The Guardian Collection (End of the Sixth Age Book 2)

by Col Bill Best

  Karen grabbed her phone and a few other things and put them into a small case.

  “No!” Roger yelled over the noise. “Magnetic!”

  “Yes,” she hollered back and held up the case, smiling. “Shielded!” She stuffed the case inside the one small compartment beside the steps that was reserved for future avionics and climbed the ladder into the back seat.

  Roger was only seconds behind her, and he paused long enough at the top of the ladder to make sure she knew how to buckle in and attach her helmet, mask, and headset. She was already secure and connected! He jumped into the front seat. Before he could actuate his switch to retract the ladder into the fuselage, she had already hit hers and was also lowering the canopy.

  “Comm check?” he asked into his mic.

  “Loud and clear, ‘Commander.' Let’s light this thing off.”

  She never ceases to amaze.

  The text reader started speaking.

  “From Justin. Roger, Cliff has taken off in System Two. General Alvarez also has word that two Russian strategic bombers are heading toward Hawaii. We suspect that this may be like the missile attack, designed to increase tensions and lead to government overthrows. We don’t know if the bombers are armed or not, but we suspect that Cliff is going to attack them. He’s flying without optical stealth. Probably less than full speed for several reasons. If he goes around Mach Four, he should be there in 80 minutes. Can that baby hold Mach Twelve-point-Five?”

  “From General Alvarez: Justin’s message confirmed. Launch and try to intercept System Two. Destroy it if it takes unprovoked hostile actions against Russians. Suspect bombers are unarmed. Repeat, not armed.”

  “Well? Can it?” Karen asked, as Roger lined up on the runway and gunned the turbojet. In seconds, they’d cleared the runway and the wheels were retracted.

  “Maybe Twelve-point-Six with you here; better weight distribution. Hold on!” Roger said and lit the SRBs.

  “Wow! I could get used to this!” she squealed as the thrust slammed them back in their seats.

  Roger ignored her for the moment.

  “Message to Justin and General Alvarez: ‘If he’s going to attack, he’ll have to drop to a lower altitude and slow down. I assume the bombers are stealth against radar, but his LIDAR should still work if the weather’s clear. Any clouds? Send.”

  “Karen, I doubt that our weather radar will work against System Two. We’ll have to use our LIDAR as well.”

  The magnets were superconductive.

  57. REACTION

  Saturday, 1730 EST (Sunday, 0130 Moscow):

  Two more hours back to Moscow. Another long day.

  Maybe they’ll get everything right this time.

  As he had over six months ago, Anton was awaiting his call over the secure maintenance net radio. The co-pilot was also waiting for his signal. Virtually everyone on board was asleep, and no one would think anything of the flight engineer going down into the lower compartment. Just routine checks.

  Altitude of 40,000 feet, enough fuel to divert once all but the co-pilot and Anton were dead, and the world restructuring would begin. As soon as they confirmed the American president and key leaders were dead, he’d be notified and key leadership in Russia would be eliminated as well. Same plan. Decompress the aircraft, and everyone would grab for oxygen masks. But no oxygen would flow, because Anton had turned off the supply valves. Only he and the copilot, who would have slipped out of the cockpit to use the latrine, would have on portable oxygen bottles. Within minutes President Viktor Savin and his staff would be corpses. Take the plane off autopilot and drop below radar coverage.

  Some kind of international crisis would be kindled, apparently through an aircraft attack. New American and Russian leadership would step forward with a lot of saber-rattling, then stand down and look like heroes. Imams would turn loose imbedded Jihadists, thinking they were doing the work of Allah, to launch massive attacks in the United States, Russia, throughout Europe, and, of course, against Israel. Nations would clamp down and initiate martial law. The entire world would change—forever—in just a few days.

  Anton wasn’t privy to all the details. Didn’t want to be. He had his orders, his very considerable compensation, and he was already promised a key position as flight engineer for the Russian Premier—or whatever he chose to call himself.

