Air Battle Force

PROLOGUE

Captain Wakil Mohammad Zarazi deployed two of his youngest, most inexperienced — and therefore most expendable — troops right beside the road for the ambush, promising them promotions and high honors if they survived — and a place at the right hand of God if they were killed. Yes, they still believed they would get both.

The boys hid behind piles of snow and rocks until the lead armored personnel carrier, an old Russian-made BMP, cruised by, and then they threw RKG-3 antitank hand grenades under the chassis. When the grenades were rolled under the BMPs, they righted themselves, then fired copper-sheathed, high-explosive, hollow-charge warheads up into the crew compartment. The molten copper blew through the ten-millimeter armor underneath and spattered molten copper throughout the crew compartment, instantly killing any soldiers inside. The BMP died quickly and messily — and, Zarazi hoped, all on board did, too.

His men, emboldened by the success of this first attack, streamed out of their hiding places and went on the attack, hitting the other vehicles in the convoy with small-arms fire. To Zarazi, the company commander of the guerrilla forces that surprised this small United Nations detachment, the apparent success of the hastily planned ambush was unexpected. His men had been on the move for months in some of northern Afghanistan’s worst weather; they were cold, tired, starving, and low on ammunition, morale, and courage, continually hounded by American and United Nations air forces.

Maybe they had such clear success because starving men made fiercer fighters — if they didn’t succeed, they were dead.

Their intelligence said this detachment, moving west from Andkhvoy since just yesterday to set up a communications relay site somewhere along the border, would have better security. Zarazi’s unit was well below full company strength, but they hurried to be in position to make this ambush anyway because of the chance to capture some superior weapons and vehicles to use in their guerrilla war against the Northern Alliance. Zarazi was disappointed at the small size of the detachment — he was hoping for more weapons and more captives. He might get only fifty captives and a few weeks’ worth of food and supplies out of this convoy. Still, it was better than nothing.

Zarazi was suspicious, too — a quality that had kept him alive for most of his thirty-eight years, twenty-two of them as a Taliban freedom fighter. Zarazi was born in northwest Afghanistan near Sheberghan. Originally members of the Mujahidin guerrilla fighters that battled the Russians, Zarazi’s tribe refused to join the so-called Northern Alliance, composed mostly of ethnic Uzbeks, Tajiks, and Pakistanis, and instead took large numbers of Russian weapons and vehicles and moved back to the tribe’s historic provinces in the northwest. Zarazi became a provincial commander of the Hezbollah, or “Army of God,” a radical and fundamentalist sect of the Taliban regime, and continued to harass the Northern Alliance forces at every opportunity.

This substantial and apparently important detachment, moving thirty kilometers west of Andkhvoy toward the northeastern edge of the Bedentlik wastelands on the Turkmenistan-Afghanistan border, presented the perfect opportunity to make a major strike against the Northern Alliance and its Western puppet masters. Still, it was strange they had no heavy armor or helicopter support anywhere nearby. The closest helicopter base camp was twenty minutes away; the closest large military base was over an hour away by helicopter. And with some bad weather closing in — a sandstorm, most likely — help would take even longer to arrive.

The intelligence data was remarkably detailed and timely as well — maybe too detailed and timely. Although the Northern Alliance forces, aided by the United States, had effectively wiped out the Taliban militias in this area, Zarazi thought it strange that the United Nations would dare send such an important detail so far away from their strongholds without support. The Taliban still had a large and for the most part well-equipped and viable guerrilla force, especially near the Uzbekistan and Tajikistan frontiers, where friendly forces were more plentiful and the terrain more hospitable. The Turkmenistan-Afghan frontier was nothing but desert for a thousand kilometers — obviously the United Nations forces never thought they would encounter any resistance out here in the wastelands.

The infidels’ overconfidence would be their downfall.

The scout vehicles deployed in front of the column were Russian BTR-40 and larger BTR-60 wheeled reconnaissance vehicles, fast and nimble and very well armed. They turned and scattered as soon as the first BMP exploded. Zarazi’s men started lobbing smoke grenades from all over the area — it took dozens of the things to create enough of a screen in the ever-increasing, swirling winds, but within moments visibility had been cut to just a few yards. The gunports were already open, the soldiers inside looking for targets.

That was exactly what Zarazi was waiting for. His men dashed out from their hiding places under cover of the smoke, jumped aboard the BTRs, and stuffed tear-gas grenades into the open gunports. Within moments the drivers were forced to stop their vehicles to evacuate the soldiers inside before they were asphyxiated by the noxious gas. Soon all of the vehicles in the convoy were stopped, billowing with tear gas. The hatches and doors opened, and terrified and nearly suffocating United Nations soldiers and workers dashed out, their eyes swollen and burning. The battle took less than five minutes. Zarazi’s men had destroyed one BMP and one BTR and captured one BMP, four BTR scouts, and four five-ton trucks loaded with supplies. No casualties. Perfect.

“We hit the mother lode, Captain,” Zarazi’s lieutenant, Jalaluddin Turabi, said a few moments later as the crews and workers were being herded together. “Looks like they were going to set up a semipermanent outpost. They have two weeks’ worth of food for about fifty men, plus boxes labeled ‘Communications Equipment.’ I see power generators, fuel tanks, cold-weather tents and clothing, and fencing material. This stuff will sell for millions on the black market!”

“Stop gawking and start unloading those supply trucks, Jala,” Zarazi snapped. “If this detail has air support nearby, they’ll be on us any minute. We need to be out of here as soon as possible.”

The United Nations soldiers were lined up kneeling in the snow, hands on their heads. Captain Zarazi paced back and forth in front of them, studying each man and woman carefully. Many nations were represented, mostly from the Northern Hemisphere: Canada, Northern Ireland, Norway, South Korea. Zarazi allowed his men to strip off the peacekeepers’ gloves, scarves, and parkas — many of his men had perished in the Turkestan and Selseleh’ye Mountains due to exposure, and keeping warm was more important than eating to most of them.

“I am Captain Wakil Mohammad Zarazi, servant of God and commander of the Balkh Armed Resistance Regiment,” Zarazi said in Pashtun. He noticed the uncomprehending stares, then said in halting English, “Who is interpreter?” There was no reply. Zarazi continued to examine the captives, finally coming across one soldier in the robin’s-egg blue helmet, but with a beard, who appeared to be Afghan. Zarazi dragged him to his feet. “Do you understand me?” The man nodded. “Who is the commanding officer?” He did not respond. Zarazi pulled a long knife from his belt, turned the interpreter, and raised the blade to his throat.

“Stop,” a voice said. Zarazi looked around as one of the officers kneeling right beside the interpreter got to his feet, his bare hands still on top of his helmet. “I am Major Dermot O’Rourke, Republic of Ireland, commander of this detachment. We are on a peaceful mission on behalf of the United Nations Afghan Relief and Rehabilitation Council.”

After the interpreter translated, Zarazi said, “You are spies for the Northern Alliance and their wild dogs from the United States of America, invading territory claimed by his holiness Mullah Mohammad Omar and his sword of vengeance, General Takhir Yoldashev.”

“We are not spies,” O’Rourke said. “We are here to set up a cellular phone and radio-relay site, that’s all.”

“You are spies, and you will all be executed according to the laws of Islam and under the orders of General Yoldashev,” Zarazi said. “You—”

Just then Zarazi’s lieutenant came running up to him. “Wakil, there’s trouble,” Turabi said. He ran past Zarazi and over to O’Rourke, yanked his beret from his head and stripped off his jacket, searching him. Moments later he pulled a small black box on a wire out of the back of the man’s battle-dress uniform jacket.

“What is it, Jala?” Zarazi asked.

“Our communications officer picked up some kind of high-frequency transponder that was just activated,” Turabi said. “It looks like a sort of radio beacon. He must’ve set it off when the convoy was attacked.”

“A trouble signal?” Zarazi asked. “We’ve detected no other forces in this area. And a helicopter patrol would take hours to come from Andkhvoy or Mazar-e-Sharif. What good would it do…?”

“An air attack — with a jet already in the area, covering the convoy,” Turabi said. “That’s why our intelligence was so detailed and why this convoy was so poorly protected — it’s being covered from the air. It might even be one of those American Predators, the unmanned little aircraft that can fire Maverick missiles. They could be starting their attack right now.”

Zarazi looked at the officer in puzzlement — and then his eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open. “Get the men ready to get out of this area and take cover.” He stepped over to O’Rourke. “Who is watching us? What is happening?”

“I’d advise you to surrender, Captain,” O’Rourke said. “Just lay down your weapons, put your hands in the air, and kneel down. They won’t attack if you surrender.”

“Who are ‘they’? What are they?”

“There’s no time for questions, Captain. Surrender right now.”

“Bastard! Unholy bastard!” Zarazi pulled his sidearm and shot O’Rourke in the forehead, killing him instantly.

