Air Battle Force

Six

Four of the sixteen large, full-color screens at the back of the Battle Management Center at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base filled with the image of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Air Force General Richard Venti, speaking through the secure videoteleconference system in his office. Venti’s uniform blouse and tie were gone, and a large glass of something with ice sat on the desk; Patrick couldn’t see if it was just water or some after-hours beverage. Venti was absently juggling a fat Montblanc pen in his fingers, a habit he picked up from the endless mission briefings and debriefings he’d sat through during his Cold War fighter-pilot days pulling alert in Europe. “Go ahead, folks,” he said. “I see you fine now. Secretary Goff asked me to handle your request. He’s standing by on a secure line if we need him.”

Patrick McLanahan sat forward at the command console. With him were David Luger, Rebecca Furness, Daren Mace, and John Long. “Sir, I’ve received a request from Deputy Secretary of State Hershel to provide security support for her upcoming trip to Bahrain and Turkmenistan.”

“We’ve received the request as well,” Venti said. “I got approval from SECDEF. Any problems on your end?”

“Just one, sir: I don’t think it’s enough,” Patrick McLanahan replied.

“Explain.”

“Sir, as part of the operational review of the situation in Turkmenistan, we launched a constellation of reconnaissance and eavesdropping satellites to monitor the situation there,” Patrick said. “We recently monitored a major battle between the Taliban insurgents and Turkmen regulars against the city of Mary, and we believe that the insurgents will have the city in their control within a matter of hours — and that means Russia will be directly threatened.”

“I received your report from Air Force, Patrick,” Venti said, “but, as I said in my reply, I don’t see the hazard here other than what Deputy Secretary Hershel has already accepted. The Turkmen capital doesn’t appear to be in danger currently. This would be a good time to initiate a diplomatic mission. If the fighting starts to spread west, I’m sure State will order an evacuation.”

“But I believe that the situation has become much worse, sir, even in the past two days,” Patrick said. “Flying a diplomatic mission into Turkmenistan right now might be an important thing to do to try to get control of this Taliban uprising and the possible repercussions should Russia counterattack, but it still places Deputy Secretary Hershel and President Martindale in grave danger.”

“It’s part of the job,” Venti said. “If she or the president thought they’d be in real danger, I suppose they would send some other representative. The State Department deals with these kinds of dangers every day.” It was obvious in his voice that he wanted to wrap up this discussion — or maybe he didn’t really believe what he was saying himself. “Thanks for your concern, Patrick. I’ll forward your report to State. Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

Venti stopped and looked at Patrick for a rather long moment. “Just for my edification, General: In case the situation did get worse between now and when Deputy Secretary Hershel’s plane flies over Turkmenistan, what else would you have in mind?” He turned and typed something on his computer terminal, then read a page or two. “I have your entire unit mission plan right here in front of me, which I received from General Luger. Is this what you’re talking about?”

“Sir, the Air Battle Force ground team has been mobilized. I would simply implement the rest of the total force,” Patrick explained. “The Air Battle Force travels and fights as a team, not as individuals. I agreed to provide security support for Deputy Secretary Hershel because I’m anxious to prove what our ground team can do, but the idea is to deploy as a team, even if the other elements are never utilized.”

“So you’re suggesting…?”

“I should be authorized to deploy the rest of the Air Battle Force,” Patrick said. “One Air Battle team, deployed and ready for action in-theater, with the rest of the Air Battle Force deployed to Diego Garcia or on fast alert here to back up the first team if necessary.”

Patrick could see General Venti wearily rubbing his temples, then leaning back in his seat. “I’ll need to read over your unit mission plan again, Patrick, before I upchannel this.”

“Sir, Hershel is already on her way to Bahrain for updates and consultations. She goes on to Turkmenistan in under forty-eight hours,” Patrick said. “That gives us less than one day before we need to deploy—”

“I know, Patrick, I know,” Venti said irritably. “But there just hasn’t been time to study all this. We were concerned about funding further development of your unit, not about actually deploying it in so short a time.”

“Sir…”

“Patrick, relax,” Venti interrupted. “I’ll call the staff together and we’ll get this on the secretary’s desk right away, along with your report and your recommendations. But we can’t accomplish everything instantly. If need be, we can recommend that Hershel’s mission be postponed. But in all likelihood everything will proceed normally. She and Martindale will meet with the Turkmen government and the ambassadors from the different nations involved, then get the hell out of there. The Turkmen and Russians aren’t crazy — they wouldn’t dare threaten a U.S. diplomatic mission.”

“Yes, sir” was all Patrick could say.

Venti shook his head. “You did good work here, Patrick. Very heads-up — the kind of information I need from my field commanders. But the civilian side, especially the diplomatic side, is a whole other world. Sometimes everything we do is simply not enough. Our job is to give them the data and our recommended course of action. They make the decisions.”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick responded neutrally.

Patrick’s tone of voice rang an alarm in Richard Venti’s head, and his attention immediately snapped back to the video screen. “General, I advise you to think carefully before you plan your next moves,” he said. Furness and Long could feel the weight of his stare even through the secure videoconference link. “I know you want to help, and you’re doing so right now. But remember your recent history. I like the planning you and your staff do, and I encourage you to continue. But every time you decide to embark on some unauthorized activity, someone ends up getting hurt — usually yourself.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Make sure that you do, General. Anything else for me?”

“No, sir. Thank you for your time.”

“Thanks for your reports. I’ll be in touch.”

The connection terminated. Patrick immediately called up the aircraft status board and a chart detailing the current locations of all the Air Battle Force’s and 111th Wing’s airborne aircraft. He ignored the alarmed shuffling Colonel Long was doing behind him. “General Luger.”

“Sir?”

“Generate and deploy the First Air Battle team immediately, and assume combat air-patrol operations over Turkmenistan. Assemble and deploy a combat-support group to Diego Garcia, and prepare ramp space and support facilities at Diego Garcia for combat operations. Then generate the Second Air Battle Team, and deploy them to Diego Garcia, configuration Gold.”

“What?” John Long exclaimed.

“Yes, sir,” Luger responded, glaring at Long. He immediately sat down at the deputy commander’s console and began typing in instructions. Seconds later Rebecca Furness turned away from the others as the duty officer called on her earpiece to notify her that her wing’s aircraft were being recalled and tasked with a mission and deployment by the Air Battle Force.

“Excuse me, General, but didn’t you hear what the chairman said?” Long asked incredulously. “He said no unauthorized activity. I was standing right here, and I didn’t hear him authorize you to send any aircraft anywhere!”

“John…” Rebecca started.

“What is it with you, McLanahan?” Long dug in. “Do you think this Air Force exists for your own personal pleasure?”

“Colonel…”

“Or have you completely gone insane?”

“Colonel Long!” Rebecca snapped.

Long turned to her in surprise.

“An L-hour has been declared by the Air Battle Force. Issue an immediate recall of all wing personnel and aircraft—”

“Rebecca, what are you doing?”

“Then generate the Alpha and Bravo Force aircraft in configuration Gold,” she went on, setting a timer on her watch — she knew that the duty officer would keep track of aircraft generation timing, but old habits died hard with veteran commanders like herself. “The Alpha Force crews should be ready for the prelaunch mission brief in L plus ten hours; the Bravo Force should be ready to go on ground alert in L plus eighteen. The wing battle staff will meet in the BATMAN in thirty minutes. An L-hour directs a Reserve Forces call-up, so you better notify the Nevada adjutant general and the governor of Nevada that the wing is commencing a full combat generation, and make sure they understand this is not an exercise.”

“Rebecca, we have absolutely no authority to be doing this,” Long sputtered. “It’s patently illegal. McLanahan is going to make a fool out of us again!”

“Colonel Long, I haven’t heard you order the duty officer to issue a wing recall.”

“And you won’t, until we have a chance to talk,” Long shot back.

“Duty Officer,” Rebecca called, “notify Colonel Mace that he is now the wing operations-group commander. Colonel Long will assume the duties of the Fifty-first Squadron commander.”

“Yes, General Furness,” the electronic duty officer responded.

“Rebecca, damn it, listen to me!” Long shouted. He took her by the arm and physically moved her away from McLanahan and Luger.

Rebecca’s eyes blazed, but she let him have his say.

“Rebecca, you can’t do any of this. You can’t follow an order knowing it’s illegal. You’ve been through this before with McLanahan, and you’ve gotten busted. Don’t trash your career again for the likes of them.”

“Colonel Long, you are to report back to the BATMAN in utility uniform and organize the Fifty-first Squadron recall until the battle-staff meeting—”

“I’ve got something to say first.”

Rebecca closed her eyes, then turned away from him and spoke: “Duty Officer, have Security Forces report to the BATMAN immediately and escort Colonel Long to his office, situation code yellow.”

“ ‘Yellow’? What do you think I am, damn it, a terrorist?”

“You’ve disobeyed orders and shown absolute disregard for rank or authority,” Rebecca said. “In my opinion you are not in full control of your emotions or senses, and I determine you are a risk to wing assets. Duty Officer, Colonel Long is to remain confined to his office incommunicado until further notice. Rescind my order making Colonel Long the Fifty-first’s commander — show his specialty code as Eight-X. Notify Lieutenant Colonel Ricardo that he is now the Fifty-first Squadron’s commander.”