  After miserable decades of long hours and poor pay, which was often weeks late at that, Anton and his family would never lack for anything again.

  He expected the call within another hour or so.

  + + +

  Saturday, 1800 EST:

  President Garcia approached the podium, and the crowd grew subdued. As he often did in such venues, he dressed “business casual” and expected the same from everyone else.

  “Please. Keep enjoying the food and conversations. As you finish up, if you’ll start working toward your tables, I’d like us to get started by 6:15.”

  In typical President Garcia style, he didn’t have an emcee, moderator, or facilitator to host his events. He was a worker, a leader. This was his meeting, and he was going to run it.

  “I sincerely thank you all for being here. We still have a lot to do, but I wanted each of your teams to present the recommendations you’ve been working on over the past six months.”

  The Baltimore Conference Rooms were set up in “classroom” style. Attendees had ample room to bring their hors d’oeuvres and beverages to their tables, then spread their materials out and also take notes on their handouts during the upcoming presentations.

  As he stepped back down to his own table, Vice President Manfrida picked up her purse and walked out as if to go to the bathroom. Within five minutes, Chet had personally escorted her to one of the farthest rooms from the convention, on the lowest floor of the hotel side of the complex.

  As Juan Garcia again stepped to the podium, he looked around and spotted Charles, the Speaker of the House. As planned, he was seated at a table at the rear of the conference room, near an exit. Good.

  Juan felt comfortable leaving the Presidency in either of their ethical and highly capable hands. If anything was going to happen tonight, he’d go out knowing he’d done everything he could to ensure the constitutional republic would continue. And if some bad guys needed a lightning rod, well, here he was.

  Chet walked back to the convention center, listening carefully to the random roll-call. Rather than set times where potential enemies could plan attacks between call-ins, the roll-calls were computerized and voice-monitored, conducted between three and seven minutes apart. Once begun, if an agent couldn’t answer when polled, he or she would be skipped and then randomly polled again. If they didn’t respond at that time, two back-ups would dispatch to their last known location. The low frequency, spread spectrum radios were extremely difficult to jam and were also able to travel through most walls, floors, and roofs.

  Chet responded to his call-sign and continued walking. Suddenly the roll-call was interrupted.

  “What the… We’re under attack from the harbor!” It was one of Chet’s men on a fifty Cal. “A small ship, smaller than the Coast Guard cutters, just torpedoed them. Blew them both out of the water! It’s coming toward us like a speed boat!” The sound of his fifty Cal drowned out anything else he might have said.

  “Evacuate everyone to Zone One now! All backup personnel, head to the riverfront!” Chet ordered. He was already in the auditorium and quickly moved to the microphone. President Garcia stepped aside.

  “Everyone, follow me! We’re under attack. We’re going to put some extra walls between them and us.”

  With that he quickly led the group toward the front of the center further away from the shore, but not too close to the front in case there might be a coordinated attack launched from that direction.

  Both Fifty Cal guns along the shoreline were silent. Ominous, thick plumes of smoke billowed up from their temporary embankments.

  Approaching at over thirty miles per hour, the stealth gunship’s
sensors had quickly neutralized them. From the bank, security personnel pummeled the craft with small arms fire and sniper rifle bullets, which simply bounced off the angular metal hull and heavy canopy of the never-fielded prototype. Matthews had held onto the small, high-speed stealth ship for years, with his OWPN-trusted personnel continuing to upgrade sensors, software, and weaponry. The large, red Russian star on the side were a last-minute addition. Never mind that the small vessel couldn’t have traveled all the way across the ocean, nor entered into North American territorial waters even if the Russians had intended to do so.

  Ports opened on the top, and in quick succession three small missiles launched in an upward arc which would lead them to impact directly down on the center of the convention side of the complex. Any single missile would likely have killed all intended targets. Matthews was taking no chances. The first two were armed with penetrating high-explosive warheads to open up the roof and gut out the building. The third one, and then a final fourth, would deliver overpressure detonations that would kill any survivors inside and reduce the building to a very deep crater.