Several of his men had started unloading crates and removing tarps from pallets in the back of the supply trucks. “Run for your lives! Get away from those trucks! Run!”

Four hundred miles away, orbiting at twenty-eight thousand feet fifty miles south of the Pakistani coastline over the Arabian Sea, an EB-1C Vampire orbited lazily, watching and listening. The EB-1C was a U.S. Air Force B-1B Lancer long-range bomber, built in the mid-eighties, but it had been upgraded and modified so much since then that its builders would probably never recognize it now. But as incredible as the Vampire was, the aircraft it controlled were even more amazing — in fact, they represented Patrick McLanahan’s future of aerial combat.

“Oh, my God, they killed Major O’Rourke,” U.S. Air Force Major General Patrick McLanahan said in disbelief. He studied the high-resolution digital video display on a large, multifunction “supercockpit” monitor before him. “That bastard! He was unarmed! He surrendered….” He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping the image he saw would go away. When it didn’t, his hate bubbled up past the boiling point. “I count about a hundred men, about two dozen Toyota pickups off away from the road. Stand by to attack.”

His aircraft commander, U.S. Air National Guard Brigadier General Rebecca Furness, squirmed restlessly in her seat. “Let’s get busy and nail those suckers, sir,” she spat.

The images Patrick and Rebecca were watching were coming from a StealthHawk Unmanned Combat Air Vehicle, or UCAV. It had been launched several hours earlier from the EB-1C Vampire’s forward bomb bay and had been scanning the area around the United Nations truck convoy with its infrared sensors and high-resolution digital cameras. The StealthHawk resembled a big, wide, fat surfboard, its lifting-body fuselage slightly triangular in profile. There was a large air inlet, mounted atop the fuselage to lower its radar cross-section, for the aircraft’s single turbofan engine. It had no wings — the StealthHawk had a special flight-control system called a “mission-adaptive lifting-body skin” that actually used computers and tiny microhydraulic actuators to change the outer skin on the fuselage to increase or decrease lift as necessary. The EB-1C could carry three StealthHawks in its bomb bays, one in the forward bomb bay and two in the center. Each StealthHawk could carry a payload of five hundred pounds, along with enough fuel for several hours of flight.

Patrick touched a control button and spoke, “StealthHawk, commit attack,” and the fight was under way. Orbiting at ten thousand feet over the truck convoy was a second StealthHawk, launched from the EB-1C’s center bomb bay. Instead of sensors this one carried weapons — six AGM-211 “mini-Mavericks,” hundred-pound, short-range, precision-guided attack missiles.

“Commit StealthHawk attack, stop attack,” the computer responded. When Patrick did not countermand the order, the computer added, “StealthHawk engaging.”

“Excellent,” Patrick said. “StealthHawk reporting code one so far.”

“Then that would be a first for one of Masters’s gadgets,” Furness said dryly. Rebecca Furness was the wing commander of the one and only EB-1 Vampire squadron in the world, the 111th Bombardment Wing of the Nevada Air National Guard based at Battle Mountain Air National Guard Base. Although the Vampire bomber had been used in several conflicts and skirmishes around the world in recent years, from Korea to Russia to Libya, it was still considered experimental, and therefore the aircraft’s designer, Dr. Jon Masters, worked closely with Furness’s unit to make improvements and fixes to the state-of-the-art weapon system to get it ready for initial operational capability.

But Jon Masters, a Ph.D. since the age of thirteen and a world-class aeronautical and space engineer, was also a world-class pain in the ass — not exactly a people-friendly person. Rebecca’s job was hard enough — standing up a new unit with an experimental high-tech bomber at a newly constructed air base in the middle of nowhere in north-central Nevada — without the nerdy and conceited Dr. Masters disrupting her life.

Although Patrick received the sensor data from the StealthHawk on the supercockpit display in the Vampire bomber, the StealthHawk had already identified most of the vehicles in the target area and had presented its target priority list to Patrick continuously during its surveillance. “The StealthHawk detected a twenty-three-millimeter antiaircraft gun on one of the Toyota pickups,” Patrick said. “That’s the first target.”

Even Rebecca had to be impressed with the StealthHawk system’s target-detection and classification capabilities — she was accustomed to dropping bombs on a group of vehicles or an entire area, not selecting just one vehicle out of many similar vehicles for attack.

“I count ten vehicles total in the target area — no, make that twelve. Two have already bugged out.”

“What’s it waiting for? Get it in there, and let’s make some scrap metal.”

“It’s already on the job,” Patrick said. At that moment the StealthHawk released a single mini-Mav missile from its internal bomb bay. The missile fell away from the StealthHawk, gliding toward its target while it adjusted its track with lead-computing cues and wind-drift-correction information datalinked from the Vampire’s attack computer. When about a mile from its quarry, the missile’s small rocket motor fired, and the missile covered the last seven thousand feet of its attack run in less than two seconds. The mini-Mav’s warhead was twenty-eight pounds of thermium-nitrate-energized high explosive, which had the power of ten times its weight in TNT. The truck and its six occupants disappeared in a cloud of dust, smoke, and yellow-red explosions.

The StealthHawk’s laser radar remained locked on to the target for postattack analysis, but from the large secondary explosions and size of the smoke and fire clouds surrounding the target, it became clear only seconds later that the truck was toast. “Target appears to be destroyed,” Patrick said.

“Damn, I’ll say,” Rebecca breathed as she watched the last moments of the StealthHawk’s bomb-damage assessment on Patrick’s multifunction display. She had a lot of experience with the thermium-nitrate explosives and knew that that same mini-Mav missile could take out a main battle tank—“overkill” was a gross understatement when describing a thermium-nitrate warhead hitting a little Toyota pickup. “Pretty awesome weapon.”

“StealthHawk engaging the second pickup,” Patrick said. “Missile two away….”

The StealthHawk leveled off two thousand feet above the ground and headed for its second target, a column of two Toyota pickups filled with guerrilla soldiers. This time the occupants saw it coming. “Split up! Split up!” Zarazi screamed. He raised his AK-74 rifle and opened fire, and the other five men in the back of the pickup opened fire as well.

It was like looking down the barrel of a gun just before the trigger was pulled — and then realizing the barrel was pulled away right at the very last second. Moments after Zarazi’s truck veered away, the first truck disappeared under a tremendous explosion. Zarazi and the guerrillas in the second pickup saw the other pickup emerge from the cloud of flame and smoke looking as if the truck had been blasted apart by a giant shotgun, set afire, and then tossed across the ground. “Allah, have mercy,” Zarazi muttered. “Allah, get us out of this, and I promise I will avenge myself on the infidels that send these demon robot planes to kill your faithful servants — I swear it!”

“Oh, baby!” Patrick exclaimed. The mini-Mav’s infrared sensor clearly showed the second pickup truck and its terrified occupants as the missile homed in. At least six automatic rifles were firing at both the mini-Mav and the second StealthHawk, but it was too late. He switched to the first StealthHawk’s imaging-infrared camera as the mini-Mav missile hit, and its picture disappeared. Tires, engine, fuel tank, ammunition, and bodies exploded in perfect unison, and the truck cartwheeled in a cloud of fire across the wasteland. “Got the sucker!”

“Got one more truck trying to get away!” Furness exclaimed. “He knows we’re on his tail, and he’s hauling ass.”

“Don’t worry, the StealthHawk has lots of ammo and fuel,” Patrick said. “That third truck is toast.” Patrick entered commands to launch a third mini-Maverick…

But instead of the missile’s releasing and gliding to its target, the StealthHawk UCAV itself started to descend. “Check altitude… altitude two thousand… check altitude, altitude two thousand… Shit, I think I lost contact with the UCAV.”

“Well, at least we get a ringside seat for the impact,” Rebecca said. But the unmanned air vehicle didn’t make impact — instead it leveled out at two hundred feet aboveground, clearly in view of the Taliban fighters below, and began flying westward. “Okay, General, where in hell is it going?” Rebecca asked.

“Damned if I know,” Patrick replied. “But it’ll run out of fuel in forty minutes.”

“Another one bites the dust.”

“But it might not bite the dust. It might make a nice soft landing in the desert,” Patrick said worriedly. “And if it does…”

“Then those Taliban goons or anyone else who gets their hands on it will have themselves the latest in American UCAV technology,” Rebecca said. “In forty minutes it’ll be halfway to the Persian Gulf. Can’t you self-destruct it?”

“I have no control over it at all,” Patrick said. He thought for a moment; then: “Follow it.”

“What?”

“Maybe if we can get closer to it, it’ll respond to our direct datalink signals.” He spoke commands into the computer, and the heading bug on Rebecca’s multifunction display swung westward. “There’s your heading bug. Center up.”

“No way, General,” Rebecca said. “That’ll take us over… hell, General, that heading takes us over Iran!”

“We’ll stay in the mountains — fly some terrain-avoidance altitudes,” Patrick said. “We’ve got to cut off that UCAV before we lose it.”

