Air Battle Force

Three

It’s true, sir — they’re gone,” the platoon lieutenant reported. “The trucks and armored vehicles are all abandoned. We saw some stragglers camped out a few kilometers away, carrying wounded, but they ran off as we approached. They did not appear to be carrying weapons, so we let them go.”

The commander of Kerki Army Air Base glanced at his lead helicopter pilot. “What did you see?” he asked.

“The same, sir,” the pilot reported. “About a dozen light armored vehicles, four small tanks, two large main battle tanks, two dozen supply trucks, the two towed antiaircraft weapons — all scattered across the road and abandoned. Some appeared to be torched.”

“We did see evidence of scouts or infiltrators on the base, sir,” the captain in charge of base security added. “Perhaps they got a look at our preparations for a counterattack and fled.”

“Did you see any of their pickups?”

“We found a few nearby, broken down and abandoned, but all the rest of them are gone,” the scout platoon leader reported. “They are faster and more maintainable than armored vehicles — better getaway vehicles.”

“I’m well aware of that, Lieutenant,” the commander said irritably. “But I don’t believe for one moment that they’ve fled just because their scouts saw us getting some helicopters ready to fly. That Afghan terrorist who calls himself General Zarazi is a berserker, but he is crafty and unconventional. He had several hundred men less than twenty kilometers from here — they have to be nearby. I want search teams sent out after them immediately.”

“Then we shall postpone the assault, sir?”

“Of course. If their vehicles are abandoned, why bother attacking them?” What he did not say was that it was too expensive and too hard on the machines to fly them; he had to save the equipment, fuel, and ammunition for more direct threats. “Redeploy your men and search the area surrounding the base — they have to be moving in on us. If you find any, squeeze them until they talk. Make an example of a few of them.” The officers nodded enthusiastically and hurried off.

The call came just a few minutes later: “Colonel, we’ve captured several terrorists — including the leader, Zarazi!” The base commander hurried out to meet with his men. Sure enough, they had several scraggly-looking men kneeling on the dirt floor, hands cuffed behind their backs. All of them appeared to have been beaten. “Good work, Captain,” the commander said. “Did you get anything out of them?”

“We haven’t started questioning them yet, sir,” the security chief replied. “They came in like that, dragging themselves to the front gate. Looks like they were beaten pretty badly by their own men.”

“So much for honor among thieves,” the commander sneered. “Which one is Zarazi?” The captain pointed him out. “How do you know this?”

“We overheard one of the others addressing him as ‘General.’ He is clothed a bit better than the others, and he is the only one with a holster for a sidearm. We took fingerprints — we expect an answer back from Interior Ministry headquarters on his identity soon.”

“Let me know the minute it comes in.” The commander stepped over to Zarazi. “You are General Zarazi?” he asked in Russian. No response. The base commander reared back and smashed his fist into the back of his captive’s head, and Zarazi pitched forward, his face crunching into the dirt. “Now is not the time to act brave, scum. Either you talk, or you die.” Zarazi struggled back to his knees but said nothing.

The colonel dragged another man by his hair over in front of Zarazi. “You. What is this man’s name?” He did not reply. The colonel drew his pistol, placed the muzzle on the back of the second man’s head, and pulled the trigger. A mass of bone, hair, blood, and brains spattered across Zarazi’s body. Thankfully, the bullet lodged in the ground and did not ricochet around the small building. “I will continue to execute your men one by one in front of you until you talk.”

“Aslayop!” Zarazi shouted in Russian, blinking to try to get the gory mess out of his eyes. “You murderous donkeyfucker!”

“Do I have your attention now? Are you Zarazi?”

“Yes, God damn you!”

The base commander ordered the others taken out to the detention facility, and soon he and the captain of security were alone with Zarazi.

“You are one bold man, Zarazi — stupid, but bold,” the colonel said. “You’ve killed scores of loyal Turkmen soldiers, shanghaied dozens more, destroyed several pieces of military equipment, and stolen hundreds of millions of manats’ worth of equipment. What is the point of this rampage you’re on? What is your objective?”

“After putting a bullet into your head, just as you did to poor Ahmed there? Destruction of your pissant cowardly country.”

“Destruction? Why? What did we ever do to you?”

“You and your corrupt government sat back and did nothing while the United States, the infidels, and the Zionists raped my country,” Zarazi said. “The infidels drove all my people out of our homeland, and you did nothing. My people tried to seek shelter and help in your country, and you did worse than nothing — you caged them up like rabid animals. You deserve to die, slowly and painfully, and God has chosen me to carry out this task.”

“Unfortunately, my insane friend, you have failed,” the base commander said. “You shall be brought to military headquarters at Ashkhabad, interrogated, then executed. Take him away.”

“Don’t you want to hear what will happen if I am taken away, Colonel?”

“Your men will attack my base? Let them try.”

“No — I mean, what will happen to your family if I am taken away.”

The base commander’s face turned to stone, and he gulped involuntarily. It took just an instant, but the steel returned to his face, and he raised his pistol and pointed it at Zarazi’s right temple. “If you thought that would buy you more time, you were wrong, asshole,” he growled. “You just bought yourself a visit to a firing squad, right here at Kerki.”

“I have already surrendered my life to Allah. I am confident he will receive me into heaven,” Zarazi said. “I will meet your four sons, your wife, your two sisters, and your min’etka—Kaliali, I believe her name is — there. Soon afterward you will join them.”

“You fucking bastard!” the base commander shouted, grabbing Zarazi by the hair and pulling him to his feet. “What in hell have you done?”

“While your men were searching the desert for me, my men were moving into Kerki, Khatab, and Kizyl-arvat, capturing your family members,” Zarazi said. “Your men are not very happy with you, Colonel, especially the enlisted men. They were more than happy to tell me all about your families in great detail, after they swore loyalty to me and joined my brigade.”

The base commander threw Zarazi back down on the ground, then went over to a wall phone and dialed. After a few moments his men could see their commander’s eyes bulging in terror. He replaced the receiver on its cradle with a shaking hand. A nod from him, and Zarazi was lifted up to his feet.

“You’ll never get away with this, criminal,” the commander spoke. “The police and the military will hunt your men down and slaughter them.”

“Then they will find your family members dead beside them,” Zarazi said. “I told you, Colonel, we are all prepared to die to complete our mission and fulfill our destiny. You cannot threaten us with pain or death, because we know at the end of it comes everlasting peace and happiness with God. But your children — surely they are too young to die? The oldest has just turned twenty-two, and the youngest is still in his teens — why, his whole life is still ahead of him. And your girlfriend could very well be your daughter—”

The commander punched Zarazi in the face as hard as his shaking, spasmodic muscles could manage. Zarazi only smiled. He knew by the force of the blow that the Turkmen officer was done fighting.

“You fucking bastard…” the commander murmured.

“The same fate awaits your officers’ families as well,” Zarazi said. “We targeted at least two dozen of your officers’ and senior enlisted men’s households. We will butcher them all if you do not do as I say.”

“What in hell do you want?”

“Simple: for you and your men to walk off this base, unarmed,” Zarazi said. “When I am satisfied that you and your men are far enough away and no threat to me, I will order my men to release your families.”

“How do I know that you’ll do as you say?”

“You do not know,” Zarazi said. “That is my insurance. I promise you, I will slaughter them if you do not obey me — of that you can be certain.”

“Do you seriously expect me and my men simply to walk off this base and leave it to you and your scavengers? Are you delusional?”

“I expect you to act like men,” Zarazi said. “Either execute me for daring to touch your families, and then prepare to mourn the loss of your loved ones, or obey me, evacuate this base, and save your families. Asking stupid questions is a waste of my time. You decide. You have until dawn. If my men do not hear from me by then, they will assume I have been killed and will proceed with my last instructions: kill the captives and escape.”

“You… sick… bastard. I hope you rot in hell for this.” But the commander nodded to the guard, who hauled Zarazi to his feet and removed the handcuffs.

“Do not worry about my place in the afterlife, Colonel. I believe it has been reserved for me by God,” Zarazi said. “But now I have one more request.”

“We are leaving this place so we can save our families. What more do you want?”

Zarazi looked at the guards surrounding him. As if with a silent command, one of the guards handed over his AK-74 assault rifle to Zarazi.

“What do you think you’re doing, Corporal?” the security chief asked.

“He is doing what I think most of your men assigned here will choose to do — join my regiment, rather than slink away with you,” Zarazi said. “Now, as for my one last request, Colonel, I ask that you sacrifice yourself in forgiveness for the murder of my comrade.”

“What?” The commander’s eyes were round with fear, and he looked at the others, hoping for some sign of support. He got none — not even from his security chief and certainly not from the conscripts. They seemed to be very, very pleased to watch their commanding officer die. “You fucking bastard. Kill me if you want. But if you even so much as approach any member of my family, I swear, I will arise from the grave and haunt you through eternity.” And at that, the base commander grabbed the muzzle of the rifle and steered it under his chin. “Let’s get it over with, bastard,” he growled, looking at Zarazi with quivering lips but also with pure hatred in his eyes.

“This is the first brave thing you have done, Colonel — unfortunately, it is the last, too,” Zarazi said as he pulled the trigger. Then he slung the weapon over his shoulder while the ringing of the shot, the acrid smell of gunpowder, and the sickening sound of the body hitting the floor, minus most of its head, settled. He turned to the security chief and said, “It appears you are in charge now, Major. I suggest you call the company commanders, have them assemble their troops outside the front gate, and prepare to move out.”

By the time dawn began to break over Mount Ayrybaba, the ten-thousand-foot mountain that sat on the border between Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan, the Turkmen troops had assembled outside the gates of Kerki Air Base. To General Zarazi’s joy, more than four-fifths of the Turkmen soldiers, including a good number of pilots and officers, remained behind. The Turkmen conscripts were very unhappy with their treatment by the elitist professional soldiers; the younger professional soldiers who were not part of the new quasi-Russian regime in Turkmenistan also chose to remain.

Jalaluddin Turabi, who had met up with Zarazi shortly after the deadline passed, administered the oath via loudspeaker to almost two thousand Turkmen troops assembled in front of base headquarters. They had already organized themselves into companies, chosen new unit commanders, and torn the Turkmen patches and flags off their uniforms. Zarazi, still bloodied by his treatment at the dead commander’s hand, led the assembled force in prayer. He then ordered the men to return to their barracks and for the company commanders and senior noncommissioned officers to meet him in headquarters.

“Allah has blessed us and answered our prayers, gentlemen,” he began. “Our crusade to build a haven for warriors of Islam begins right here, right now. It is our duty to organize and secure this area, prepare to fight off any challengers to our authority, and work to spread the word of God throughout this country.”

Turabi watched the newcomers carefully and, to his great surprise, noticed that a good many of the new officers sat in rapt attention, gazing at Zarazi like he was some sort of demigod. What was wrong with these men? he wondered. Could their lives be so screwed up out here in the wilderness that they would be willing to betray their country this easily and quickly and join up with a foreigner?

Zarazi stood before a large wall map of eastern Turkmenistan. “Our first objective will be to secure the Kizyl-arvat hydroelectric dam. This dam supplies power to all of eastern Turkmenistan as well as southern Uzbekistan. Once we take this facility, we also control the Turkmen oil and natural-gas pipeline that connects to Afghanistan and Pakistan, and we also control several irrigation and freshwater pumping stations for the region. The oil facilities shall be destroyed immediately.”

“Destroyed?” Turabi asked. He said it louder than he meant. He didn’t want the men assembled before them to see any sign of confusion or disagreement in the leadership, but they hadn’t discussed this move beforehand. “Wakil, we can hold those pipelines and wells for ransom. The Turkmen or whoever built them will pay us handsomely to keep them in operation.”

Zarazi glared at Turabi as if the man had pissed on his boots. “And if they don’t, Colonel?”

“Then we destroy them,” Turabi said. “But I think they’ll pay to keep their precious oil flowing. That means more money we can send back to our clans. Let’s give it a try, at least.”