  + + +

  Saturday, 1820 EST:

  Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

  The unearthly scream of Guardian System Two was accompanied many octaves lower by a deep-throated roar like massive afterburners, or multiple seven-liter V-8 engines screaming around the track at the Daytona Speedway. Around him was the dark of space above, the blue sky below, and the ocean far below that. Cliff was presented with a kaleidoscope of feelings he had never expected. He had been so tempted to have a drink or two before climbing into the unguarded aircraft. He was so glad that he had not.

  A sense of euphoria spread over him. He really wasn’t much of a pilot. But then he didn’t have to be to operate the highly-automated aircraft. Basically, he just had to run the programs, actuate a few switches at the appropriate time, and land. Sure, there were a few more minor details. He had to buzz the Russian stealth bombers and make sure they got a good look at his aircraft. They needed to radio back that they were under attack. Then, he would fire his slugs into the bombers until they either crashed or he ran out. In the ultimate scheme of things, it really didn’t matter which. Then he’d head back to the planned reconstitution point in California, above Los Angeles.

  That was the plan according to Matthews. And of course, Cliff would execute it perfectly. After all the turmoil settled down and Matthews was Premier over the North American Kingdom, Cliff was to fly the aircraft to one of the Reconstitution Centers he had been developing over the previous year.

  Now, that was the part of the plan that Cliff had no intention of executing. At least, not the way Matthews envisioned it. From Cliff’s perspective, there were three higher bidders, and Matthew’s plan for ten kingdoms was most likely going to be thirteen by the time all the smoke and dust cleared. Cliff would be very pleased to be safely out from under the senator.

  He scanned all the readouts. Everything was optimal. His unique additive manufacturing, unprecedented improvements involving built-in testing, and test-as-you-build methodologies were once more proving their value.

  Based on time-to-rendezvous and his fuel consumption, he was cruising at a comfortable Mach Three-point-Six.

  He began to gradually reduce speed and altitude. He had to be much lower and slower, in much denser atmosphere, to meet up with the bombers. He planned to buzz them, then attack them at Mach Two.

  + + +

  Saturday, 1830 EST:

  Senator Jason Matthews was at another Washington, D.C. off-site, having a small strategy session of his own. He was with his senior liberal, progressive, and socialist partners in Congress, planning counter-attacks against what they expected President Garcia’s working group would try to implement. They didn’t know it yet, but many of the attendees would be part of Matthews’ hand-picked transition team. Most others were simply puppets following a party and feathering their own nests. He might allow them to serve as enforcers, since they had already proven their ability to blindly follow directions without thinking through—or perhaps, without caring about—the consequences.

  As usual, Matthews’ small gathering had over three times the number of news personnel as Garcia’s much larger working session.

  Jason glanced at his watch. He expected the first of several reports within about half an hour. It was going to be an exciting night. The dawn of a new age.

  + + +

  Saturday, 1835 EST:

  “I don’t see anything but shades of gray!”

  “That’s about it, outside of light from Guardian or our own ‘transformed’ sources,” Roger replied. “It’s like even the photon spins and frequencies are off.”

  “Hmm. That’s going to take a while to digest.”

  Roger had already learned that such a comment from Karen likely meant that a world-class Einstein-like theory would soon emerge. But he was just grateful that she would include him in on it and ask his opinion. He wondered if he would ever reach her level. Strangely, he could already detect a mental clearing and ability to focus as the FSAT transition continued. The surgery scar was almost completely healed and he also felt more energetic. Of course, much of that could be attributed to being rid of his diseased gall bladder.

  “Sure glad you didn’t use pure CO2.” He commented as he glanced at the altimeter.

  “Yep, at this altitude, even with the suit and pure oxygen, you’d be in a world of hurt.”

  The aircraft screamed forward at Mach Twelve-point-Six, Flight Level Eight Five.