“We’re not authorized to fly over Pakistan, and we’re sure as hell not going to overfly Iran,” Furness repeated. Because the United States had had to take the “war on terror” into its former ally, Pakistan, to hunt down the last remaining Taliban and Al Qaeda terrorist cells, a rift had developed between the two nations. Pakistan now prohibited overflights by any military aircraft, and it regarded any military combat aircraft flying over Afghanistan as hostile.

Despite this ban, President Thomas Thorn had authorized McLanahan to launch a StealthHawk unmanned aircraft to patrol Afghanistan, even though it obviously had to overfly Pakistan to reach its patrol area. One or two unmanned aircraft flying over a remote part of Pakistan were not a threat — at least that would be the Americans’ argument, if the stealthy UCAVs were ever discovered.

But a high-tech B-1 bomber was a completely different story.

“General, we can’t remain hidden long enough,” Rebecca argued. “We stay in the mountains a short time, but eventually we get over the desert, and there’s nowhere to hide….”

“Rebecca, it’s now or never,” Patrick insisted. “If we fly over the Mach above the unpopulated areas and slow down near the populated areas, we’ll catch up to the StealthHawk in about twenty minutes. We’ll have just enough time to get it turned around before we have to bingo and refuel.”

“Get approval from the Pentagon first.”

“There’s no time,” Patrick said. “Center up on the bug, push it up to Mach zero point nine, and descend to COLA to penetrate the coastline. I’ll get a new intel satellite dump, and we’ll pick the best course.”

“Oh, God, here we go again,” Rebecca muttered as she commanded the bomber to accelerate and descend to COLA, or Computer-generated Lowest Altitude. The flight-control system commanded a twenty-degree nose-down pitch, automatically sweeping the EB-1’s wings all the way back and altering the curvature of the fuselage to gain as much speed as possible.

As soon as they headed northward, the threat-warning receiver blared, “Caution, SA-10 search mode, ten o’clock, one hundred ten miles, not in detection threshold.”

“The Iranian coastal-defense site at Char Bahar,” Patrick said. “No factor.”

“ ‘No factor,’ huh?” Rebecca retorted. “Aren’t those things capable of shooting down a bomber-size aircraft at treetop level?”

“Not this bomber, it won’t.” They were headed for the Pakistani coastline between the towns of Kapper and Gwadar, just fifty miles east of the Iranian border — well within range of the high-performance SA-10 antiaircraft missile system — but the threat-warning computers measured the signal strength of the search radar and determined that it was not strong enough to get a good reflection from the stealthy EB-1C Vampire. “Keep going.” He keyed his secure command satellite net’s mike button. “Control, Puppeteer.”

“We see it,” Patrick’s friend and deputy, Brigadier-General David Luger, replied. Luger, a fellow navigator and aeronautical engineer who had been partnered with Patrick since their early days in B-52 bombers, was watching the mission from the “virtual cockpit,” a system that displayed all of the EB-1C Vampire’s flight information on computer screens back home and allowed crews and technicians there to monitor and even partially control the actual flight mission. “I’ve issued recall instructions to the surveillance StealthHawk — it’ll ditch itself in the Arabian Sea, and the Navy will retrieve it for us. Still no contact with the strike StealthHawk — it’s still operating normally, still looking for targets but not responding to satellite steering commands.

“I’ve got a call in to the State Department,” Luger went on. “I strongly recommend not crossing the Pakistani border until you get permission. Do I need to remind you about your Russia mission?”

“You do not,” Patrick said. The last time he’d been in a bomber, an EB-52 Megafortress over southwestern Russia, he made a decision to violate orders to help a special-ops mission in trouble — and that decision had almost cost him his life. “Put in a call to Hal and Chris, too,” he said.

“They’re monitoring everything and are briefing up an insertion mission,” Luger said. Stationed in the Gulf of Oman on board a large civilian freighter was Patrick’s backup rescue team: Hal Briggs, Chris Wohl, and ten highly trained commandos, outfitted in Tin Man electronic battle armor. Hidden in the freighter’s cargo hold was an MV-32 Pave Dasher tilt-jet aircraft, an MV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft modified with jet engines to give it more range, speed, and load-carrying capability. With a range of over two thousand miles, air-refuelable, and with the capability of flying below radar, the Pave Dasher was the ideal way to insert rescue or attack troops deep inside hostile territory. “They’re working several problems: They’ll be right at the extreme range of the Pave Dasher — the farther the StealthHawk flies into Turkmenistan, the more problematic the situation becomes, and there’s some pretty bad weather closing in.”

“Let me know what they say,” Patrick said. “If there’s any way they can try it, I want it done.”

“Stand by,” Luger said.

Rebecca Furness rolled her eyes in exasperation. “We can’t ‘stand by,’ “ she said. “We’ll be feet-dry in”—she glanced at her navigation display and muttered—“now. We’re in violation of I don’t know how many international laws.”

“The SA-10 is down,” Patrick told her. “They lost us. No other threats detected, just search radars, all below detection levels.”

“Bad news, Muck,” Luger radioed a few minutes later. “The weather is getting worse down there in eastern Turkmenistan. Hal says it’s your call.”

“What do you think, Texas?”

“If it was to pick up any of our guys, no question,” Luger replied. “But to pick up a two-thousand-pound UCAV from across a hostile border in Turkmenistan, with the Pakistanis, Iranians, and maybe the Russians looking on? Sorry, Muck. I don’t think it’s worth the risk.”

“General?” Rebecca Furness asked. “You lost it. Let’s get back over the Arabian Sea, get our gas, and go home.”

“Just keep going,” Patrick said. “We’re clear of the Pakistani coastal-defense sites — take it up to Mach one point one, five-thousand-foot clearance plane.”

“This is not a good idea,” Rebecca said — but she found herself pushing up the throttles anyway.

“I’m running your range numbers,” Luger radioed, studying the fuel-flow data being transmitted to him via satellite from the Vampire. “At your current fuel consumption, and assuming you don’t take extra time retrieving the StealthHawks or dodging air defenses, you’ll be almost at emergency fuel state at the scheduled refueling control point. If you couldn’t tank, you might not have enough fuel to make it to Diego Garcia.”

“Copy,” Patrick responded.

They skirted along the Iran-Pakistan border and descended to three hundred feet terrain-following, giving an extremely wide berth to the Iranian border city of Zahedan, which had the largest fighter-interceptor wing in all of Central Asia. They detected more SA-10 surface-to-air units and several short-range, radar-guided antiaircraft artillery units situated along the border — they all had their search-and-acquisition radars on full power. Soon they also detected Iranian fighters — more than a dozen of them, a mixture of French, Russian, and even former American jets. “Damn, we’ve got the entire Iranian air force looking for us,” Rebecca said.

“The closest one is forty miles away,” Patrick said, “and he doesn’t have us. The Iranian jets aren’t crossing the border either.”

Just then one Iranian MiG-29 surprised them — he suddenly turned directly toward them, illuminating them with his radar, and headed quickly east, crossing the Pakistani border near the town of Saindak. “Caution, MiG-29 search mode, nine o’clock, thirty-three miles, high, below detection threshold,” the threat-warning computer reported.

“General…” But the Vampire bomber had already responded — it activated its radar trackbreakers and unreeled the ALE-55 fiber-optic towed decoy from a fairing in the tail. The ALE-55 was a small, bullet-shaped device that transmitted jamming and deception signals to hide the bomber and deflect any incoming threats away from it. It was a very effective but definitely last-ditch device to help the bomber escape if it was under direct attack. “We will never launch on a mission ever again without having defensive weapons on board, I promise you that,” Rebecca went on. The Vampire could carry a wide array of defensive air-to-air missiles, from short-range Stingers to extremely long-range Anaconda missiles — but this wasn’t supposed to be an attack mission.

“Pakistani search radar, three o’clock, forty miles,” Patrick reported. “Well below detection levels.”

“Warning, MiG-29 tracking mode, nine o’clock, twenty-five miles.”

“Trackbreakers active,” Patrick reported, punctuating the report with a curse. The trackbreakers could spoof and interfere with the fighter’s tracking radar but would also tell anyone around them that a warplane was in the area — and enemy fighters might be able to track the origin of the jamming signal or fire a missile with the ability to home in on the signal.

“Puppeteer, this is Control,” Luger radioed. “Step it on down to COLA and head northeast. He doesn’t have a solid lock on you yet.”

Patrick studied the large supercockpit display on his forward instrument panel. The terrain to the northeast near the Pakistan-Afghan border was completely flat, with several dry lake beds farther north. A bomber the size of a B-1, even as stealthy as it was, would be easy to track against a flat desert from a MiG-29 chasing it from above. The MiG-29 also had an advanced infrared sensor that could spot the B-1’s red-hot engines over twenty miles away — it wouldn’t need its radar to attack.

“Hard left ninety-degree turn,” Patrick said.

