feel they were yet up to the task.
“Odin here, secure and verified,” Patrick said. “How are you doing, Harold?”
“Up to my eyeballs as usual, sir, but better than you, I’m guessing. The duty officer said he saw you on TV but you cut off the interview suddenly without warning. You okay?”
“I got a COMPSCAN warning and got right on it.”
“If it scared the piss out of one of my controllers, it’s going to panic the brass, you know that, right?”
“They should learn to relax. Did you get my data?”
“I’m looking at it right now, Muck. Give me a sec.” A few moments later: “I’ve got my intel chief looking it over now, but it just looks like a bombed-out highway airbase to me. I take it you don’t think so?”
“I think those craters are decoys, Harold, and I’d like some of my guys to go out there and take a look.”
Another slight pause. “Khorasan province, just a hundred miles from Mashhad — that area is controlled by Mohtaz and his Revolutionary Guards Corps,” Backman said. “Well within armed-response distance from Sabzevar, which certainly has a lot of Pasdaran hiding out there. If Soltanabad is really vacant, you’ll still be in the teeth of the storm if the bad guys spot you — and if it’s active like you said, it’ll be a meat grinder. I assume you want to go in with just a couple of your robots, right?”
“Affirmative.”
“Thought so. Your gizmos up there can’t give you any more detailed imagery?”
“Our only other option is a direct flyover by a satellite or unmanned aircraft, and that’ll alert the bad guys for sure. I’d like to get a peek first before I plan on blowing the place, and a small force would be the fastest and easiest.”
“How fast?”
“I haven’t looked at the orbital geometry, but I’m hoping we can launch them within four, have them on the ground in seven, airborne again in eight, and home within twelve.”
“Days?”
“Hours.”
“Shit,” Backman cursed. “Pretty friggin’ unbelievable, sir.”
“If I had my guys based up here, Harold, like I briefed you and STRATCOM I’d like to do, I could possibly be out of there and back home in four hours.”
“A-friggin’-mazing. I’m all for that, Muck, but I think that idea is just boggling too many mi
nds down here on plain old planet Earth. You know that we’ve been directed by the National Command Authority to restrict all spaceplane missions to resupply and emergency only, right?”
“I consider this an emergency, Harold.”
“I know you do…but is it really an emergency?”
Patrick swallowed down a flare of anger at being questioned about his judgment, but he was accustomed to everyone second- and third-guessing him, even those who knew and liked him. “I won’t know for sure until I get some of my guys out there.”
“I don’t think it’ll be authorized, sir. You still want me to ask the question?”
Patrick didn’t hesitate: “Yes.”
“O-kay. Stand by.” The wait was not very long at all: “Okay, Muck, the DO of STRATCOM says you can get your guys moving in that direction, but no one puts boots — or whatever the hell your robots wear on their feet — on the ground, and no aircraft crosses any lines on any maps, without a go-ahead from CENTCOM.”
“Can I load up a few Black Stallion spaceplanes and put them in orbit?”
“How many, and loaded up with what?”
“One or two with operators, staggered and in different orbits until I can get a firm A-hour; one or two cover aircraft, loaded with precision-guided weapons; perhaps one or two decoys that will double as in-orbit retrieval backups; and one or two Vampire bombers airborne from Iraq ready to destroy the base if we find it to be operational.”
“That many spacecraft might be a hard sell — and the armed spacecraft might be a deal-breaker.”
“The more I can forward-deploy, and the more support stuff I get into orbit, the quicker this will be over, Harold.”
“I get it,” Backman said. The pause was longer this time: “Okay, approved. No one crosses any political boundaries in the atmosphere without a go-ahead, and keep the re-entry weapons tight until given the green light.” He chuckled, then added, “Jeez, I sound like friggin’ Battlestar Galactica Commander Adama or something. Never thought I’d be okaying an attack from outer space in my lifetime.”
“It’s the way things need to be from now on, my friend,” Patrick responded. “I’ll have the complete package plan out to you within the hour, and the air tasking order for movement of spacecraft will be out to you sooner. Thanks, Harold. Odin out.”
Patrick’s next videoconference call was to his battle management area at Elliott Air Force Base: “Macomber notified us that you had given him a ground op in Iran and that he was in a time crunch to do some planning, so we’ve already jumped in,” his deputy commander, Brigadier General David Luger, said. The two navigators had been together for over two decades, first as fellow B-52G Stratofortress crewmembers and then assigned to the High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center as aircraft and weapon flight test engineers. Tall, lean, quiet, and deliberate in personality as well as appearance, Luger’s best attribute was acting as Patrick McLanahan’s conscience whenever his irascible, determined, single-minded side threatened to obliterate all common sense. “We should have something for you in no time. The guy’s fast and pretty well organized.”
“I knew you’d be on it, buddy,” Patrick said. “Surprised to hear from Whack?”
“Surprised? How about thunderstruck?” Luger deadpanned. “Everyone in the Air Battle Force goes out of their way to avoid the guy. But when he gets down to business, he does okay.”
“Any thoughts on Soltanabad?”
“Yeah — I think we should skip the prelims and just put a couple spreads of SkySTREAKs or Meteors with high explosives down there, instead of wasting time inserting a Battle Force team,” Luger replied. “If the Iranians are hiding something there, our guys will be landing right on top of them.”