  58. CONFRONTATION

  The first missile had reached its apogee and was descending down to the convention center. Suddenly a stream of metal projectiles intersected its arc and split it in two, igniting its warhead in a blinding flash and deafening explosion. The stream of projectiles quickly swept down to intercept the next two missiles with similar results, one after the other. At the very moment the fourth and final missile launched, before it was even five yards above the deck of the strange Ghost craft, the stream of projectiles slammed into it. The concussion shattered the bulletproof canopy of the watercraft, and the overpressure blew out the deck plating of the stealth craft. A split second later, secondary ignitions of its remaining ordinance and fuel reduced the craft to a fireball greater than both of the destroyed Coast Guard cutters combined. Many window panes in the convention center and hotel shattered from all the blasts; all the glass around the ballroom was destroyed.

  Close to shore, right in front of the convention center, a small Navy SEALs submarine continued to scan the river and overhead for any further attacks. The SEALs team commander was a man who Chet had served with in combat and, fortunately, was one of the men he trusted with his life. In coordination with Chet, the commander had scheduled a covert “tactical exercise” for that evening. His hand-picked team had been monitoring the river using a low-profile periscope. Even Chet’s gunners hadn’t seen it. The small sub carried a big punch, including four torpedoes and a miniature version of the Phalanx radar-guided gun. The gun system had effectively neutralized four missiles; the torpedoes had not been necessary.

  “Mr. President, the threat has been eliminated,” Chet reported moments later, smiling.

  Nathan Franks quickly glanced around to make sure there were no other Secret Service agents close by, then drew his sidearm. He was under orders that if anything interfered with the success of Plan A, he was to take out as many of the key personnel as possible, then take his own life. He had lived a very lucrative lifestyle since being recruited by OWPN, but they also had the means to demand ultimate, unconditional loyalty. He had hoped it would never come to that. He wanted that key position in the New World Order. But he also loved his family. He knew if he didn’t obey his orders he was as good as dead anyway, as well as his wife and kids. He also understood that none of them would be allowed to die quickly or painlessly.

  Nathan wasn’t sure where Madame Vice was; he had not been a part of that plan. But he had stayed close
to Juan and was careful to keep the house speaker in view, though the speaker had stayed frustratingly as far from the president as possible. He took aim at the president for a clean head shot above the protection of his concealed vest.

  When Nathan had looked around for other Secret Service agents, he had not taken notice of a very no-nonsense Lieutenant General off to his right, dressed “business casual” rather than in uniform. General Alvarez flew into the agent, simultaneously jerking the gun down to the man’s side as it discharged into the floor. He wrapped his other arm around Nathan’s neck as the two men hit the floor…hard.

  Before Nathan could react, Chet was on top of him, his knee on Nathan’s gun hand and his own weapon drawn and firmly planted against the man’s temple. Chet barked out orders for other agents to surround the president and speaker, facing outward against any other threats.

  Juan Garcia watched as General Alvarez slowly stood to his feet—not quite as young as he was in his Infantry days. Juan gave him a nod and a knowing smile. He knew his call to Rey the day before had been a good choice. He also knew that the two of them would be spending a lot of time together during the remainder of his presidency. Juan was especially grateful that soon after his inauguration, he’d made sure that the man and other officers like him were given the promotions they deserved. They had been passed over because they refused to support social policies they knew were destructive to military readiness.

  Juan recalled Chet’s wise advice: Look for those who have paid the price of their convictions. He said a quick prayer of thanks to the Lord for placing such good people around him.

  + + +

  Major Shimko, in the lead PAK-DA bomber, began his descent. The flight plan, which he was ordered to follow precisely, was to pass over Hickam Field at an altitude of 20,000 feet. The stealth nature of the bombers meant that they would not be detected until heard. Eventually, they would be seen and F-22s would scramble to intercept. By then the bombers would already be returning to Russia, hopefully well beyond the territorial waters of the United States. A “significant” international incident would be reported.