Battle Born

CHAPTER ONE

I hoped we’d never be facing this question again in my lifetime,” the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee said, his voice serious. “But here it is. Looks like the devil’s goin’ to the prom, and we’re praying he don’t ask us to dance.”

The main part of the morning’s classified, closed hearing had already concluded; the scientists and comptrollers had packed up their charts and spreadsheets, leaving only the subcommittee members, several general officers, and a few aides. This was the open debate portion of the session, a “chat session” where everything was fair game and the uniformed officers had a last chance to persuade. It was usually more casual and more freewheeling than formal subcommittee testimony, and it gave all involved a chance to vent their frustrations and opinions.

“I’d say, Senator,” Air Force General Victor G. Hayes, the chief of staff of the Air Force, responded, “that we’ve got no choice but to dance with that devil. The question is, can we keep him from only tipping over the punch bowl, or is he going to burn down the whole school gymnasium if we don’t do something?”

“You characterize the attacks on Taiwan and Guam as just a tipped-over punch bowl, General?” a committee member asked.

General Hayes shook his head and wiped the smile from his face. He knew better than to try to get too chummy or casual with these committee members, no matter how plain-talking and down-home they sometimes sounded.

This was the first time Victor “Jester” Hayes had testified before any committee in Congress. Although the Pentagon gave “charm school” classes and seminars to high-ranking officers on how to handle reporters, dignitaries, and civilians in a variety of circumstances, including giving testimony before Congress, it was simply impossible to fully prepare for ordeals like this. He did not feel comfortable here, and he was afraid it showed. Big-time.

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Navy Admiral George Balboa, was seated beside Hayes. The other members of the Joint Chiefs — General William Marshall, Army chief of staff; Admiral Wayne Connor, chief of Naval Operations; and General Peter Traherne, commandant of the Marine Corps, along with senior deputies and aides — were also seated at the table facing the subcommittee. Out of the corner of his eye, Hayes could see the barely disguised amusement on some of their faces. Balboa in particular seemed to be enjoying the sight of Hayes roasting a little in front of a congressional subcommittee.

Screw ’em all, Hayes told himself resolutely. I’m a fighter pilot. I’m an aerial assassin. These congressmen may be high-ranking elected government officials, but they wouldn’t understand a good fight if it kicked them in the ass. Be yourself. Show ’em what you got. As far as Balboa was concerned — well, he was a weasel, and everyone knew it. He was virtually powerless, allowed to keep his position by the good graces of powerful opposition party members in Congress even though he publicly ambushed his Commander in Chief.

“Forgive me for trying to take some of the doomsday tone out of this discussion, Senator,” Hayes responded. “After two days of secret testimony on some of the new ‘black’ weapons programs we’ve included in the Air Force budget, I thought it might be time for a little break. But I assure you: this is a very serious matter. The future of the United States Air Force, and indeed the fate of our military forces and the nation itself, will be determined in the next several years by the decisions we make today.

“I characterize the ballistic missile attacks on Taiwan and Guam by the People’s Republic of China as a repudiation of thirty years of arms reduction efforts and a warning to the United States armed forces that we must develop a multilayered antimissile defense system immediately. We bargained away our antimissile capabilities in the 1970s, believing that nonproliferation would lead to peace. Now, in the face of renewed aggression, rearmament, terrorism, and the spread of small-scale and black-market weapons of mass destruction, I feel we have no choice but to rebuild our defensive forces. The days of believing that our conventional precision war-fighting capability obviated and obsoleted decades of nuclear warfare strategy and technology are history.”

“Apparently so,” one committee member said ruefully. “I for one am mystified and angry about this waste of time, money, and resources. We’ve spent hundreds of billions of dollars on these new ‘smart’ weapons, and now you’re saying they won’t protect us?”

“I’m saying that the rules are changing, Senator,” General Hayes said earnestly, “and we must change with them.

“We gave away our defensive capability because we kept a large, strong offensive force, including nuclear deterrent forces. We then dismantled those deterrent forces when the threat from other superpowers diminished. Now the threat is back, but we have neither defensive nor deterrent forces in place. That leaves us vulnerable to criticism at best and attack at worst. The China incident is a perfect example.”

“That’s all fine and good, General, but these budget numbers are staggering, and the path you want to embark on here reminds me of the nuclear nightmare times of Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Reagan,” the senator went on, motioning to his staff report. “You’re asking for billions more on some truly horrifying programs, like antiballistic missile lasers, space-based lasers, and these so-called plasma-yield weapons. What’s going on, General? Is the Air Force so desperate for a mission right now that you’ll even go back to ‘mutually assured destruction’ doctrines of the Cold War?”

“Members of the committee, I asked Secretary of Defense Chastain and Secretary of the Air Force Mortonson to give the Air Force a budget for the deployment of a new class of weapons not to shock or galvanize the Congress, but because I truly believe the time has long passed for us to be thinking about this kind of war fighting,” General Hayes went on. “China’s recent nuclear attacks on Taiwan; its suspected nuclear sabotage of the aircraft carrier USS Independence in Yokosuka Harbor; and its shocking, unprovoked, and horrific ballistic missile nuclear attack on the island of Guam, which all but wiped Anderson Air Force Base off the map three years ago, all are a warning to the United States.”

“It’s a warning, all right,” another senator offered. “But it seems more a warning to avoid stepping up to the edge of that slippery slope. Do we want to start another nuclear arms race?”

It seemed as if most folks in America had all but forgotten what had happened only three years ago, Hayes thought grimly. In 1997, just before their “Reunification Day” celebrations, the People’s Republic of China launched a small-scale nuclear assault on Taiwan, which had just declared full independence and sovereignty from the mainland. Several Taiwanese military bases were decimated; over fifty thousand persons lost their lives. At the same time, a nuclear explosion in Yokosuka Harbor outside Tokyo destroyed several American warships, including the soon-to-be-retired aircraft carrier USS Independence. China was accused of that unconscionable act, but the actual culprit was never positively identified. When the United States tried to halt the PRC’s attacks against Taiwan, China retaliated by launching a nuclear ballistic missile attack on the island of Guam, shutting down two important American military bases in the Pacific.

The reverberations of that fateful summer of 1997 were still being felt. Japan had closed down all U.S. military bases on their soil and had only recently begun allowing some limited access to U.S. warships — provisioning and humanitarian shore leave only, with ships at anchor in the harbor, not in port, and no weapons transfers in their territorial waters. South Korea was permitting only routine provisioning and shore leave — they were allowing no weapons transfers within five miles of shore and prohibited staging military operations from their ports. It was the same for most ports of call in the western Pacific. American naval presence in the Pacific was almost nil.

And America’s response to China’s attacks was… silence. Except for one massive joint Air Force/Navy defensive air armada around Taiwan that all but destroyed China’s Air Force, and an isolated but highly effective series of air raids inside China — largely attributed to American stealth bombers, aided by Taiwanese fighters — the Americans had not retaliated. It was world condemnation alone that eventually forced China to abandon its plan to force Taiwan back into its sphere of influence.

“I’m concerned about the path Russia, Japan, and North Korea are taking in the wake of the economic collapse in Asia and the conflict in the Balkans,” Hayes went on. “Russia appears to be back in the hands of hard-liners and neo-Communists. Food riots in North Korea have led to the slaughter of thousands of civilians by military forces foraging for food. Japan has isolated us out of the Pacific and is proceeding with plans to remilitarize, all in an apparent attempt to shore up confidence in its government. I don’t believe the United States sparked this return to the specter of the Cold War, but we must be prepared to deal with it.”

“We are all shocked and horrified about all those events as well, General,” the senator pointed out, “and we agree with the President that we must be better prepared for radical changes in the political climate. But this… this buildup of such powerful weapons that you’re asking for seems to be an overreaction. What you are proposing goes far beyond what any of us see as a measured response to world events.”

General Hayes swallowed hard. This was turning into a much harder sell than he had expected. While the world slowly went back to an uneasy, suspicious peace, President Kevin Martindale was roundly criticized for his inaction. Although China was stopped and an all-out nuclear conflict was averted, many Americans wanted someone to pay a bigger price for the hundreds of thousands who had died on Taiwan, Guam, and onboard the four Navy warships destroyed in Yokosuka Harbor. The hawkish President was slammed in the press for abandoning the capital onboard Air Force One during the attacks on Taiwan, while failing to use most of the military power he had spent his entire career in Washington trying to build up.

No one could say precisely what Martindale should have done, but everyone was convinced he should have done something more.

“Then what is a ‘measured response’ to those attacks, Senator?” General Hayes asked. “The People’s Republic of China devastated Taiwan and Guam with nuclear weapons, taking hundreds of thousands of lives. Our response was to secretly attack their last remaining ICBM silos. Although we caused a lot of damage and prevented China from launching any more attacks against the United States, that country still retains a tremendous nuclear force and is still a threat. Our best conventional weapons didn’t work.”

Army Chief of Staff Marshall spoke up to reinforce Hayes’s point. “My concern,” he said, “rests with other rogue nations that may want to use nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons against us. Intelligence reports say China has delivered nuclear warheads to North Korea via Pakistan in exchange for its missile technology. Combine that with North Korea’s new long-range missiles and nuclear-capable aircraft delivery systems, and it could have a first-strike nuclear force in place in a few years, perhaps sooner. Iran, Iraq, Syria, and even Japan could be next.”