“As much as I like blowing things up, Texas,” Patrick responded, “I think we should get a look first. If those craters are really decoys, they’re the best I’ve ever seen, which means—”
“They’re probably not Iranian,” Luger said. “You thinking maybe the Russians?”
“I think Moscow would like nothing better than to help Mohtaz destroy Buzhazi’s army and station a few brigades there as his reward,” Patrick said.
“You think that’s what Zevitin wants to do?”
“An American-friendly state in Iran would be completely unacceptable,” Patrick said. “Mohtaz is a nutcase, but if Zevitin can convince him to allow Russian troops into Iran to help defeat Buzhazi’s army — or for any other reason such as defending against American aggression — Zevitin will be able to send in troops to counterbalance American domination in the region. At the very least, he can put pressure on President Gardner to back away from supporting former Soviet bloc countries that are drifting into the American sphere of influence.”
“All that geopolitical stuff makes my head hurt, Muck,” Dave said with mock weariness. Patrick could see Dave’s attention diverted away from the videoconference camera. “I have the first draft of the plan ready — I’ll upload it to you,” he said, entering instructions into his computer.
“Okay, Muck, here’s the preliminary status reports,” Luger went on moments later. “We have two Black Stallion spaceplanes available within four hours along with their dedicated tankers and enough fuel and supplies for orbital missions, and three available in seven hours if we cancel some training sorties. Macomber says he can get loaded up in time to launch. How do you want to build the air tasking order?”
Patrick made fast mental calculations, working the timing backward from when he wanted the Black Stallion off the ground and out of Persian airspace. “I’d sure like to have decoys, backups, more intel, and more rehearsals for Whack and the ground forces, but my primary concern is getting a good look at that base soon without the Revolutionary Guards being alerted,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get approval for two Studs to go in right away. If we launch in four hours, we’ll be over the objective by midnight to one A.M. local time — let’s call it two A.M. to be safe. We recon for one hour max, blast off before civil sunrise, refuel somewhere over western Afghanistan, and head home.”
“The ‘Duty Officer’ is spitting out the preliminary guesstimate for the air tasking order,” Luger said. The “Duty Officer” was the central computer system based at the High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center that tied in all of the various departments and laboratories around the world and could be securely accessed by any member of HAWC anywhere in the world — or, in the case of Armstrong Space Station, around it. “The biggest question mark we have right now is the KC-77 tanker support for the exfiltration aerial refueling. Our closest XR-A9-dedicated tanker is at Al Dhafra Air Base in the United Arab Emirates, which is two hours’ flight time to the closest possible refueling point over Afghanistan. If everything worked absolutely perfectly — they loaded the tanker without mishap, got all the diplomatic and air traffic clearances in a timely manner, et cetera — they’d make a possible rendezvous spot over western Afghanistan just as the Black Stallion goes bingo fuel.”
“And when was the last time we ever had a mission go completely flawless?”
“I don’t recall that ever happening,” Luger reassured him. “There are several emergency landing sites in that area we can use, but they are very close to the Iranian border, and we would need a lot of ground support to secure the base until fuel arrived. We can move recovery teams into Afghanistan to assist in case the Stud has to make an emergency landing, or we can push the mission back a couple days…”
“Let’s push ahead with this plan,” Patrick said. “We’ll present it as is and bring in as many contingency assets as we can — hopefully we won’t need any of them.”
“You got it, Muck,” Dave said. “I need to…stand by, Patrick…I have a call from your flight surgeon at Walter Reed. He wants to talk with you.”
“Plug me in, and stay on the line.”
“Roger that. Stand by…” A moment later the video image split in two, with Dave on the left side and the image of a rather young-looking man in Navy Work Uniform camouflage
blue digital fatigues, typical of all military personnel in the United States since the American Holocaust. “Go ahead, Captain, the general is on the line, secure.”
“General McLanahan?”
“How are you, Captain Summers?” Patrick asked. U.S. Navy Captain Alfred Summers was the chief of cardiovascular surgery at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center and the man in charge of Patrick’s case.
“I saw your interview this morning,” the surgeon said testily, “and with all due respect, General, I was wondering where you got your medical degree from?”
“You have some problems with what I told the interviewer, I take it?”
“You made it sound like long-QT syndrome can be cured by taking a couple aspirin, sir,” Summers complained. “It’s not as easy as that, and I don’t want my staff blamed in case your request to remain on flight status is denied.”
“Blamed by whom, Captain?”
“Frankly, sir, by the great majority of Americans who think you are a national treasure that should not be sidelined for any reason whatsoever,” the physician responded. “I’m sure you know what I mean. In short, sir, long-QT syndrome is an automatic denial of flight privileges — there’s no appeal process.”
“My staff has been researching the condition, Captain, as well as the medical histories of several astronauts who have been disqualified from space duties but still retained flight status, and they tell me that the condition is not life-threatening and might not be serious enough to warrant a denial of—”
“As your doctor and the leading expert on this condition in the United States, General, let me set it straight for you if I may,” Summers interjected. “The syndrome was most likely caused by what we call myocardial stretch, where severe G-forces deform the heart muscles and nerves and create electrical abnormalities. The syndrome has obviously lain dormant for your entire life until you flew into space, and then it hit full force. It’s interesting to me that you obviously experienced some symptoms during some or perhaps all of your space flights, but then it lay dormant again until you had a mere videoconference confrontation — I’d guess it was equally as stressing as flying in space, or maybe just stressful enough to provide the trigger for another full-blown episode.”