“What? You want me to turn toward Iran?”

“If we get caught in the open, we’ll be a sitting duck,” Patrick said. “We’ll stay in the higher terrain to the west.” Rebecca did not argue further but turned sharply left. The tactic worked. Once they turned ninety degrees from the MiG-29’s course, the MiG’s pulse-Doppler radar detected no relative speed difference and squelched out the radar return. “The MiG broke lock,” Patrick reported. “He’s moving to seven o’clock, twenty-five miles. We’re out of his radar cone.”

They weren’t out of the woods yet, but soon they left the fighters from Zahedan behind them. There were still several short- and long-range surface-to-air missile sites along the border, but as they flew along the Mighand Highlands northbound, they were actually flying behind them. As soon as they were clear of the dry lake beds, Patrick steered the EB-1C back across the Afghan border. They were able to climb up to fifteen thousand feet, high enough to escape visual detection and stay away from any antiaircraft artillery units that might pop up unexpectedly.

“Puppeteer, this is Control,” David Luger radioed. “I show you going across the Turkmen border. The Turkmen army uses lots of Russian antiaircraft systems, and a lot of that stuff is right in front of you.”

“I’m going to make one try at linking up with the StealthHawk, and then I’ll bug out,” Patrick responded.

Minutes later Patrick had locked the StealthHawk’s encrypted beacon up with his laser radar, and they began a tail chase with the StealthHawk drone, which had already crossed the border into Turkmenistan. Rebecca turned the bomber to the northeast, closing the distance rapidly on full military power. “We’re sucking gas like crazy,” she mused. “How much longer before you’re in direct datalink range?”

“About five minutes,” Patrick said, “if our range calculations are…” As soon as they did close to within ten miles, Patrick was able to reestablish the uplink to the StealthHawk. “Got it!” Patrick crowed. “It’s responding!”

At the same instant their threat-warning receiver came to life. “Caution, SA-4 surveillance radar, twelve o’clock, thirty-eight miles, well below detection threshold,” the threat-warning computer announced. The SA-4 was a high-performance mobile antiaircraft missile — even launched from so far away, it could reach them in less than two minutes.

“For Christ’s sake, General, we’re flying right for that SA-4…!”

“Keep going, Rebecca. We’ve almost got it.”

“Warning, SA-4 target-acquisition mode, twelve o’clock, twenty miles.” The system activated their countermeasures system, including the towed countermeasures array — they were an item of interest again. But there was nothing they could do until they got the StealthHawk turned around.

“Damn… the Turkmen might be picking up our datalink signals,” Patrick said. Although the signals between the bomber and the StealthHawk drone were encrypted, the transmissions themselves could be detected. Soon, the Turkmen could pinpoint their location, no matter how stealthy they were.

“Let’s get out of here, McLanahan!”

“Almost got it….” He quickly entered in instructions for the StealthHawk to turn around, and it responded. “StealthHawk responding!” Patrick said. Rebecca immediately started a hard left turn. “Wings level, pilot…”

“I can’t — we’re going to get shot right in the face by that SA-4!”

“Closer, Rebecca,” Patrick urged. “It’s turning away from that SA-4. We’ll be okay. Head back toward it and at least give me a chance of nudging it back.”

“No way.”

“Then descend,” Patrick said. “It’ll keep us clear of that SA-4. If we go below two thousand feet, it’ll lose us.”

“Two thousand feet! You expect me to descend below two thousand feet?”

“If we lose that StealthHawk, it’ll be the military and diplomatic embarrassment of the decade,” Patrick said. “A few more minutes, that’s all, Rebecca.”

Furness looked at Patrick with an expression of fear and anger — but she made the turn and pushed on the control stick. “Damn it, General, this better work — and fast.”

It did. As soon as they cruised back within the ten-mile arc of the StealthHawk, they were able to get it turned back toward them. They were fifteen miles inside the Turkmen border, but at least they were headed away from the long-range SA-4 missile site. The warning of the SA-4’s “Long Track” surveillance radar still blared in their ears — they were still being detected, possibly tracked. Patrick entered commands into the UCAV’s control computer, and the StealthHawk performed a rejoin on the EB-1C Vampire bomber.

Suddenly they heard a fast, high-pitched deedledeedledeedle! warning, followed by a computerized female voice that calmly said, “Warning, SA-4 missile launch, four o’clock, twenty-eight miles. Time to impact, fifty seconds…. Warning, second SA-4 missile launch, four o’clock, twenty-eight miles, time to impact, fifty-eight seconds.” The voice was so calm and pleasant that one almost expected it to sign off with “Have a nice day.”

“Damn you, General…!”

“We’ve got time,” Patrick said. “Once we get the StealthHawk turned around, we’ll be okay.”

“Puppeteer, what is going on up there?” David Luger radioed. “You just got fired on by an SA-4!”

“Thirty seconds and we’re out of here.”

“You don’t have thirty seconds!”

“We’ve got the ‘Hawk, Dave. Twenty-five seconds and we’ll be cleaned up.”

“You’re crazy, man,” Luger said seriously. “You won’t have enough time to accelerate out of there in time.”

“Countermeasures ready… trackbreakers active… towed array deployed,” Patrick said.

“Forty seconds to impact.”

“We’re going to get nailed if we don’t get out of here, General!”

“We’ll make it. Fifteen seconds.”

“Thirty seconds to impact.”

Suddenly Patrick said into the computer, “Let’s get out of here, Rebecca! I’m setting COLA. Go to zone five, now!”

“General…?”

“The SA-4s are speeding up — they’re diving on us,” Patrick said. “We ran out of time. Zone-five afterburners, now! Flight-control system to terrain-following, set clearance-plane COLA, ninety left!” Rebecca responded instantly — she shoved all the throttles forward to the stops as the EB-1C nosed over into a steep twenty-degree nose-low dive for the flat, moonlike desert floor below. Patrick’s order set their altitude for COLA — and with very little high terrain below them, they were heading to less than a wingspan’s distance above the earth. Patrick ordered the StealthHawk to activate all its radar sensors and open all its weapons bays — anything he could think of to increase the UCAV’s radar cross-section and make it look larger than the Vampire’s to the SA-4 missile-guidance radar tracking them….

Seconds later Patrick reported, “Lost contact with the StealthHawk! The SA-4 got it. Ninety left again, up and down jinks! Hurry!” Rebecca hauled the bomber into a steep bank, turning the EB-1C so they were directly nose-on to the SA-4’s radar, presenting the smallest possible radar cross-section, then furiously started yanking the control stick forward and back in sharp, fast cycles. They hoped the SA-4 would try to match their fast altitude changes and eventually crank itself off a smooth intercept track. “Trackbreakers on… chaff… chaff… Oh, shit, hang on!”

The SA-4 missile missed — but when it was only a few hundred feet away from the left side of the Vampire bomber’s nose, the missile’s three-hundred-pound warhead detonated. The cockpit was filled with a blinding yellow-red burst of light from the fireball. Patrick closed his eyes in time, but Rebecca was looking directly at it when the warhead went off. She screamed just as a giant invisible fist slammed into the bomber’s nose. It felt as if they were tumbling upside down out of control….

But when Patrick was able to get his bearings again, he discovered with surprise that they were still upright. One multifunction display on the pilot’s side was out, and two generators on the left side were offline, but everything else seemed all right.

All except Rebecca. “Shit!” she cried. “I can’t fucking see! You got the aircraft, MC!”

“I’ve got the aircraft,” Patrick responded. He issued voice commands to the autopilot and got the plane leveled off at five hundred feet above the ground, turned away from the SA-4 site, and heading for the Afghan border — in three minutes they were across. Between the city of Andkhvoy and the Turkmen border, Patrick started a climb, and in ten minutes they were at a safe cruising altitude, heading south across Afghanistan for a perilous Pakistani frontier crossing.

“Patrick, I’ve got the generators back online,” David Luger reported as he and several technicians studied the real-time reports datalinked from the stricken Vampire bomber. “Engines, hydraulics, pneumatics, and electrical are all in the green. We’ve got the aircraft. How’s Rebecca?”

“I’ll be all right,” she muttered. Patrick examined her eyes carefully and found no apparent damage. “I’m just flash-blinded, that’s all. It’s coming back. Give me a couple aspirins out of the medical kit and see if there’s any eyewash or salve in there.” She stared out her windscreen. “Hey, there’s something wrong here. I can’t see out my windscreen. Is it me or something else?”

Patrick looked, too. “The windscreen is all blackened and crazed — the blast from the SA-4 might have instantly delaminated it.” He shone his flashlight outside toward the nose. “I think we might have some problems out there. Do a check of the refueling system, Dave.”

“Stand by.” It took only a few seconds. “Yep, looks like we got a problem — self-test of the refueling system failed. Looks like your slipway doors are damaged.”