“Yes, General Furness.”

“God damn you, Rebecca — you’re fucking out of your mind!” Long shouted.

“Duty Officer, correction, show Colonel Long’s specialty code now as Nine-X,” Rebecca ordered. The Eight-series codes were reserved for special-duty officers — usually officers stuck in an office somewhere insignificant until they could be reassigned or ousted, or for medical patients in hospitals. It was bad enough going from a Zero-series code — a commander — to an Eight-series. But the Nine-series specialty codes were reserved for officers doing time in prison, under investigation for criminal activities, or undergoing psychiatric treatment — untrainable, unpromotable, and unassignable. Long had just been sent to the Air Force’s version of purgatory.

Moments later two Security Forces officers stepped quickly into the room. Both were pulling on leather gloves. After putting on his gloves, one of the officers pulled a stun gun out of its sheath, keeping it in view just long enough for Long to know he had it in his hand. The other officer took Long by the upper arm to lead him away; when Long tried to shrug off the officer’s hand, the first officer immediately pinned Long’s other arm behind him, and together the two officers handcuffed Long’s arms behind his back and led him away.

At first McLanahan and Luger made absolutely no mention of the entire event once Rebecca had sat back down at her console and logged in. But after a few minutes Patrick half turned to her and asked, “Isn’t that going to leave the Fifty-first short of aircraft commanders, Rebecca?”

“Who cares?” she replied. “We don’t need aircrew members to fly my planes anymore, remember?” She looked at McLanahan and said, “I’m taking the first Air Battle team to Turkmenistan.”

“I need you here.”

“I’m going with the general, sir,” Daren Mace said.

“I need you both here.”

“Sir, I know what you’re going to say, but you know it’s not the right thing to do,” Rebecca said. “The virtual-cockpit control stuff is just too unpredictable and new to rely on with this mission. I’ll fly with your unmanned toys, sir, but I’ll insist on personally commanding the rest of the force. If you don’t like it, too bad — sir.”

Patrick looked at both Furness and Mace, then nodded. “I wish I were going with you, that’s all.”

“Say that more than once, sir, and I’ll put you on a crew,” Rebecca said. She smiled, then added, “You’ve had your fun, Major General McLanahan. I’ve got a bunch of youngsters on this base who want a piece of the action now. You built this place as your command center — you should use it.”

A string of six Russian Mi-6 transport helicopters swept in at high speed toward Mary. They flew less than a rotor’s diameter above the desert floor, high enough to minimize the dust cloud kicked up by their huge blades but low enough to avoid detection by ground-based radars.

The Mi-6 transport helicopter, first rolled out almost fifty years earlier, was one of the world’s largest, a perfect example of the old Soviet drive to build bigger and bigger war machines. Fitted with external wings to help provide lift and plenty of hardpoints for extended-range fuel tanks, the immense Mi-6 transports were the Russian army’s most important heavy-lift helicopter. Each one carried forty fully armed combat troops and two BMD airborne-combat vehicles. The assault group had deployed from its base in Volgograd, refueled in Astrakhan on the Caspian Sea, and had launched again with other helicopters carrying enormous fuel bladders. They landed in the wastelands of central Uzbekistan completely undetected by anyone, refueled from the bladders, and then began their assault into southwestern Turkmenistan.

For the Russian helicopter pilots manning the big transport and attack choppers on this mission, flying in this region of the world was a whole new experience. They truly believed that life for most of the people living in these wastelands couldn’t have changed much in the past thousand years. Case in point: the camel caravans they encountered in Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan.

As they raced across the desert, they saw dozens of groups of nomads scattered across the landscape. The gunners in the Mi-24 Hind attack helicopters locked up every one of them in their infrared targeting systems, ready to blast them to pieces — and at first, in Uzbekistan, a few groups did get blasted. But when they zoomed in on them with their telescopic sights, it turned out they really were just camel caravans traveling across the burning desert sands. Here it was, the twenty-first century, and there were still nomads riding their camels, the animals piled high with crates, blankets, and other odds and ends to trade or sell. No use in wasting precious ammunition on them.

Fifty kilometers outside Mary, the formation moved into trail position and descended lower to the desert floor in an attempt to hide themselves from patrols. All radio frequencies were silent. Once in a while the gunship crews would spot an explosion far on the horizon or receive a brief squeak on the threat-warning receiver, but there was no sign whatsoever of the presence of Taliban forces. The pilots had to be careful now — there were more oil wells in this area, and they were definitely flying low enough now to run into them — and the clouds of dust kicked up by their rotors were starting to limit visibility for the trailing helicopters.

“Approaching infiltration point,” the company commander announced. “Prepare for dismount.”

“Target, target, two o’clock!” one of the Mi-6 pilots shouted.

The lead gunship pilot swung his telescopic sensor in that direction — but it turned out to be a camel. The sight was so funny that the pilot couldn’t help laughing. The big animal was truly comical, madly dashing away from the approaching helicopters, a few rugs and blankets that had broken loose from its back streaming behind it. As the pilot watched, the poor animal ran headlong into a fence surrounding a cluster of oil wells and collapsed in a tangle of legs and neck on the barbed wire. “No target,” the pilot said. “Another damned camel.”

“What should we do about those camel caravans we find out here?” the gunship pilot asked. “If the noise spooks those animals so bad, they could attract attention or set off an alarm in those oil well compounds.”

“Next time you see them, take them out,” the commander ordered.

Sure enough a few moments later the gunship pilot spotted several more groups of camel nomads huddled around some abandoned oil wells. “How in the hell can those people live out here like that?” he asked his gunner as he zoomed in the infrared image and centered his thirty-millimeter cannon’s crosshairs on the first group. “They’re fifty kilometers from the nearest shelter. No water, no food, no—”

The nomads started to move. A camel clambered to its feet and trundled off — and right behind where the camel had lain, the gunship commander clearly saw a man raise something to his shoulder. Seconds later a flash of light obscured the scene — but he knew what it was. “Missile attack!” he shouted. “We’re under—”

The SA-14 antiaircraft missile hit the engine compartment of the hovering lead gunship, tearing the engines to pieces in a millisecond and sending the big helicopter spinning out of control sideways across the desert. In rapid succession a dozen more shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles shot out across the night sky, and almost all of them found their targets. In seconds all the Russian helicopters were on the ground. Only two of the half dozen Mi-6 transports and one Mi-24 gunship landed upright, and three of the fully loaded Mi-6s were on fire. A few troops ran out of the other downed helicopters, some carrying wounded.

“Open fire, fire at will,” Jalaluddin Turabi ordered on his command radio. The six antiaircraft squads deployed around the area threw aside their SA-14 launchers and uncovered their thirty-seven-millimeter machine guns from their hiding places in the sand, mounted them, and began firing at the survivors. A few Russian commandos returned fire, but in a matter of minutes the battle was over.

Turabi and his security forces carefully approached the hulks of the downed helicopters. The echoes of gunshots and the crackle and groaning of burning metal and burning Russian soldiers disturbed the desert stillness. Their grim job took nearly an hour — examining and, if necessary, dispatching almost three hundred Russian commandos strewn across the desert floor. “Three officers and twenty-one enlisted recovered alive, four armored personnel carriers still operational,” reported one of Turabi’s senior platoon chiefs. “One helicopter gunship may be flyable. Want to try to fly it out of here, sir?”

“Burn it,” Turabi said. “Get the prisoners to Mary, and get replacement missiles and ammo sent out here on the double. This might be only the first wave of Russian troops moving into this area — we need to be ready in case the second assault is inbound.” Turabi had fought the Russians before, as a youngster recruited into the Afghan resistance in the 1980s, and he knew that they rarely moved in small numbers. When they moved into an area, they usually did it with large, overwhelming force, giving themselves at least a ten-to-one numerical advantage.

“Yes, sir,” the platoon chief said. “Outstanding job, sir. It was a perfectly executed ambush. Brilliant idea using the camels to disguise our positions. The Russians must’ve actually thought we were a bunch of desert rats. They flew right up to us as if they didn’t even know we were here.”

Turabi surveyed the area. The massive burned hulks of the Mi-6 helicopters looked like the carcasses of some sort of prehistoric dinosaurs littering the desert. The smell of burning flesh and jet fuel was almost overpowering, but Turabi had seen too much death on this campaign to be sickened by it now. He scowled at his senior chief. “Two months ago, Anwar, we were nothing but a bunch of desert rats,” Turabi said. “But at least we had a purpose and a mission. What are we now? Nothing but a bunch of invaders and murderers.”

“We are soldiers.”

“Soldiers fight to defend their homes and repel aggressors,” Turabi said. “We do neither. We attack and pillage and kill, for no apparent reason. That makes us marauders, not heroes.”

“Tomorrow we might be as dead and crispy as those Russians,” the chief said. “Tonight we are victorious. That is good enough for me right now.” He bowed his head briefly in respect and left to carry out Turabi’s orders, obviously uncomfortable with the direction this discussion was taking.

Jalaluddin Turabi had to remind himself—again—to be careful about verbalizing his doubts and inner conflicts with his men. It was a very successful operation, well planned and executed. Their losses had been minimal; the Russians’ overconfidence cost them dearly. It was necessary for the men to know he was proud of their courage and discipline. Instead he had moaned to the senior chief about how all of this was a waste. How were the men supposed to react after hearing something like that?

