by Dale Brown
“Loud and clear, sir,” replied Lieutenant Colonel Franklin “Wishbone” McBride, the most senior member of the alert birds and task force commander, flying as aircraft commander aboard the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber.
“Did you contact PACAF yet, Wishbone?”
“Negative,” McBride said. “I wanted to get all the alert birds in their orbits and settled down, and then I was going to send a B-1 to look over the runway which you’ve already done, get everybody back on the ground, then ask for instructions. We copied your report about the base, and we could see your Sniper video over JTIDS. Looks like we can still use runway two-four left okay.”
“What are you talking about, Wishbone?” Patrick asked. “We’ve got missions to fly. I’m down to just Sidewinders for air-to-air, but we’ve still got JASSMs and HARMs. Let’s get on it. We’re wasting fuel.”
“What missions, McLanahan?” McBride asked, forgetting to address the retired general with more respect. “I was there when Cutlass explained it to you: the missions on our computers are not real.”
“Cutlass is probably dead, McBride,” Patrick said. “Is that real enough for you? I looked at some of those targets—they looked real enough to me, and when a SAM comes up we’ll be shooting at the real thing.”
“You’re insane, McLanahan!” McBride exclaimed. “You can’t fly that jet all the way to China and back! It’s illegal! You have no authorization! Those planes don’t belong to you!”
“You’re wrong there, McBride—they do belong to me,” Patrick said. “The Air Force just rents them from me. And I’ve never been told by the Air Force that our missions aren’t real. Are you going to fly the strike mission or not, McBride?”
“There are no strike missions, McLanahan!” McBride cried. “Don’t you get it? It’s all for show. Now get off the radios and let me coordinate getting our asses back on the ground!”
“Call up the strike plan, Brad,” Patrick said on intercom. Brad had it loaded in seconds. “Masters aircraft, head for ARCP number one. Check in.” The ARCP, or Air Refueling Control Point, was common to all the strike plans for all aircraft.
“Zero-Five copies,” Ed Gleason responded.
“Zero-Nine, wilco,” Sondra Eddington replied.
“One-One, roger,” replied Sam Jacobs, one of the young nonex-military pilots hired by Sky Masters for the Excalibur project.
“One-Four, roger,” Tom Hoffman replied.
“What in hell do you think you’re doing?” McBride exclaimed. He obviously saw the XB-1s leaving their assigned parking orbits on his JTIDS display. “Get back in your damned anchors, now!”
“Masters flight, switch to KBAM Uniform,” Patrick ordered.
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Five.”
“Punch in Battle Mountain’s UHF tower freq for me, Brad,” Patrick said.
“Done.”
“Masters flight, check.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Five.” Everyone had figured out what Patrick had in mind.
“Why’d you do that, Dad?” Brad asked.
“Because I knew all the Battle Mountain guys would know the frequency, but I’m betting the Air Force guys won’t,” Patrick explained. “I don’t want to listen to McBride yelling at us.”
“So we’re going to bomb China, Dad?”
“Unless you don’t want to do this, Brad,” Patrick said. “I didn’t have any time to ask you. Like you said, you came along just to do an evacuation, not a combat mission. I don’t even know if you know how to work the offensive systems—we won’t have the remote systems operators working with us.”
“I think I can work it.”
Patrick looked over at his son. “Are you okay with all this, Brad?”
“I think so, Dad,” Brad said in a low voice. “I mean, I want to be there for you, and if I say no you’d have to turn around, land, and find somebody else to go—or maybe they wouldn’t let you take off again. I’m . . . I’m just . . .”
“What, son?”
“I’m just afraid if I chicken out,” Brad said. “I mean, I’ve never been in combat before except in the Cybernetic Infantry Device, and that thing kicks butt so bad it’s really not fair to call it combat.” The Cybernetic Infantry Device was a manned robot that gave its pilot incredible strength, speed, vision, and attack capabilities, akin to an entire armored infantry platoon; Brad had been checked out in it and had gotten to use it to ambush and capture terrorists who were out to kill his father. “I’m just worried I’ll wimp out on you.”