Patrick got out the high-power floodlight and looked. “I see all kinds of sheet metal loose out there,” he reported. “Looks like the slipway doors might have been blown loose and are jammed or hanging halfway inside the slipway.”

“We’re in deep shit if we can’t refuel, guys,” Rebecca said.

With the help of the technicians back at Battle Mountain, Patrick began reading the flight-manual checklist for the refueling system. The checklist eventually directed him to pull the circuit breaker that actuated the slipway doors. “Last item — manual slipway door-retract handle, pull,” he read.

“Give it a try, Muck,” Luger said. “You got nothing else you can do.”

Patrick firmly and positively pulled the small T-handle on the upper instrument console, then shone the big spotlight outside again. “Well?” Rebecca asked.

“Still looks the same. Looks like the slipway door ripped off its supports and is jammed inside the slipway. Dave…”

“We’re running the best range numbers now,” Luger responded.

Patrick switched seats with Rebecca — she couldn’t see quite clearly yet, so it was better for her not to be in the pilot’s seat — then immediately set the Vampire’s flight-control system to max-range profile. The Vampire used mission-adaptive technology, tiny actuators in the fuselage that subtly changed almost the entire surface of the bomber’s fuselage and wings to optimize the aerodynamics. The system could be set to increase airspeed, improve slow-flight characteristics, help land in crosswinds, or reduce the effects of turbulence.

Patrick told the flight-control system to conserve as much fuel as possible. When he did so, the airspeed dropped off considerably, and they started a very slow climb. The mission-adaptive technology flattened out the flight controls as much as possible, reducing drag — they could barely maneuver, but they would be saving as much fuel as possible. As they climbed, their airspeed increased in the thinner air, so they traveled farther on the same amount of fuel. But their four-hour return flight became five, then soon settled into a five-and-a-half-hour endurance run.

And they still had the gauntlet of the Pakistani air defenses, now on full alert, to run.

“We’ve worked the numbers as best we could, Muck,” David Luger said, “and the best we can figure is, it’ll be close. The winds aren’t helping you — you have a twenty-minute deficit. But if you can make it up to at least thirty-nine thousand feet and then do a very shallow idle-power descent, we think you’ll make up the deficit. How’s that slipway looking? Anything fly off yet?”

“Still looks like someone left a wad of scrap metal in there. Seems like we might lose part of the left side of the radome, too.”

“Roger. If the slipway still looks blocked, we’ll have to send the tanker home. He doesn’t have enough fuel to wait for you.”

“Send him home,” Patrick said. “Have him gas up and then launch after us. Maybe we’ll move into precontact in the descent and have the boom operator take a close look.”

The Iran-Afghanistan-Pakistan frontier was a jumble of search radars and frantic radio messages in several different languages. “We may have lucked out,” Patrick said. “Sounds to me like everyone’s running out of fuel and heading home. The Iranian SA-10s are still active, but they’re intermittent. They might be afraid of shooting down their own aircraft or firing on a Pakistani jet over the border.”

“Great,” Rebecca said, putting more saline drops in her stinging eyes. “Maybe we’ll avoid getting caught in the crossfire long enough to splash down in the Indian Ocean.”

“Wait, they’re not going home — they’re chasing another target!” Patrick exclaimed, studying the datalinked composite tactical display. He switched to his own laser-radar display and took a two-second snapshot. “There’s a big target at our one o’clock position, eighty-three miles, low. It’s huge — it looks as big as a 747, and it’s radiating on several VHF, UHF, and some navigation search frequencies.” He switched radio frequencies. “Tin Man, this is Puppeteer.”

“Hi, boss,” Hal Briggs responded. Air Force Colonel Hal Briggs was an Army- and Air Force — trained commando and security expert, a longtime partner of Patrick’s, and a close friend. He was now assigned as the commander of a secret unit at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base called the Battle Force, comprising highly trained and heavily armed commandos that supported special-operations missions all over the world.

“What do you guys think you’re doing?” Patrick asked.

“Just trying to clear a path for you,” Hal replied. He had launched in the MV-32 Pave Dasher tilt-jet aircraft off the deck of their covert-operations freighter as soon as he saw Patrick’s turn inland to pursue the errant StealthHawk. Loaded with extra fuel as well as electronic warfare jammers, Hal and his crew sped inland and established an orbit right along the Pakistan-Iran frontier, then activated their jammers and decoy transmitters. The decoy transmitters made the MV-32 appear a hundred times larger than its actual size on the Iranian and Pakistani radarscopes — too inviting a target to be ignored.

“We appreciate it, Tin Man,” Patrick said, “but we see at least a half dozen Iranian and Pakistani fighters within thirty miles of your location and one less than twenty miles that might have detected you. Get as low as you can and bug out to the southeast.”

“We’re outta here, Puppeteer, but not to the southeast,” Hal responded. “You head southeast. We’ll draw the bad guys away until you’re clear. Save your fuel.”

“Are you armed?”

“Negative,” Hal replied. Normally the MV-32 carried two retractable pods that held laser-guided Hellfire missiles, Maverick TV-guided attack missiles, Stinger heat-seeking antiaircraft missiles, Sidearm antiradar missiles, or twenty-millimeter gun pods — but they also held three-hundred-gallon fuel tanks, and that’s what this mission required. The MV-32 had a chin-mounted twenty-millimeter Gatling gun — that was its only defensive armament, almost completely ineffective against high-speed aircraft. “I need you to give us a heads-up on where the bad guys are, Puppeteer — and remember the third dimension.”

“I hear you, Tin Man,” Patrick replied. He switched his display to one that accentuated terrain even more — the laser-radar view was so detailed and precise that it looked like a daylight photograph. “Head south and stay as low as you can. Nearest bandit is at your four o’clock, moving in to fifteen miles, high. He’s painting you with his radar. You have your jammers on?”

“Roger that.”

“There’s a pretty deep crevasse at your one o’clock, eight miles. See it yet?”

“Negative.”

“He’s counterjamming you — looks like he’s got a solid lock on you,” Patrick said. “Turn right twenty degrees, hard.” Patrick knew that the MV-32 was fitted with infrared suppressors on the exhaust end of its fanjet engines, but they would still create very hot dots against the night sky that made easy targets for heat-seeking missiles. The first important task was to turn those hot exhausts away from the Iranian fighter’s infrared sensors. “He’s descending and slowing. He’s trying to line up a shot.”

“Terrific.”

“He’s too far away for us to reach you in time, Tin Man,” Patrick said. “Turn ten more right. He’s closing to max IR missile range. Get ready to—”

“He fired!” Briggs shouted. “He fired again! Two incoming!” The MV-32 carried a tail-warning receiver that tracked the heat of enemy aircraft behind it — when the system detected a flash of heat from the same target, it assumed that the target fired a missile and issued a missile launch warning. “We’re maneuvering… popping flares.” Patrick could hear the tension in Hal’s voice, hear him grunt as the MV-32’s pilot maneuvered hard into the missile. Once the Pave Dasher turned toward the missiles, the decoy flares would be the hottest dots in the sky, and the enemy missiles would go after them instead — he hoped.

“Translate positive Z!” Patrick shouted. “Now!”

The Pave Dasher had one feature the Iranian fighters lacked — the ability to fly vertically. As Patrick watched the pursuit unfold on his multifunction display, the MV-32 Pave Dasher suddenly stopped in midair, turned directly toward the incoming missiles, then flew straight up at five hundred feet per minute. Now there were two objects in the sky even brighter than the decoy flares — two fat, red-hot, yet invisible columns of jet-engine exhaust. It was too irresistible a target. Both missiles headed right for the tubes of heat and exploded harmlessly more than a hundred feet underneath the MV-32.

Patrick didn’t see that. What he saw was the Iranian fighter still barreling directly at the MV-32. Either the Iranian was “target fixated”—so intent on watching his quarry die that he ignored his primary job of flying the airplane — or he was closing in for another missile attack or a gun kill. “Bandit’s at your twelve o’clock, five miles, slightly high, closing fast!” Patrick radioed. “Lock him up and nail him!”

The MV-32’s pilot immediately activated his own infrared targeting sensor and aimed it where Patrick told him. At less than six miles, the fighter was a huge green dot on the pilot’s targeting scope. He immediately locked up the fighter into the targeting computer, slaved the twenty-millimeter Gatling gun to the target, and at three miles opened fire.

The Iranian pilot decided to fire his own thirty-millimeter cannon at two miles — that was the last mistake he’d ever make. The MV-32’s shells sliced into the fighter’s canopy and engines a fraction of a second before the Iranian pilot squeezed his trigger. The jet exploded into a fireball and traced a flaming streak across the night sky until it plowed into the mountains below, less than a mile in front of the Pave Dasher.

“Good shooting, guys,” Patrick said when the fighter disappeared from his tactical display. “Now start heading southwest. Your tail’s clear. Nearest bandit is at your five o’clock, thirty-seven miles, not locked on.”

“Thanks for the help, boss,” Hal Briggs radioed. “See you back at home plate.”