This war was far from over, Turabi reminded himself, and he was farther than ever from home. He had to rely on these men, and they had to rely on him, if they had any chance whatsoever of making it home again.

“Oh… my… God,” faltered General Anatoliy Gryzlov, chief of staff of the Russian military forces. He immediately slammed the phone down, jumped from his seat, and dashed to his private elevator, which took him down to the underground Central Military Command Center at Frunze Embankment. “What in hell happened out there in Turkmenistan?” he thundered as soon as he entered the chamber.

“An ambush. They were waiting for us, sir,” the senior controller replied. “We’re repositioning satellites to get a better look at the northeast quadrant of Mary, but we feel it was a freak occurrence — our forces were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The opposing force could not have been more than company size, well hidden, and armed with shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles.”

“Ni pizdf!” Gryzlov swore, banging a fist on the desk. He thought for a moment, but he had already made up his mind long before he reached the command center. “Get the entire staff in here immediately. I was briefed on an air-invasion plan as a contingency operation — I want that plan set in motion immediately. I want all the airspace around Turkmenistan closed off and ten tactical-attack air regiments on the ground in Mary and Ashkhabad within forty-eight hours.” He picked up the direct line to the president’s office in the Kremlin. “I want to speak with him immediately—I don’t care who he’s meeting with.”

“What in hell is so important, General?” Sen’kov said a few minutes later when he came on the line. “I’m in a very important meeting with—”

“Mr. President, I lost three hundred soldiers last night in Turkmenistan.”

“Sraka,” Sen’kov muttered. The line was silent for a moment, and then Gryzlov could hear Sen’kov ordering the room cleared. “All right, damn it, get over here as fast as you can.”

“I will tell you what happened and what I will do about it now, Mr. President. I’m not going to waste more time taking crap from you!”

“Watch your tongue, General!”

“Yimu adin huy kto ty yest!” Gryzlov said. “I don’t care who the hell you are now, sir. All I care about is teaching those Taliban bastards the dangers of raising a weapon at a Russian soldier!”

“Relax, General. Get over here and—”

“Sir, I’m sending in an air strike against the known Taliban positions in Mary,” Gryzlov interrupted. “First I’m going to order a complete air blockade of Turkmenistan. No one enters or leaves the country without my express permission.”

“The American secretary of state’s delegation is due to arrive in twenty-four hours.”

“The Turkmen foreign ministry should warn that delegation not to attempt to enter the country, especially around Mary,” Gryzlov said. “I will not allow even one beat-up old crop duster to interfere with my operation. It will be in the Americans’ best interest to stay well away from Turkmenistan. President Thorn is famous for staying away from trouble — make him understand that it would be wise to stay out of this conflict.”

“What are you planning on doing next?”

“I’m going to commence round-the-clock heavy aerial bombardment until satellite imagery detects no movement of Taliban armored or mechanized forces,” Gryzlov replied. “Then I’m going to drop an entire battalion of paratroopers with artillery on that city, retake the airfield, and set up a secure forward command center in Mary. I’m going to insert a brigade of mechanized infantry into Mary and retake the city. I’m going to repeat the entire process with Chärjew, then Kizyl-arvat, and finally Gaurdak.”

“What in God’s name is your objective here, Gryzlov? Do you want to destroy all those cities? Do you intend to take the entire country?”

“My objective will be to eliminate all Taliban and any other subversive elements in Turkmenistan and retake the oil fields and pipelines,” Gryzlov said. “Russia will be criticized for attacking Turkmenistan with such overwhelming force — but I don’t care. I will retake control of the country quickly and effectively.” Gryzlov paused, waiting to see if Sen’kov was going to object. When he did not, Gryzlov continued, “Sir, the warning order will be transmitted to the district headquarters immediately, and the execution order will be on your desk in fifteen minutes. I expect you to sign the order. I plan on launching the first air strike in less than eight hours from now.”

There was a very long pause, almost a full minute. Gryzlov was growing angrier by the second, until: “Very well, General. Issue the warning order, then get the execution order on my desk immediately. I am prepared to sign it. But, General?”

“Sir?”

“You will be very careful in the future to consult with the Defense Ministry and myself before making any more such plans,” Sen’kov warned. “I don’t like your tone, and I don’t like being told what to do.”

“Sir, at this moment I don’t much care what you like,” Gryzlov said. “You told me you were so afraid of Turkmenistan’s turning into another Kosovo or Chechnya, and then you tied my hands behind my back—”

“Watch your tone of voice, General!”

“I will not, sir!” Gryzlov shot back. “I am putting you on notice from now on, sir, that the Russian military will not tolerate any more political equivocating or half commitments where vital Russian interests or Russian military forces are involved! If my men are attacked again, I will act — and if I do not receive one hundred percent backing from the Kremlin, I will see to it that there are leaders in place who will back the military!”

“You are out of line, Gryzlov!” Sen’kov cried. “One more word out of you and you’ll find yourself in a Siberian prison beside Zhurbenko!”

“Don’t threaten me, Mr. President,” Gryzlov said. “As long as my men and women guard your offices, support influential members of the Duma, and monitor your phones and computers, you will not threaten me! My soldiers know I will die before I fail to support them, and I know they will die to support me. That is all you need to remember. I’ll have that execution order on your desk in ten minutes. It had better be back on my desk in twenty minutes, or the next target for my bombers will be the Kremlin!”

Valentin Sen’kov replaced the phone on its cradle. His foreign minister, Ivan Filippov, stared at him in complete amazement. “Was that General Gryzlov shouting on the phone?” he asked. “I could hear it all the way from here!”

“The commandos he sent to Turkmenistan—”

“The ones he sent in to sneak into Mary and reconnoiter the Taliban positions — I remember,” Filippov said. “What about them? Were they successful?” He looked at Sen’kov’s horrified, incredulous expression. “Some of them get hurt?”

“All of them… got dead,” Sen’kov breathed.

“What?” Filippov cried, rising to his feet. “All of them? How many…?”

“Three hundred.”

Filippov was too stunned to speak.

“Gryzlov is shutting down the airspace over Turkmenistan, and he’s going to send in a large bomber force,” Sen’kov went on. “You need to contact the American foreign ministry and the White House right away, notify them what happened, and tell them that for our protection we are imposing a blockade of Turkmen airspace.”

“Sir, we didn’t discuss doing that — not even as a contingency,” Filippov said. “Besides, we can’t legally just close off another country’s airspace. My advice would be to let a bunch of journalists in to see what those Taliban raiders did. Then the world might be more on our side when we’re ready to strike.”

“General Gryzlov is sending over an execution order for me to sign right now,” Sen’kov said. “He’s already issued a warning order to his bomber forces.”

“Well, fuck him until you decide what you want to do first,” Filippov said. “He’s not the—” Filippov stopped and looked at Sen’kov with a perplexed expression that quickly turned to shock. “Wait a minute… Gryzlov was yelling at you on the phone just now? He was telling you what he was going to do, and he ordered you to comply?”

“He threatened me,” Sen’kov said.

Filippov had never seen the president so scared before — in fact, he thought he’d never seen anyone so scared before, even Zhurbenko just before they hauled him away to prison.

“He threatened to kill me, blow up the Kremlin — and he’s serious, Ivan. He’s not crazy — he’s dead serious.”

“He needs to be arrested — no, he needs to be disposed of!” Filippov cried. “Threatening the president of the federation, threatening the lives of government officials — who in hell does he think he is?”

“Who’s going to dispose of him, Ivan? You? Me? He’s threatened to turn every uniformed man and woman against me. And after what happened in the Balkans, I don’t think the Duma or the bureaucrats will stand in his way.”

“Don’t let him bullshit you, sir,” Filippov said. “The MVD Interior Troops and the OMON special-assignments command forces assigned to protect you are not under his command — they’re part of the Interior Ministry.”

“That’s… what? A few thousand troops? Maybe ten thousand? He controls over a million battle-ready troops.”

“He doesn’t command them — he runs the general staff,” Filippov said. “He can’t get on the radio or TV tomorrow and order all those troops to do what he…”

But Filippov’s voice trailed off, and Sen’kov immediately knew why. They both knew that General Anatoliy Gryzlov might just be popular enough to do exactly that: get on TV and the nationwide radio system, address the Russian people, order a coup, and roll his tanks into Red Square to take over the government.

Tomorrow. Maybe even tonight.

“What are you going to do?” Filippov breathed.

“We’re going to do exactly what he told us to do,” Sen’kov said nervously. “We are going to get Gurizev to immediately rescind his invitation for the Americans to visit Ashkhabad, and we’re going to announce an air cordon of Turkmenistan. And then we’re going to let Gryzlov pound the hell out of those Taliban.” Sen’kov thought for a moment, then added, “And we are going to use every opportunity, quietly and publicly, to distance ourselves from this military action.”

“But you’ve got to sign the execution order.”

“I said I would sign it, but Gryzlov said he was going to deploy his troops immediately and attack as soon as they were in place,” Sen’kov said. “I think we could arrange for Gryzlov’s office to think I signed the order….”

“So if the attacks work, you can show you signed on to the plan,” Filippov said. “And if it doesn’t work…”

“I’ll show I didn’t sign the order, which makes Gryzlov look even more like a berserker than he already is.”