“Everyone is worried about that, Brad, no matter how experienced you are,” Patrick said.
“Even you, Dad?”
“Of course,” Patrick admitted. “I’m leading my son and four other crews and four other bombers into battle against the largest army and the fourth-largest air force in the world. You don’t think I’m scared of that? But I think of what we saw back at Andersen Air Force Base, and I think of what the Chinese did and what they’ve done in the past, and I know I need to do something.” Brad fell silent. Patrick keyed the mic button: “Masters flight, I know you might think this is loco. If you don’t want to risk it, you can head back to Andersen with the others.”
“We’re not leaving, General,” Ed Gleason said. “We’re lucky we weren’t on the ground when those bastards hit us. I’m not going back without a little payback.”
“Three,” Sondra radioed.
“Four,” said Jacobs.
“Five,” Hoffman replied. “Goes double for me.”
“Thanks, guys,” Patrick said. He looked at the flight plan. “I’ve got one hour and twenty minutes to the start-countermeasures point. Check over your equipment and weapons and let me know any problems, and study your targets and threats and let’s talk about it. And thanks again for leaning into this with me.”
THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THAT SAME TIME
“What the hell happened?” President Ken Phoenix asked as he strode into the Situation Room. “What do you have, Bill?”
“Two formations of twelve Chinese H-6 bombers, consisting of four aerial refueling tankers and eight cruise-missile-carrying bombers, attacked Andesen Air Force Base on the island of Guam,” National Security Adviser William Glenbrook said. He motioned to the large wall-sized electronic chart. “The bombers were accompanied by eight J-20 advanced fifth-generation fighters that shot down two F-22 Raptors and an E-3 Sentry radar plane.”
“What?” the president exclaimed. “My God . . . !”
“The bombers then launched supersonic cruise missiles believed to be AS-17s from a range of about five hundred miles,” Glenbrook went on. He looked directly at the president, reading the unspoken question in his face. “The cruise missiles were not nuclear tipped, Mr. President, but they destroyed the air base’s command center, fuel storage, electrical grid, put one runway out of commission, and destroyed or damaged a half-dozen aircraft on the ground. The air-to-air missile-armed bombers, fighters, and the Patriot missile batteries installed on Guam probably kept the losses down significantly, but the air base is definitely crippled. We are investigating to see if there’s been any damage to other airfields in the vicinity.”
“Jesus,” Phoenix breathed. Then he said decisively, “Go to DEFCON Two.” DEFCON Two was just two steps away from going to all-out nuclear war: it instructed units to load all nuclear-capable aircraft and ships with nuclear weapons, deploy and disperse assets to alternate operating bases, man command centers and emergency reconstitution sites, increase security at all bases to a wartime posture, and move key military and government personnel and equipment to remote locations to be able to operate in case of attack.
“Secretary Hayes has authenticated the order, and we are at DEFCON Two,” Glenbrook reported a few minutes later. “He is en route to Andrews right now to board the E-4.” The E-4B was the National Airborne Operations Center, or NA
OC, a modified Boeing 747–200 loaded with extensive communications and control equipment to be able to direct U.S. forces worldwide in case ground-based command centers were destroyed or rendered ineffective. Formerly based at Offutt Air Force Base in Nebraska before the base was destroyed by a Russian cruise missile, the four E-4B aircraft were dispersed and moved to other bases around the United States following the American Holocaust; one was always based in the Washington, D.C., area for use by the president, vice president, or secretary of defense. “The vice president is en route to Site-R.” Site-R was the Raven Rock Military Complex, an underground communications and alternate command center in Pennsylvania just a few miles north of Camp David, Maryland.
“How in the hell did those bombers get within range of Guam?” the president asked. “Didn’t we have air patrols up?”
“The Chinese bombers were intercepted by two F-22 Raptor fighters when they were six hundred miles away from Guam,” Glenbrook went on. “While they were making visual identification, they were jumped by the J-20 fighters. Several Chinese fighters were shot down, but our guys were simply outnumbered. They blew past the Raptors and took down the AWACS radar plane, and at that point the Chinese fighters had the advantage. The J-20 is probably equal to the Raptor in every way.”