“The question is, Senators, what does the United States do if another attack from one of these rogue nations occurs?” General Hayes asked. “Obviously, our conventional weapons superiority failed to deter China — it certainly won’t deter any smaller nation. Do we use strategic nuclear forces? No American president would dare consider using a city-busting bomb unless the very existence of the United States itself was in jeopardy.

“Does this mean we do nothing, as the world thinks we did against China? That would be the safest move. But we look indecisive and weak, and I think that perception makes us appear ineffectual to our allies and ripe for more attacks by our enemies. South Korea and Japan think we abandoned them, and both are clamoring to renegotiate defense treaties to allow them to build up their military forces once again. As you know, Japan doesn’t allow any more U.S. warships to home-port or even dock there. And they’ve concluded a multibillion-dollar defense deal with Russia for MiG-29 fighters because they’re afraid of not being able to buy American jets.

“To the Air Force,” Hayes went on, “the answer is costly and politically hazardous, but absolutely clear. We must put a multilayered aircraft, satellite, and ballistic missile defense system in place immediately and rebuild our rapid-response intercontinental heavy-strike forces. The cornerstone of the five-year plan we are requesting is early deployment of the airborne laser and additional funding for the space-based laser defense system.”

“Well, let’s get into the specific programs and their status right now, gentlemen,” the subcommittee chairman said. The subcommittee members leaned forward in their seats; this was where the sparks would begin to fly. “I’d like to begin with the Navy. Admiral Connor, start us off, please.”

“Thank you, sir,” Connor said. “The Navy has vastly improved its air defense and ABM technology over the years and is now ready, with congressional support, to field the world’s most advanced, most mobile, and most flexible antiballistic missile defense systems. The Aegis Tier One system is in service now and has demonstrated a credible ABM capability, but Aegis Tier Two, using components available right now, will increase its lethality tenfold. Aegis Tier Three will be the ultimate ship-launched air defense system, capable of defending the fleet and large sections of allied territory. We’re on track and on budget to deliver both systems.”

“General Hayes?”

“The Air Force is continuing development and acquisition research on the airborne laser, the nation’s only air defense system designed to kill ballistic missiles in the boost phase rather than in midcourse or reentry phases of flight,” Hayes said. “Mounted on a 747 air-frame, ABL can rapidly respond to a crisis, can set up anywhere on the globe in less than twenty-four hours, and can give theater commanders an effective multishot missile kill capability.”

“When can the ABL system be ready, General?” one senator asked.

“With continued funding support, ABL will reach initial operating capability with three planes by the year 2005 and full operating capability by 2007.”

Hayes could see many of the senators shaking their heads — that was far longer than they recalled when the program was first introduced. “But Patriot and Aegis Tier One are ready now, is that correct?” one senator asked. “When can Aegis Tier Two be ready?”

“In two years, sir,” Admiral Balboa replied proudly. “Modifications to the existing Standard missile, improvements on the Aegis radar system — all of which benefit fleet defense as well as improve ABM capability.”

“Very good,” the chairman said. “General Marshall?”

“The lead agency in antiballistic missile weapons technology has always been and will continue to be the U.S. Army,” General Marshall began. “Our PAC-3 version of the Patriot missile is the only battle-proven antimissile system deployed right now. Our improved Patriot system, the Theater High Altitude Air Defense, or THAAD, system, is progressing and should be ready for initial operating capability in three years, providing we receive full requested-funding approval.”

“But as I understand it,” one senator said, “the performance of the weapon depends right now on the use of this so-called baby nuke. Is that a fair assessment, General Marshall?”

“No. That term is incorrect. The plasma-yield warhead is not a thermonuclear device, Senator,” Marshall said. “It is a new technology high-explosive device that will increase the capability and effectiveness of all classes of theater or strategic antimissile defense…”

“Excuse me, General, but that sounds like doublespeak for a nuclear bomb to me,” the senator interjected. “Would you mind explaining what these things do and omit the soft-soaping?”

“What plasma-yield weapons are, Senator,” Marshall answered, “are the next generation of high-explosive weapons, designed to be small, lightweight, but very destructive warheads for antiballistic missiles, antiaircraft missiles, and cruise missiles. They are not ‘baby nukes,’ and I’m concerned that this characterization will deprive our arsenal of a very promising futuristic weapon. Although I’m not a physicist or engineer, I know enough about the process and the application of the device to explain it for the committee:

“Simply put, plasma is ionized gas — a cloud of charged particles, usually consisting of atoms that have had electrons stripped from them so their charge is unbalanced or dynamic. It is the most abundant form of matter in the universe — the physicists tell me that ninety-nine percent of all known matter is plasma. Because the gas is composed of charged particles called ions and not atoms or molecules as air and water are, plasma has unique properties. We don’t really know how to contain it, but we do know a lot about shaping it — in essence, plasma can be programmed. We can control its size, shape, mass, and what materials it interacts with.

“Plasma-yield weapons give us added flexibility by giving smaller weapons and delivery systems more punch, until we can improve our missiles’ accuracy enough to allow smaller conventional warheads,” Marshall explained. “The weapons use a small fission reaction, not to generate a thermonuclear yield, but to generate radiation…”

“A fission reaction — as in a nuclear explosion?” one senator asked, his tone incredulous.

“A rapid but controlled fission reaction more like a nuclear power plant, generating heat rather than an explosion,” Marshall responded. “We bring nuclear material together to start a fission reaction, but our goal is not to create the chain reaction that leads to an explosion. We’re only looking for the intense radioactivity to develop for a very short moment — milliseconds in fact — and then the reaction stops. The radioactivity is concentrated along a magnetic field and hits a pea-sized pellet of nuclear fuel. This forces ions — positively and negatively charged particles — to be stripped from atoms, producing a bubble of energy called plasma. Because there is no explosion per se, we can precisely control the diameter of the bubble, making it as small as a few hundred feet or as large as a city block.

“There are two noteworthy properties of a plasma-yield effect,” Marshall went on. “First, there is no large-scale release of radiation because the fission reaction is terminated gigaseconds after it starts. There is no nuclear chain reaction that produces the large explosion and release of nuclear particles and creates tremendous heat. The yield of this weapon is many times smaller than a thermonuclear detonation, and the levels of released radiation are far smaller than even the proportional size of the yield.

“The second property of this effect is that the plasma reaction cannot take place outside the field, or bubble, created by the explosion,” General Marshall went on. “This is called the Debye effect. The plasma field basically consumes itself as it is created; it dies at the same time as it is born. The size of the field can be precisely determined, which is why plasma is used in such commercial operations as making microchips and drawing images in a plasma TV set. Outside the plasma field, there is no overpressure and very little heat or radiation. There is no shock wave as the plasma field is formed. The field grows to whatever size it’s programmed to grow to, then stops. The weapon doesn’t even make that much noise when it goes off.”

“It doesn’t make noise?” one senator asked, sounding startled.

“Some, but not as much as you’d expect for a small nuclear device,” Marshall responded. “You see, the weapon doesn’t explode as we all commonly think of explosions. It doesn’t transform matter into energy and expanding gases, and it doesn’t compress the air around itself. It simply changes matter — solid, liquid, or gas — to plasma, which is just another form of matter. As you know, there’s no sound when ice turns to liquid or when liquid turns to gas.”

“But there’s got to be heat, light, flame, radiation, all that stuff,” one senator pointed out. “Isn’t that a pretty violent reaction? We’re concerned about what the international community and the American people will think about our military forces using these weapons on missiles and bombs. How do we explain it, General?”

“We do tend to think of something changing properties as a violent process, Senator,” Marshall explained, recognizing he was having difficulty getting his point across, “but in reality it’s not. When a pond freezes over, it’s not a violent thing. In physics, it’s merely a transfer of energy — the molecules of water release energy in lower temperatures and don’t bump around as much, forming a solid. Liquids boil when they turn to gas, but that’s not a violent thing either — it’s an atmospheric thing, the gases in the liquid flowing to a region of lower pressure when the absorption of energy separates water molecules. It’s the same with a plasma field. Matter is transformed to another form of matter by absorbing energy.”

“You make it sound so damned peaceful, so natural, like a flower blooming or a sunrise,” a senator said acidly. “We’re talking about a killer weapon here, General. Let’s not forget that.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “So what happens to the matter, the solids… oh, hell, you know, the buildings, the people, who get hit by this thing? What happens? Where do they… well, go?”

“They become plasma — that’s the simple answer,” Marshall responded. “The plasma field takes matter, absorbs energy, and converts it to ionized gas. The target is… well, the target’s just not there anymore, at least not in a form that our senses can detect.”

“You mean… vaporized,” said one of the senators.

For a moment, Marshall’s face was impassive. Then he nodded, looked the senator straight in the eye, and said, “Yes, sir. Vaporized. The target becomes a cloud of ionized gas, equal in mass to its original mass, but simply a collection of charged particles.”

The committee sat in stunned, horrified silence. The members did not even look at each other — they simply stared at Marshall and the other service chiefs in utter disbelief. Finally, the committee chairman said, “This is incredible, General, absolutely incredible. And you are proposing that we actually deploy this weapon? You are asking this committee to write an amendment to the new budget to allow the military services to put this… this plasma-yield weapon on a missile? It sounds incredibly dangerous.”

“One property that I didn’t mention, sir,” Marshall explained, “is that the plasma-yield weapon is more effective at high altitudes, because atmospheric pressure dilutes the plasma field. This makes it a good warhead to use in applications such as air defense, antiballistic missiles, and antisatellite weapons, and not as good with land-or sea-attack weapons. That’s another reason the Army and Navy are using it in their ground-and sea-based antiballistic missile systems. Because we get a bigger bang, they can afford to use tracking and intercept systems that aren’t quite as precise — or expensive.”