“But if Gryzlov finds out that you double-crossed him?”

“We’ll just have to be sure that he’s taken care of before that happens,” Valentin Sen’kov said. “We’ll start building a ‘watch file’ on Gryzlov with the Interior Ministry and the Federal Security Bureau.” The Federal Security Bureau was the new name of the old Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnoti, or KGB, the main foreign-and internal-security and intelligence agency in Russia, whose commander reported directly to the president. “I’ll need a copy and transcript of his tirade on the phone to me. That’ll show the world that the man’s insane. Then I won’t be accused of murder — I’ll be praised for ridding the world of yet another mad dog.”

Assistant Deputy Secretary of State Isadora Meiling stepped quietly past the sleeping berths occupied by former president Kevin Martindale. Oh, God, she thought. All she could think about was sneaking in there and giving him a kiss — or maybe something more. What was it about that guy anyway? His supernatural silver locks? The tight ass? Or the sheer power that seemed to ooze from every pore of his body?

She knocked twice on a locked door, swiped her passkey on the lock, and went inside to the private cabin in the rear of the Air Force C-32A transport, a modified VIP version of the commercial Boeing 757 airliner. The private VIP cabin had a walkway on the port side of the aircraft, making room for two soundproof sleeping quarters on the starboard side. The cabin then opened up into the main working area. There was a large semicircular desk, a small eight-person conference area in front of the desk with a table and laptop computer hookups, another desk on the starboard side, and electronic and office equipment in glass-enclosed soundproof racks. Two aides were working away at their computers; behind them Deputy Secretary of State Maureen Hershel was also busy typing on her laptop.

She looked up and noticed the worried look on Meiling’s face. “What do you have, Izzy?” she asked.

Meiling glanced around to see who else might be in the room.

“Martindale is finally taking a nap. I’ve never seen people use the phone as much as he and his staff do — he probably had every transponder channel on every satellite in earth orbit tied up. So what do you have?”

“The latest from Turkmenistan,” Meiling replied. She placed a folder on Hershel’s desk. “Late yesterday some Turkmen and Russian military forces attacked those Taliban insurgents.”

“What was the outcome?” Hershel asked, opening the folder and studying the maps. “Anything left of the Taliban?”

“The Turkmen units and their Russian officer corps got slaughtered,” Meiling said.

Hershel’s jaw dropped in surprise.

“Sixty percent casualties in less than half a day. The Taliban insurgents are firmly in control of the city of Mary and the TransCal Petroleum lines.”

“Oh, shit,” Maureen said. “Well, that’s what General McLanahan predicted all along. We can expect the rest of his predictions to come true, too — including the Russians’ counterattack. Anything else?”

“The Russians’ counterattack, ma’am.” She dropped another folder on Hershel’s desk. “Shortly after the battle outside Mary, the Russians tried to insert about three hundred commandos northeast of the city.”

“ ‘Tried’?”

“The Taliban troops were waiting for them,” Izzy said. She tapped the folder with a long, red-painted fingernail. “Looks like every Russian helicopter was shot down, and every Russian soldier is either dead or captured. The satellite photos, sent from Battle Mountain, are pretty explicit.”

“My God.” Maureen thought for a moment. “Ask Colonel Briggs to come in here.”

The tall, good-looking black officer was brought into the VIP cabin within moments, followed by Sergeant Major Chris Wohl. Maureen handed Briggs the message form.

“Your thoughts, Colonel?” she asked.

Briggs studied the reports for a few moments, then handed them to Chris Wohl. “Any word from the Turkmen foreign ministry?” Briggs asked.

“Just the warning that insurgents have taken Mary.”

“Has Turkmenistan revoked our overflight authorization?”

“No,” Isadora Meiling said. She turned to Hershel and said, “The closest divert base is Athens. Ankara, Turkey, is ahead, or we can reverse course and go to Rome.”

Hershel looked puzzled. “Land in Europe? We’ve already got clearance to land in Bahrain, and we’ve got permission to land in Ashkhabad. Why do we need to reverse course?”

“Why? A major shooting war just started in Turkmenistan!”

“I agree with the deputy secretary,” Briggs said. “If everyone is going to respect our diplomatic credentials, we should keep on pressing forward.”

“Land in Turkmenistan? In the middle of a war? Excuse me, Colonel, but that sounds crazy,” Meiling said incredulously. “Is there any guarantee that the Taliban or the Russians are going to respect our credentials? Is someone’s air-to-air or surface-to-air missile going to respect our credentials before it blows us out of the sky?”

“Good points,” Chris Wohl said.

Izzy Meiling nodded and smiled at the big Marine — and Hal Briggs nearly fell over in a dead faint when he saw Wohl nod and even appear to favor her with a half smile in return. When Chris Wohl was on the job, he usually remained as serious as a nuclear war. That microscopic smile was the closest Hal had ever seen the big Marine come to emotionally connecting with a woman — Hal hesitated to call it a “flirt”—in eleven years of working with the guy.

“It might be safer to land in some neighboring country — the United Nations base at Samarkand in Uzbekistan would be my first choice — and proceed by land or helicopter, or conclude your business by phone, or have the principals come to you,” Wohl added.

“All good suggestions — except I don’t feel we have the time,” Hershel said. “I know there’s a risk involved, but I want to proceed.”

There was a knock at the door. Meiling checked the peephole. “It’s President Martindale.” The phone rang at that moment, and Hershel picked it up immediately as she waved for Meiling to let Martindale in. “Hershel… okay, operator, going secure.” She pushed a button on her phone and waited for the beeping and hissing to stop. “Yes, I’m secure, thank you, operator…. I’ll stand by.”

A few moments later: “Maureen?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I don’t suppose I can assume that because your plane hasn’t diverted, you didn’t get the word.”

“I got the information on the attacks on the city of Mary and the Taliban ambushing those Russian commandos, Mr. President,” Hershel replied. “But unless they revoke our landing permission, I intend to complete this mission.”

“Miss Hershel, you know I try not to involve myself in my staff’s decision making, but this is one instance when I think the smart thing would be to postpone your trip to Turkmenistan until things have calmed down.”

“I’ll talk it over with my staff, sir.”

“But your inclination is to go ahead with the trip.”

“It is, Mr. President.”

Maureen heard the president sigh, but he did not contradict her. Instead he said, “I heard you brought along some… help.”

Not one word of advice, second-guessing, or questioning — Maureen liked that. This was a president who trusted his staff, all right. “I hope that’s okay, sir.”

“It was a good call. What’s your plan?”

“If we’re allowed to land, I’m going to meet with Gurizev,” Hershel replied. “If they refuse, I’ll make a courtesy call to Niyazov — maybe he’ll have some information. Then I’ll meet with the Russian ambassador, if he’s still in the capital. And then I’ll try to meet with the Taliban general.”

“And what about your new ‘security personnel’? What are their plans, once they get to Turkmenistan?”

“Their plans, sir?”

“In light of what’s happened in Turkmenistan these past few days, Miss Hershel, I think they’ll be more effective on their own, not tied to your embassy staff or your travel contingent,” the president said.

Hershel looked at Briggs and Wohl — and only then realized that they were probably not going to want to stick around just to baby-sit her. “I think I see what you mean, sir. I’ll find out and let you know.”

“Sounds fine, Maureen,” the president said. “Keep me advised. Good luck.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” And like that the call was over. Maureen looked at the receiver as if wondering if that was really all he had to say, then put the receiver back on its cradle. “The president wished us luck.”

“What’s happened, Maureen?” Kevin Martindale asked. He saw Briggs and Wohl and extended a hand. “How are you boys doing?”

“Very well, sir,” Hal Briggs replied.

“Mr. President,” Chris Wohl chimed in, as warm as he ever was — which was never very warm at all.

“I heard that Thorn reinstated you and gave you promotions. I’m glad to hear it.”

“Thanks to you, I hear, sir,” Briggs said.

“Just trying to undo the mess I caused by signing us on to that deal in Africa,” Martindale said. “I know I’ll never undo the pain I’ve caused Patrick. How is he?”

“Just fine, sir.”

Maureen Hershel’s face brightened when she heard Patrick’s name. “I didn’t realize you knew each other,” she said.

“We go back a long way,” Martindale said. “I didn’t know they were part of this trip, but, by God, I’m glad they’re here.” He clasped Wohl on the shoulder. “I hope you brought all the gear with you.”

“We did, sir.”

“And Patrick…?”

“Standing by, sir.”

“Excellent.” He turned to Hershel. “What’s happened, Maureen?”

“Things are getting pretty tense over in Turkmenistan, Mr. President,” Hershel said. “There’s been a skirmish—” She stopped, then said, “No, I won’t try to soft-pedal this. Sir, there’s been a serious development. The Taliban insurgents decimated a Turkmen army force outside the city of Mary.”

“My God,” Martindale breathed. “Thorn should expect the Russians to counterattack, maybe try to land some commandos behind the Taliban forces in the city, maybe send some long-range bombers to pound the crap out of them like they did in Chechnya—”

“The Russians apparently tried to airlift about three hundred commandos into the outskirts of Mary,” Maureen said. “Some Taliban forces ambushed them with shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles. All of the Russians were either killed or captured.”