“Don’t hold breakfast. We’re going to be up here awhile,” Patrick said. Rebecca Furness groaned but said nothing.

Five hours later, with the bomber still over three hundred miles from home, the Sky Masters support aircraft — a privately owned DC-10 airliner converted as a launch and support aircraft by the StealthHawk’s designer, Jon Masters of Sky Masters Inc. — maneuvered slightly above and ahead of the Vampire. The DC-10’s pilot, flight engineer, and boom operator, sitting in the boom operator’s pod in the rear looking out through the large “picture window” underneath the boom, all came to the same conclusion: “Sorry, Puppeteer,” the boom operator reported. “The whole left side of the slipway is pushed in, and the slipway door is crumpled up inside there.”

“Any way you can use the boom to pry the door away from the slipway?” Patrick asked.

“It’s worth a try,” the boomer said. Slowly, carefully, he used the refueling boom as a pick, trying to push and pull pieces of metal away from the receptacle at the bottom of the slipway. Twenty minutes later a large piece of metal bounced off the windscreen — thankfully, not cracking it. “Let’s give it a try, Puppeteer.”

Patrick had to do the flying — Rebecca’s eyesight was still too marginal for her to perform this delicate task. Patrick switched the flight-control computers to air-refueling mode and maneuvered the Vampire bomber up into contact position. The boom operator extended the probe. They saw the probe bounce and skid around the broken slipway, then finally ram against the receptacle. “No contact light,” the boomer said. “Toggles aren’t engaging. But I’m right in there.”

“Start the transfer,” Patrick said.

The boomer started the transfer pumps — and immediately the windscreen iced completely over as hundreds of gallons of jet fuel gushed out of the receptacle, streamed back across the windscreen, and froze. “I lost contact with you,” Patrick said, activating the windshield de-ice system. “But I think we took some gas. I’ll keep it as steady as I can — you just keep plugging me.”

It was the weirdest, scariest, and most violent aerial refueling Patrick had ever done. Time after time the refueling nozzle slammed into the damaged slipway; every time the probe reached the receptacle, the boom operator forced the nozzle tight against it, then turned the pumps on low. More fuel streamed out — but some was going into the Vampire’s tanks.

One hundred miles away from Diego Garcia, the small island in the Indian Ocean leased by the United States Navy from Great Britain as a forward operating air base, the DC-10 unplugged for the last time. “We transferred two hundred thousand pounds, guys — but I have no clue how much actually went into your tanks.”

“At least you stopped the needles from moving to ‘E’ for a while,” Patrick said ruefully. “Thanks. See you on the ground.”

“Good luck, Puppeteer.”

After putting the flight-control system back on its max endurance program, Patrick and Rebecca discussed the approach and landing. There was only one choice: a straight-in approach to the downwind runway. The winds near Diego Garcia would be pushing them toward the island, but the Vampire wouldn’t have the fuel to try to turn into the wind for landing. Patrick would have to do the flying — and he would get only one shot at it.

Patrick tuned the number-one radio to the Navy’s approach frequency. “Rainbow, this is Puppeteer.”

“Puppeteer, this is Charlie,” the U.S. Navy captain in charge of air operations at Diego Garcia Naval Air Station responded. “We’ve been monitoring your flight progress. State your intentions.”

“Straight-in approach to runway one-four, full-stop landing.”

“Will this landing be under full control?”

“Unknown, Charlie.”

“Stand by.” Patrick didn’t have to stand by long: “Request denied, Puppeteer,” the captain said. “Sorry, Puppeteer, but we can’t risk you shutting down the airfield with a crash landing — too many other flights rely on us for a dry strip of concrete. We can vector you to a ditching or bail-out zone and have rescue and recovery units standing by. Advise your intentions.”

“Charlie, we can make it,” Patrick replied. “If it looks like we won’t come in under control, we’ll divert away from the island. But I think we can make it. Requesting permission to land.”

“Request denied, Puppeteer,” the captain responded. “I’m sorry, but that answer comes from Hemingway.” “Hemingway” was the four-star commander of U.S. Central Command, who had overall operational authority over this mission.

“Sir, Puppeteer is declaring an emergency,” Patrick announced. “We have fifteen minutes of fuel and two souls on board. Our intentions are to attempt a full-stop landing on the downwind runway. Please have men and equipment standing by.”

Charlie was already talking — no, shouting—on the frequency when Patrick let go of the mike button: “… repeat, you will not attempt a landing on Diego Garcia, Puppeteer, do you understand me? Your aircraft represents an extreme hazard to this base. Accept vectors to the ditching zone. Acknowledge!”

“I copy, Rainbow,” Patrick said. He knew that the ops officer at Diego Garcia knew that Patrick was going to go over all their heads. He didn’t care. The Vampire was in trouble, big trouble, and they weren’t going to make it unless they got permission to land at Diego Garcia.

But a few minutes later Patrick got his answer from the secretary of defense himself — permission to land at Diego Garcia denied. It was too risky closing down that important Indian Ocean runway.

“What do we do now, General?” Rebecca said, remarkably calm for an aircraft commander who was going to lose her plane in just a few minutes. “We brief these contingencies for days before these missions. I can’t believe we actually have to do it.”

A pair of U.S. Navy F/A-18 Hornet fighter-bombers rendezvoused with the Vampire bomber to look it over and take pictures. Patrick thought the fighter pilots would try to crowd the bomber off its final approach path — they were tucked in tight, but they weren’t going to try to bully the bigger jet away. “Puppeteer, don’t do it,” one of the Navy pilots radioed. “If you shut down that runway, I might have to punch out. I won’t take kindly to that — neither will my wife and kids.” Patrick did not reply.

“General, think of your family,” someone else said. “Don’t risk your life with this. It’s just a machine. It’s not worth it.”

Patrick still did not reply. In fact, for most of the five-hour-plus flight out of Central Asia, that’s all Patrick had thought about — his son, Bradley, waiting for him back in Nevada. Bradley’s mother, Wendy, had been brutally murdered during a mission in Libya, along with Patrick’s younger brother, Paul. Patrick came home to see his son and bury his brother and then left again to try to rescue his wife when the exiled Libyan king located her in a Libyan prison.

The rescue mission was a failure: Wendy was killed, and Patrick barely made it out alive. He was finally able to bring her body home after the Libyan king set up a new constitutional government in Libya, and they cremated her remains and scattered her ashes in the Pacific Ocean. After that, Patrick vowed he would never leave Bradley’s side….

But he broke that promise shortly afterward, when President Thomas Thorn gave him Air Force major general’s stars and command of the Air Battle Force wing at Battle Mountain. At first it was short trips away from home only, to the Tonopah Test Range or Dreamland, maybe to Washington. Bradley was being watched by Patrick’s sisters either at his home in Battle Mountain or at their home in Sacramento; many times Patrick took his son with him. Bradley was making friends, playing T-ball, and he seemed happy to see his father when he finally came home, not traumatized or clingy. Bradley was a tough kid, Patrick thought. He had gone through a lot during his short life.

But now Patrick was on a weeklong mission, flying out of Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. He rationalized it by saying it was only a UCAV control-and-monitor mission — there were no plans whatsoever to fly over hostile territory, so he would be as safe as he could be in a 470,000-pound combat aircraft. Now even that flimsy rationalization was exploded. At the very worst there was an extremely good chance that he would leave his son an orphan — at best he was probably going to lose his commission. Again.

Finally the Hornets went away, glad to be out of midair-collision range with the bomber, and the Vampire was all by itself.

The bomber was several miles north of the island of Diego Garcia when the first engine flamed out from fuel starvation. “Shut down the opposite engine before you get two flaming out on the same side,” Rebecca told him, but Patrick was already ensuring that the computers were doing just that. Rebecca stared hard out her windscreen, but all she could see were blurs. “How are we doing?” No reply. “Patrick? You okay?”

“I… I was thinking about my son,” Patrick said. “I barely made it home after the Libyan ordeal and his mother’s death, and now I might just orphan him with this stunt.”

“It’s not too late to get out. I’m ready to go. All you have to do is say the word.”

Patrick paused — but only for a few moments. “No. We’ll make it.”

“Puppeteer, you are too low,” the tower controller called. “Start a slow turn now, away from the final approach path, or you won’t make it.”

“It’s now or never, Patrick,” Rebecca said, firmly but evenly. “If you wait and try to turn too tight later, you’ll stall and crash. If we lose another engine, we won’t make it. And if we lose an engine while in the turn, we’ll spin in so fast they’ll need a dredger to dig us out of the ocean bottom. Turn now.”

“No. We can make it.”

“General, don’t be stupid—”

“If we ditch, Rebecca, we’ll lose a three-hundred-million-dollar plane,” Patrick said. “If we land and we end up crashing it on the runway, maybe even shutting the place down, so what? I doubt if we’d do more than three hundred million worth of damage.”