“This is simply unbelievable,” the chairman said, clearly shaken by what he had heard. “A weapon that can kill thousands silently, yet small enough to be put in a suitcase.” As he looked at the others on the subcommittee, he shook his head. “I for one don’t want to start traveling down this road without more facts. I think we should table this discussion until we review more scientific facts about this technology.”

It was, General Hayes thought grimly, an urbane way of saying they didn’t want to think about it any more. Apparently, everyone on the subcommittee shared the sentiment, because there was no dissent, no further discussion. Hayes was shaken. It seemed as though the vote had been suddenly, silently taken, and it was unanimous. No funding for the plasma-yield technology weapon — which probably spelled the end of the Army’s THAAD program, and maybe the Navy’s Tier Two and Tier Three antiballistic missile programs as well.

Then, just as it appeared that the chairman was going to adjourn the hearing, a new voice spoke up. “Excuse me, Mr. Chairman. Permission to address the subcommittee?”

The Joint Chiefs turned toward Air Force Lieutenant General Terrill Samson, one of the aides supporting the Air Force chief of staff. The subcommittee chairman said, “The chair recognizes General Samson. Please be brief, sir.”

“Thank you,” Samson said. Terrill Samson, a large black man known as Earthmover to his friends, had risen through the ranks from high school dropout Air Force enlistee to three-star general and was the commanding general of the Air Force High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, or HAWC, a secret research and test facility hidden in the deserts of south-central Nevada in an area known as Dreamland. “My group has been working with the Army in testing plasma-yield technology used in THAAD. Senator, the Air Force has an interim concept for a ballistic missile defense system that improves on THAAD and provides a near-term technology solution until ABL comes online in the next five to ten years. We call it Lancelot. Part of our budget request was for an operational Lancelot flight test in the next several weeks.”

“Lancelot?” The subcommittee chairman flipped through an index, then turned to an aide, who scanned another set of files. “I don’t see anything in here about a Lancelot program, General Samson.”

“Lancelot was designed and built by one of our defense contractors, Sky Masters Inc., with help from my engineers at Elliott Air Force Base,” Samson said. “With all due respect, General Marshall, we saw how poorly the THAAD and Tier Two programs were progressing and worked to address the difficulties. We used off-the-shelf components and shaved funds from some of our other programs, including our fixed operating budget.”

“You mean, you just made up this weapon without any specific funding?” one senator asked. Samson nodded. “And now you’re ready to test it, but you’ve run out of money; and besides, you can’t fly it without approval from the Pentagon, right?”

“That’s it in a nutshell, sir,” Samson responded.

“Interesting,” the senator remarked. He looked at General Hayes, noted his barely disguised discomfort, and asked, “General Hayes, do you know anything about this Lancelot program?”

Hayes took a deep breath, let it out, then said in an even voice, “General Samson was handpicked by the President and the secretary of defense to run the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, our nation’s primary air weapons research center. In all honesty, sir, I did not know about Lancelot…”

“Neither did I,” Admiral Balboa interjected hotly. “I know Dreamland is supposed to be a top-secret installation, General, but not from me.”

“Quite frankly, sir,” Hayes went on, “if General Samson waited to give me a detailed briefing and get my approval for every one of the hundreds of programs he manages every month out at HAWC, he’d never get any work done. We pay him to get results, not waste time in Washington giving briefings.” He noted the irritated frowns on the subcommittee members’ faces, grinned inwardly, and quickly went on: “If General Samson says it’s good and it’s ready to fly, then I support him. I’m sure General Samson enjoys the enthusiastic support of the White House.”

Balboa had no response to that because he knew it to be true. After the successful counterstrikes against China staged by weapon systems developed at Dreamland, Samson was the new golden boy at the White House. He and his senior staff members were far more popular than Dreamland’s bombastic first director, Bradley James Elliott — who was missing and presumed killed in the attacks against China’s intercontinental ballistic missile sites — had ever been.

“Good,” the senator said, as if he expected no other response than that. “I’m sure GAO will have to look into the legality of General Samson raiding his budget for unapproved weapons research, but that’s a question for some other committee. If it fails, you’ll be the goat. If it works, you might be a hero.”

“It’ll work, sir,” Samson said enthusiastically. “My troops and I believe in Lancelot so much that we’ve put our careers on the line to prove it’ll work. If it doesn’t, I’m sure General Hayes will be looking for a new director at HAWC. But we believe that won’t happen, Senator. Lancelot will work. We can go into initial operational capability with one squadron, eight aircraft, within six months. Lancelot will give us a worldwide antiballistic missile, cruise missile, antiaircraft, and even antisatellite defense capability second to none until the airborne laser is deployed. We’re betting our careers on it.”

The members of the committee looked at each other, some with puzzled expressions. Then the subcommittee chairman said with a grin, “General Samson, General Hayes, I think that’s a sucker bet. You come back to us with a working, deployable antimissile system, and I for one will enthusiastically support it. Until then, it’s off the books and so not under our purview. Air Force will have to handle it from their existing budget — or scrap it. If there’s no other business?” He waited one breath, then said, “This session is in recess.” He rapped his gavel. A clerk immediately read a warning that the session was classified top secret and not to be discussed outside the committee chambers, and the meeting was over.

Joint Chiefs Chairman Balboa managed not to say a word until he and the other blue-suiters were out of range of any photographers or TV cameras that might be nearby. Then he exploded. “Goddammit, Samson,” he swore, “you’d better start talking, and it better be good. What is this Lancelot thing? Why wasn’t I notified of it?”

“It’s a parts-bin project put together by my new deputy commander, sir,” Samson explained. “He got some help from a military contractor buddy of his, Jon Masters.” Balboa nodded — everyone in the defense business had heard of Jon Masters. That lent some credibility to Samson’s case. “The thing works, sir. It’s better than THAAD and it’s ready right now, not five or ten years from now.”

Balboa smiled as he felt the anger slowly drain away. He shook his head and said, “You’ve just been on the job a couple years, Samson, and already you’re hanging it out. Shades of that bastard Brad Elliott.” Samson’s jaw tightened — Brad Elliott was a friend of his, and his mentor; Brad Elliott had sacrificed himself so guys like Balboa could look like leaders. “It must be the damned desert air, the isolation — it makes you HAWC commanders crazy, makes you do stupid things. Makes you put your asses and careers on the line.”

He turned to General Hayes and said, “You’re on your own, General. You want to blow your budget on this man’s wet dream and embarrass yourself and your uniform, go ahead. But I’m not recommending any additional funding for this Lancelot program. Any money you need comes out of Dreamland’s or ABL’s budget. General Samson, let me warn you for the last time: you bushwhack me like that again in front of a congressional committee, and I’ll can your ass on the spot. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Samson responded quickly and loudly. But Balboa was already in the car and on his way.

The two Air Force officers dropped their salutes as soon as Balboa’s car was out of sight. Hayes took a deep breath. “You know, Terrill,” he said, “the only guy I knew who even dared joust with Balboa and lived to tell the tale is dead. I think that’s the only way you’ll stay out of that guy’s bear trap.” He paused, then turned to the big three-star. “Well, what the hell is Lancelot?”

“I’d rather show you than tell you, sir,” Samson said. Hayes rolled his eyes in exasperation, about to protest, and Samson quickly added, “We need an extra pilot to fly a chase plane — perhaps you’d care to accompany me on a Lancelot test launch. I guarantee, sir, you won’t be disappointed.”

“Earthmover, be careful playing games — just when you think you’re having fun, the real world has a tendency to jump up and bite you in the ass.” Then Hayes shrugged. “What the hell — we’re already chin-deep in the shit. We might as well show ’em something. Put it together. I’ll get you your funding for one test, and I’ll come out and watch this Lancelot thing in action. I need the flying time anyway. But it better work, my friend, or you’ll be on the street so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

The presentation had just concluded; the full report was before each member of the Republic of Korea’s National Security Council, the government’s senior national defense policy-making board. Each member sat in stunned disbelief at what he had just heard.

“It is apparent that the crisis in the North has grown to dangerous, even epidemic levels, my friends,” Kwon Ki-chae, the president of South Korea, said in a low monotone. “Now is the time for decisive action.”

President Kwon had been elected to the presidency by the Election College less than a year ago, after the resignation of the elderly President Kim Yong-sam following a no-confidence vote in the National Assembly. Short and thin, younger than any of the others on the council by many years, educated in the United States, Kwon was a fixture in South Korean politics — but not because of his wisdom and insight into national and international politics. Kwon’s power base came from South Korea’s dominant private industries, which had groomed him from the start for the mantle of power he now possessed. He represented himself not as “the new South Korea,” but as “the new Korea.”

Kwon, the leader of the ultraconservative People’s Democratic Party and a longtime National Assembly member, had won an uneasy coalition of support for his ideas on reuniting the Korean peninsula and for his get-tough policies regarding relations with North Korea. The thirty members of his State Council, including the members of the National Security Council, shared these premises. But until recently, there was little any-one in the South Korean government, even the powerful among them, could do to change the slow, dangerous course of the political, social, and military standoff between the two Koreas.

Now Kwon saw his chance. These men were scared to death and looking for guidance.