“So it’s war,” Martindale muttered. “Have we been ordered to turn around? Have our landing or overflight rights been canceled?”

“No, sir.”

“Did Thorn order you to turn around?”

“The president advised me to postpone the trip,” Hershel replied, “but he said it was my call.”

“And?”

“The conflict happened almost two hundred miles from the capital — I think we’ll be all right,” Hershel said. “But I’m more concerned about your safety, Mr. President. I’m concerned about not making it to Turkmenistan.”

“I only need to know one thing: Is Patrick McLanahan on the case?” Martindale asked.

Maureen Hershel blinked in surprise. “He happened to be the first person I called when I planned this trip.”

“You did exactly the right thing, Maureen,” Martindale said, barely disguising a sigh of relief. “I can guarantee that the general has been doing little else but watching over things in Turkmenistan since you first called.”

That made Maureen Hershel feel very good, and she wasn’t ashamed to let everyone see it. “Then I recommend we continue the mission,” she said. “If overflight or landing privileges are revoked, we’ll need to reassess.” She turned to Briggs and Wohl. “What do you gents need from me? Satellite phones? Computers?”

“Access to our equipment,” Briggs said. “We may have you take a few folks off the manifest in Bahrain and make the necessary calls to Ashkhabad.”

“Some of you aren’t going to Turkmenistan with us?”

“Oh, we’ll be there, ma’am — just not as part of your contingent,” Briggs said with a smile. “We might have the need to move rapidly, and it would be easier if we weren’t forced to stay with the group.”

Maureen held up a hand. “I didn’t hear that,” she said. “You’re sick, you need a wisdom tooth pulled, you’re going to have a baby — just tell me what I’m supposed to tell the Turkmen government and I’ll do it.”

“Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll be nearby,” Briggs said. “You just make all your visits and keep to your schedule — we’ll do the rest.”

“We especially want you to insist that the Turkmen government allow you to travel outside the capital to meet with the Taliban fighters,” Wohl added.

“I wouldn’t count on that.”

“Then we’ll take a meeting anyway—our way,” Wohl said.

His voice made Maureen Hershel’s skin turn cold and break into goose bumps. She was amused to see it had the same effect on Isadora Meiling — except hers didn’t appear to be goose bumps of fear, but goose bumps of pleasure. Izzy Meiling, who had her pick of any man in Washington, D.C. — falling for a broken-faced, gravel-voiced, jarhead Marine? Well, why the hell not?

The twelve Russian Tupolev-160 “Blackjack” bombers had flown all the way from Engels Air Base for this mission. The Blackjacks carried a maximum load of twenty-four Kh-15P long-range attack missiles on rotary launchers. Each of the missiles had three-hundred-kilogram fuel-air explosive warheads, designed to knock down and kill any Taliban forces not in the safety of shelters. The Russians wanted to preserve as much as possible of the infrastructure at the two major airports at Mary for the eventual invasion forces that would soon follow.

The Blackjacks attacked from long range and low altitude. The Taliban and Turkmen defenders, manning early-warning radars and air-defense missile and artillery units, had virtually no warning. Coming in at supersonic speeds in an almost vertical dive onto their preprogrammed targets, the Kh-15 missiles were almost undetectable. All the missiles were programmed to explode about three hundred meters aboveground so the blast and fire effects of the fuel-air warheads would not create large craters in the runways or aircraft parking areas but would be sure to kill anyone unlucky enough to be out in the open.

The Blackjacks, however, were only the first wave. Twelve Tupolev-22M bombers, also from Engels Air Base, swept in behind the Blackjack bombers. The “Backfires” carried twelve Kh-25MP medium-range antiradar missiles on external pylons under the engine intakes and on the fixed-wing pivot points, plus an APK-8 radar-emitter pod on the centerline hardpoint that would feed precise range and bearing information to the missiles. Cruising in a low-altitude orbit north of Mary, the Backfires acted as “red rovers” for each other: When one bomber was targeted by an air-defense missile or antiaircraft artillery radar, another Backfire would swoop in from a different direction and fire a missile. Operating in four three-ship hunter-killer packs, the Backfire bombers made short work of dozens of air-defense units operated by the relatively inexperienced Taliban fighters.

With the radar-guided air defenses down around Mary, the third wave of bombers cruised in — twelve more Backfire bombers, each carrying twelve RBK-500 dispensers bearing area-denial mines and antitank and antipersonnel cluster bombs. They flew virtually unopposed over Mary Airport. Each cluster bomb was designed to explode either on contact, if it was disturbed, or automatically within seven days. If any Taliban should escape the first two attacks and were rushed enough not to sweep carefully for mines, the cluster bombs and mines would get them — but each one would destroy itself before the Russian invasion forces moved in.

“I have heard the blessed news!” Wakil Mohammad Zarazi exclaimed as he strode into his alternate headquarters, which was far from the airfield and had survived the assault.

Major Aman Orazov did not try to rise from his seat as his commanding officer entered the room. His head and neck were wrapped tightly in bandages, and he winced from the pain of shrapnel wounds to his neck and shoulders as he took deep drags on a thick hand-rolled cigarette, which had a little opium sprinkled in with the tobacco to help dull the pain.

“An entire company of Russian commandos, sent to hell by Turabi and his soldiers.” Zarazi looked at Orazov as if it was the first time he had seen him. “What happened to you, Major?”

“I was caught in the initial firebomb attack,” Orazov replied. “I watched an entire truckload of our soldiers incinerated before my eyes.” He did not bother looking up at Zarazi. “Where were you, General?” he asked.

“In the shelters, of course,” Zarazi replied. “You saw to the deployment of the mobile antiaircraft units, as I directed?”

“Most of them made it out,” Orazov said. “I ordered the operators not to turn on their radars until someone spotted aircraft near the airfields.”

“You told them not to engage the Russians? Why?”

“Because if it was just a standoff antiradar-missile attack, General, the Russian missiles can kill each radar-equipped unit from over thirty kilometers away,” Orazov said angrily. “The launch aircraft would be well out of range of our air-defense weapons, but our radars would be easy targets for their antiradar weapons.”

“Then you countermanded my order, Major,” Zarazi said, “because I ordered the men to attack and keep on attacking until every one of those godless Russian scum were dead.”

“Then you sealed their fates, Zarazi,” Orazov said, “because I would guess that every unit that turned on its radar was hit by a missile and destroyed.”

If Zarazi noticed that Orazov had not addressed him as “sir,” “General,” or “master,” as he usually did, he did not indicate it. “Deploy the rest of the air-defense units around the airfields,” he ordered, “and this time make sure they get hits — radar or no radar.”

Orazov winced, not just from the pain now, but from Zarazi’s completely ridiculous order. “Where is Colonel Turabi?” he asked, ignoring the order.

“Colonel Turabi informed me that he wished to stay on patrol in the northeast in case the Russians try another assault,” Zarazi replied. “He asked for more supplies, enough for perhaps another week, and then he asked for his task force to be relieved.”

“You should recall Turabi immediately to help with defending this base,” Orazov said tersely. “He is out in the desert safe and plinking off simple Russian probes, while we sit on this airfield and have our heads handed to us by the Russians!”

“I agreed with the colonel’s reasoning that the Russians will very likely try another heliborne assault,” Zarazi said. “Their air bombardment was not nearly as effective as I’m sure they anticipated. Turabi thinks they desperately need to open up another front.”

Orazov wiped sweat from his forehead caused by the excruciating pain and suppressed a disgusted laugh. Easy for this Afghan desert rat to think the Russians’ air assault was “not nearly as effective”—he was safe in a deep underground shelter while Orazov and his men were on the surface trying to defend their base and getting the hell blasted out of them. The only way the Russians had been ineffective was in not wiping them out of existence completely. “Is Turabi still deployed around Nishan?”

“I believe he has shifted his forces farther north and west, near Yagtyyol,” Zarazi said. “Turabi surmised that the Russians used the Chärjew pipeline to navigate to their infiltration point and that they will not make the same mistake again — they’ll stay far away from roads and pipelines.”

“I have to give him credit. Colonel Turabi is a very clever and resourceful fighter.”

“It takes more than being clever to win favor in the eyes of God, Major,” Zarazi said. “The colonel is a capable fighter, but he needs to learn the relationship between being a good soldier and being a true servant of God. Fighting just for the sake of earthly goals is a waste of spirit and not a true calling at all.”

“Oh, really?” Orazov said bitterly.

“You yourself are a true and loyal servant of God, Major — you know this very well,” Zarazi said. “Fighting for other than the glory of God is the definition of evil.”

Orazov took another puff, then painfully shifted himself in his chair so he could look at Zarazi out of the corner of his eye. Zarazi, as usual, was off in some transcendental fog. “Well, I think Turabi should be running out of fuel and water soon,” Orazov said. “He’ll be expecting a resupply mission today. I shall fly out and meet him. But first there is an important matter I must attend to.”

“You will go out and see to the redeployment of our air defenses and then organize burial and rebuilding parties,” Zarazi said. “We must be prepared for when the Russians strike again.”

No response.

“Did you hear what I said, Major? Carry out my orders immediately.”

Still no response.

Zarazi glanced back — and saw Orazov aiming a pistol directly at his head. “What in God’s name is this, Major?” he barked, thunderstruck. “Put that weapon away immediately! Are you insane?”