“Did any of our planes survive?”
“Yes, sir,” Glenbrook replied. “Initial reports say we still have one B-2A Spirit stealth bomber, one B-52H Stratofortress bomber, one B-1B Lancer bomber, five XB-1 Excalibur bombers, two F-22A Raptors, two F-15 Eagles, and four tankers,” Glenbrook said.
The president’s mouth dropped open in complete shock. “You . . . you mean . . . that’s it?” he asked.
“Those are all the long-range strike and air defense aircraft we have in the entire western Pacific theater, sir,” Glenbrook said. “We have a handful of F-22s and F-15s still in Hawaii, another handful in Alaska, and the six XB-1 bombers are preparing for deployment in Nevada. Sir, under DEFCON Two, I suggest moving the Nimitz carrier strike group west of Hawaii. The Chinese crippled Guam—Honolulu could be next.”
“Honolulu!” the president exclaimed. “No way in hell I’m allowing any planes to get within cruise missile range of Honolulu!”
“What do you want to do, sir?” Glenbrook asked.
“What are our options?” the president asked. “Where are the carriers?”
“The closest one available is the Ford, currently in the Java Sea,” Glenbrook said, referring to information on his tablet computer. “The Nimitz is in the western Pacific, but you ordered it back to assist in the defense of the Hawaiian islands. Two Ohio-class ballistic missile subs are also in the western Pacific.”
Glenbrook stopped, and the president’s eyes widened in shock. “That’s it?”
“With the threat from China after they released that nuclear depth charge, we didn’t dare send any carriers or subs into the South China Sea,” Glenbrook said. “The bombers on Guam were the only other force we put together other than the few fighters we have deployed in Japan and Korea, and even they were there just as a show of force.”
“Now we don’t even have that,” the president said. He looked at Glenbrook in astonishment. “Are you saying that the only option we have right now is . . . an attack with sea-launched ballistic nuclear missiles?”
“Unless we send in the Pacific carriers, sir,” Glenbrook said. “But we’d have to send them in within a few hundred miles of shore, well within the range of their antiship ballistic missiles and supersonic cruise missiles. They could get overwhelmed. And if we lost even one carrier, the loss of life would be tremendous—almost double that of 9/11.”
“My God,” Phoenix said. “I’m actually going to have to consider a nuclear attack on China.” He thought for a moment. “How about limited attacks on targets far from population centers?”
“We have contingency plans available for small-yield nuclear missile attacks on isolated targets in China—long-range radar installations, mobile ballistic missile launch pads, nuclear weapon storage facilities, coal mines, oil fields, that sort of thing,” Glenbrook said. “General Conaway can brief you on those. But I think the better option would be to attack their ballistic missile submarine bases and land-based ICBM silos to minimize the threat to the United States, and then deal with the mobile nuclear missiles as best we can. We would have to coordinate those plans with our Pacific allies—they’re more vulnerable to mobile missiles than we are.” He paused, then added, “There are two more options.”
“What are they?”
“The first: threaten to attack and destroy their cities,” Glenbrook said.
“That’s insane—they know I would never do that unless the United States was attacked with nuclear weapons,” the president said. “What’s the other option?”
“Agree to terms,” Glenbrook said. “No military forces in the South China Sea. China has complete and unfettered control. We don’t interfere with their domination and control of the islands or resources in the South China Sea, what they call the first island chain.”
“What the hell does that give us, Bill?”
“Time,” Glenbrook said. “Time to rebuild our naval, long-range air, and space forces.”
“It sounds like surrender to me, Bill.”
“We have few options, sir,” Glenbrook said. “Either we use our strategic nuclear forces to destroy China’s ability to attack us and our allies with nuclear weapons . . . or we bargain for terms.”
“And hope they don’t attack us anyway,” the president said. “Schedule a meeting with the national security staff right away. I need everyone’s input on this.”