“Nuclear bombs, gentlemen,” Kwon began, resting his hands on the council table and staring each of his colleagues in the eye. “No longer a supposition, no longer an intelligence estimate, but reality. Not only does the North possess nuclear weapons technology, but they have nuclear gravity bombs and the means to deliver them. This is the most significant and dangerous situation on the Korean peninsula since the Japanese invasion.”

“Surely you exaggerate, Mr. President,” Park Hyoun, leader of the United People’s Party for Political Reform, said. The UPPPR was a small but rapidly growing opposition party; it had doubled its number of seats in the National Assembly in just two years. Although not yet a threat to Kwon’s ruling party, Representative Park had been invited to sit in on this National Security Council meeting, along with the leaders of the other major Assembly parties, as a show of solidarity and of full disclosure. “Look at your intelligence reports. The North Korean pilot was starving to death; his aircraft was easily spotted and intercepted; and he had no fuel to complete his mission, let alone return, even if he had somehow avoided our air defenses.”

“All valid points, Mr. Park,” President Kwon acknowledged. “Perhaps it was nothing more than the desperate attempt of a starving madman for glory or suicide at someone else’s hands. But I don’t think that’s all it was. I think we were fortunate — this time. The next attack could be a single Nodong rocket launch, or a dozen, or a hundred, all with nuclear warheads. We might be able to intercept a fraction of them with our borrowed American Patriot antiaircraft missile batteries, but even one nuclear warhead allowed to hit the capital would kill hundreds of thousands of our citizens.”

“But what do you propose, Mr. President?” another party leader asked. “Peace talks have broken off again. The United States is delaying its next shipment of fuel oil and surplus wheat until the North resumes peace talks and agrees to inspection of the Yongbyon facility under construction…”

“Which are two conditions not a part of the original 1994 Agreement Structure,” Kwon reminded them irritably. The Agreement Structure, a negotiated deal between the United States, the two Koreas, Japan, and other world powers, gave North Korea a trillion dollars of aid over ten years. In exchange, North Korea was to dismantle all of its old Soviet-style breeder nuclear reactors, the ones capable of producing weapons-grade nuclear material. The agreement had been plagued with problems almost from the start. “With all due respect to our powerful American allies, they are hampering peace by imposing these conditions on the North without consultation or negotiations. I feel these conditions were added purely for American political reasons. It was an unfortunate choice by our American allies.

“But now we have seen the error of our past policies of appeasement and delay,” Kwon went on. “We have sent billions of yuan of cash, food, oil, and humanitarian supplies to the North, we allow increased family visits, we look the other way when their spies and minisubs wash up on our shores. And what do they do? They build two-thousand-kilometer-range ballistic missiles to sell overseas and to threaten us and our neighbors, and they have the audacity to test one of their rockets by firing it over our heads! Now we discover they have nuclear weapons, and their starving soldiers are so desperate that they will actually use them. The North is coming apart, and they threaten to tear our own country apart if something is not done immediately.

“The already tense political and financial situation in the North has obviously seeped into the military ranks, and that is a danger that far surpasses the former East and West Germany situation. Then East Germany was sufficiently encumbered by the Soviet Union that a unilateral military action was almost impossible. But North Korea has no such constraints. No one holds the North’s leash. China and Russia have both disavowed any responsibility for the child they have spawned. Now their child has grown into an angry, starving, vindictive, and pathological monster. This monster must be stopped.”

The members of the Security Council were silent. They knew President Kwon was right. They knew what must be done — but no one dared speak it or even think it. They left it up to Kwon to say the words and initiate the actions that could change their destiny.

“It is time to put our plan into motion, my friends,” Kwon said. “Our military forces will be at their greatest stage of readiness prior to and during the Team Spirit exercises. In addition, we will have Japanese and American air and naval forces in our waters as well. That will be the perfect time.”

“But will the North be ready?” the defense minister asked.

“I believe they are ready now,” Kwon said. “But the burden will not only be on those in the North to act — it will be up to us to respond as well. When the time comes, we must be prepared.”

“What about Pak?” another council member asked. “Will Pak Chung-chu stand with you when the time comes?”

“Let us find out right now, shall we?” Kwon picked up a telephone and ordered the operator to dial a secure number in Pyongyang, North Korea.

I’ll tell you right now, Earthmover,” said Air Force General Victor Hayes, “I hate surprises. I mean, I really hate surprises. And I’m really hating this already.” Then he did an almost perfect aileron roll.

It had been years since Hayes, the Air Force’s senior uniformed officer, had been at the controls of any tactical jet. He had reluctantly left his last tactical command, the legendary First Fighter Wing, Langley Air Force Base, Virginia, over ten years ago. His aviation incentive pay had been decreasing for the past five years, and now, with two kids in college, he could barely pay his phone bills on time. Yet even though he had been flying a desk for so long, he was still a fighter pilot through and through. Short in stature, astronautlike in build, with broad shoulders tapering down to slender ankles, his piercing blue eyes forever seemed to be scanning the sky for any sign of “bandits.”

He definitely had the feeling he was looking at a bandit right now.

“Don’t send the kids to the showers before you’ve seen them play, sir,” Terrill Samson responded, his deep, booming voice amplified over the intercom system. The two men were sitting side by side in the cockpit of an F-111 fighter-bomber, used by the Air Force as a photo “chase plane” on flight tests. They were flying a few hundred yards off the right wing of a black B-1B Lancer bomber, at an altitude of only two thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean off the southern California coast. Victor Hayes found it hard to believe Samson had managed to squeeze himself inside the F-111’s rather small cockpit, but now that they were both strapped in, he was clearly right at home there.

“I usually don’t go on a flight test without knowing more about what I’m getting into,” Hayes said. In truth, he was enjoying the hell out of this flight — he got to fly so seldom these days. “You mind filling me in?”

“I was just going to get to that, sir,” Samson said. His formation flying skills were excellent, Hayes had noted — he had chosen to hand-fly the big supersonic bomber the entire flight so far, and they might as well have been welded to the B-1’s right wingtip. Very impressive — even with over ten thousand hours of flying time in over a dozen different military warplanes, Hayes doubted that he could fly as well, especially given all the years since he’d been operational in any tactical unit. “We’ve got about five minutes to go.

“As you know, sir,” Samson went on, “my group at Dreamland helped test the Army’s THAAD system. In fact, we launched some targets from that same B-1…”

“I know,” Hayes said. “Looks like THAAD is turning into a money pit. You find a way to fix it?”

“Not exactly,” Samson said. “THAAD’s supposed to be an improved Patriot system — to destroy ballistic missiles in the upper atmosphere, or in near-space, at least twice as high as Patriot. It’s supposed to keep the warhead and critical pieces of the missile away from defended territory while staying as far away from the forward edge of the battle area as possible. But as you know from the Senate hearing, the technology to place a small antimissile missile close enough to a high-altitude, fast-moving target still isn’t fully matured — it’s literally a ‘bullet hitting a bullet’ from hundreds of miles apart. The problem is hitting a target in the midcourse or reentry phase of flight. THAAD can’t do it except with the plasma-yield warhead, which increases the cost of the system tremendously. Well, I had my guys start trying some things…”

Beneath his oxygen mask and sun visor, Hayes winced. HAWC’s first commander, Lieutenant General Bradley James Elliott, was famous throughout the Pentagon for “trying some things,” mostly with exotic aircraft and weapons being secretly developed at Dreamland. Elliott had this knack for taking a weapons development program and turning it into a military marvel — or monstrosity. The truth was, his inventions were often successfully — and secretly — used in real emergencies all around the world to try to avert conflicts before they escalated into major shooting wars.

The problem was, Elliott sometimes sent his monstrosities off to war without letting certain key folks know about it — like anyone in the Pentagon, Congress, or even the White House. A conflict would be brewing somewhere in the world — China, Ukraine, Russia, the Baltics, the Philippines — and almost before anyone could react, Elliott’s “creations” were on their way. He had been slapped down many times, even forced into retirement, yet he kept on coming back. As Hayes saw it, the curse of Brad Elliott now seemed to have fallen on Terrill Samson, former commander of Eighth Air Force, the command in charge of the Air Force’s dwindling fleet of heavy bombers. There was no doubt that Samson was a protégé of Brad Elliott, especially in the development and deployment of the heavy bomber — and it certainly looked as though he was pulling some of the same tricks.

“So you built Lancelot — illegally, I might add,” Hayes said. “You built it with money and equipment you didn’t have, and now your ass is in a sling. I realize the fate of HAWC is tied up in this test, but what makes you think that Lancelot is going to be better than THAAD? You’re using the same technology.”

“Yes, it’s the same technology, because no one has the money to build new stuff,” Samson said. “But we attacked the problem from a different angle. We solved one major, fundamental problem with THAAD. My guys thought, ‘If THAAD is too far away from the bad guys to intercept a target in the boost phase, why don’t we bring THAAD closer?’”

“Closer to what?”

“Closer to the bad guys,” Samson said. “The problem with THAAD is that it still relies on hitting a missile in the midcourse or reentry phase, when it’s maneuvering, it’s small, it’s fast, it’s probably over friendly territory, and it’s high. Those are the two worst phases of flight if you want to do an intercept. The best time is during the boost phase — it’s flying slowly, it doesn’t try any evasive maneuvers, its propellants and airframe are under intense chemical and aerodynamic pressure, it has that big rocket plume behind it, it’s still over enemy territory, and the warhead hasn’t armed. But of course, getting an antiballistic missile close enough to the missile to destroy it during the boost phase was the problem — a big one.