Zarazi looked as if he were going to order Turabi to be silent — he appeared angry enough even to strike him — but instead he held his anger in check and nodded. “Very well, Colonel. I shall leave that task in your hands. Make contact with the Turkmen oil minister or their Western puppet masters and tell them that if they want their oil to keep flowing, they will pay.”

“Yes, General,” Turabi said loudly, thinking that he’d better do whatever he could to show everyone that Zarazi was back in command. “I’ll make the pricks pay out their asses.”

“Our greatest threat is the infantry base at Gaurdak,” Zarazi continued after giving Turabi a final warning glare. “They have a full brigade there, do they not?”

One of the Turkmen officers shot to his feet. “Master, they are authorized to brigade strength, but they have been unable to get enough equipment and supplies to fully equip a brigade,” the man said, standing at ramrod attention. “Most have not been paid in many weeks; most of the officers, like ourselves, have not been paid in many months. They have had many desertions and crimes against the local population. Many of the soldiers have resorted to stealing from the locals to feed themselves or selling fuel and equipment to smugglers. Their overall readiness is very poor.”

“Stealing from the people we are dedicating ourselves to liberate and protect will not be tolerated in my army, is that clear?” Zarazi said sternly. “But I also hereby command that anyone who does not declare himself a true servant of God shall not be entitled to own land, property, or resources under our jurisdiction or protection. That includes the water, the oil and gas through the pipelines, the power that flows from the hydroelectric power plant — everything. If it is under our protection, then either outsiders must swear allegiance to us and our cause, or they must pay for these resources.”

Now he had all their attention, Turabi noticed. Zarazi had a good number of men here who believed that he was some sort of holy warrior, but most of them were just tired of the old commander and wanted to be paid. Zarazi was promising them a paycheck. He was definitely in business now.

Zarazi outlined his wishes for patrols, security, and reporting to him, then dismissed the company commanders and their senior noncommissioned officers. The officer who spoke up in front of the others, a transportation and supply officer named Lieutenant Aman Orazov, remained behind, along with Turabi. Orazov was a tall, heavyset man with long, unkempt hair, no mustache or beard, and filthy boots and uniform — Turabi worried the guy might be infested with lice. “It is a great honor to serve you, master,” Orazov said in halting Pashtun. “I am proud to be part of your command.”

“You are a loyal and brave servant… Captain Orazov,” Zarazi said. The scruffy-looking clerk looked as if he were going to kiss Zarazi’s hand — and then, disgustingly, he did. “I hope you are correct about the base at Gaurdak.”

“I am, master,” Orazov said. “I do not think they will be a threat to us. They are even more isolated than Kerki; they do a great deal of black-market trading with smugglers and villagers from Uzbekistan and Afghanistan. I think you will find many who support our cause.”

“We shall see,” Zarazi said.

“My concern would be for the major and the other company commanders that you are allowing to walk free, master,” Orazov said. “I would be afraid they will spread lies and wild stories about you. They should not be allowed to reach Chärjew.” Chärjew was the location of the largest military base in eastern Turkmenistan, about 180 kilometers upriver. The Turkmen zealot’s eyes brightened, and he fairly rocked from foot to foot in anticipation. “I shall kill them for you, master. Let me organize an attack. We outnumber them. It would be my very great pleasure to lead your loyal Turkmen soldiers on an attack against the oppressors from whom you have liberated us.”

Jalaluddin Turabi could scarcely believe it, but Wakil Zarazi was actually nodding in thought at this peasant’s psychopathic ramblings. Thankfully, Zarazi responded, “No, Captain. I am grateful for your enthusiasm and drive, but those men are not yet our enemy, only our adversaries. If they organize and return to do battle, you shall lead our forces against them.”

Zarazi glanced at Turabi. Was he looking for approval or afraid his second in command would object to his giving a command to a Turkman? Turabi remained indifferent.

“I have given my word they shall not be harmed if they surrender — so it shall be. Now, go. Organize your men and report to me when they are ready for my inspection.”

The guy could not stop bowing as he made his way out of the room.

After everyone else had departed, Turabi regarded his leader and longtime superior officer with a mixture of caution and admiration. Zarazi was standing on the platform, staring out through a window at the sunshine streaming in. “I like the plan to take Gaurdak,” Turabi said. “Taking the hydro complex at Kizyl-arvat is also a good plan. We can threaten to blow the plant if we get attacked. I hope that Orazov character is right about the readiness at the base. We’ll need every advantage if we’re going to split our force to take the hydro plant and do an assault on Gaurdak.”

Zarazi was silent. It was as if he hadn’t even heard him, which infuriated Turabi.

“Excuse me, General,” he snapped, the edge in the invented title obvious in his voice, “but what is the objective here? What do you hope to achieve?”

“What is it you wish to achieve here, Colonel?” Zarazi asked without turning to face him.

“Wakil, our orders from our leaders were to procure money, weapons, and equipment that can be sold to support the Al Qaeda forces in northern Afghanistan,” Turabi said. “Our tribal leaders pledged to do this, and you were given specific instructions to go out and obtain these things. That was the whole purpose of attacking that convoy. That is the only reason these men agreed to leave their homes and wives and children and fight for you — our clan leaders ordered us to raise money for Al Qaeda.

“You have succeeded far more than anyone could have imagined: You have taken over an entire Turkmen army aviation base,” Turabi went on. “You have men and equipment of enormous power and value. Don’t you realize, Wakil? If you return to our tribal home of Jarghan with even a fraction of these tanks and guns, you will be promoted to the tribal council. If you succeed in bringing back even one of these helicopters, you will most assuredly be made a chieftain. You will be allowed to lead your own clan and be equal to all the other sheikhs and shuras.

“But now you’re talking about attacking more Turkmen military bases and hydroelectric plants. I agree with subduing Gaurdak — they could cause us trouble when we start heading for home — but why are we wasting time and energy attacking dams, power plants, and pipelines? We might be able to squeeze a few manats out of the people here, but we stand an even greater risk of being trapped inside Turkmenistan, with their whole fucking army, such as it is, coming down on top of us. No one will come to rescue us if we are surrounded.”

“Our mission has changed, Colonel,” Zarazi intoned.

“Oh?”

“We shall not leave Turkmenistan,” Zarazi said. “We are here to liberate this country and these people, not loot them.”

“We have received orders from the tribal council to—”

“I have received orders from God,” Zarazi interjected heatedly. “God has ordered me to take this country. He demonstrated that He is watching over me by saving me from the American attack aircraft, and He guides my hand and my tongue as I lead His faithful across the wastelands to victory. Our success is proof of His love for our cause and us.”

“Wakil… General, we are successful mostly because the Turkmen forces are weak in this area,” Turabi said. “There’s nothing but empty desert out here. Their aviation battalion has been sitting on their asses doing nothing for ten years. They rout a few smugglers every now and then, take bribes from Northern Alliance forces or Taliban — whichever side wants to cross the frontier to escape the other — guard one river and a few oil pipelines, and go back for another nap. We haven’t faced the real Turkmen army yet.”

“Colonel, are you afraid?” Zarazi asked. “Are you scared of battle?”

“First of all, Wakil, I’m not a colonel, and you’re not a general,” Turabi snapped, allowing his anger at being called a coward to erupt despite the warnings in his brain not to allow it. “We gave ourselves military titles as a joke, remember? Whatever the rank of whomever we encountered, we gave ourselves a rank one or two over him. Now, for some damned reason, we’re senior officers! We might as well be wearing a chestful of medals, white gloves, and riding breeches.

“Get this straight, Wakil: We’re not military men,” Turabi went on ferociously. “We’re jihadi. We fight for our tribes and for our mullahs, not for a nation. And we sure as hell don’t invade other countries, occupy military bases, and capture dams and power plants. And to answer your question — yes, I am scared! I’m scared of any operation that has no real objective! I’m scared of any operation that runs counter to what we have pledged our lives and our future to support and defend! I’m—”

“You will be silent, Colonel,” Zarazi snapped. “My intentions are plain: We will occupy this territory in the name of God and build a refuge for the faithful warriors of Allah, just as Afghanistan once was, before the Americans and Zionists arrived. You either do as I command or you leave. I will not have you questioning my vision or usurping my command.”

“Then I will go back to Jarghan, Wakil,” Turabi said. “I didn’t leave my wife and children and travel three hundred kilometers across this shithole of a country so I can play nursemaid to a bunch of chest-thumping desert rats from all over the Muslim world, like your new friend Orazov.” He scanned Zarazi’s face, searching for danger signs — and definitely finding them.

Turabi averted his eyes momentarily, apologetically — it was not a good thing at all to abandon your leader deep inside enemy territory, he knew, even if you thought he was crazy — and added, “I am going to inspect the site where our scouts saw smoke this morning. It might be a Turkmen helicopter patrol from Chärjew or Mary that crash-landed out there, or it might be whomever those antiaircraft missile batteries were firing at last night. I shall be back by dawn, and then I will form a company-size rear guard and move to Jarghan.” Without waiting for a response, Turabi turned and walked away.

Zarazi stood for several long moments on the dais, pondering what Turabi had just said. Then he stopped daydreaming and half turned to his right. “What is it, Captain?” he asked the man approaching silently behind him.

Aman Orazov halted, his breath catching in his throat. “I… I beg your pardon, master,” he stammered. “I… I could not help but overhear….”

“Speak,” Zarazi prompted him. When the man remained silent, Zarazi turned and faced the Turkmen officer, noting that now Orazov was wearing a sidearm and that the flap covering the holster was unfastened. He had also pinned on captain’s rank, obviously stolen from someone else on post. “You wish to tell me that Colonel Turabi is unfaithful and does not deserve to be part of our mission,” Zarazi said.

“He is a coward and a disgrace before God,” Orazov said. “How dare he question you? How dare he snap at you like a child?”

“His faith has been shaken because of the danger and because of our rapid success in battle.”

“He is a coward, master,” Orazov spit. “He deserves to be punished.”

“Punished?” Zarazi looked carefully at Orazov, then at the sidearm, then back at the Turkman. “Perhaps…”

“Let me, master,” Orazov said. “I will deal with the colonel for what he has said to you.”

Zarazi smiled and nodded. “And so you shall, Captain — but not now. I need the colonel and his men to help take Gaurdak and to start our push westward. Afterward he and any other unbelievers will be dealt with.”

“Yes, master,” Orazov said. “I shall keep close watch on the colonel. When you give the command, I shall strike.”

“He will be keeping close watch on you as well, Captain,” Zarazi warned him. “He and his men are skillful killers. They distrust you and all Turkmen.”

Orazov smiled confidently. “Do not worry, sir. He has great reason to fear us. I shall be alert and ready at all times.” He bowed again, then departed.

Wakil Mohammad Zarazi watched Orazov leave, then walked back to the large map of Turkmenistan and the surrounding region. Kerki: an easy conquest. Gaurdak: easy as well. Chärjew: not easy at all, their first encounter with Russian officers, and their first encounter with Turkmen regulars. But once Chärjew was taken, they could sweep across the Kara Kum Desert right up to the suburbs of Mary, the largest city in eastern Turkmenistan, with a force almost as large as Turkmenistan’s itself. Even if the Turkmen government made a stand at Mary — Zarazi had no fantasies about being powerful enough to take that combined Turkmen and Russian stronghold — he would control nearly one-half of Turkmenistan’s oil and gas reserves.

More important, he would control some of the richest land in Central Asia: most of the Amu Darya River plains located inside Turkmenistan, the Kara Kum Canal that ran across the Kara Kum Desert between Mary and Kerki, and the Gaurdak plains, which were extensively irrigated and which grew a wide variety of food and plant products, especially cotton. Even if he was forced to retreat east of the sixty-third meridian, he could still easily control the eastern third of the nation from Chärjew.

The excitement ran through Zarazi’s body like an electric current. He could do this, he told himself. If he stayed faithful to God and ran this brigade with passion and relentlessness, he could become the undisputed warlord of eastern Turkmenistan, as powerful as the president. He could create a Pashtun stronghold, a haven for Taliban and their sympathizers from all over the Muslim world.