“Not insane — just smart,” Orazov said. “Smart enough to realize that you are no longer in command here.”

“No longer in command? Of course I am in command here! This is my operation, my mission!”

“Not any longer,” Orazov said. “From now on I am in charge.”

Zarazi looked at Orazov, his eyes bulging in outrage. “How dare you point that weapon at me, Major,” he breathed. “I am the leader here. You will obey my orders or you will be eliminated.”

“You are no longer in control here, you old fool,” Orazov said. “You are nothing but a religious fanatic who was fortunate enough to score a few meaningless victories against incompetent Turkmen soldiers. Your victories were just dumb luck. Now that the Russians are coming, you are nothing but a walking corpse. I was a fool to follow you. I think if I deliver you, Turabi, and a good number of your Taliban fighters to the Russians — alive or dead, it probably won’t matter — they’ll let me live. They may even make me an officer in their occupation army.”

“I have been appointed by God to carry out His plan for a safe haven and training ground for all true believers!” Zarazi cried. “Do you think that God will look as favorably on you?”

“God doesn’t give a shit if you or I believe in Him or not,” Orazov said. “The plans have changed, and you are not included in my new plans.”

“God will strike you down for blaspheming His name—”

“But I shall strike you down now,” Orazov said, grinning as he pulled the trigger.

The entire back of Zarazi’s head splattered on the door to Orazov’s office, and the nearly headless corpse of the Taliban chief dropped to the ground like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut.

That job done, there was only one mission left to accomplish before getting the hell out of here and making contact with the Russians: eliminate Jalaluddin Turabi and his men. Until Zarazi’s body was found, Orazov had plenty of authority to organize an attack mission. Once Zarazi was found dead, these quasi-Neanderthal Taliban fighters would search every square centimeter of the desert for him. But for now they would obey him, even to the point of executing an assault on their own patrol camp. Orazov had fooled Wakil Zarazi well enough that he was able to get almost as much authority as Turabi himself.

Finally, Jalaluddin Turabi was going to die.

“Kazoo, Devil flight up, base plus zero,” the lead F/A-18 Hornet pilot reported to the E-2C Hawkeye radar aircraft. The pair of Hornets from VMFA-232 “Red Devils,” Marine Air Group Twenty-four, Kaneohe Bay, Hawaii, had been on a predeployment workup at Fallon NAS in Nevada when they were given a great opportunity: chase some Air Force bombers around the training ranges. That was a deal no American fighter pilot would ever pass up.

“Roger, Devil flight,” the air-control officer aboard the Hawkeye replied. At the same time he was electronically passing the latest target information to both Hornets’ strike computers — the Hornets were still running radar-silent. One fast-moving target was to the southwest at about fifty miles, very low — less than a thousand feet above the high desert, trying to sneak past the Hornets by flying in fast between and parallel to the steep, rocky ridges that crisscrossed the Fallon ranges. By selecting the bogey with his target cursor, the lead Hornet pilot acknowledged the datalink and the vectors being received in the Hornets’ Data Display Indicators. The two Hornets remained in combat-spread formation, wingtip to wingtip, separated by about a mile so they could watch each other’s six.

It was definitely an unfair fight, especially with a Hawkeye in the mix, the Hornet pilots thought — the Air Force pukes didn’t have a chance.

At the right moment the lead Hornet pilot pushed his nose over to accelerate, waited until the range to the target decreased to about thirty miles, then flicked on his APG-73 attack radar. Immediately afterward the pilot got the last datalinked target-deconfliction message: That’s your bandit, cleared in hot. At the same time the pilot selected his AIM-120 AMRAAM radar-guided air-to-air missiles — making certain that the weapons themselves were safe — and watched as the fire-control system presented his missile-engagement envelopes and attack-solution vectors.

The target started a turn to the north — obviously his threat-warning receivers had picked up the Hornet’s radar impulses and the crew had finally reacted. The turn was not very sharp. The bomber decreased altitude, now flying about four hundred feet off the deck. No doubt they’re using terrain-following radar, the Hornet pilot surmised, but having all that granite right in front of their faces must still create big-time pucker factor. The bomber reversed direction — again it was a good healthy turn, but not a very aggressive one. Now the surrounding terrain made it difficult for the APG-73 to stay locked on, but after lining up again on the bandit and dialing in a little antenna-scan correction, the radar quickly reacquired, the target-indicator box locked on again, and an in range indication appeared on the heads-up display.

One last correction, just a slight one using a little rudder, and the flashing shoot indication appeared. Gotcha, fat boy, the Hornet pilot breathed. He checked one more time to be sure his master arm switch was safe — didn’t want to fire the real thing at the good guys — then placed his finger on the pistol trigger. “Devil Zero-one, Fox—”

“Bandit! Bandit! Pop-up target, one o’clock, four miles!” the air-intercept officer on the Hawkeye radar plane shouted on the frequency. Another aircraft had appeared out of nowhere and was right in front of him.

“Devil Zero-two engaging! Hard left break and dive, Woolly!” the pilot of the second Hornet called out. The leader had absolutely no choice. Before he could pull the trigger, he was forced to break off the attack. As he turned, he hoped the newcomer would follow him, which should put him right in his wingman’s gun sights. Where in hell did he come from?

But instead of turning hard right to pursue the leader, the bandit switched tactics — it rolled left, waited a few seconds, then turned right in a spectacular high-G climbing, twisting maneuver that placed the second Hornet right off his nose. There was no radio transmission. There didn’t need to be. He could see a tiny dark shape off his right wingtip, low, with a bright blinking strobe light on it — the newcomer “shooting” at him. He was in front of the guy for only less than two seconds, but in the dogfighting game that was an eternity.

“Devil leader, Devil Zero-two got waxed,” he radioed.

“No shit?” the leader replied incredulously. “What is it? The Air Farts didn’t say anything about fighter escorts.”

The second Hornet pilot tried to get a visual ID, but he couldn’t see it. “It must be small as hell. I can’t get a visual on it. I’m proceeding to the high CAP.”

“Rog. Kazoo, bogey dope.”

“Your bandit is at your two o’clock, twenty-two miles, low,” the air-intercept officer reported. “Your tail is clear. Negative radar on any other bogeys.”

The rest of the intercept was a piece of cake. Another lock-on, and this time he couldn’t miss. The bomber made a few more steep turns during the attack, but again nothing overly aggressive. Maybe a student crew?

Both sides went back to opposite sides of the range and tried the engagement again, this time with the second F/A-18 Hornet in the lead. The strange little bandit didn’t make another appearance, and the second Hornet claimed a kill just a few minutes later.

“Hey, Bobcat,” the lead Hornet pilot radioed after the exercise concluded, “how about a photo op?”

“Sure,” the bomber pilot replied. “You’re cleared in to close formation.” The Hawkeye air intercept officer gave the pilots a vector, and the two Hornets joined up on their quarry. It was an Air Force B-1 bomber, long and sleek, with its wings almost completely swept back along its fuselage.

“We’re going to tuck in tight and get some close shots, Bobcat.”

“Stand by,” the pilot said. “We’ve got our little friend rejoining us. He’s directly below us.”

“Say again?” But moments later they could see what he was talking about: A tiny aircraft, resembling a fat surfboard, suddenly appeared out of nowhere. It rose until it was directly underneath the bomber. The bomber’s bomb-bay doors opened, and a long basket thing appeared. The little aircraft scooted up inside the basket, which closed around it, and moments later it was gone — snatched up into the bomb bay. “That was very cool!” the lead Hornet pilot exclaimed. “Was that the thing that tagged my wingman?”

“Affirmative.”

“Shit, I was shot down by a robot,” the wingman said disgustedly. “That’s gonna cost me big time at the bar.”

“Stop by the Owl Club in Battle Mountain Friday nights at nine, and the first round’s on the Bobcats,” the pilot said. “Okay, Devils, you’re cleared in.”

“Devil flight moving in.”

As surprised as the Marine Corps pilots were about seeing a drone being recovered by a B-1 bomber, that was nothing compared to their next discovery. The Hornets moved in close enough to get a picture of the bomber’s pilots looking back at them…

Until they realized there were no pilots visible in the bomber’s cockpit! “Uhhh… Bobcat, can you guys maybe move forward a little?”

“Move forward?”

“Yeah… so we can see your faces out the windscreen?”

“Sorry, Devils, but you’re not going to see any faces through our windscreen,” the voice responded, “because there is no one inside the cockpit.”

“You’re shitting me!” the Hornet pilot exclaimed. He inched closer. It was no lie — there was no one sitting in either pilot’s seat. “Where’s the damned crew?”

“Back at Battle Mountain,” the voice replied. “You’ve been playing with two unmanned jets the whole time.”

“You’re flying a B-1 bomber—from the ground?”

“Yep. And I was just about to turn it over to my mission commander, go outside, and take a piss,” the voice said. “Have a nice day.”

What else they didn’t know was, had this been an actual engagement, neither of the Marine Corps F/A-18 Hornets would ever have gotten a shot off at the B-1 bomber, because, orbiting in an adjacent range over 150 miles away, an AL-52 Dragon airborne-laser aircraft had been “shooting” at both F/A-18 Hornets during their simulated missile attacks.