“The aircraft-based ABL and space-based Skybolt laser systems were designed to kill missiles in all phases of flight, including boost phase, but they’re still a few years from full deployment. So we’ve combined THAAD with ABL. We’re going to launch an antiballistic missile weapon from a penetrating bomber.”

“What?” Hayes exclaimed. “No shit!”

“Fireman flight, this is Neptune, two minutes,” the warning message said.

“Fireman flight, roger, two minutes, check,” the pilot of the B-1 responded.

“Two,” Samson responded on the command frequency.

“Fireman flight, take spacing.”

Again, the B-1 pilot acknowledged and Samson responded with “Two.” Then he said to Hayes, “I’ve got the airplane,” and took the F-111’s control stick, giving it a shake to verify that he had control, then maneuvered the plane a few hundred yards away. “The launch is coming up. The Navy is going to launch one of several short-range Pershing test ballistic missiles from launch barges on and around San Clemente Island. We don’t know which one.”

Hayes motioned to the large multicolor display on his side of the cockpit. “So explain what I’m looking at,” he said. “This is a great-looking display — pretty sharp. Where’s it coming from? An observation plane?”

“We’re looking at what the B-1’s sensors are looking at,” Samson explained. “We would ordinarily know through intelligence reports where the enemy’s ballistic missiles are set up. If we don’t, our system can integrate sensor information from many different sources through the Joint Tactical Information Distribution System — we can hook into AWACS or Joint STARS radar planes, satellites, other strike aircraft, or naval or ground forces. But for today’s demonstration, we’ll operate independently, using only sensors mounted on the B-1 itself.

“This is the first bomber to use LADAR — laser radar,” Samson continued. “You’re looking at a LADAR image. The smaller wavelengths mean a more high-resolution image. In addition, the LADAR emitters are so small, much smaller than a big radar dish, they can be mounted almost anywhere on the plane. That B-1 can look in all directions because it has LADAR emitters on the belly, on the fuselage, even in the tail.”

“But you told the Senate committee you’d only used off-the-shelf components for Lancelot. If this is the first bomber to use LADAR, how can it be off-the-shelf?”

“LADAR has been in use in active-homing missiles and in artillery ranging and counterfire systems for years,” Samson replied. “We just stuck it on a Bone, that’s all. It has relatively low range for the amount of power it uses, but for attacking ballistic missiles, it’s perfect.”

“And the missile itself is off-the-shelf too?”

“Yep,” Samson replied proudly. “We revived the old second-generation short-range attack missile and gave it the combined infrared and active radar terminal guidance system from the AIM-120 Scorpion air-to-air missile. We then put a fifty-pound high-explosive fragmentation warhead on it. That’s Lancelot. We actually resurrected a project that Brad Elliott started eight years ago, after the SRAMs were taken off strategic alert.”

The B-1 started a turn away from the launch area; a minute later it was heading the opposite direction from San Clemente Island. “All units, stand by,” said the voice of the Navy range master.

A few moments later a warning tone sounded in their headphones. “Missile launch detection,” Samson said. “The launch pad is on a barge out on the ocean. We’re seventy-eight miles from the launch pad…”

“But SRAM-II had a range of… what? A hundred miles max? Aren’t we a little far away?”

“Lifting our missile up to altitude with a carrier aircraft acts like an extra rocket motor, so we’ve effectively doubled the missile’s range,” Samson said. “Plus, by putting the uplink sensors aloft and closer to the target, we can provide our missile with more precise steering signals.”

“Stand by,” they heard the B-1’s bombardier call. “Safe in range… missile counting down… doors coming open…” A warning tone sounded on the radio channel. As they watched, the B-1’s forward bomb bay doors opened. “… release pulse, missile away, missile away.” The Lancelot missile dropped free, fell for a few seconds, and then ignited its first-stage solid-rocket motor.

Hayes caught a glimpse of it as it fell. It was less than twenty feet long, with a triangular-shaped fuselage no more than eighteen inches in diameter at its widest point. It had no fins — Hayes remembered that SRAM-II used thruster jets for directional control. The missile streaked ahead, then began a sharp climb and arced backward on an “over-the-shoulder” trajectory. A few seconds later they heard a high-pitched crrack-boom as the missile broke the sound barrier, then another boom as the larger, more powerful second-stage motor ignited.

“Good launch!” Hayes said excitedly. “Go, baby, go!”

It was too high to see clearly, but seconds later they saw a flash of yellow-orange fire and a large puff of smoke. Range control gave them the good news moments later: “Target intercepted, T plus fifteen point seven seconds, altitude seventy-three thousand feet, twenty-nine point one miles downrange, velocity twenty-five hundred feet per second. Intercept circular error thirty-seven point four feet. Repeat, target intercepted. All participants, remain clear of Romeo-1402 for the next ten minutes to stay clear of falling debris.”

“Thirty-seven feet! Incredible!” Hayes crowed. “With a fifty-pound warhead, that’s overkill!”

“Fireman flight, range gives you clearance for secondary release,” the launch controller radioed.

“Fireman flight copies range clearance, check,” the pilot aboard the B-1 responded.

“Two,” Samson responded in turn.

“Okay, Earthmover, what’s happening now?” Hayes asked.

“The next part of Coronet Tiger one-plus,” Samson explained. “You see, we’re not satisfied with destroying the ballistic missile — we want to destroy the launch site and all the associated launch command facilities. Remember, we’re over enemy territory, and we don’t see any reason to be over enemy territory killing rockets if we can’t do some more mayhem while we’re there. The laser radar tracks the missile and at the same time computes the launch point and feeds it into the bombing computers. The B-1 has already computed the probable launch point using the launch detection signal and the radar track — all we need to do is attack.”

A few moments later the aft bomb bay doors on the B-1 bomber opened, and a small missile dropped into the slipstream. It was much smaller than the Lancelot missile, with a fat forebody tapering quickly to a thin tail section and a star-shaped fin group aft. As it dropped, a pair of long, thin wings popped out from under the fuselage. It released a small puff of smoke as an engine started up, and soon the missile turned and descended. “Was that a JASSM cruise missile?” Hayes asked.

“Yep. A D-model AGM-177 Wolverine cruise missile,” Samson replied. He reached over and hit some buttons around the edge of the large multifunction display on the right side of the instrument panel. The “God’s-eye” image of the Lancelot missile launch was replaced by an aerial camera shot, so far showing only ocean. “The new and improved version of the joint air-to-surface standoff attack missile. Turbojet-powered, max fifty-mile range when launched at low altitude. Autonomous GPS and inertial navigation, autonomous target acquisition, autonomous millimeter-wave radar terminal guidance or imaging infrared terminal sensor with manual steering, with images fed back to us by satellite. It even has its own jammers and countermeasures. It has three bomb bays that can carry a mixed payload and actually make multiple attacks on several targets, or even do its own target damage assessment and reattack. The missiles we’re using today only carry one warhead payload, however.”

“A sensor-fused weapon warhead?”

“You got it, sir.”

“Outstanding. I always enjoy watching an SFW take out a target.”

“That’s definitely the best part, sir,” Samson said, the smile behind his oxygen mask evident in his voice. “Watch. The 177 will take a picture of the target after its pass.”

The missile had descended rapidly — it was now skimming the surface of the ocean so low that Hayes thought one swell could easily reach up and snatch it out of the sky. A white box appeared on the screen, centered on a tiny black dot. “The inertial navigation system is steering the missile to the estimated coordinates of that Pershing launch barge, with coordinates dumped to it by the B-1’s launch sensors,” Samson explained. “At ten miles to go, it’ll start searching on its own.” He quickly reconfigured the large supercockpit screen so they could see both the missile’s-eye view and a God’s-eye view at the same time. The launch barge was a red triangle; the Wolverine missile was a white diamond streaking toward it.

Hayes could see three Navy ships surrounding the launch barge. Suddenly, blinking red boxes appeared from one of them, and a circle drew itself around the red box, enveloping the cruise missile. “Standard missile radar,” Samson explained. “The circle is lethal range, based on type of radar and signal strength.” Just then another red box and lethal range circle appeared around a second Navy ship. The red box began to blink. “The second Navy ship has launched on the 177,” Samson said.

“Fireman flight, stand by for launch,” the B-1 bomber crew radioed. Moments after Samson acknowledged the warning, a second Wolverine missile dropped free from the B-1’s aft bomb bay.

“Two JASSMs!” Hayes exclaimed. “Now we really got a show going!”

“This is how we envision employing Coronet Tiger one-plus — in a hunter-killer role,” Samson explained. “Obviously, the B-1 becomes an item of interest after it first launches an antiballistic missile missile and then attacks the launch site. Any area defenses will light up like crazy. That’s when the bomber shifts from a rocket killer to SEAD — suppression of enemy air defenses — role.

“The B-1 can carry up to twenty-four Wolverine or Lancelot missiles internally, plus four more externally. A typical weapons load would be eight Lancelots and eight Wolverines on internal rotary launchers, and one internal fuel tank or eight more JASSMs. Externally, it can carry eight HARM antiradar missiles or twelve Scorpion air-to-air missiles, depending on support, range to the target, and the threat. The B-1 can carry up to one hundred and fifty thousand pounds of ordnance — as much as five F-15E Strike Eagles, with much greater range and equal speed.”

“Scorpion? HARM?” Hayes asked. “The B-1 can carry antiradar or air-to-air missiles?”