All he had to do was keep his men in line — or dead — starting with his former friend and fellow tribesman, Jalaluddin Turabi.

“Ladies and gentlemen, here he is, back from his very successful round-the-world travels! Please welcome to West Sacramento, the next president of the United States, Kevin Martindale!” The men and women at the table rose to their feet and clapped as the former president of the United States, Kevin Martindale, entered the boardroom, followed by two Secret Service agents. The large, ornate room echoed from the applause and cheers as Martindale strode to the head of the massive oak conference table, shaking hands with a few of the board members — retired politicians and military men — that he recognized. Behind them, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city of Sacramento sparkled in the clear, sunny winter afternoon, with the Tower Bridge, Discovery Park, the confluence of the American and Sacramento Rivers all presenting the perfect backdrop to this special meeting.

William O. Hitchcock, the president and CEO of TransCal Petroleum, added his applause to his fellow board members’ after shaking the former president’s hand warmly. He allowed the applause to continue for almost thirty seconds, then invited the board members to sit. “Members of the board of directors of TransCal, I need not remind you that the name of the enemy in our business is OPEC. But for every dragon that terrorizes the kingdom, there is a dragon slayer — and I am proud to say that America’s dragon slayer is this man, the once and future president of the United States, Kevin Martindale.” Again Hitchcock let the applause run another several seconds, until Martindale finally held up his hands in surrender.

“While the OPEC ministers were publicly threatening to cut production to absolute bare minimums, President Martindale was meeting with each of them, securing special delivery and storage arrangements that will ensure TransCal’s supply and distribution contracts for years to come,” Hitchcock went on. “With his help we have received very good assurances that prices will remain stable; that no member, no matter how large or powerful, will exceed the production limits; and that there will be enough markets and enough profits available to all, whether a member of OPEC or not. We are happy and proud that he is on our side, and we are honored to be able to support his drive to be only the second man in history to be voted back in as president of the United States after being voted out. My friends, please join me once again in welcoming home and thanking our good friend, Kevin Martindale.”

After the third round of applause died away and Martindale greeted each of the board members personally, Hitchcock escorted the former president to his office, which was only a bit smaller than the boardroom. Any walls not composed of glass to take advantage of the spectacular city views were covered with rare and beautiful artwork, the immense faux fireplace was New Hampshire granite and Italian marble, the furniture was rich Spanish leather and polished California redwood. Martindale settled onto one of the expansive sofas with a tumbler of orange juice and sparkling water; Hitchcock offered the former president a cigar and helped himself to ice water and a Davidoff. “Good to have you back in the U.S. of A., Kevin,” Hitchcock said as they lit up. “Your trip was more successful than we could possibly have hoped.”

“Thanks, Bill,” Martindale said. “I was happy to do it. I love the road, and I love confronting some of these Third World big shots. They think the world is scared of the name ‘OPEC,’ and I love seeing them squirm in front of the other delegates.”

“Ten countries in less than a week. You must be whipped.”

“I’ve forgotten how much traveling charges my batteries,” Martindale said. It was true. He didn’t look at all like a guy who had probably rung up a year’s worth of frequent-flier miles in less than a week. “I’m ready to head on out again — as long as I’m not neglecting my national and state party obligations.”

“Don’t you worry about the state delegations. We’re coordinating all your appearances and fund-raisers,” Hitchcock said. “They know they have to be well organized and busting their butts before you’ll even consider setting foot in their districts, and it’s pumping up the candidates and the party committees to work extra hard to show us some impressive canvassing and donor numbers. They’re gearing up well, but they won’t be truly organized until the summer party convention. So we have a few months to go on the foreign-affairs track, and the press is lapping it up. Thorn is still nowhere to be seen on the radar screen, so the foreign-affairs field is all yours.”

“I just can’t figure that guy out,” Martindale said, sipping his drink. “He’s smart, tough, energetic—”

“He’s all that, all right — but only on whatever planet he’s really from,” Hitchcock said. “On this planet he’s a zero. Don’t worry about him right now. We have some other fish to fry.” He sat on the edge of his desk and looked seriously at the former president. William Hitchcock was young, very good-looking, and enormously wealthy, mostly from inheritances and an oil business that thrived on adversity. He was a newcomer in politics, but he attacked it with the same drive and take-no-prisoners attitude he applied to dealing with all problems in business — use every weapon in his arsenal to win.

The former president was his newest and by far his most potent weapon. Kevin Martindale wanted badly to reenter politics. But his fiasco with his not-so-secret mercenary group known as the Night Stalkers made political contributions dry up quickly. Whispers around Washington said that the former president was financing and leading a group of ex-commandos called “the Night Stalkers” on vigilante and mercenary missions all around the world. But rather than being considered a Robin Hood with his band of merry thieves, Martindale and the Night Stalkers were considered homegrown American terrorists. Enter William Hitchcock. As a partner in an African oil cartel, Hitchcock had hired the Night Stalkers to investigate and stop a Libyan incursion into Egypt, and he saw firsthand the power, charisma, and energy Kevin Martindale possessed. Their goals meshed perfectly: William Hitchcock wanted political influence, and Kevin Martindale needed financial backing for another run at the White House.

“What’s up?” Martindale asked.

“A potential shit storm in Turkmenistan,” Hitchcock said.

“Let me guess: The Russians are squawking that you’re moving too quickly, and they want you to give up some of your fields. No problem. After what my Night Stalkers did to Sen’kov’s plans in the Balkans, the Russians won’t give us any hassles.”

“I wish it was the Russians! I’ve already got their payola money in the budget,” Hitchcock said. “We’ve got Taliban problems.”

“Oh, shit, that’s not good,” Martindale exclaimed. “Threatening your pipelines?”

“A small band of insurgents from Afghanistan kicking ass and taking names. They’re knocking down Turkmen army bases, capturing weapons, and recruiting followers faster and easier than the Pied Piper,” Hitchcock said. “Problem is, the Turkmen government isn’t doing anything to stop them. In fact, I think the government might secretly be supporting them.”

“And the Russians would love to see the Taliban blow up some of your facilities.”

“Exactly. We need to convince the Turkmen government to fight these Taliban bastards, but without involving the Russian army. I know that your administration negotiated the original deal with Niyazov for those oil leases. Can you go back to Ashkhabad and try to convince the government to turn these Taliban assholes away?”

“That should be no problem,” Martindale said. “You realize that it might be in our best interests to make contact with the Taliban leaders themselves — grease their palms a little bit to keep them from just torching your pipelines?”

“I was hoping to avoid that… but, yes, I’ll agree to it,” Hitchcock said. “The Turkmen think those Taliban insurgents won’t dare take on the regular-army bases at Chärjew — that they’ll just take over a few pumping stations in the east, collect some ransom money, and split. But these guys keep moving westward, and they’re growing in strength. If they take Chärjew, they could gain control of almost half our facilities in Turkmenistan.”

“No problem,” Martindale said confidently. “I’ll speak with Gurizev and find out what he has in mind. Knowing him the way I do, I’ll bet he’ll be crying to the Russians to stop the Taliban, but I know he’ll take help — and money — anywhere he can find it. But unless I miss my guess, we won’t have to rely on the Turkmen. Most Taliban raiding parties stay in the field just long enough to collect money for their tribes. We pay them enough, and they’ll be gone like a puff of smoke back to whatever caves they came from.”

“So you’ll go to Turkmenistan, then?”

Martindale looked a little apprehensive. “I’m not so sure that’ll do any good,” he said. “The Turkmen don’t like outsiders, especially Westerners, and they like their under-the-table deals done well beyond arm’s length. Besides, frankly, that place gives me the creeps. I’d rather go in with a pretty strong security advance team.”

“No chance of Thorn providing anything like that,” Hitchcock pointed out. “What about your Night Stalkers?”

Martindale took a pensive sip of his drink. “Disbanded. They got beat up pretty bad in Libya before they finally slapped down Zuwayy. Thorn offered to return their military rank and privileges to them, and they took it. But that’s exactly who I’d like to bring with me.” He nodded confidently at Hitchcock, trying to hide his feelings of dread. “Don’t worry. I’ll start the ball rolling from here — the threat of my coming to Turkmenistan should force Gurizev to cooperate. If necessary, I’ll go to Ashkhabad and explain the facts of life to him. As for the Taliban, just be prepared to offer them some ‘protection money,’ and they’ll leave your pipelines alone. Of course, the fact that we’re ‘forced’ to pay protection money will be another strike against Thorn. After all, what kind of president will Thomas Thorn be if he won’t send in troops to protect American economic interests overseas?”

“You don’t think he would intervene, do you?”

“I don’t see any evidence at all that he’s inclined to do so,” Martindale said. “But he’s got some tough advisers and military leaders working for him who could convince him otherwise. You never know with him. But I wouldn’t count on Thorn doing a damned thing. If we can convince Gurizev to send some troops in, and at the same time pay the Taliban fighters some protection money, I think your pipelines will be safe.”

“Excellent,” Hitchcock said, the relief evident in his voice. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you, Kevin.”

“Just be sure my campaign war chest stays topped off,” Martindale reminded him.

“My pleasure… Mr. President,” Hitchcock said. “You won’t have to worry about money as long as you’re out there on TransCal’s behalf.”

“Good,” Martindale said, finishing his drink and getting to his feet. The Secret Service agents immediately announced that their charge was on the move. “I’ll get started right away. Put an extra three million in the operations account — that should be more than enough.”

“You got it. I’ll be sure your campaign account has a few extra million in there for your ‘consulting help’ on this as well,” Hitchcock said. He shook hands warmly with the former president. “It’s a pleasure working with you, Mr. President.” As they shook hands, Hitchcock added, “I’m still open to heading your reelection campaign, Kevin, and eventually running your White House staff.”

“I know, Bill,” Martindale said. “But you don’t know the White House battleground well enough yet.”

“TransCal has a hundred times more employees than the White House, and I run every aspect of the company,” Hitchcock said. “I can do the job. You’ve gotta give me the chance.”

“I know you want this, Bill, but trust me, you’re not ready for the political spotlight yet,” Martindale said earnestly. “You can’t run the White House like a Fortune 500 company — the bureaucrats, the political hacks, and the press inside the Beltway will drive you to homicide in no time. You’re helping me now more than you know. Once we make it back to Sixteen Hundred Pennsylvania Avenue, I’ll bring you in on everything. But for now you’re more effective behind the scenes.”

“Okay — for now, Kevin,” Hitchcock said, obviously disappointed. “But I want to assure you, I’m more than just deep pockets. Let me prove it to you. You won’t be sorry.”

“Thanks, William. You’re definitely on my short list. But unfortunately, no matter how much money you have, we can’t do it without the party’s support, and that means taking actions and formulating policies with which the party can build a strong nationwide platform — and we can’t start picking staff and appointees without the party’s input. Let’s keep our eyes on our plan and timetable. We maintain the momentum going in foreign affairs, energy policy, and the military; we stay in the media spotlight, and the party will be kissing our boots and agreeing to anything we want before you know it. They’ll be begging us to make you chief of the White House staff.”

“Sounds good to me, Kevin. Sounds good to me.”

They shook hands again. “Don’t worry about Turkmenistan, Bill. It’ll all be over in a couple days, and we’ll come out of it smelling just fine. It’s in the bag. Thorn will be sitting around cross-legged, confused, and clueless while we solve yet another brewing foreign crisis right under his nose.”

“What if he or his administration is already doing something about Turkmenistan?” Hitchcock asked. “How do you know we’re in the lead on this problem?”

Martindale shrugged and replied with a smile, “I’ll ask him. I’m the former president of the United States — I should be able to make some inquiries and get some briefings from his staff. Besides, Thorn believes in open government. He or his staff will tell me everything. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll just send my spies into the White House and find out everything my own way.”