“You’re nuts,” Furness said. “You have much more than just a problem with authority — you have some sort of sick death wish. Need I remind you, sir, what happened to you the last time you violated a direct order from the National Command Authority?”

“I was forced to retire from the Air Force within forty-eight hours.”

“That’s right, sir,” Rebecca said. “And you nearly took me down with you.”

“We’ll make it,” Patrick said. He keyed the microphone. “Diego Tower, Vampire Three-one on final for full-stop landing runway one-four.” He used his unclassified call sign on the open channel.

“Vampire Three-one, this is Diego Tower,” the voice of the British tower controller replied. “You do not have proper authority to land.”

“Diego Tower, Vampire Three-one is declaring an emergency for a flight-control malfunction, five minutes of fuel on board, requesting fire equipment standing by.”

“Vampire Three-one, you do not have permission to land!” the controller shouted, his British accent getting thicker as he grew more and more agitated. “Discontinue approach, depart the pattern to the east, and remain clear of this airspace.”

“Puppeteer, this is Rainbow,” the American naval air operations officer cut in on the secure channel. “I order you to break off your approach and leave this airspace, or I will bust you so hard that you’ll be lucky to get an assignment changing tires at the motor pool back at your home base rather than commanding it.”

Patrick ignored him. Yes, he was taking an awful risk, not just to his career — which was probably over at this point — but to everyone on the ground. This was loco. Why risk it? Why…?

“Puppeteer, I order you to break off this approach, now!”

At that moment the computer said, “Configuration warning.”

“Override,” Patrick ordered. “I’m leaving the gear up.”

“General…?”

“I’m committed,” Patrick said to Rebecca’s unasked question. They weren’t going to make it. They were so low that Patrick couldn’t see the runway anymore.

Just before he hit the water, Patrick pulled both throttles to IDLE, lifted them, and pulled them into cutoff. He then turned all the switches — ignition, power, and battery — off. They were passengers now, along for the ride.

The big bomber sank out of the sky like a stone. It smacked into the ocean less than a half mile from the approach end of the runway. The bomber skipped off the surface of the ocean, sailed into the air, and started to roll to its left — but just as it did, it skittered up onto the beach, crashed through the approach-end runway lighting, through the security fence, rolled right, and careened up onto the large mass aircraft-parking ramp on the north side of the runway. The bomber skidded to a halt on its belly just a few dozen yards away from several parked military aircraft.

The fire trucks were on the bomber within moments, dousing it with firefighting foam and water, but there was no fuel on the plane anyway, it didn’t break apart, and it had been shut down long before landing. It looked like a wounded duck shot out of the air by a hunter, but it was intact.

“Oh, God — we made it!” Rebecca said breathlessly. “I don’t believe it.”

“We made it,” Patrick breathed. “My God…” He made sure everything was switched off, then safed his and Rebecca’s ejection seats, unlatched the upper escape hatch, and climbed up on top of the fuselage. They were helped down by rescue personnel and taken to the base hospital. A huge crowd of sailors and airmen had come out to watch the bomber belly flop onto their little island.

As they were being wheeled into the hospital, Patrick could see several naval officers striding toward him, all wearing the angriest, most chew-ass expressions he’d ever seen. Sailors and spectators quickly peeled out of their way as if they were radioactive. Patrick completely ignored them. Instead he looked up and spoke, “Patrick to Luger.”

“Go ahead, Muck,” David Luger said. Their subcutaneous microtransceiver system gave them global communications and datalink capability anywhere in the world, even on a tiny island in the middle of the Indian Ocean. “Good to see you made it okay. Is Rebecca all right?”

“Yes, she’s fine.”

“Good. The commander there wants to have a word with you. I’m sure CINCENT and SECDEF will be on the line soon, too.”

“I copy,” Patrick said. “But put me through to home first.”

“Home? Patrick, the admiral wants—”

“Dave, put me through to my son, right now, and that’s an order,” Patrick said. “I’ve got to say hello to Bradley.”

Even with a new government in place in Afghanistan, the border-crossing points were not very well manned on the Afghan side — even on the larger highways there was usually only a small inspection and customs building, with a swinging counterweighted metal pole to delineate the border itself. Infiltrators never used the border crossings anyway; no one ever wanted to visit Afghanistan, and the country was certainly not going to keep anyone from leaving—why did Afghanistan need an armed border crossing?

On the other side, however, it was a different matter. None of Afghanistan’s neighbors wanted any refugees or accused terrorists to cross the borders freely, so the border checkpoints were usually well manned and well armed. Thus it was with the Republic of Turkmenistan.

Tabadkan was typical of almost all of the Turkmen border checkpoints — a small but heavily fortified Turkmen border-guard base with a few support buildings, a large tent barracks for enlisted men and a towable building for the officers, a supply yard with portable fuel and water tanks — and a detainment camp. The Republic of Turkmenistan routinely turned away anyone — refugees or rich folks, it didn’t matter — who did not have a visa and a letter of introduction or a travel itinerary drawn up by a Turkmen state travel bureau; but any people without proper identification papers or passports were placed in the detainment camp until their identities could be verified. The Afghan government usually sent officials to the border crossing to help in identifying its citizens and getting them released from Turkmen custody at least once a week, but in bad weather — or for a number of other reasons — it could sometimes take a month or more for anyone to come to this remote outpost.

So it was now — the detainment camp had almost a hundred detainees, substantially over its capacity. Women and children under age ten were in a separate sheltered area of the facility and were generally well treated; older boys and the men were in another section, exposed to the elements. Each man was given two carpets and a metal cup; four buckets of porridge made with mung beans and rice and four buckets of water had to serve about sixty men for the day. To keep warm, the men took turns around a single large peat brazier set in a lean-to made from hides — if a man was lucky, he might make a snack of a captured and roasted sand rat, jerboa, snake, or sand crocodile.

Zarazi examined all this with his binoculars from the relative safety of a sand dune about a kilometer east of the border crossing. The wind was howling now, at least forty kilometers an hour, blowing sand that stung like sandpaper rubbed across bare cheeks and foreheads. “Those bastards,” he spat. “They’ve got several dozen of our people caged up like animals.” He let his deputy commander, Jalaluddin Turabi, check through the binoculars. Sure enough, they looked like Taliban fighters, although from this range and with the winds kicking up, it was hard to be positive.

“No patrols out tonight,” Zarazi went on to Turabi, who was prone in the sand beside him, two scarves covering all but a tiny slit for his eyes. “We might actually pull this off, Jala.”

“We can just as easily go around this post, Wakil,” Turabi said worriedly. “We have enough supplies to last us another two or three days, long enough to make it to Yusof Mirzo’i or back to Andkhvoy. Once we get more weapons and ammo, we can come back for those men.”

“But they’ll be waiting for us to head back toward the city,” Zarazi said. “They won’t expect us to go across the border to Turkmenistan.”

“For good reason — there’s nothing but unmanned oil wells, scorpions, and sandstorms for a hundred kilometers,” Turabi retorted. “If we make it to the Kara Kum River, we may survive, but there’s nothing but Turkmen border guards until we reach Holach. What’s the plan, Wakil?”

“The plan is to stay alive long enough to strike back at the blue-helmets and the Americans who drove us from our homes,” Zarazi replied bitterly. “Revenge is the reason we must survive.”

“There’s no one to take out our revenge on in the Kara Kum wastelands, Wakil,” Turabi said. “Sure as hell not the Americans. They are nice and safe up in their supersonic stealth bombers, or sitting back at home flying their robot attack planes via satellite.”

“They are all cowards, and they must die like cowards,” Zarazi said. “I prayed to Allah while we were under attack, and I made a bargain with the Almighty — if He let me live, I would be His sword of vengeance. He answered my prayers, Jala. He is pointing the way, and the way is out there, in the desert — through this place, not around it.” He turned to his friend and fellow freedom fighter. “We will hoist the United Nations flags on our captured vehicles and turn on all the lights. We must act nice and friendly. Then we shall see what Allah has in store for us tonight.” Zarazi patted Turabi’s face. “Time to get rid of the beards, my friend.”

“Military vehicles approaching!” a sentry shouted. “Someone coming in!”

The commander in charge had just settled in for a catnap when the cry was relayed to him. Swearing, he got to his feet and joined his senior sergeant at the observation window facing the checkpoint. The sergeant was trying to see who it was through a pair of binoculars. “Well, Sergeant?”

“Hard to tell through the sandstorm, sir,” the sergeant said. “It looks like a BTR towing a pickup truck — wait, sir, I see a flag now. A United Nations patrol. They look like they’re towing a captured Taliban truck.”

“Why didn’t they announce first?” the commander mused. “This looks pretty damned suspicious. Why in hell are they bringing it to us?”

“I see the commander up in the cupola. He’s wearing a blue helmet,” the sergeant said. As the trucks got closer to the spotlight along the checkpoint, he could make out more details. “Looks like they might have gotten into a firefight, sir. I see damage to their radio antenna. That could be why they didn’t radio ahead. There could be casualties in the back of the pickup truck. They might be lost in the sandstorm, too.”