“It always could, sir,” Samson replied. “The B-1 has four external hardpoints with a standard data bus — it can carry any missile, bomb, or sensor package in the inventory. It also has two external fuel tank hardpoints. But when the B-1 was disqualified from carrying cruise missiles because of the Strategic Arms Limitation Treaties, everyone seemed to forget about the hardpoints. Everyone except HAWC, of course. External stores destroy the Bone’s stealth capabilities, but once the external stores and racks are used or jettisoned, it has full stealth capability again.”

Hayes watched in utter fascination as the attack continued. Both Navy ships were launching Standard antiair missiles now. The Wolverines were skimming the ocean so low it looked as if they would crash into it any second.

The second Wolverine missile passed within one mile of the easternmost Navy warship. “That’s a kill,” Samson said.

“But it missed.”

“It was programmed not to fly closer than one mile,” Samson explained. “Range safety rules. It’ll try to go after the second Navy ship now.” But the missile’s luck ran out. Because the first Navy ship was still “alive,” it and the second warship bracketed the second Wolverine missile with a flight of four Standard missiles and shot it down long before it could approach the second ship.

“Not fair,” Samson protested. “That first ship was ‘dead.’”

“All’s fair in love and ship defense,” Hayes said.

“It’s still unfair,” Samson said. “But the first Wolverine missile has a live warhead. You’ll see — it’s going all the way to the target.”

It did. Samson and Hayes watched as it streaked over the launch barge, the imaging infrared view of the barge flipping upside down as the IIR sensor stayed locked on the target. Three small cylindrical canisters appeared on the image, spinning under a small stabilizing parachute. Suddenly, all three canisters separated from the parachute, and moments later there were several bright flashes of light that completely obscured the barge. When the image cleared, the barge was on fire and half submerged.

“Man, I love watching those things,” Hayes admitted. The BLU-108 “Shredder” sensor-fused weapon, or SFW, was the Air Force’s new air-delivered antivehicle weapon. Each Shredder canister contained four copper skeets, aimed by an infrared sensor. As the canisters spin, they find a target, and at the proper instant they detonate. The explosion sends a molten copper slug out each skeet at the target at supersonic speed, fast enough and hot enough to cut even three-inch steel armor into Swiss cheese within a half mile of ground zero. Because the launch barge was the only target in the area, all twelve slugs hit the barge.

“Me too,” Samson said. “I love the smell of molten copper slugs in the morning.”

“Very, very impressive, Earthmover,” Hayes went on, writing notes in a small notebook. “First a successful ABM test, then a successful counterattack test. Excellent. Interesting to think what it’d have been like if you’d had one of those plasma-yield weapons on a Wolverine.”

Samson looked at Hayes, then hit the radio button on his throttle quadrant: “Fireman, this is Two, get us extended range clearance for second launch sequence.”

“Roger, Fireman Two. Break. Neptune, Fireman flight, requesting extended range clearance for final launch sequence. Ten-mile minimum clearance all vessels.”

“Roger, Fireman flight, this is Neptune control, the range is extended-radius clear. You are cleared hot for final missile series.”

“Fireman flight copies extended-range clear, Fireman flight check.”

“Two,” Samson said. “Fireman, Neptune, stand by.” He turned to Hayes. “Anytime you’re ready, sir.”

“Ready for…?” Hayes stopped, dropping his oxygen mask in surprise. “You’re shitting me, Samson. Don’t tell me you’ve got a plasma-yield weapon onboard that B-1 right now?”

“No — I’ve got two,” Samson replied. “I’ve got one Lancelot ABM and one Wolverine cruise missile armed with a THAAD plasma-yield warhead, ready to go.”

“By whose authority?” said a stunned Hayes, his voice rising in fury. “Who the hell authorized you to do that, Samson?”

“Sir, as you said at that Senate subcommittee hearing, I did it under the authority given me by the President and the secretary of defense,” Samson replied. “We developed the weapon, did some mating, release, jettison, and captive launch tests, and certified it ready for launch. It’s never been tested before on a live launch. We own the airspace for two hundred miles in all directions; we’ve only got a couple of Navy ships in the area, and we’ve got a target. I think we should let ’er rip and see what we got.”

“You’re crazy, Samson,” Hayes shot back. He was so red-hot angry that he thought he would explode. “You have got to be off your rocker. This is the most blatant form of insubordination I’ve seen since… shit, since Brad Elliott. You just think that you can load up a missile with an experimental subatomic warhead and shoot it into the sky anytime you feel like it? We can cause a major military crisis! We can cause an international incident! We can both lose our jobs and spend the rest of our lives in Fort Leavenworth! Goddammit, Samson, you scare me! I’m going to take a good hard look at your suitability for your position and your continued service after we get on the ground!”

The tactical action officer, or TAO, aboard the U.S. Navy Ticonderoga-class Aegis guided missile cruiser USS Grand Island, who was acting as range controller, attack officer, and supervisor for the morning’s tests, watched his electronic displays carefully. The Combat Information Center — CIC — of the Grand Island had four large multicolor electronic displays forward, which integrated all electronic signals from ships, planes, and shore stations, giving the TAO a three-dimensional picture of his “battlefield” for hundreds of miles in all directions. He and his deputy sat in the middle of the CIC compartment, surrounded by weapons officers, sensor operators, and communications technicians.

He thought what he saw was a glitch in the two displays that gave him horizontal and vertical plots of the missile tracks. He turned to his radar technician and asked, “Radar, what happened to those missile tracks? What do you get?”

“Don’t know, sir,” the radar technician replied. “I saw the target rocket launch, then the airborne missile launch, then the cruise missile launch to attack the launch barge, same as the first test sequence. It looked like a good intercept. Then poof. Nothing. Both tracks disappeared. No debris.”

“Comm, did the zoomies broadcast an abort warning?” the TAO asked a communications technician.

“No, sir,” the communications specialist confirmed.

“Damn Air Force weenies,” the TAO muttered. “Too embarrassed by a faulty flight to tell us they self-destructed both missiles.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “Radar, you say you’re not picking up any debris?”

“No, sir,” said the radar technician. “Usually, the SPY-1B will track debris pretty good, enough so we can clear a specific piece of airspace or ocean.” The SPY-1B was the three-dimensional phased-array radar on the Aegis-class warships, powerful enough to track a target as small as a bird two hundred miles away. “Nothing this time.”

“Humpf,” the TAO grunted. Both missiles might have splashed down. He didn’t know enough about either of them to know if they floated, if the warheads became more unstable in seawater, what they looked like when they broke apart, how to disarm a ditched missile — and a hundred other things he would’ve been briefed on if the Air Force had done its job correctly. “Comm, tell all vessels to stay east of the second launch barge. Radar, clear all aircraft out of the range via the shortest way possible away from the missile tracks. Then do a systems check, find out why we can’t see their debris.” On the intercom, he radioed, “Bridge, Combat.”

“Go ahead.” The TAO recognized the captain’s voice.

“We lost track of the missile debris, sir, so we’re clearing all aircraft away from the missiles’ flight paths and terminating all activity. We’re done for the day.”

“Copy that. We’ll form up and head back to the barn.”

“What did you see up there, sir?”

“We saw…” There was a very long pause, then: “We don’t quite know what we saw, Combat. We saw two good missile plumes heading toward each other, then… well, we’re not sure after that. We saw a flash of light, and some of the lookouts say they saw a big silver globe. But we didn’t hear or pick up anything. No explosion, no nothing.”

“Checks down here, sir,” said the TAO.

“What did it look like to you, Combat?”

“About the same.”

“What about the cruise missile? Did it hit its target?”

“Stand by,” the TAO said. “Radar, what have you got on the second launch barge? Did the zoomies hit it?”

“I… I don’t know, sir,” the radar technician stammered. “It’s like the ABM intercept. It looked normal, heading right for the target, then… gone.”

“Gone? The target? Gone like blew up? Gone like sunk?”

“Gone like… gone, sir,” the technician said. “I pick up nothing. The missile has disappeared… shit, and the barge disappeared too!”

“What the hell are you talking about? Surface range thirty, high res,” he demanded, and checked the short-range surface radar depiction. There was no sign of the barge.

“I’ve got a good radar lock on the first launch barge, sir,” the technician said, “but zilch on the second. It must’ve broke apart and sunk like a stone.”

“That barge was almost two hundred feet long, eighty feet wide, and weighed ninety tons. Those things do not just disappear,” the TAO said aloud to no one in particular. Even the first launch barge, which was hit dead-on by the sensor-fused weapon dropped by the cruise missile, was still partially afloat. The TAO hit the intercom button: “Bridge, Combat. We don’t have a fix on the second launch pad. It must’ve sunk. What kind of warhead did they have on that thing? It must’ve been a two-thousand-pounder at least.”

“Negative, Combat,” the captain responded. “We didn’t hear or see any explosion.”

The TAO looked at his CIC crew members in shock. “How is that possible, sir?” was all he could think to ask.

“I don’t know,” the captain said, feeling the anger rise in his throat. He had a suspicion that the Air Force had pulled a fast one on him — that they had tested a new weapon in the wide-open daylight skies and seas, in a well-used military weapons range that belonged to the U.S. Navy. To the officer of the deck, the captain said, “How long for us to get to that second launch barge’s last position?”

“About thirty minutes at standard, sir.”

“Officer of the deck, plot a course to the second launch barge’s position,” the captain ordered. “All ahead full. I want a full investigation on what kind of weapon sunk that barge. Air, water, electromagnetic, debris analysis, the works.” He paused, then added, “And have the corpsmen prepare to do a full radiation scan as well.”