“With all due respect, Rebecca, this is the most harebrained stunt I’ve ever heard of,” Colonel John Long, operations-group commander of the 111th Bombardment Wing, snapped. He was standing out on the underground flight line of Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base with Rebecca Furness, Patrick McLanahan, Dean Grey, and the ground team, getting ready to brief the ground crew prior to their flight mission. Long and Major Samuel “Flamer” Pogue were to fly in the second EB-1C, parked beside Rebecca’s, as the alternate mission aircraft.

“You’ve made your opinion plain to everyone, Long Dong,” Rebecca said quietly. “Keep it to yourself.”

“It’s my job to point out potential policy mistakes by our senior officers,” Long retorted, raising his voice so everyone could hear and plainly refusing to take the hint, “and this is one perfect example. Completely untested, unverified, a disaster waiting to happen.”

“We copy all, Colonel,” Patrick McLanahan interjected. He wanted to chew the guy out for voicing his opinion like that in front of the entire ground crew, but he didn’t want to quash debate, no matter how unprofessionally it was initiated. Instead he only glanced at Long, nodded, and said, “John, we’ve discussed this decision for two days now. We’ve staffed it up and down as best we could.”

“General, we had no choice but to meet your arbitrary deadline,” Long insisted. “I’m concerned that you’re more concerned with dazzling your friends in the Pentagon and meeting a deadline than with crew safety, and I’m afraid this will end in a real disaster.”

“You’ve made your view very clear,” Patrick said. “I’m taking full responsibility for this test. Your career won’t suffer if it fails.”

“I’m concerned about this wing, not about my career.”

“Then that will be a first,” Patrick said acidly. “Now, I strongly encourage you to keep your opinions to yourself unless asked directly for them. Is that understood, Colonel?”

“Yes, sir,” Long shot back. “Loud and clear, sir.”

Rebecca and Patrick finished their Form 781 logbook review and crew briefing, then began a walk-around inspection of the aircraft. The forward bomb bay held a rotary launcher carrying four AIM-150 Anaconda long-range, radar-guided, air-to-air missiles and four AIM-120 medium-range, radar-guided missiles. The aft bomb bay held a rotary launcher with eight AGM-165 Longhorn TV- and imaging-infrared-guided attack missiles. The center bomb bay held two AGM-177 Wolverine attack missiles loaded into air-retrieval baskets. Patrick knew that the Wolverines’ bomb bays each held four AGM-211 mini-Maverick guided missiles.

“I hate to say it, General, but Long is right — this is crazy,” Rebecca said to Patrick once they were out of earshot of the ground crew.

“It’ll work fine,” Patrick said.

“There is an army of engineers and test pilots at Edwards whose job it is to test stuff like this, Patrick,” she said. “Why don’t we let them do their damned jobs?”

“Rebecca, if you feel so strongly about this, why are you going along?”

“The same reason you’re going — because it’s our plan and our program, and we don’t put others in harm’s way unless we’re willing to take the lead and do it ourselves,” Rebecca replied. “Besides, they’re my planes, and if you crash one, it’s my ass. We have some skilled fliers in our unit, but they’re newborns compared to us. They’ve never been in a B-1 bomber that’s trying to kill them. But there are a dozen crewdogs at Edwards or Dreamland who would give a month’s pay to fly some test missions for us. Why don’t we just take the bird down there and let them do it?”

“You know why — because no one at Edwards or anywhere else will waste one gallon of jet fuel or spare one man-hour to work this project without a fully authorized budget.”

“Except me. Me and my budget are the expendable ones, right?”

“I’ve given you lots of opportunities to back out of this project, Rebecca,” Patrick said. He stopped and looked at her seriously. “You and John Long seem to delight in busting my ass and branding me as the bad guy, the one that breaks the rules but gets away with it every time. Fair enough — I’ll accept that criticism. But both of you can put the brakes on this at any time with one phone call to General Magness at Eighth Air Force or General Craig at Air Reserve Forces Command. You haven’t done it. You’ve chewed me out in front of every officer on this base. Long steps right up to the brink of insubordination without even blinking. He’s done everything but put an ad in the Reno Gazette-Journal.

“But you never made the call, and I think I know the reason: You’re hoping this works. Every new wing commander wants two things: for no one to screw up too badly, and to make a name for him- or herself in order to stand out above all the other commanders. In relative peacetime it’s even more important to shine. Long wants his first star so badly it hurts, and you can trade on your reputation as the first female combat pilot only so long.”

“That’s not true, General,” Rebecca said — but her voice had no force, no authority behind it. She knew he was right.

“We can debate this all day, but it won’t make any difference,” Patrick went on. “We have the skill and knowledge to make this work. But you’re the aircraft commander, the final authority. If you disagree, call a stop to it.” He waited, hands on hips. When she turned her flashlight up at the emergency landing gear blowdown bottle gauges, continuing the preflight, he nodded and said, “All right then, let’s do it.”

They finished their walk-around inspection, then climbed the steep entry ladder behind the tall nose-gear strut and made their way to the cockpit. After preflighting his ejection seat and strapping himself in, Patrick quickly “built his nest,” then waited for the action to start.

Rebecca joined him a few moments later. After strapping herself in, she pulled out her checklist, strapped it onto her right leg, flipped to the before apu start page, and began — then stopped herself. She ignored the checklist and sat back, crossing her arms on her chest in exasperation — and maybe a little bit of fear.

“Pretty bizarre way to go to war,” she muttered.

“Pretty bizarre way to go to war,” Dean “Zane” Grey muttered. He was seated at a metal desk inside the VC — virtual-cockpit — trailer, staring at two blank flat-panel LCD computer monitors. It was a tight squeeze inside the trailer. In the center of the interior were two seats in front of the metal desk; flanking them were two more seats with full computer keyboards, a trackball, and large flat-panel LCD monitors. On Daren Mace’s side, he had a “supercockpit” display — a twelve-by-twenty-four-inch full-color plasma screen on which he could call up thousands of pieces of data — everything from engine readouts to laser-radar images to satellite images — and display them on Windows- or Macintosh-like panes on the display. All other room inside the trailer was taken up by electronics racks, air-conditioning units, power supplies, and wiring. It was stuffy and confining, far worse than the real airplane ever was. It made Grey a little anxious — no, a lot anxious.

“Well, this is very cool,” Zane said, “but I’m ready to get going. So where is everything? Flight controls? Gauges?”

“Right here,” Daren Mace said. He handed Zane a thin, lightweight helmet resembling a bicyclist’s safety helmet, with an integrated headset and wraparound semitransparent visor encircling the front. Daren then handed him a pair of thin gloves. They all took seats. Putting on the helmets helped to kill the noise of electronics-cooling fans and air-conditioning compressors.

“How cool is this!” Zane repeated. A few moments after turning on the system, he saw a three-dimensional electronic image of an ultramodern B-1 bomber cockpit. No conventional instruments — everything was voice-controlled and monitored via large, full-color, multifunctional electronics displays. He was able to reach out and “touch” the MFDs and move the control stick. “Man, this is unbelievable!”

“We can shift the view to anything you’d like to see — charts, satellite imagery, tech orders, sensor information — anything,” Daren said. “Calling up info and ‘talking’ to the plane is easy — just preface every command with ‘Vampire.’ Voice commands are easy and intuitive. We have a catalog of abbreviated commands, but for most commands just a simple order will do. Try to use the same tone of voice, with no inflections. You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.”

“Very nice,” Zane exclaimed as he got settled in. “It’s like a fancy video game, only a lot noisier. Almost as noisy as the plane, I think.”

“General McLanahan wants to build a nicer command-and-control facility here at Battle Mountain,” Daren said, “but we have to prove this thing can work first.” He spent several minutes explaining how to enter commands into the system — voice commands, touching floating buttons or menus, touching the screen with virtual fingers, or using eye-pointing techniques to activate virtual buttons and switches on the instrument panel.

“You almost don’t need arms and legs to fly this thing,” Zane commented.

“It was designed at Dreamland by a guy who lost the use of his legs in a plane crash,” Daren responded. “Zen Stockard. He’s a buddy of mine. There was a phase where everything designed there was based on virtual-reality or advanced neural-transfer technology, simply because that was the best way for paraplegics to be able to use the gear. You don’t need to be an aviator to fly them either — the computers do most of the flying, even the air refueling. We use crew chiefs and techs to fly Global Hawk all the time. Let’s report in and get the show on the road.”

“I’m ready, boss,” Zane said excitedly. “VAC is up,” he said on intercom, addressing himself as the “virtual aircraft commander.”

“VMC is up,” Daren reported as the “virtual mission commander.”

“The guinea pigs are in place,” Rebecca responded. “I mean, AC is up.”

“MC is up,” Patrick said. “The guinea pigs here resent that.”

“VE ready,” replied Jon Masters from the seat beside Patrick, reporting in as the “virtual engineer.” Dr. Jon Masters, a boyish-looking man in his mid-thirties who had several hundred patents to his name long before most kids his age had graduated from high school, was the chief engineer and CEO of Sky Masters Inc., a small high-tech engineering firm that developed state-of-the-art communications, weapons, and satellite technology, including the virtual cockpit. Patrick McLanahan had known Jon Masters for many years and had been a vice president of Sky Masters Inc. after he had been involuntarily separated from the Air Force.

“Okay, folks, here we go,” Daren said. “VAC, you have the aircraft.”

“Oh, shit, here we go,” Zane muttered. In a shaky but loud voice, he commanded, “Vampire, battery power on.” Instantly the lights inside the EB-1C Vampire’s cockpit came on. He tuned in several radios and got permission to start the plane’s APU, or auxiliary power unit; then: “Vampire, before-APU-start checklist.”

In the cockpit, Rebecca barely noticed the response. All the checklist items — eleven steps, which normally took about a minute to perform — were done with a rapid flicker of warning and caution lights. Within three seconds the computer responded, “Vampire ready for APU start.”

“Wow” was all Rebecca could say.

“Shit-hot,” Zane exclaimed. “Vampire, get me a double cheeseburger, no pickles.”

“Would you like fries with that?” the computer responded.

“What?”

“You youngsters are so predictable. That was one of the first responses I programmed into the voice-recognition software,” Jon Masters said gleefully. Jon was only a few years older than the “youngsters,” so he knew them very well.

“Can we get on with it?” Rebecca asked. “This thing is giving me the creeps.”

“Roger,” Zane said happily. “Vampire, APU start.”

The checklists ran quickly and smoothly, and in a fraction of the time it normally took to get ready for engine start, the Vampire bomber was ready. They had to wait for Long and Pogue to finish their checklists, done in a more conventional manner. The bombers were then towed to an elevator and hoisted to the second level, where they started the engines and performed a before-takeoff check; shortly thereafter the two bombers were raised to the surface.

“So how do I taxi this thing, boss?” Zane asked.

“You don’t. The computer does,” Daren replied.

“O-kay. Vampire, taxi for takeoff,” Zane spoke.

“Laser radar is on and radiating, very low power, short range,” Patrick reported. Just then the Vampire bomber’s throttles slowly advanced, and the plane crept forward.

It was slow going, but eventually the Vampire taxied itself out of the hammerhead and onto the end of the runway. “Vampire in takeoff position, eleven thousand four hundred feet remaining,” the computer reported. “Partial power takeoff performance okay.”

“The LADAR maps out the edges of the runway and automatically puts you on the centerline, then measures the distance to the first set of obstacles — in this case, the edge of the overrun,” Jon Masters explained. “The laser radar also measures nearby terrain and samples the atmosphere and plugs the information into the air-data computer for takeoff-performance computations.”

“So what the heck do I do?” Zane asked.

“You get to choose the type of takeoff,” Patrick McLanahan said.

“Can’t I make my own takeoff?”

“The computer can make about a dozen different takeoffs: max performance, minimum interval, unimproved field, max altitude, partial power, noise abatement — you name it,” Masters said. “You just tell it which one and it’ll do it.”

“So can I, Doc, so can I,” Zane said. “How do I work this thing?”