“Incompetent imbeciles! All those blue-helmets think if they have their precious little GPS receivers, they’ll be fine. This is what happens when you rely on them too much and they crap out on you.”

“All their lights are on, sir. They’re certainly not trying to sneak in.” A moment later he said, “The commander and one other man are dismounting, sir. Looks like United Nations troops to me. Can’t tell his nationality.”

“Bring the T-72 up. I want the gun right in their nose,” the commander ordered. “I want to teach those blue-helmets a lesson. They just can’t drive up to a border post in an armored vehicle. Somebody might think they’re terrorists and blow their shit away for them.”

“But, sir…”

“I know, I know. We don’t have any ammo for the main gun,” the commander said. “They don’t have to know that.” No one at headquarters expected a tank battle out here in the middle of nowhere, especially with Northern Alliance progovernment forces in charge again in Afghanistan, so rations of critical ammunition supplies such as rounds for the main tank guns were reserved only for the army units in the cities and Caspian Sea ports, not the border outposts. They were lucky to have any ammo at all. “Get to it, Sergeant. I want to see the commander of that detachment right away. I’ll chew on him for a few minutes while you find some bunk space and rations for them.” As angry as the commander was for being roused late at night, no Turkmen would ever consider being inhospitable to anyone traveling across the desert. Even a professional military officer in the twenty-first-century Turkmen army was only a couple generations removed from his nomadic roots. Every real Turkman knew the etiquette and rules of survival in the desert, and the prime rule was that any unarmed man riding into an oasis, even an artificial one such as this border outpost, was to be made welcome.

“Wakil, they’re moving a tank up to the gate!” Turabi radioed. “We’ve been discovered!”

“Relax, Jala,” Zarazi said. “I’m not worried about the tank just yet. I’m worried about the barracks. If we start to see troops running out of those tents, we may be in for a fight.”

Troops soon did start emerging from the tents, but only a half dozen or so. Zarazi could soon see that they were rushing toward one of the supply buildings and emerging moments later with their arms full of carpets. He realized with amused surprise that they were preparing to bunk down the newcomers. “Steady. I think they want to make us feel welcome.”

Several minutes later the gates opened and a soldier walked out and greeted Zarazi. He spoke in Turkmen first, which Zarazi understood, but he thought it best to pretend he did not. “Zdrastvooy,” he said in Russian, raising his right hand. The soldier smiled and made a short bow — Turkmenistan had been heavily Russified over the years of Soviet occupation, and only recently was Russian replaced by Turkmen as the national language. Zarazi quickly searched for the soldier’s rank, saw he was a major in the border guards, and went on, “I am Colonel Petrovich of the Republic of Ukraine, representing the United Nations High Commission on Refugees. Our column was ambushed by marauders outside of Andkhvoy, and we have several wounded. Can you help us?”

“Da. Ya paneemayoo,” the soldier replied. He removed a glove and extended a hand.

Zarazi shook it, then gave him a curt embrace and patted his shoulder.

“We picked up some transmissions of some sort of skirmish east of here, but we couldn’t make out what happened.” The soldier motioned to the Toyota pickup. “Were they Taliban?”

“Bzduns!” Zarazi said, turning to spit on the sand. “They hit us before we knew they were in the area. Luckily for us, we insisted on going on patrol armed. We suffered a few casualties before the cowards ran off.” Zarazi motioned to the detainment facility, where a number of the men inside had gotten up and moved toward the fence to get a look at what was going on. “Did you capture anyone in the past few hours?”

“Not since this morning,” the soldier said. “But you are welcome to look them over and interrogate them if you wish. Speak any Pashtun?”

“Nyet,” Zarazi lied. “But I have men who do.”

“The base commander wishes to meet with you. You are welcome. You’ll have to keep your vehicles outside the compound until we have our ordnance men look them over, but we can help you with your dead and wounded right away. Come.”

“Spaseeba bal’shoye. I am grateful,” Zarazi said. He turned toward the BTR and stepped out of earshot of the Turkmen officer — which wasn’t too far in this weather — and said into his radio in Pashtun, “Come on in as we planned. Don’t destroy the tank. Neutralize the guards around that detainment facility and see if there’s anyone inside from our tribe. Then get them ready to move.”

A few moments later Zarazi was brought before the base commander, an older man who seemed to be struggling to stay awake. His Russian was even better than his deputy’s. The pleasantries were short and strained. Then: “You are fortunate, sir, that my culture and my conscience prohibit me from turning you away in the desert. Don’t they teach you blue-helmets anything about approaching a border crossing in military vehicles? We could have destroyed you at any time.”

“Ezveeneetye,” Zarazi said. He did not remove his helmet or his sand goggles, a move that obviously irritated his host. “It’s been a long day, sir. It won’t happen again.”

The commander narrowed his eyes even further when Zarazi spoke. The Afghan terrorist knew that his time was running out quickly. He had made the mistake of telling the major he was a Ukrainian, but surely the Turkmen had heard from and dealt with plenty of Ukrainians in the past — and Zarazi definitely didn’t sound like one. The commander tried to erase the alarmed expression on his face and even managed to give Zarazi a slight smile and nod. “Well, in this weather, with what you went through, it was an honest mistake. You and your men are welcome.” He picked up the telephone. “I’ll make sure we have suitable quarters for—”

Zarazi drew his sidearm. “I’m sure your quarters will be more than suitable for me,” he said. “Put the phone down, turn around, and get your hands up on the wall—now.”

The old officer did not look surprised as he replaced the receiver on the cradle, then did as he was told.

“You stupid old man. Law of the desert or not, you never open your gates to an unidentified military force. Didn’t the Russians teach you anything?”

“The Russians taught me to hate the Mujahidin. I had no reason to do so, until now,” the old officer said bitterly.

As if to punctuate his statement, the sound of gunfire was heard outside. The old man turned toward the telephone on his desk, hoping he would get a report saying that his men had captured or executed some terrorists — but his shoulders slumped and the corners of his eyes drooped when the gunfire subsided and the phone did not ring.

“What is it you want? Weapons? Fuel? Food? We are in short supply of all these things.”

“Then the fewer men we have here on this base, the better,” Zarazi said calmly — and he put a bullet into the old officer’s forehead. Zarazi then stationed a Turkmen-speaking man inside the office to cover the phones and went outside with gun in hand to see how Turabi was progressing.

“It went smoother than I ever expected,” Turabi reported. “The border guards here are all conscripts, none more than twenty-five years old. We found one career officer and one career NCO and executed them. The conscripts practically kissed our boots in return. We shouldn’t have any trouble with them. They are refueling our vehicles now.”

“Very good.” Zarazi motioned to the detainment facilities. “What do we have there?”

“Women and children in there, men over here, existing just a little bit better than a herd of cattle,” Turabi said disgustedly. “Damned Turkmen — they think their country is so special. What do you want to do with them?”

“Release the women and children with enough rations to last them a couple days. By then they’ll either be discovered by relief troops or they’ll decide to walk to Andkhvoy.” Turabi nodded. “As for the men — if there’s anyone willing to join us, they may.”

“They’ll all want to join us, Wakil. Either that or starve.”

“Then weed out any who are from hostile tribes, foreigners, unbelievers, or anyone who doesn’t wish to join us, and execute them,” Zarazi said. “Keep one or two of the older men here to supervise the rescue of the women and children. Make sure they all understand that if they tell anyone what happened here, I will return and execute them and their entire families. Put the others to work burying our dead and collecting weapons, ammunition, food, and water. The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

“Where are we headed”—Turabi paused, then added with a smile—“Colonel?”

“ ‘Colonel’ will be fine — Major,” Zarazi said with a smile. “North, to Kerki.”

“We’re going to stay in Turkmenistan? Why not head east back toward home?”

“Because the Northern Alliance, the United Nations, and the Americans will pursue us and hound us until we are destroyed,” Zarazi said. “The Turkmen garrison at Kerki will have more ammunition, weapons, and supplies, and we’ll be safe from our pursuers.”

“What about the Turkmen army? They’ll pursue us even more relentlessly than the Americans.”

“If the state of this border guard detachment is any indication of the state of the Turkmen army, I’m not concerned,” Zarazi said. “The Turkmen government is weak and corrupt. Taking what we want shouldn’t be too difficult for us. Even if we had to assault this border post, we would have had no trouble.”

Zarazi stared out into the darkness to the north and fell silent for several long moments. Turabi thought his superior officer was entering some kind of trance. Just before he was about to ask if anything was wrong, Zarazi went on, “And I have been chosen by God to be His instrument of revenge against the nonbelievers,” he said. “God saved me from the American robot planes. He wants something of me, Jala, I know it. Something great. Something important. I will not stop fighting until I have accomplished it.”