Captain William “Wonka” Weathers, the wing munitions chief, sat in the jump seat between the aircraft commander and mission commander in the cockpit of the AL-52, watching in utter fascination. The mission commander, Major Frankie “Zipper” Tarantino, had locked up each Hornet at least a dozen times with the Dragon’s adaptive-optics telescope that magnified the visual image in incredible detail. Tarantino was able to precisely place the crosshairs on any part of the Hornet, no matter how hard it maneuvered.

“What do you think, Wonka?” asked Colonel Nancy Cheshire, the Fifty-second Squadron’s commander and the aircraft commander on today’s mission.

“It’s unbelievable,” Weathers said. “Simply unbelievable. And how many times can you fire the laser?”

“About two hundred times,” Tarantino said proudly, “depending on the targets we attack. Shooting through the atmosphere or hitting hard targets like tanks requires more power, which requires more fuel, which decreases the number of shots we can take. Check this out.” He punched in commands, and the image on his supercockpit display changed. Now he was locked on to a pickup truck speeding across the desert. “I found this guy a few minutes ago, off-roading in the restricted Fallon bombing range. With a press of a button, I can update his position to the Navy military police who are out after him.” He indicated another software button on his supercockpit display. “And if I pressed that, he’d be a smoking hole in the desert, even at this range. We can even punch a hole in a tank, but we’d have to be pretty close — maybe thirty or forty miles.”

“Amazing. Do you still have the ground team locked up?”

“You bet.” He hit another button, and the image shifted to a section of desert terrain, where two individuals could barely be seen on opposite ends of the display. Tarantino zoomed in to the one on the left and magnified the image. It was a commando in a Tin Man battle suit, carrying an electromagnetic rail gun. Seconds later the commando jet-jumped several dozen yards across a gully. Tarantino hit his radio button: “Fist Two, wave hello.” The commando raised his right hand, and Tarantino was able to zoom in close enough to see his upraised middle finger. “Be nice, now — we’ve got brass on board.”

“My God! We can see the guy giving us the finger from… what’s the range?”

Tarantino checked his readouts. “One hundred forty-three point one-nine-three miles,” he replied.

“And the laser…?”

“I don’t think the laser has enough power to hurt a guy in BERP battle armor at this range,” Nancy said, “but I think we’d make him very uncomfortable very quickly.”

At that moment they heard on the command frequency, “Bobcat Two-one, Control.”

Nancy keyed the mike button: “Bobcat Two-one, go.”

“Set condition Gold.”

“Roger that,” Cheshire replied. She switched radio frequencies. “All Bobcat and Fist units, set condition Gold. Acknowledge.”

Weathers could see the Tin Man commando stop, look to the east, and jet-jump back in the direction of a waiting MV-32 Pave Dasher tilt-jet aircraft. One by one all the other players acknowledged the call and began heading toward designated recovery zones. Weathers could hardly sit still as Nancy Cheshire banked the AL-52 Dragon airborne-laser hard toward Battle Mountain, and Frankie Tarantino cleared out of the range and got air-traffic-control clearance back to Battle Mountain.

As simply as that, the Air Battle Force made ready to go to war.

“Baku Control, SAM One-eight-zero, level at flight level three-niner-zero.”

“Roger, SAM One-eight-zero,” replied the ex-Soviet air-traffic-control center at Baku in the Azerbaijani Republic, which handled all flights going in and out of the former Soviet republics of Central Asia. It had been many, many years since he’d handled an American “SAM,” or Special Air Mission — American diplomats did not come to this part of the world very often, especially since the new American president, Thomas Thorn, had entered office. “Be advised, sir, International Notice to Airmen Zulu-Three has been published regarding the airspace you are flight-planned to enter. Are you in receipt of this NOTAM?”

“Affirmative,” responded the pilot of the American C-32A Special Air Mission aircraft. “We are an American diplomatic mission on official government business, and we have received permission from the Turkmen government to enter their airspace. Over.”

“SAM One-eight-zero, I confirm you are in receipt of NOTAM Zulu-Three,” the controller said. “Be advised, the NOTAM is nonspecific, sir. Even though your diplomatic credentials are verified, you are still in great danger if you proceed into the prohibited area as outlined in the NOTAM because of the state of the conflict in central Turkmenistan. I strongly advise you to reverse course.”

“Thank you for the warning, Baku, but we will proceed on our flight-planned route,” the pilot said.

“We cannot be held responsible for continued flight into the prohibited airspace, sir,” the Baku controller warned. “I will continue to provide radar service, but I am not in contact with any of the Russian aircraft, and I cannot ensure safe separation from them. I have also observed considerable meaconing, interference, jamming, and intrusion on my radar displays and on all my air-traffic landline and wireless communications channels. I cannot be held responsible if communications are lost, for any reason. Again, I strongly advise you to turn back. Do you understand, sir?”

“I understand, Baku,” the pilot responded. “Are you in contact with the Russian controllers or agencies who filed NOTAM Zulu-Three?”

“Negative, SAM One-eight-zero,” the controller replied. “We are monitoring them on GUARD emergency frequency, but they have not responded to any of our calls.”

“Roger, SAM One-eight-zero.” The pilot turned to his first officer and asked, “So our closest emergency-divert base…?”

“Baku, Azerbaijani Republic, almost directly under us,” the first officer replied, punching up the Global Positioning System navigation information. “I’ll give them a call right now.” The first officer used the secondary radio to give the approach controllers at Baku notice that they were in the area. “We’re checked in, but we do not have clearance to land. That will only be issued if we need it.”

It was indeed a strange situation: International NOTAM Zulu-Three, issued by the Russian Federation, was one of the most strongly worded messages in years, warning all aircraft away from Turkmenistan’s airspace and further saying that any aircraft flying within five hundred kilometers of the capital of Turkmenistan, Ashkhabad, would be fired upon without warning. But at the same time Turkmenistan was still allowing flights to cross into its airspace; the government of Turkmenistan was not restricting transit for any civil air carriers, even in and out of Mary, the scene of the heaviest fighting so far. Ashkhabad International Airport was still open, as were the civil airfields at Krasnovodsk, Nebit-Dag, and Chärjew.

The Turkmen government was doing all it could to make everything look like “business as usual,” even though it definitely appeared as if the wheels were slowly but surely coming off this train. Despite all the reassurances, the Special Air Mission flight, carrying the former president of the United States and a U.S. State Department official, stayed as far away as possible from Turkmen airspace. It had enough range to fly all the way north to Moscow before turning south if necessary, but it settled for getting clearance through Turkish, Azerbaijani, and Kazakh airspace before heading directly for the Turkmen coast on the Caspian Sea.

The flight made a routine handoff from Turkish controllers at Erzurum to English-speaking Russian-sector controllers at Baku, which passed the flight off routinely as it made its way across the Caucasus Mountains and out over the Caspian Sea. The lights of thousands of oil wells and fishing boats on the Caspian made it look like a metropolis down below, contrasting sharply with the almost lightless landscape beyond as they approached the seemingly endless desert steppes of Central Asia. In just a few minutes they would be handed off to air-traffic controllers from their destination, Ashkhabad; in less than half an hour, they would begin the descent for landing.

“SAM One-eight-zero, contact Ashkhabad Control.” The Baku controller read off a frequency — not the usual one in use by this sector, but reassigning and combining sectors and controllers was not unusual, especially at night, when fewer flights traveled in remote areas.

“Roger, SAM One-eight-zero, good night.” The first officer switched frequencies, then radioed, “Ashkhabad Control, SAM One-eight-zero, with you at flight level three-nine-zero, six-zero kilometers east of Baku.”

The reply was interrupted by frequent squeals and static — again not unusual for this area of the world and its antiquated radio systems. “Calling Ashkhabad Control, please repeat,” the controller responded in broken but understandable English. Although English was the universal aviation language, it was not always well understood in some of the more remote areas of the planet, especially in the former Soviet republics of Central Asia. The SAM pilot repeated his report slowly, carefully. “Thank you, SAM One-eight-zero, at three-niner-zero,” the controller responded through the static. “You are in receipt of NOTAM Zulu-Three, sir?”

“Yes we are,” the pilot responded. “We accept responsibility in case there’s a loss of communications for any reason.”

“Very well, sir.” They proceeded in silence for several minutes. Roughly halfway across the Caspian Sea, the C-32A crew heard a controller — it was hard to tell if it was the same one or not — say, “SAM One-eight-zero, turn right thirty degrees, fly direct Krasnovodsk, direct Ashkhabad. Expect descent in one-zero minutes.”

“Direct Krasnovodsk, direct Ashkhabad, SAM One-eight-zero.” The first officer called up the intersection on his flight-management system, and the big airliner banked right in response. Their original flight plan had them well north of the usual routing through this airspace. This vector and rerouting, the first officer saw, would place them squarely over Krasnovodsk, the Russian port city on the Caspian Sea, and on a direct route to the capital, bypassing all the usual checkpoints and approach corridors.

Something was happening. They didn’t know what, but things were starting to look a little haywire.

The new frequency was fairly quiet, just a few other planes on it, a Kazakhstan Airlines flight and a Gulf Air charter. The first officer could not hear any responses from the other flights, indicating that the controller was indeed talking and receiving on several different frequencies at one time.