“Rest your arm on the armrest,” Daren said. Grey did. “Vampire, cockpit adjust,” Daren spoke. In an instant the cockpit flight controls rearranged themselves to fit Grey’s hands. “In the virtual cockpit, the controls come to you—not the other way around.”

“I love it!” Zane exclaimed happily. The rudder pedals did the same, and when it came time to flip a switch or punch a button, all he had to do was extend a finger. The control panel came to his finger, then moved again so he could clearly see the display, then moved out of the way so he could “look” out the window or “see” other instruments. Zane experimentally “stirred the pot”—moved the control stick in a wide circle to check the flight-control surfaces — and watched the control-surface indicators move.

“Not so hard,” Rebecca said. “You’re banging the control surfaces around too much.”

“Keep in mind that you don’t have any control-stick feel,” Daren pointed out. “You have to use the indicators and the flight instruments to tell you how you’re doing — no ‘seat of the pants’ flying. Use your cameras on the takeoff roll, but if you go into the clouds, transition quickly to your instruments.” Daren got takeoff clearance from the air base’s robot “control tower”: “You’re cleared for takeoff, VAC.”

“Here we go, boys and girls,” Zane said. He put his hands on the “throttles” and slowly pushed them forward — too fast. He moved them more slowly, stopping just as he advanced into zone-one afterburner, then released brakes as he slowly advanced them further into zone five.

He felt as if nothing were happening — and then, before he realized it, the computer said, “Vampire, rotate speed, ready, ready, now.” Zane wasn’t ready for it. He pulled back on the stick — nothing happened. He pulled back more… still nothing — and then suddenly the nose shot skyward.

“Get the nose down, Lieutenant,” Rebecca warned. “You overrotated.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Zane said. He released some of the back pressure.

“Too much!” Rebecca shouted. “Nose up!” They were less than fifty feet aboveground. Zane pulled back on the stick — and started another PIO, or “pilot-induced oscillation.” Rebecca cried out, “I’ve got it!”

“Let Zane fix it, Rebecca,” Daren said calmly. “Nice and easy with the controls, Zane,” he said softly. “There’s a slight delay in the datalink — be ready for it. Put in a control movement, then keep an eye on it. Everything you see is delayed slightly from what the plane’s doing. Use your instruments, but be aware of the delay.”

“Vampire, configuration warning,” the computer announced.

“You wanted to do the takeoff, Zane. You’re the one who has to remember to clean up the plane,” Daren said.

“Shit, yeah,” Zane muttered. “Vampire, after-takeoff checklist.” Immediately the landing gear started retracting, lights turned themselves off, the air-traffic-control transponder activated, and the mission-adaptive flight controls changed from takeoff to en route climb configuration.

“After-takeoff check complete,” the computer reported seconds later.

“This is totally cool,” Zane said. He experimentally turned the plane side to side. “Once you get used to the delay, it’s not bad at all.”

“Speak for yourself,” Rebecca said nervously as she watched her bomber do its random gyrations. “It figures you young kids would enjoy it — it’s like playing a big video game, right, Zane?”

“Yes, ma’am. How about we see if it’ll do a roll?”

“You do and I’ll court-martial you — and then I’ll kill you.”

“Enough fun. Let’s fly this thing like it was meant to be flown,” Daren said. “Vampire, activate flight plan one, standard en route climb.”

“Vampire, flight plan one activated,” the computer responded.

Zane released his grip on the stick, and the autopilot took over, immediately reducing the throttles out of afterburner, reducing the climb rate, and turning to the first waypoint.

“Two’s airborne, tied on radar,” John Long reported.

Daren watched in utter amazement. “I simply can’t believe this,” Daren said incredulously. “I’m sitting here flying a three-hundred-thousand-pound supersonic attack bomber from a trailer on the ground in the middle of nowhere in northern Nevada. It’s unbelievable.”

“It’s totally cool from here,” Jon Masters said. “It’s better than a video game. It’s hard to believe that’s a real machine out there. We should—” Just then he noticed a flashing message on a computer screen. “We got a fault in the primary datalink computer,” Masters said.

“What happened?” Patrick asked.

“Master computer fault. It automatically shifted control to the secondary computer,” Jon replied. “We got an automatic reboot of the primary computer. It’ll take a couple minutes to come up.”

“How about we put this thing on the ground now, boys?” Rebecca asked. “We’ll let the wingman take over.”

“We’ve got four redundant, independent operating computers driving the datalink and aircraft controls, plus an emergency system that will force the aircraft to execute a direct return to base, no matter what systems are damaged,” Masters said. “The system did exactly what it was supposed to do — hand off control to another good computer, restart itself, and then, if it checks out, wait in line for a handoff.”

“Another handoff? You mean we could lose more computers?”

“We plan on the worst and hope for the best, General,” Masters said. “Aha… the first computer came back up, so we’ve got four good computers again. We’re back in business.”

“Doctor, you’re not exactly filling me with confidence,” Rebecca said. “Everyone remember: This is my wing’s bird. I signed for it, and I decide when this test mission ends.”

“Roger, ma’am,” Zane said. “Now, just sit back and relax and enjoy the ride.”

Only his tracked vehicles had the capability to go across the open desert, so Jalaluddin Turabi had no choice but to split up his force. He divided his group into three: Two would encamp along the Kizyl-Tabadkan highway, divided by fifteen kilometers, ready to move toward each other if trouble appeared; the third force, led by Turabi himself, would trek across the desert to the crash site. Because of weather and their upcoming battle at Gaurdak, helicopter support would not be available until dawn — Turabi was effectively on his own. He had some working night-vision goggles, and the weather was improving, so he decided to start out in the relative coolness and cover of night and head toward the crash site, using only a compass and prayers to guide him.

It took an hour to travel the first twenty kilometers, driving an old Soviet-era MT-LB multipurpose tracked vehicle they’d captured in Kerki. He deployed an even older GSh-575 tracked vehicle — actually a ZSU-23/4 self-propelled antiaircraft-gun system, with the antiaircraft guns unusable and deactivated long ago — out three hundred meters ahead of the MT-LB as a scout; this vehicle managed to throw a track every five to ten kilometers, which made for even slower going. Several times Turabi ordered his men to abandon the vehicle and hide when his scout heard jet aircraft nearby, but they were never able to pinpoint its location after the echo of the roar of their own engines faded away. Nerves were on edge.

About three hours before dawn, they reached the place where Turabi thought the smoke had come from, but there was no sign of a crash. There was nothing else to do but start a search pattern. Using both tracked vehicles, they set up a search grid and moved out, crisscrossing the desert with soldiers on foot continually moving the grid in different directions, overlapping slightly at the ends.

After an hour they still hadn’t come across the wreckage. “This is insane,” Turabi muttered after he received the last report. “I swear to God I saw a crash out here. I have traveled the deserts for most of my life — I do not imagine such things.” He turned to his senior sergeant, Abdul Dendara. “What am I missing here, Abdul?”

“If you saw smoke, sir, there has to be surface wreckage. Aircraft or weapons that bury themselves in the sand don’t release enough smoke to spot from a distance,” Dendara said. “I checked to be sure the men were probing underneath the sand. There was a short but pretty strong storm that came through here yesterday — the wreckage could be lying just under the surface.” He looked around. Of course, in the darkness, there was little to see. “No landmarks, no exact position — maybe we’re not at the right spot, sir.”

Turabi swore under his breath, pulled out his map, and examined it in the subdued red beam of his flashlight. “All right. Let’s shift five kilometers to the south and do another grid search. We search for one more hour, then we pack up and head back to join up with the rest of the battalion.”

Turabi radioed for the MT-LB, which picked him up a few minutes later. Following his compass, he steered the driver south, then started to set up another grid-pattern search. It would take several minutes for the other members of his detail to move to the new position, so he decided he would need to get out there and start searching himself if he ever wanted to finish this grid and get back to Kerki by dawn. He fixed a bayonet onto his AK-47 assault rifle and started probing the sand with his red-lensed flashlight, looking for evidence of debris.

He soon realized how difficult this search really was. He knew he could step within centimeters of a critical piece of evidence and never see it, or he could step on a land mine and be legless in an instant. He knew he had to use every sense he possessed, and maybe even some kind of extrasensory perception, to accomplish this task. He waved the MT-LB away from him so he wouldn’t be distracted by its engine noise, diesel exhaust, and the occasional shouts of the men on board.

Finally it was relatively quiet. Turabi’s night vision improved, and soon he could start seeing objects on the ground that were not directly in the flashlight’s beam. He could still smell the armored personnel carrier’s exhaust smoke, and he picked up his radio to order the MT-LB farther away.

But he stopped, the radio a few centimeters from his lips, his finger on the push-to-talk switch. Yes, he could still smell engine exhaust — but he was upwind of the MT-LB now. He shouldn’t be able to smell it. It had to be something else. He used his nose like an automatic direction finder triangulating on a radio beacon, steering himself to the source of the smell.

Minutes later he saw it: a mass of metal, blackened and lumpish but definitely an aircraft engine. It was a cruise missile turbojet engine, not more than forty or fifty kilos, about the size of a bedroll. He’d found it! He swept the flashlight beam around excitedly. There were other pieces of debris nearby, too — including a large fuselage piece. It was here! He slung his AK-47 onto his shoulder, put the walkie-talkie up to his lips, and keyed the mike button. “Dahab Two, this is One. I found some wreckage of a small aircraft or cruise missile. I’m a half klick south of the new grid locus. Join on me and—”

At that instant he heard a faint fwoooosh! sound. He dropped to one knee, the flashlight replacing the radio in his left hand, held far out to his side, and his Tokarev TT-33 in his right hand. The muzzle of the Tokarev followed the flashlight beam turned in the direction of the sound. Nothing. No sounds of footsteps running on desert sand, no vehicle sounds. He quickly extinguished the flashlight and picked up the radio: “Dahab, Dahab, alert! Someone else is out here!”

Suddenly a brilliant curtain of stars obscured his vision, and he was unable to tell up from down. The harder he struggled to stay on his feet, the faster he found himself sprawled in the sand. He still felt as if he were upright, crouching low, but he felt the hard-baked sand in his face and knew he was on the ground. He was wide awake and still breathing, but he couldn’t make any of his limbs respond — and he heard voices. Voices, machinelike but definitely human. Voices in English!

“One down, all clear,” Colonel Hal Briggs reported. “He found the StealthHawk. He may have gotten off a report.” He quickly changed the scene in his electronic visor to the imaging infrared sensor aboard the number-one StealthHawk unmanned combat aerial vehicle that was orbiting overhead. “We’ve got company. That armored personnel carrier is headed this way. Give me control of Hawk One.”

“Roger that,” responded Daren Mace, back in the virtual command trailer at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base. He pressed a button on his console and spoke, “Hawk One, transfer control to Tin Man One.”

“StealthHawk flight-control transfer to Tin Man One, stop transfer,” the computer responded. Seconds later: “StealthHawk flight-control transfer to Tin Man One complete, awaiting commands.”

“Hawk One, sitrep,” Briggs ordered.

The response took only moments: “Warning, unidentified moving armored vehicle, bearing zero-six-two degrees, range one point three miles, heading two-seven-three degrees, speed twenty-one knots, designate Tango One. Warning, unidentified stationary armored vehicle, bearing zero-one-four degrees, three point one miles, designate Tango Two. Tango Two now turning south, accelerating, speed now one-five knots. Warning, numerous infantry targets approaching at slow speed, range three miles, bearing zero-one-six.”

Briggs used his eye-pointing system to place a target cursor over the image of the nearest vehicle in the StealthHawk’s scan — the MT-LB — then pointed to the menu selection for voice commands and spoke, “Hawk One, attack this target.”

“Attack Tango One, stop attack,” the StealthHawk responded. Moments later it peeled away from its patrol orbit and swooped in on the target. The StealthHawk’s attack was flawless. It locked on to the target shape and fired a mini-Maverick missile at it, sending it down through the thin upper skin of the armored vehicle atop the hottest portion of the vehicle — the engine compartment. The engine exploded in a brilliant burst of fire. Three men were able to run clear before the entire vehicle was engulfed in flames.