EASTERN CHINA, NEAR MACAU
ALMOST TWO HOURS LATER
“Unidentified aircraft inbound!” the radar controller shouted into his intercom. “Bearing zero-eight-zero, range two hundred kilometers, speed two hundred kilometers an hour! Multiple targets inbound!”
“Issue an air defense alert to all batteries,” the commander of the air defense sector ordered. “Multiple unidentified aircraft approaching at medium speed. Report when all systems ready. What is the target’s altitude?”
“Altitude is steady at one thousand meters, sir,” the controller reported. “Sir, all batteries report ready to . . .” And at that instant the controller’s digital radar scope seemed to waver and freeze for a few seconds . . .
. . . and when it came back, the screen was filled with targets, thousands of them, all reporting the same airspeed, direction of flight, and altitude! “Sir, I am being jammed!”
“Shut down, damn you!” the commander shouted. “Transfer intercept to S-300 primary sector engagement control! Alert all radar units to switch to agile frequency mode if they are getting any jamming!”
The first volley of ten AGM-158 Joint Air to Surface Standoff Missiles, two from each XB-1 Excalibur launched simultaneously, took advantage of the jamming and spoofing from the bombers’ SPEAR electronic data intrusion system and plowed into the heart of the Chinese coastal radar network sixty miles southeast of the city of Guangzhou, destroying the large long-range radars and fixed air defense radars and surface-to-air missile emplacements arrayed along the coast.
Still ten minutes from crossing the coast, the formation of XB-1 bombers had fanned out along a sixty-mile front, line abreast, heading in at six hundred miles an hour. They would take turns turning on their AESA radars to update the tactical situation and to look for fighters or other air traffic. They had descended to four hundred feet above the water, high enough to avoid most obstacles like ships but low enough to avoid long-range radars.
Patrick and Brad were in the center of the attacking line, aimed directly at the People’s Liberation Army Navy base at Zhongshan. Brad found himself grasping at the glare shield around the top of the instrument panel at every bump of turbulence or when some light flashed by. He had never gotten airsick before, but he had never flown at almost the speed of sound just four hundred feet above the water either—if they survived this,
he thought, I have a lot of cleaning up to do. “You okay, Brad?” Patrick asked.
“I think so,” Brad said weakly. A threat warning appeared on his MFD. “SA-N-12, twelve o’clock, thirty miles.”
“Touch the warning box,” Patrick said. A smaller window opened on the MFD with a diagram of the Excalibur showing the weapons remaining. “Now touch the ‘HARM’ icon, and touch again to confirm. It should give you a request for consent.”
“Yes.”
Patrick reached over to his left instrument panel, opened a red safety cover, and flipped a switch. “Pilot’s consent on.”
Brad did the same on his right instrument panel. “Consent switch up.”
“Hit the ‘ENGAGE’ box, then watch your eyes.” Brad hit the screen, and seconds later there was a tremendous flash of light as a HARM missile shot from its launch rail and sped off into the dark sky. Patrick looked over and saw Brad rubbing his eyes. “I warned you. That missile motor is pretty big. Your eyes should be okay in a minute.” Seconds later, just as his eyes cleared, the “SA-N-12” warning went away. “Good shooting.”
“It’s just like a video game,” Brad said. Another warning sounded. “Missile launch! SA-11, one o’clock!”
“Unreel the decoy,” Patrick said. Brad touched a computer soft key on the screen, which deployed the ALE-50 towed decoy from a canister in the tail. Patrick glanced out the right windscreen. “See that bright light that looks like a really bright star? That’s the SA-11.”
“You can see it coming at us?” Brad exclaimed.
“We’re not sure if it’s homing on us—it could be one of the other Excaliburs,” Patrick said. “Watch that spot on the windscreen. If it doesn’t change positions, it’s heading for us.”
“I don’t see it moving . . . it’s gone!”
“The motor burned out. Now it’s coasting in on us. Give me a burst on the AESA.” Brad activated the radar with a nervous touch on the screen. “Left chaff, now,” he said calmly, and as Brad hit the touch screen, Patrick threw the bomber into a tight right turn. Brad thought his head was going to snap off his neck! “Check trackbreakers and SPEAR!”