The last order froze everyone on the bridge in their tracks. The captain was silent for a long moment, then said, “Get to it, gentlemen. Keep your damn eyes open.”

It took less than twenty minutes for the two Air Force jets to fly back to Elliott Air Force Base. The base, ninety miles northwest of Las Vegas, was situated near a dry lake bed named Groom Lake. Anyone who viewed the lake bed — which would have been both difficult and illegal, since the airspace for fifty miles around the base was restricted from ground level to infinity—would have seen a roughly five-mile sheet of hard, sunbaked sand. But seconds before the planes touched down, sprinklers popped on and highlighted a long strip of sand-colored concrete in the lake bed. Less than three minutes later Terrill Samson had turned off the runway and the sun evaporated the water. The runway disappeared once again.

Bradley James Elliott Air Force Base was the name of the installation built next to the dry lake. It resembled a cross between a small, old, nearly abandoned air base and a modern industrial development facility. It had some old wooden buildings and many modern concrete buildings. Because it was so far from the nearest town, it had dormitory-style enlisted, officer, and civilian quarters. There were few amenities: a mess hall, only a small shopette instead of a full commissary and exchange, a little-used outdoor pool, and no base theater.

The roads were well maintained and the sidewalks were lined with cactus and Joshua trees. The roads had typical Air Force base names, honoring Air Force legends: military aviation pioneers like Rickenbacker and Mitchell, leaders like Spaatz and LeMay, Air Force Medal of Honor recipients like Loring and Sijan, and air combat aces like Bong and DeBellevue. Other streets had names that most people new at the base might not immediately recognize, like Ormack and Powell — names of dead test pilots who had been assigned to the base. About two thousand men and women worked at the base, typically four days on, three days off. They were either bused in in convoys of air-conditioned Greyhound buses, making the 110-mile drive in under two hours, or flown in on unmarked jet airliners from Nellis Air Force Base north of Las Vegas in a matter of minutes.

The one difference between this base and dozens of other military bases resembling it around the world: Elliott Air Force Base did not appear on any map. There were no signs for it. It was not on any listing of active Air Force bases. No one could ask for an assignment there, and if someone did, he or she would be likely to come under secret investigation as to why the request had been made. Every person assigned there swore an oath never to reveal any details about the base or its activities. Most people took that oath very, very seriously — not because of the substantial legal penalties, but because they really believed that keeping their activities secret contributed to the strength and security of their homeland. By almost every conventional measure except physical presence, Elliott Air Force Base did not exist.

The base was the home of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, under Terrill Samson’s command. HAWC was officially Detachment One of the Air Force Operational Test and Evaluation Center headquartered at Edwards Air Force Base in California. Before any new aircraft or air-launched weapon began unclassified operational testing at any of the Air Force’s test facilities prior to full-scale production and deployment, it flew at HAWC first. HAWC’s pilots and engineers worked with aircraft and weapons years before the rest of the world ever saw them, and in many instances worked with weapon systems the world would never see. What would seem like the stuff of science-fiction novels were commonplace devices at HAWC. The secrecy and the weird sightings reported in the deserts of southern Nevada led many to believe the secluded area was harboring aliens from outer space and their spacecraft.

In reality, HAWC was simply a site for innovative, creative aerospace engineers. Although the days of unlimited “black” budgets were gone, free thinking — by engineers, pilots, scientists, and even the commanders — was encouraged and rewarded here.

Terrill Samson taxied the F-111 toward a row of twelve low hangars, all painted to blend in with the sand-colored desert landscape around them. As the plane approached, a hangar door slid open, and it taxied directly inside without stopping or even slowing down much. The hangar doors started to close long before the plane was fully inside — the less time the doors were open, the less chance that snooping eyes could catch a glimpse of whatever was inside. It had been preceded minutes before by the bomber that it had stayed with over the Pacific Ocean just a short while earlier, and parked next to it.

As soon as the F-111’s engines were shut down, the crew chief and his assistant brought boarding ladders over to its side. But General Victor Hayes was still too stunned to remove his helmet and unstrap himself, let alone climb out of the cockpit. Samson took off his own helmet and released his straps, then sat in the cockpit, amused, quietly watching the Air Force chief of staff. A dozen heavily armed security policemen, maintenance crews, and engineers had descended on both aircraft on arrival, prepared to swarm over them and to gather electronically recorded information about the test launches. Now they all waited for Hayes and Samson to step out, perplexed but wisely keeping out of earshot.

“Well, sir?” Samson asked. “What do you think?”

The hangar was air-conditioned, but long before entering it Hayes felt a chill — especially when he thought about what he had witnessed that morning. “What do I think?” he echoed. “I can’t believe it. That warhead is incredible. Talk to me, Earthmover. What the hell else have you got here? Whatever you’re selling, I’m buying. I don’t know how we’re going to pay for it, but I’m for damned sure in the market.”

“What I’ve got, sir, is a bunch of concepts and demo models,” Samson said. “All a leftover of Brad Elliott’s vision and leadership. He’s got stuff here that would make James Bond shit his pants. I’m sorry I blew the poor son of a bitch off for so many years. We all thought he was just certifiable. It turns out he was a certifiable genius.”

“The antiballistic missile stuff, Earthmover. Lancelot,” Hayes said. “That’s what Congress wants to field right now. What is it, how much, how fast can we get it in the field?”

“Let me show you what we’ve got, sir,” Samson said. Hayes removed his straps at last and followed Samson out of the chase plane and over to the B-1 beside it. After their IDs were checked and verified by thumb and retina prints, they began a walkaround of the big, sleek bomber. “We call it the EB-1C Megafortress-2, sir,” said Samson. “Prime-time example of taking a good strike aircraft and making it better. You won’t notice too many changes outside, but Brad transformed this thing into a real tactical strike machine.”

Hayes touched the big bomber, and his eyes narrowed in surprise. He was trying to identify what he felt. “That’s not steel,” he said.

“Fibersteel,” Samson explained. “Same stuff as RAM — radar-absorbent material — but fibersteel is structural-strength. We’ve reduced the weight and the radar cross section and increased the durability by at least fifteen percent just by reskinning with fibersteel. A stock B-1 has ten times the radar cross section of a B-2 stealth bomber. This one has only three times the RCS.”

He pointed to the bomber’s broad, flat underside, between the nosewheel well and forward bomb bay. “There are the external weapons and fuel hardpoints. Best move we made was to bring those back. We can launch any weapon in the arsenal, including air-to-air missiles. Each external hardpoint can hold three AIM-120 Scorpion air-to-air missiles, two AGM-88 HARM antiradar missiles, four AGM-65 Maverick missiles, one AGM-84 Harpoon antiship missile, one Wolverine cruise missile, even one AGM-142 Have Nap TV-guided missile. We’ve even modified Lancelot as a low earth-orbit satellite killer.”

“What?”

“Brad Elliott revived and perfected the old ASAT antisatellite program,” Samson said proudly. “The B-1 can get a datalink from Space Command or use the LADAR, wait until an enemy satellite passes overhead, then fire an ASAT from an external hardpoint straight up. With a plasma-yield warhead installed, it’ll kill a satellite up to two hundred miles in orbit; with a conventional explosive warhead, about one hundred miles. We haven’t tested it, but all the computer models say it will work. And we can do it all now, sir.”

“Amazing!” Hayes exclaimed. “I want to see that tested. Killing satellites two hundred miles in space — my God, what a capability that’ll give us.” He motioned to the long, pointed nose and asked, “That nose cone looks weird — almost like glass instead of fiber-steel. What kind of radar did you put in this thing? Still the stock one, or did you soup it up too?”

“The EB-1 Megafortress uses LADAR — laser radar,” Samson replied. “It’s what I told you about just before the launch, when you were looking at the display. The emitters are tiny. They’re in the nose, fuselage, and tail. They scan electronically in any direction, up or down, out to about fifty miles. In effect, the laser ‘draws’ a picture of everything it sees in a fraction of a second, in three dimensions and with terrific precision and definition. The system ‘draws’ a picture about twenty times a second, so the ‘drawing’ is updated as the bomber moves through the sky and the objects in each image become three-dimensional. The images are transmitted to the crew via helmet-mounted visors, and they change when the crew members move their heads — in essence, the crew can ‘see’ what the radar sees just by looking outside, even if the image is behind or underneath them. To the crew, it’ll feel as if they’re floating in midair but able to see up to fifty miles all around them.

“Laser radar is not only more precise than standard radar, it can’t be jammed, it can’t be detected by standard radar detectors, and it’s not affected by weather. We use LADAR for navigation, bombing, tracking — it’s even precise enough for night formation flying. We retain all radar attack modes, including automatic terrain-following and radar bombing capabilities, and we’ve added long-range air target search, track, and weapons uplink.”

“This thing’s like a really big Strike Eagle or an F/A-18 Hornet,” Hayes commented.

“But it has four times the weapons load, five times the loiter time, and six times the range of any other tactical strike aircraft in the world,” Samson said. “The B-52 was number one until Congress made the decision to send ’em all to the boneyard. Now the B-1 is the most powerful bomber in the fleet. But we’re changing the mission of the heavy bomber. We want big bombers to be able to do tactical missions — precision-kill, close-air-support, ‘tank-plinking,’ even air superiority, as well as antiship and saturation bombing.”

They climbed the tall nose landing-gear strut entry ladder up into the Megafortress. Samson started to crawl forward, but Hayes immediately noticed the big change inside: “Okay, Earthmover,” he called, “where are the systems officer positions?”