“We got a kill!” Hal Briggs said. “Way to go! Man, I’m starting to like these gadgets you guys make, Doc.”

“We aim to please,” Jon Masters said from Battle Mountain.

“Hawk One, sitrep.”

“Tango One immobilized,” the drone reported. “Tango Two turning west bearing three-five-zero, two point eight miles. Unidentified numerous infantry targets still proceeding southbound bearing zero-one-six.”

“Looks like the second APC is going to stay away and check us out before he attacks,” Briggs surmised. “Hawk One, proceed to ten-mile cover patrol at one-five thousand feet.”

“Hawk One proceeding to ten-mile cover patrol, stop command.” The StealthHawk began a “wobbly circle” flight pattern around Briggs’s position, changing the center of the circular orbit by several hundred feet each time so it would not pinpoint Briggs’s location as it circled overhead.

Daren nodded happily. “The StealthHawk found all the targets and prosecuted a successful attack by voice command from the ground!” he crowed. “Excellent!”

“Okay, Sarge, you got the last target,” Briggs said.

“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Major Chris Wohl leveled his electromagnetic rail gun, centered the electronic gunsight on the second armored personnel carrier, and fired. A sausage-size tungsten-steel projectile shot from the muzzle at an incredible ten thousand feet per second. The projectile had no explosive warhead — it didn’t need one. At that velocity the projectile easily pierced the GSh-575 vehicle’s armor, went through one Taliban fighter inside as if he were as thin as a soap bubble, pierced the engine block, passed outside through a drive wheel, and buried itself two hundred feet into the sand before it finally stopped. The armored vehicle’s engine cracked, then blew apart like an overinflated balloon.

“Target neutralized,” Wohl reported matter-of-factly.

“Tango Two neutralized,” the StealthHawk reported moments later.

“No shit,” Wohl commented. He stepped over and motioned to the Taliban fighter lying on the ground. “I think he’s awake. He probably saw everything. Should we take him with us?”

“Stand by. Three, this is One. How much stuff have you recovered so far?”

“I’ve got about two hundred pounds of components, One,” responded Air Force Lieutenant Mark Bastian, one of Hal Briggs’s first officers assigned to the First Air Battle Force Ground Operations team. At six feet four inches tall, Bastian was one of the tallest men ever to wear the Tin Man electronic battle armor. “I need to separate out about another three hundred pounds.”

“Roger that. Two, we won’t have room on the Dasher for a prisoner. Question him, get any info you can on him, then make sure he stays near what’s left of his APC and let’s get ready for extraction.”

From his spot on the desert floor, Jalaluddin Turabi watched the death of his first armored vehicle, then heard the death of his second. He could finally move his arms and legs, but it was as if his own body now weighed thousands of kilograms — he had absolutely no strength in any of his muscles.

The two strange figures in the dark outfits and full bug-eyed helmets marched in front of him. While the one with the large, futuristic-looking rifle stood guard, the other stopped to examine pieces of the crashed aircraft. Turabi was surprised when the figure picked up the cruise-missile engine as effortlessly as if he had picked up a pebble. Who were these men? They had to be Americans — only they had this kind of technology. Either Americans or Martians.

The figure with the large rifle approached him. “Ismak eh?” it asked him in Arabic.

“I won’t tell you anything,” Turabi said. “Who are you? Why are you attacking us?” At that he felt a surge of electricity flowing through his temples, seemingly trying to push his very eyeballs out of their sockets. Turabi screamed.

“What is your name?” the figure repeated.

“Turabi. Jalaluddin Turabi.”

The electric shock ceased. “Are you Taliban?”

Turabi said nothing — but when the electric shock recommenced, he couldn’t help but blurt out his response. “Yes, damn you! I am Taliban!”

“What is the name of your commanding officer?”

“General.”

“General what?”

“Just ‘General.’ “

The electric shock started again, not as bad as before, but Turabi remembered how bad it could be. “His name?”

Turabi kept silent until he thought he might scream again from the pain. “Wakil Mohammad Zarazi.” The pain instantly ceased. Turabi prayed he would black out, but the figure apparently knew how to control the electric shocks well enough to keep his victims conscious.

“What is your rank?”

“I do not have any rank. I am jihadi.”

“But your commanding officer is a general?”

“He calls himself a general, yes. But we are jihadi. We are Taliban. We are servants of God and loyal members of our clan.”

“This whole operation is a jihad?” Even with his voice electronically altered, Turabi could hear the surprise in the stranger’s voice. “You invaded Turkmenistan because you’re on a jihad?”

“We left our homes and villages in Afghanistan and came into Turkmenistan to escape you Americans and your robot killing machines!” Turabi shouted angrily. “We stayed in Turkmenistan because we found loyal soldiers and sympathizers. It was easier to keep moving west than it was to head back to our own homeland.”

The figure paused, and it sounded to Turabi as if he might be speaking inside his helmet to his comrades. Then the man asked, “How many in this jihadi army of yours?”

“We are no threat to you.”

“I said, how many?”

“Several thousand. I don’t know. We get more defectors every day. The Turkmen will fight for whoever pays them more money.”

“What is your objective after taking Kerki?”

“Whatever the general wants. He says God gives him instructions and guides him to victory.”

“Wa’if hena min fadlak,” the figure said to him in a monotone, machinelike electronic voice.

“Where do you expect me to go, Mr. Robot?” Turabi responded. “You have destroyed my two vehicles and killed my soldiers. The rest of my army is a hundred kilometers from this place.”

But the menacing figure had already strode away. Turabi snatched up a chunk of metal, a piece of his destroyed armored personnel carrier, and threw it at the figure. He didn’t even turn — but a blue-white bolt of electricity shot out from an electrode atop his shoulders and hit the chunk of metal, causing it to burst in midair like an overripe melon. Who in God’s holy name were these men?

The MV-32 Pave Dasher tilt-jet aircraft moved in from its hiding place a few miles away from the crash site, picked up the Tin Men and the critical components of the downed StealthHawk unmanned combat air vehicle, and headed off. But just as they did, Patrick did a long-range scan of the area with the laser radar aboard the EB-1C Vampire. “Two unidentified airborne contacts, seven o’clock, thirty-one miles, level at one thousand feet above ground, airspeed one hundred thirty knots,” the attack computer reported. “Designate bogeys one and two.”

“You got these newcomers, Daren?” Patrick asked.

“Yes, sir, I see them,” Daren responded. “Vampire, IFF check on bogeys.”

“Negative IFF,” the computer responded. The Vampire could send out coded interrogation signals and scan for a response from a friendly aircraft using the IFF, or “Identification Friend or Foe” system — if it did not receive a response, the aircraft was considered hostile. “Designate as bandits one and two.”

“Attack bandit one,” Daren ordered. He waited, then said more insistently, “I said, attack bandit one, Vampire. I say again, attack bandit one, Vampire.”

Zane looked at Daren with surprise. “Uh… sir?”

Daren held up a finger, but Zane pressed.

“You forgot to say the magic word, boss.”

“I know — just wanted to see if the computer would go off on its own,” Daren explained.

“Let’s not screw around here, guys,” Rebecca warned. “We can test the gear once our guys are out of Indian country.”

“It was just a test, Rebecca,” Daren said. “Vampire, attack bandit one. Hang on, crew.”

“Engaging bandit one,” the computer responded. The bomber immediately threw itself into a hard right turn and accelerated to zone-five afterburner.

“Weapons arming,” Patrick reported as he scanned the readouts on his multifunction display. He had barely moved from the position he assumed on takeoff — hands firmly holding on to his ejection seat’s armrests, feet locked together, as if ready for the ejection sequence. “Scorpion missile powered up. Continuity check in progress… continuity and connectivity checks on all weapons.”

“Thirty seconds to attack,” the computer responded. Then: “Attack aborted.” The Vampire rolled wings-level and maintained its present altitude.

“Weapons just safed themselves,” Patrick reported. “Jon…?”

“Second computer crumped,” Masters said immediately. “Third computer couldn’t accept control with weapons armed. The next computer should assume control any second.”

“Vampire, pursue bandit one, close to ten miles in trail at flight level one-five-zero,” Daren ordered. There was no response. “Vampire, close to ten miles in trail on bandit one at flight level one-five-zero. It’s not accepting commands, guys.”

“Wait until the third computer assumes control,” Jon said.

“ ‘Wait’? What do you mean, ‘wait’?” Rebecca asked.

“Computer transfer complete,” Masters said. “Everything should be okay now.”

“Vampire, close to ten miles in trail on bandit one at flight level zero-five-zero,” Daren ordered. The bomber immediately started a steep dive, and seconds later it passed the speed of sound. “Coming up on missile launch… ready… doors should be coming open….”

“Won’t happen,” Patrick said. “You didn’t reissue the attack command.”

“Another glitch?” Rebecca moaned.

“It’s not a glitch,” Masters said. “The computer is programmed not to remember attack commands in case of a computer malfunction. They have to be reissued to be sure the computer doesn’t execute a bogus attack command.”

“Hold on a second,” Rebecca said. “We’d better let this one go until we—”

But at the same time, Daren was already talking to the computer: “Vampire, attack bandit one,” he ordered.

“I said hold on a second!” Rebecca shouted. She reached forward, grasped the control stick, and squeezed the paddle switch. Instantly she felt the pressure of the flight controls in her hands. “I’ve got the aircraft!”

“Rebecca, let the VC take the aircraft back,” Daren said.

“Hey, it’s ‘General’ to you, mister!” she shot back. “And no one tells me what to do on my aircraft, especially not barely qualified navigators sitting on the ground!

“Now, in case you boys haven’t noticed, in case you were too busy gawking over your computers, we were on a five-degree, nose-low descent, going Mach one point two, about ten seconds before going below the emergency-descent altitude for this area and fifteen seconds from dying in a smoking hole in the earth. The plane is trying to kill us, and you’re arguing over computer logic.”

“Rebecca, this is our first test,” Patrick said. “Let’s let the system work so we can flush out the bugs. Let it—”

“ ‘Flush out the bugs’? How many lives are you willing to risk to ‘flush out the bugs’?” Rebecca retorted. “This is not my job, General! You may have spent the past several years stuck on the lake ‘flushing out bugs’ in new, untested, and potentially dangerous aircraft, but I haven’t!” Even angry as she was, Rebecca knew better than to talk about McLanahan’s previous assignment — deputy commander of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center at Groom Lake, now known as Elliott Air Force Base. “I train hard so I can employ operational aircraft in the most effective and efficient ways possible.”

“So you’re terminating the test flight, General?” Daren Mace asked.

In response Rebecca pulled the throttles back to 80 percent power and flicked two switches on her left instrument panel to the off position — the weapons consent switch and the datalink active switch. “I’ve got the aircraft. The test is terminated. Get those incoming bandits, General.”

“Roger, AC,” Patrick responded. He wasted no time at all locking up the lead helicopter — but he found a few moments later that they were not pursuing the Pave Dasher, but rather flying toward their comrades at the UCAV crash site. “The bandits are no threat,” he announced. “Weapons safe.” He immediately called up their egress flight plan and gave Rebecca autopilot steering commands. She did not relinquish control of the aircraft until they were well out over the Arabian Sea.

The StealthHawk drone launched by Furness and McLanahan stayed in the vicinity until the Pave Dasher was safely out over the Arabian Sea and there was no sign of pursuit. By this time Pogue and Long in the second EB-1C had refueled on Diego Garcia and were back up on air patrol, guarding the salvage ship that the Pave Dasher used as a forward base. The Pave Dasher safely landed on the ship, refueled, and flew on to Diego Garcia.

In the meantime Furness and McLanahan continued slowly on toward Diego Garcia, flying more slowly than normal because they wanted their StealthHawk to stay in close formation. They had already been in the air for almost two days, and they were looking forward to downtime on the isolated tropical island in the Indian Ocean. But they had a few other tasks to perform first.

“Rebecca, let’s see if the virtual cockpit can steer the StealthHawk into docking position,” Patrick asked on intercom.