Things seemed to be progressing smoothly. The captain called for the before-descent checklist and got up to step twelve when suddenly, through a rasp of static and loud, irritating pops, they heard, “SAM One-eight-zero, this is Ashkhabad Control on GUARD,” in both English and Russian. “GUARD” was the international emergency frequency, which all aircraft were required to monitor at all times. “If you hear me, contact Ashkhabad Control on one-three-seven point six or UHF frequency two-three-four point niner-two. Acknowledge with an ident if you hear me. Over.”

The first officer punched the ident button on his transponder — which would encircle their radar-data block with a bright, flashing identification box — then keyed his microphone: “Ashkhabad Control, SAM One-eight-zero, how do you read?”

“Loud and clear, sir, how about me?”

“Loud and clear as well. We just received a message on GUARD frequency to contact you on a different frequency. Did you give us a frequency change?”

“Negative. Remain this frequency, please.”

“SAM One-eight-zero, wilco.”

But the message on GUARD repeated, this time much more urgently and with a terrifying warning: “SAM One-eight-zero, warning, unidentified high-speed aircraft are approaching you at your seven o’clock, forty miles. Turn right sixty degrees immediately, vectors out over the Caspian to avoid the NOTAM Zulu-Three airspace. Please acknowledge on GUARD. Over.”

“Ashkhabad Control, do you copy that radio transmission on GUARD channel?”

“Affirmative, SAM One-eight-zero. We are investigating. Remain on your present heading, direct Krasnovodsk, direct Ashkhabad. Disregard the instructions being broadcast on GUARD. If two-way communications are lost or disrupted, you are cleared to Ashkhabad International. After Krasnovodsk, descend and maintain flight level two-five-zero, then FMS VNAV profile at or above nine thousand feet at Syrdarja, cleared for the ILS runway two-seven approach. We will clear the airspace for you if communications are lost. Do you copy?” The first officer repeated the instructions.

The warnings on GUARD were getting more strident by the second. “Do you want me to shut that off?” the first officer asked the captain, placing his fingers on the guard switch.

The captain was about to say yes, but instead flipped his mike button to GUARD. “This is SAM One-eight-zero,” the captain said. “Who the hell is this?”

“Thank God!” came the reply in excellent English. But the snapping and hissing on the frequency were growing louder — and it all sounded ominous, as if the frequency was being jammed or disrupted. “This is Colonel Okiljon Mirsafoyev. I am the facility chief of Ashkhabad Control. You may contact me on the listed frequencies in the International Flight Information Publications or via datalink to your embassy, but I must issue this warning to you in the clear. I don’t know who’s doing it, or how, or why, but you were handed off to an unlisted and completely incorrect frequency by an unknown person. I was notified by Baku Control minutes ago. I repeat, the controller you are speaking to is not Ashkhabad Control.

“Be advised, there are Russian radar planes and air-defense fighters in your vicinity. You need to turn right immediately and get away from the Turkmen frontier…. SAM One-eight-zero, one unidentified pop-up aircraft heading fast in your direction. Shut off all your exterior lights. Get out of there now.”

The first officer’s face looked as white as a ghost’s. “What do we do?” he cried.

“We turn,” the captain said, flipping on the switch for the seat belt warning sign. “Shut off all the damn lights — cabin lights, too. Notify President Martindale and Deputy Secretary Hershel that we might be under attack.” As if that’s going to do any good, he thought grimly.

He banked hard right and started a descent. Seconds later the intercom beeped — he knew that his steep turn and sudden descent were going to unseat and maybe even hurt a lot of the VIPs, and they would be screaming to the flight attendants to find out what had happened — and, no doubt, to demand his head on a platter.

That was okay. He would be happy to take the heat as long as they survived this encounter. “Get on oxygen,” he ordered the first officer. “Read me the emergency-descent and defensive-maneuvering procedures checklist.”

“SAM Flight One-eight-zero,” the first voice in broken English radioed on the bogus UHF frequency, “we show you in a left turn and in a steep descent. Is there a problem? Turn left direct Krasnovodsk as ordered.”

“Don’t answer him,” the captain ordered. The first officer was fumbling to put on his quick-don oxygen mask, a procedure that usually took less than two seconds. He’d never seen any grown man so scared before — and hoped he didn’t look that scared to him.

“Flight One-eight-zero, turn left immediately and level off. You are not cleared to descend yet.” The captain only pushed harder, increasing the descent rate. “Flight One-eight-zero, acknowledge. Do you read me?”

“Turn off the transponder,” the captain ordered. The first officer complied with shaking fingers. Only a “primary target,” their radar skin-paint, would appear on the controller’s radarscopes now.

All of the flight attendants’ station intercoms were beeping; small articles were floating around in the negative Gs as they quickly descended. “What do we do?” the first officer bleated. “What’s going on?”

“Ignore them. We’re diverting to Baku. Call it up on the FMS and give me a heading.”

Just then they heard, “Attention all aircraft, attention all aircraft, an air defense emergency has been declared. All aircraft are ordered to level off, decrease airspeed, and lower their landing gear immediately, or you will be considered a hostile enemy intruder. Repeat, level off, decrease airspeed, and lower your landing gear immediately. This is your final warning.”

The voice was coming over the assigned UHF frequency — in English. It was the same voice who’d been calling himself the Ashkhabad air-traffic controller.

“Full countermeasures!” the captain ordered. The C-32A had a suite of decoys and first-generation electronic trackbreakers to help defend the aircraft, but he knew they were strap-down, last-ditch gadgets only. The C-32 was unarmed and still virtually defenseless.

“SAM One-eight-zero, high-speed traffic at your seven o’clock, low, forty kilometers and closing fast.”

The captain turned left twenty degrees, trying to keep the newcomer from getting a clear look at their engine exhausts — if he locked on to their hot exhausts, they wouldn’t stand a chance. The sons of bitches… who the hell attacks unarmed aircraft?

“SAM One-eight-zero, target maneuvering, six o’clock, thirty kilometers and closing, almost at your altitude… SAM One-eight-zero, be advised, my radar is being jammed. Switching frequencies… Negative, negative, all frequencies showing heavy false target jamming. I am now painting multiple targets on my scope. I cannot provide further vectors. I cannot tell which is the real target. I am sorry, sir.”

The captain squeezed the mike button: “Ashkhabad Control?”

“Go ahead, SAM One-eight-zero.”

The captain looked at the first officer, gulped, then said, “Tell my wife I love her.”

“Roger, Sam One-eight-zero,” he heard through the growing static and squealing of the enemy’s jammers. “I’ll do it. God be with you.”

The Russian Federation’s MiG-29 Fulcrum fighter that had launched from Krasnovodsk Airfield several minutes earlier did so using light signals sent from a ramp supervisor’s vehicle instead of receiving radio signals from the control tower. It made no radio broadcasts and did not use its air-traffic-control transponder or encrypted identification beacons. It did not even use any external lights. Because the fighter carried no external fuel tanks — unusual for any Russian interceptor — and only two R-73 heat-seeking air-to-air missiles, it climbed quickly into the cold night air, reaching fourteen thousand meters’ altitude in less than three minutes.

The American aircraft was maneuvering, but it was a lumbering pig compared to the high-speed maneuverability of the MiG-29, and the pilot was able to get a solid infrared target lock-on inside thirty kilometers’ range — he never activated his attack radar at all. The R-73s were Russia’s most advanced heat-seeking missiles: highly maneuverable, able to be aimed by a helmet-mounted sight and launched from extremely high offset angles. They had over four times the range and twice the warhead size of any other heat-seeking missiles in the Russian arsenal.

The Russian pilot’s orders were specific: Kill this aircraft without appearing to attack it. He knew that Baku Radar Control would be tracking him and listening for any hint of weapon or radar lock-on, so he had to do this approach carefully. The R-73 was the perfect weapon for the job.

As ordered, the MiG-29 pilot flew behind the American aircraft, never pointing the fighter’s nose directly at it, never locking his attack radar on him or even turning it on. Using his helmet-mounted sight, the MiG pilot locked the R-73 missile’s supercooled seeker head on target when the American was over twenty-five kilometers distant and far off to the left — the MiG-29 was actually flying away from the American. Once he had a lock-on, he let the first R-73 fly. The missile shot off its launch rail, flew straight ahead for about a kilometer, then veered sharply to the left and started its pursuit. The pilot let the next R-73 go seconds later, then turned to the east. The MiG pilot still had never pointed his fighter’s nose at the American, and seconds after launch the MiG was far astern of the American. Normal air traffic routinely came closer than he had come to his American quarry.

Because he had never used his attack radar and therefore didn’t know the exact range to the target, the attack computer couldn’t give him a “time to die” countdown. The MiG pilot started to count to himself, estimating perhaps twenty seconds maximum missile flight time for the first missile. He pulled back the throttle and engaged the autopilot, then loosened his shoulder harness so he could look behind him. Even at well over thirty kilometers, he reckoned, he should be able to see the kill.

Sure enough, he saw a very bright flash of light off in the distance, followed by another seconds later. It was much quicker than twenty seconds, but he wasn’t exactly sure of his counting.

Good hit.

The pilot turned to the north slightly so he could watch for any sign of an explosion. He expected to see another burst of fire, followed by a trail of fire as the target went down. Any second now…