“I don’t know, Patrick. With live weapons on board, I’d rather set her down.”

“But we’re not scheduled to offload weapons on Diego. We’re just going in for crew rest, debriefing, refueling, and then we’re off again,” Patrick reminded her. “This is a good time to test it out.”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

It sounded to Patrick that Rebecca was just tired, not really objecting to a test. It also sounded as if maybe she wanted to see what else this system could do. “It’ll just be to predocking position, not all the way in the sling,” Patrick pressed. “Let’s give it a try.”

“You just can’t take no for an answer, can you, sir?” Rebecca asked derisively. Again, to Patrick, it didn’t sound like an objection. “All right, all right, do it. Just don’t knock us out of the sky, okay?”

“Okay, time for the rest of the test,” Patrick announced on the command frequency. “Reel it in, Daren.”

“Roger,” Daren Mace responded from the virtual cockpit. “Hawk One, rejoin on Vampire One, left fingertip formation.”

“Hawk One beginning rejoin with Vampire One, stop rejoin.” After a moment the StealthHawk started a rapid climb and headed toward the EB-1C Vampire.

“This is the part I can’t handle,” Rebecca said.

“It’ll work,” Patrick reassured her. He had to force down a bit of doubt in his own voice, but he was able to repeat, “It’ll work.”

It worked better than they could have imagined. The StealthHawk climbed and accelerated until it was almost at the EB-1C Vampire’s altitude, then quickly slid in until it was flying precisely two hundred feet beside Rebecca Furness’s window and fifty feet below the Vampire’s altitude. “I have the StealthHawk in sight,” she reported. The StealthHawk looked perfectly normal in the dawn sky, hanging in tightly in a modified fingertip-formation position. “It looks in the green.”

“Aft bay doors coming open, docking web coming out,” Daren said. He opened the aft bay doors by remote control, then ordered, “Hawk One, translate to predock position on Vampire One.”

“Hawk One translating to predock position Vampire One, stop translate,” the UCAV responded. Then, as everyone watched on remote cameras, the StealthHawk slid back and across underneath the EB-1C.

“Oh, shit, I can practically feel that sucker under me,” Rebecca breathed.

“Steady, Becky,” Patrick said, but he found he could not talk in a normal tone of voice either.

The StealthHawk continued moving underneath the bomber until it was centered precisely in the opening of the aft bomb bay, then slowly, excruciatingly, began climbing. They could see the StealthHawk buck and burble as it corrected its flight path through the bomber’s slipstream. But both the Vampire and the StealthHawk used mission-adaptive “smart skin,” and their flight-control computers were able to both smooth out and dampen out the other’s slipstream and wake turbulence. The StealthHawk nosed toward a large composite material half-shell framework called the “docking web” that had been extended into the slipstream. It seemed like a millennium later, but finally the StealthHawk announced, “Hawk One stabilized in predock position.”

“Yeah, baby!” Jon Masters shouted. “That’s my boy!”

“Looks good,” Rebecca said. “Now move it back so I can see it.”

“Roger. Hawk One, translate to left fingertip position,” Daren ordered.

“Hawk One translating to left fingertip position, stop translate.” The StealthHawk obeyed and appeared a few moments later back on Rebecca’s side of the plane.

“That’s good, Dr. Masters,” Rebecca said. She finally took what felt like her first full breath of air in a very long time. “Let’s let it land on Diego Garcia.”

“Rebecca, I think we should try a docking,” Daren said.

“That wasn’t in the flight-test plan.”

“The ship and the UCAV are doing better than we ever expected,” Daren responded. “Let’s give it a try.”

“Let’s stick with the plan, guys,” Rebecca argued. “We’ll have lots of opportunities to dock it when we don’t have live ordnance on board. If we take any damage from the UCAV and we can’t jettison the remaining weapons, they’ll never let us land on Diego Garcia — we’ll have to ditch the Vampire.”

“Rebecca, let’s try it,” Patrick said. “The apparatus is in place, and the predock join-up looked nice and steady. It’ll work.”

Rebecca thought about it for a moment. Her hesitation was all the prompting Patrick McLanahan needed.

“You’re clear to do a docking, Daren,” he said.

“Roger that!” Daren responded happily. “Hawk One, dock with Vampire One, center bomb bay.”

“Hawk One docking with Vampire One center bay, stop docking,” the StealthHawk responded. Rebecca stared at the UCAV as it flew out of sight, and soon the strange feeling of being able to feel the little robot plane as if it were flying around her own body returned.

The StealthHawk maneuvered itself back underneath the Vampire bomber’s aft bomb bay, stabilized in predock position for a few seconds, then slowly continued its climb. Now Patrick and Rebecca could both feel a tiny shudder in the Vampire’s airframe, a slight vibration that couldn’t be dampened out by the mission-adaptive system. “Here it comes,” Patrick breathed. “Here it comes….”

Slowly, slowly, the StealthHawk climbed until it nestled inside the half-shell framework of the docking web. A powerful electromagnet activated, pulling the nose up into a latching mechanism that held tightly to the UCAV; then soft composite tubular frames extended out from under the docking web, completely encircling the UCAV. The turbulence from the web started to make the StealthHawk buck and fishtail inside the web, but by the time the turbulence got bad enough that the mission-adaptive system couldn’t counteract it, the web had captured the UCAV, the turbojet engine had shut down, and the StealthHawk was pulled inside the aft bomb bay and the bomb doors closed.

“We nabbed it!” Jon Masters shouted. “It worked! We got it!”

“I don’t friggin’ believe it,” Rebecca murmured as she saw the StealthHawk safely back inside the bomb bay in her TV monitor. “We retrieved it.” She reached across and clasped hands with Patrick McLanahan. “General, I know there will come a time when that will be routine,” she said cross-cockpit, “but, I swear to God, that was the most nerve-racking thing I’ve ever done.”

“Excellent job. Thanks for agreeing to do it,” Patrick said. “Ready to finish the test flight?”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way you’ll agree to terminate this and let us take it back to the barn?” Rebecca asked.

“We’re on a roll, Rebecca,” Patrick said. “You’re the aircraft commander, so whatever you say goes, but I say let’s finish this test.”

Rebecca nodded, took another deep breath, and said, “Okay, guys, let’s go to the next evolution — before I run out of adrenaline.”

“Roger, boss,” Zane said happily. “VAC has the aircraft, proceeding to the air-refueling anchor.”

Zane then flew the EB-1C Vampire bomber south toward a designated military operating area east of the island of Diego Garcia. A Sky Masters Inc. launch-and-control aircraft, a modified DC-10 airliner, was waiting for them with its refueling boom extended.

“Here’s the big test, guys,” Daren said. To the computer he ordered, “Vampire, translate to precontact position on the tanker.”

“Vampire translating to precontact position, stop translate.” The bomber immediately climbed until it was five hundred feet below the tanker, accelerated until it was one thousand feet in trail, then slowly climbed and decelerated until it was ten feet below and ten feet behind the boom’s nozzle. “Stabilized precontact,” the computer reported.

“How is it doing that?” Grey asked.

“The laser radar paints an exact picture of the entire tanker, including its boom,” Patrick explained, “and measures the tanker’s exact distance, speed, and altitude.”

“Isn’t hitting the refueling boom with laser beams dangerous?”

“About as dangerous as shining a TV remote in your eyes,” Daren chimed in. “The laser’s power reduces as the range decreases, so there’s no danger. Let’s do the checklists, Zane.”

“Roger. Vampire, precontact checklist.”

The air-refueling slipway door opened, and several lights were illuminated on the overhead instrument panel. “Precontact checklist complete,” the computer responded moments later.

“Vampire, translate to contact position,” Zane ordered.

“Vampire translating to contact position, stop translate.” The Vampire bomber began a slow climb and a very slow acceleration. Patrick and Rebecca watched as the DC-10’s air-refueling director lights — two lines of lights under the tanker’s belly that told a pilot where he was in the refueling envelope — activated, ordering the receiver to move up and forward with a green light toward the lower edge of the light display. As the bomber moved closer, the green light moved forward toward the center of the light display, and another green flashing light inched its way from the lower up bar toward the center. Rebecca had her right hand poised on the control stick, her little finger automatically lining up with the “paddle switch”—a lever on the front of the control stick that would disconnect the VC from aircraft control completely and immediately.

“Coming up on contact position,” Daren said.

The boom’s nozzle looked like a huge cannon pointing directly at their foreheads. “This is nutso,” Rebecca whispered. “This is crazy….”

“Steady, Rebecca,” Patrick said on intercom. “Easy…”

The boom hove dangerously close to the bomber’s radome, coming mere inches away from hitting. The boom operator grabbed it away just in time. “That was close,” Rebecca said.

“We’re still moving in,” Daren said. “Almost there…”

Patrick wasn’t sure if it was the tanker or the Vampire that did it, but the tanker abruptly seemed to pull away. The Vampire made a sudden acceleration, and as it sped up it also climbed sharply. The boom operator, not expecting the sudden movement, had to yank the boom out of the way. The nozzle seemed close enough for Furness and McLanahan to clearly see the scratches around the business end.

Just as Patrick breathed a sigh of relief that the nozzle was well clear, he heard Rebecca shout, “Boom strike!”

“Vampire, breakaway!” Daren said immediately. The bomber instantly decelerated, dropping a thousand feet behind and five hundred feet below the tanker in just a few seconds. At the same instant Rebecca squeezed the paddle switch, taking complete manual control of the bomber, and flicked off the datalink switches.

Patrick turned to Rebecca and said cross-cockpit, “Are you sure the boom hit us, Rebecca?”

“Pretty damned sure,” she replied excitedly.

“No damage observed on the boom,” radioed the boom operator in the pod in the tail of the DC-10. “No observed damage to the receiver. Let me reset my system, stand by…. System reset. Vampire, you’re cleared to precontact position.”

Patrick loosened his straps so he could lean forward and carefully look out the windscreen. “I don’t see any damage,” he said. “Let’s give it another try.”

“I’ve got a better idea — let’s not,” Rebecca said angrily cross-cockpit. “We had a boom strike. No more refueling until we get on the ground and check it out.”

“Rebecca…” Daren began.

“That’s ‘General’ to you, Colonel Mace!” Rebecca snapped on intercom. After a few moments’ stunned silence, she continued, “For those of you who don’t speak English or have conveniently forgotten the regs, a boom strike means no more refueling unless it’s an emergency or there are no suitable landing alternates available. We’re done for the day. Postrefueling checklist, now.” Patrick had no choice but to comply, and a few minutes later, after again reporting no visible damage, the boom operator cleared the Vampire to depart.

The president of the United States, Thomas Thorn, reached under the floorboards in the rear of the big sports utility vehicle and extracted a large gray case, resembling a footlocker. With photographers snapping away like crazy, the president set the case on the ground, took another case proffered him from Secretary of Defense Robert Goff, set it inside the SUV in place of the first, closed the floorboards, then closed the rear hatch, giving it a slap. Moments later the SUV rumbled to life. The president knelt beside the SUV’s exhaust pipe, touched it, and even put his face uncomfortably close to it, smiling the entire time. The cameramen hungrily snapped away.

Thorn removed a pair of work gloves as he approached the podium. “That, my friends, is how easy it is to replace a Sky Masters fuel cell,” he said. “This vehicle can now travel at legal highway speeds for another seven hundred miles — about twice the range of gasoline-powered vehicles. And its exhaust is completely clean, with nothing but water vapor as its only combustion by-product. It is my intention that every government vehicle purchased from now on will be powered only by non-petroleum-based fuels such as fuel cells, if Congress approves my alternative fuels vehicle purchase program bill.” He turned to the SUV heading down the automobile test track. “There goes the car of the future, ladies and gentlemen.”

And then, as if on cue, the SUV sputtered, coughed a few times, then coasted another few dozen yards before coming to a stop. A small army of technicians and engineers rushed to it, some carrying spare fuel-cell cases. A few moments later, after a change of the fuel-cell locker, the SUV began to move, then began sputtering and jerking ahead. Finally the techs and engineers began ignominiously pushing it off to the side of the track.

“Well, I think that illustrates the status of my bill so far: starting strong, showing a lot of promise, then running out of steam and needing an extra boost,” the president said gamely. “But I am bound and determined not to let a few setbacks stop this bill. Finding alternative sources of energy for America is a priority of mine as well as of the American people, and I’ve resolved to see it through.” The president pointed to one of the reporters arrayed around the podium, indicating he was ready to take questions.

“Mr. President, does your bill supporting and encouraging development of all nonpetroleum forms of energy include nuclear and coal, both of which have the danger of seriously polluting the environment?”

“It does,” the president responded. “I’m confident we have the technology to control hazardous waste and by-products from both forms of energy production, and I want the federal government to encourage such development through increased tax deductions and lowered tax rates on income for energy production using alternative sources.”

“Mr. President, even if this bill passes, it’ll take several years, maybe even decades, for the economic benefits to be felt from some of these technologies,” another reporter said. “What do you intend to do to ensure America’s need for petroleum-based energy until then?”

“As I have always done, I will encourage domestic oil production, conservation, and further development of renewable sources of energy such as solar, wind, geothermal, hydroelectric, and tidal,” the president said. “My administration has already sponsored two dozen bills to encourage these initiatives.” He knew where this line of questioning was leading.

“It seems that you are pushing for domestic oil production and all these other alternative and renewable energy sources, Mr. President,” the reporter followed up, “because your foreign policy is in disarray and you cannot ensure adequate supplies of fossil fuel for the future from foreign sources. Your comments?”

“I would very much disagree with your characterization,” Thorn replied. “My foreign policy position in regard to adequate supply of petroleum products is simple: We will deal fairly with any nation that deals fairly with us. We will not be held hostage by any nation that seeks to exploit how much oil we import from it.”

“Sir, former president Kevin Martindale has met with the oil ministers of most of the OPEC countries convening this week in Caracas, Venezuela, including Saudi Arabia, Russia, Iran, and most of the Central Asian states,” another reporter said. “It appears that President Martindale is lining up support for increased oil production and more secure supply chains. In sharp contrast, sir, your trade representative is still in Washington, and Secretary of State Kercheval hasn’t been seen or heard from in days. Can you explain this?”

“I don’t think there’s anything to explain. No one from my administration was invited to the OPEC meeting, and Secretary Kercheval is busy with other projects,” Thorn replied. “I don’t see the need to send trade representatives to hang around the hotels and conference halls in Caracas like some rock groupies. If any of the oil ministers wish to speak with me, they know how to contact me.”

“Are you characterizing President Martindale’s presence in Caracas as his being like a rock groupie?” another reporter shouted incredulously.

“As for the former president: He’s a private citizen and free to travel and meet with whomever he chooses,” Thorn went on, ignoring the question. “Everyone, I’m sure, understands that he does not speak for the U.S. government.”

“Mr. President, with the removal of U.S. troops from overseas bases and the American withdrawal from most mutual-defense agreements, the popularity of and confidence in the U.S. are at an all-time low,” another reporter said. “Recently TransCal Petroleum said in a press release that a group of Taliban fighters from Afghanistan have invaded a neighboring country, Turkmenistan, and are threatening to take over the oil-drilling and — distribution facilities built by TransCal for the Turkmen government.” The president nodded. “TransCal execs claim that the Turkmen government is powerless to stop the insurgents, and that, because your administration refuses to get involved, they might be forced to pay ‘protection money’ to the Taliban to keep the oil flowing. What’s your response?”

“I’ve been thoroughly briefed on the situation in Turkmenistan,” the president said. “The situation there is extremely unclear. These Taliban fighters are marching quite easily and virtually unopposed through most of the eastern part of the country, gaining tremendous popular support. My question is, why is this happening? Until we know the answer, I see no use in sending in U.S. troops to protect their pipelines.”

“But TransCal Petroleum, an American company, is losing millions of dollars a day—”

“I will not commit fighting forces to any sovereign nation unless it is in the defense of the people and the nation of the United States of America,” Thorn said resolutely. “The Founding Fathers created a military force with one and only one objective in mind: the defense of the United States. With the information I have currently, I am not yet convinced that these Taliban insurgents pose a risk to Americans here at home or overseas.”

Several more questions were shouted at him, so many that he could not sort them out. He saw Robert Goff nervously fidgeting. Things were starting to get out of control, the photo opportunity lost, and it was time to move on. “In closing, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to say that it is innovations such as Sky Masters’s fuel-cell project that will ensure America’s energy independence and keep us from getting entangled in risky and murky conflicts overseas. America can be strong and energy-independent with the right combination of creative thinking, science, and support from the people and the government. I urge support for my alternative fuels vehicle purchase program bill and my other initiatives that are designed to promote and encourage development of dependable, sustainable sources of energy. Thanks very much, and God bless.” He ignored a loud volley of shouted questions, most of which began to sound more like threats or challenges than mere questions.

The president took several minutes to shake hands — designed to let the live-news outlets terminate their coverage of his press conference while he was pressing the flesh, instead of showing him retreating — and was then escorted to a waiting car to be taken to the airport. There was silence for several minutes after everyone was on board. Finally Robert Goff said, “I apologize for that snafu with the fuel cell, Mr. President. We tested that exchange a half dozen times today alone, and it worked perfectly every time.”

“Those things happen, Robert,” Thorn said, smiling. “Don’t worry about it.”

He turned to watch the televised coverage of the event. The satellite-TV station was showing video of the president with his face next to the exhaust pipe of the SUV, and one of the commentators made a crude remark about the “president’s energy policy being full of hot air” and “high in the ozone.”

“Wish I could’ve thought of another way to show how safe the emissions from those fuel-cell engines are without sticking my face near that tailpipe,” Thorn said wryly.

“We’ll be sure we explain to all the media outlets the point you were trying to make,” Goff said. “That commentator has got his head up his ass anyway.”

“So Martindale is scoring some points in his trip to Venezuela, eh?”

“Sir, Martindale is on TransCal Petroleum’s bankroll to the tune of millions. He probably should be registered as a TransCal lobbyist,” Goff said disgustedly. “He’s spending that money down in Caracas, in the Middle East, in the Balkans, and in Central Asia, trying to gain support for TransCal production deals. Most of those countries still think he’s running the Night Stalkers and will attack if he doesn’t get to meet with the oil ministers.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if he was still involved,” Thorn said. Kevin Martindale’s leadership of a group of high-tech mercenaries was one of the biggest nonscandals in years. It made him a roguish legend in America and definitely did not hurt his reelection chances.

“Well, the intimidation factor is definitely working. Most of those countries in turn are financing his reelection campaign.” Thorn was about to say something, but Goff anticipated the remark. “I can’t prove it, but I know it’s happening. He’s hoping that more and more countries warm up to him so it looks like he has support overseas. More support overseas means more American companies feel better backing Martindale for president because it means a stronger dollar and more American clout overseas, which he’s hoping translates to more donations and support here at home.”

“Sounds logical to me.”

Goff looked at Thorn quizzically. “Sir, it’s easy for candidates to throw lots of money around to court companies and governments for support. They’re not on the front lines every day,” Goff reminded the president. “This plan of Martindale’s will backfire because everyone knows who Martindale really is. He talks about peace and harmony and friendship, and then boom! — he sends in the Marines or the stealth bombers and blows the crap out of anyone and everyone who gets in his way. He’s a backstabber, sir, and everyone knows it.”

Thomas Thorn stared blankly at the TV. “Would it work in Turkmenistan, I wonder?” he asked at last.

“What? Sending in the Marines against those Taliban?”

“I was thinking of the bombers,” Thorn said. He pressed a button on a computer keyboard, and the TV image changed to the military briefing page. “Status report on McLanahan’s recovery mission in Turkmenistan: complete success, complete withdrawal of the cruise missile, all personnel extracted, no casualties.”

“The guy’s good — there’s no doubt about that,” Goff said. He waited to see if the president was going to say anything more; when he did not, Goff asked, “What are you thinking, Thomas?”

Thorn was silent for a long time. Finally he said, “Nothing.”

“Having some second thoughts about getting involved in Central Asia?”

“No,” he replied quickly — too quickly, Goff suspected. When he noticed his friend, adviser, and secretary of defense looking questioningly at him, Thorn added, “Martindale is wrong, Robert. The solution to what’s happening in Turkmenistan does not lie in military force.”

“I happen to agree — for now,” Goff said. “The problem remains: Martindale is on the offensive politically. He’s in Venezuela talking to world petroleum ministers, grabbing headlines, and making himself look like a leader. The word is he’ll be heading to Kuwait City to address a meeting of the Gulf States Security Council — the first American ever to do so since the Gulf War. He probably won’t be talking about Central Asia at that particular time. That might be a good opportunity.”

Thorn looked at Goff, then said, “To make a diplomatic move in Turkmenistan?” Goff nodded. “The only way to do that would be to send a high-level delegation.”

“It should be Kercheval. But he doesn’t deserve it now, does he?” Thorn closed his eyes — they both knew the answer to that one. “Maureen Hershel is a good choice. Turkmenistan is Muslim, but it’s run mostly by Soviet-era bureaucrats who know they have to deal with high-ranking women in today’s world. She’s smart, tough, and, best of all, she knows when to keep her mouth shut.”

“Time’s running out. If that Taliban insurgent army gets their grips on the capital, Turkmenistan could fall fast.”

“Let’s give her the go-ahead right away, then,” Goff said. “Let her staff start laying the groundwork for a diplomatic visit and high-level talks.” Thorn nodded his approval. Goff added, “You might even consider bringing a military liaison along. Turkmenistan’s military is very small and run by Russian officers.”

Thorn looked at Goff, then smiled. “You mean McLanahan?”

“Why not? McLanahan has pretty good name recognition and respect here in the U.S., but at the same time he’s not very well known overseas. He’ll have the luxury of relative anonymity. He can look around and talk to folks without calling too much attention to himself. I know you don’t care about political stuff, but the fact remains, McLanahan has pretty good poll numbers — about where Colin Powell was when he was Reagan’s national security adviser.”

“Let’s not get into a discussion again about asking McLanahan to be my national security adviser,” Thorn groaned. “I’ve already got you to tell me where I’m screwing up.” The president thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “There’s an old saying in the military: ‘Screw up and move up.’ McLanahan has done his share of bad decision making lately. I’m not so sure he deserves a plum posting like that.”

Goff shrugged. He certainly couldn’t argue. “I’ll draw up a list of candidates and send it over to State, then present it to you for your approval,” he said.

“I’ll let Miss Hershel pick her own attachés from your list.”

Goff nodded. That was the way Thorn did business — pick good people, then delegate authority to them. It was faster, less stressful on him, and made his staff feel like they were part of the action every step of the way. “In the meantime why don’t we talk to McLanahan and get his thoughts about what’s going on over there.”

“Why him in particular?”

“Because he’s smart, and he’s in command of a unit that could very well be the tip of the spear if we decide to move out there,” Goff said. “Besides, he’s on the way. We’re heading to Lake Tahoe for that environmental-summit thing. There’s plenty of time to reposition the support crews to Battle Mountain. I’ll have General Venti transmit a request for an operational assessment from McLanahan’s unit. We can have Miss Hershel accompany us out there. You can look over McLanahan’s unit and get a briefing directly from him.”

“You’re high on this guy, aren’t you, Robert?” Thorn asked. “Why?”

Goff shrugged. “The same reason I’m high on you, my friend,” he replied with an uneasy smile. “You both have the strength of your convictions. You both know what you believe is right, and you’re not afraid to fight for it.” His eyes danced a bit, and he added, “Besides, I have a feeling it’ll be like the unstoppable force meeting the immovable object when you two get together. Patrick McLanahan on his own home turf, versus the commander in chief. I already know who’ll win — but it’ll still be fun to watch you two get in each other’s faces.”