“Oh yeah. Missing, aren’t they?” Samson grinned. “C’mon up to the front office and I’ll show you.”

Hayes crawled forward through the tunnel to the cockpit and slid into the open aircraft commander’s seat on the left side. This looked very much the way he remembered a Bone’s cockpit — but not the right side. Instead of the copilot’s side being almost identical to the pilot’s, it was now a sleek, uncluttered array of six large multifunction displays, with almost no analog round or tape instruments. “Made some changes, I see,” he remarked.

“The Bone now joins the ranks of the rest of the bombers in the fleet that only have two crew members,” Samson explained. “Meet the new automated Bone. I’d always heard that a B-1 is nothing more than a really big F-111 bomber — well, we took that description to heart and built exactly that. Like the B-2 Spirit stealth bomber, we combined the copilot and navigator-bombardier into the mission commander’s position, sitting in the right cockpit seat. The big exception is, we use a pilot-trained bombardier as mission commander, instead of a bombardier-trained pilot.”

“Why’d you decide that?”

“Mostly because of my deputy commander, chief program director, and chief of flight operations — a navigator, of course,” Samson responded.

“McLanahan.”

“The very one,” Samson said proudly. “He’s the one who conducted today’s tests and dropped the weapons you saw. He knows what he’s talking about, and when he talks, everyone listens.” Victor Hayes merely nodded. Samson’s deputy commander was indeed well known and highly respected within the Air Force and throughout the U.S. government. Patrick McLanahan had almost attained the status of legend, like HAWC’s first commander, Brad Elliott.

“The mission commander controls everything with voice and touch-screen commands and a trackball,” Samson went on. “Two CD-ROMs have the entire mission, weapons ballistics, and computer software, along with maps and terrain features for the entire planet, and it’s all fed into the strike computers before launch. Everything’s completely automatic, from preflight to shutdown.

“But we went one step further, sir,” Samson continued. “The two-person crew isn’t exactly alone. We use real-time high-speed satellite communications and datalink technology to create a ‘virtual crew’ onboard the EB-1C Megafortress…”

“A what? You mean, a robot crew, like an autopilot or computer?”

“Not exactly,” Samson said. “The bomber crew and the plane are tied into a ground-based cockpit by satellite. We have a pilot, an engineer, a weapons officer, and a tactics officer on duty, linked to the crew. They see and hear everything the crew does. They have access to all the bomber’s systems and can spot problems and take corrective action if necessary. They can advise the crew on tactics, keep an eye on systems, and sort of look over the crew’s shoulder all the time — even fly the plane for them if absolutely necessary, although the system probably can’t react fast enough to survive while under attack.

“What’s more, this ‘virtual cockpit’ is transportable by cargo plane and can be set up in remote locations and run off a standard jet aircraft’s power cart. It’s the same technology we’ve been using for decades on manned spacecraft — we’ve just adapted the concept to manned bombers. And for bomber defense, we’ve replaced the ALQ-161 defensive management suite with the new ALR-56M and ALE-50 systems…”

“Speak English, techno-geek.”

“Yes, sir. Bottom line: fully automated, more maintainable, and overall a better electronic jamming and self-protection system, with a towed decoy system,” Samson said. “Antennas on the bomber still pick up enemy radar signals and process them, but now jamming signals are sent out via a robot emitter that’s towed several hundred feet behind the bomber. It’s a target decoy. It’s only a foot long and three inches in diameter, but it has an electronically adjustable radar and infrared cross section. The system automatically changes the electronic ‘size,’ depending on the threat. If the bomber’s just being scanned, the towed emitter is almost invisible. But if the enemy gets a lock-on and fires, its radar and infrared cross section can be changed to hundreds of times larger than the bomber.

“The B-1 carries eight decoys on tail fairings. It can still transmit jamming signals and drop expendables if the towed decoys all get shot down, but the system makes it more survivable in a high-threat environment. We’ve replaced the standard chaff and flare expendables with tactical air-launched decoys, or TALDs, which are tiny electromagnetic emitters that work far better than chaff or flares in decoying enemy missiles. And since the new system is fully automatic, we simply eliminated the DSO’s station.”

“Incredible, Earthmover, just incredible,” Hayes exclaimed. “I can’t believe we had anything in the budget to make design changes and upgrades like this.”

“It’s been tough, sir,” Samson said. “We’ve eliminated the B-52 and grounded one-third of the B-1B fleet to get the money to make any upgrades at all. Give us a budget, and we can field a squadron of B-1 rocket killers in less than twelve months.”

“Less than a year?” Hayes echoed. “How in the hell is that possible?”

“Because HAWC has turned into scrounger’s central, sir,” Samson explained. “We suck up every gadget we can get our hands on. Everything we have on this beast is off-the-shelf, and in some cases the shelf the stuff came from is mighty dusty. It’s what we’re forced to do nowadays to build new weapon systems — instead of designing an antiballistic missile killing system from a clean sheet of paper, HAWC looks at what we’ve got lying around the boneyard and depot warehouses. Beyond that, it’s just the raw talent and imagination of the troops we have around here.”

“So what’s your proposal going to look like, Earthmover?” Hayes asked, excited now.

“I propose the formation of a rapid-response antimissile squadron,” Samson responded eagerly. “I’m looking for at least ten B-1B Lancer bombers sent here to Elliott Air Force Base, one per month. We modify the planes and train the crews simultaneously. My suggestion: get the B-1s from the National Guard, and use National Guard crewdogs. We train them, reequip them, then send them back to their home states to stand ready. That way, we have low acquisition costs, low personnel costs, and low upkeep costs.

“But the trick,” Samson went on, “is going to be finding the right combination of crews to man these Megafortress-2s. The bombers’ll be operating behind enemy lines all the time, right in the bad guy’s face. They have to be hunters. They’ll have to hang around the forward edge of the battle area, expose themselves when a ballistic missile lifts off, then drive right down the enemy’s crotch to cut off his balls before his erection goes away. We need to pick the most aggressive, most fearless crewdogs in the service. I mean, they have to be real hard-core mud-movers.”

For the first time that day, Hayes seemed concerned. “I don’t know if that kind of flier exists nowadays,” he said, “especially in the bomber force. Their entire career field has been raped so badly over the past six years that if we’ve got any heavy-iron aerial assassins anymore, it’ll be a miracle.”

“Oh, they’re out there, sir,” Terrill Samson said confidently. “Let my deputy loose and he’ll find exactly who we’re looking for. They might seem ugly and unruly and not poster-child material, but they’ll happily drive a two-hundred-ton Bone down a bad guy’s throat and all the way out his asshole any day of the week. We’ll see to that.”

The feelings of strength and urgency that had begun coursing through Victor Hayes when he stepped into the chase plane’s cockpit that morning now turned overwhelming. They came from the sense of direction, purpose, and urgency created by Terrill Samson and the men and women in this isolated, secret desert airfield. These people weren’t afraid of getting into trouble, rocking the boat, or busting the budget. All they cared about was doing the job. They identified a problem, devised a solution, and built the right weapon for the task. They never gave a thought to how what they did would look on an effectiveness report, evaluation, news article, or budget analysis.

“Do it, Earthmover,” Hayes said excitedly. “Get started ASAP. I don’t know how I’ll find the money, but I’ll find it. Get your guy to find the hardware and the crewdogs, and I’ll back your play. I think we’re about to set the ballistic missile weenies of the world back on their asses big-time.”

Tall, athletic, with dark brown eyes and brown hair, Lieutenant Colonel Rebecca “Go-Fast” Furness, commander of the 111th Bomb Squadron, Nevada Air National Guard, had the intelligence of a physician, the spirit and determination of a police officer, and the looks of a model. But her life had always revolved around flying. Men, career, a decent living, and excitement were all good things to have — but flying was her one and only true love.

She had graduated from the University of Vermont with an Air Force ROTC commission and attended Air Force flight school at Williams Air Force Base, Arizona, graduating in 1979 at the top of her class. All top pilot graduates, including women, had their pick of assignments — just as long as the women didn’t choose any combat flying assignments. As a subtle sign of protest, Furness requested the FB-111A Aardvark supersonic bomber, but accepted the KC-135 Stratotanker aerial refueling tanker with the Strategic Air Command — she knew the bomber was never an option. She set out to show she was worthy of the best assignment and quickly proved her exceptional flying skills and dedication. She cross-trained to the coveted KC-10A Extender tanker-transport, the military version of the DC-10 airliner, and tore up the program there too, quickly becoming a flight commander and instructor pilot.

It was Desert Storm that changed her life. Rebecca Catherine Furness was in command of a KC-10 tanker flight over Saudi Arabia when a call came in about an F-111 bomber suffering massive battle damage. The bomber had numerous fuel leaks, and its crew was only minutes away from having to eject over Iraq. Furness took her KC-10 more than a hundred miles inside Iraq, dodging fighters and surface-to-air missile sites to refuel the bomber, and gave its crew the chance it needed to fly into friendly airspace.

As a reward, Furness achieved her lifelong dream — she became the Air Force’s first female combat pilot. She accepted a Reserve assignment with the 394th Air Battle Wing, Plattsburgh, New York, flying the RF-111G Vampire reconnaissance/attack fighter-bomber. Her unit was the first to see action in the Russia-Ukraine conflict when the Vampires were deployed to Turkey to help defend Ukraine from Russian imperialists seeking to reunite the old Soviet Union by force. She earned her nickname, “Go-Fast,” as a result of her tenacious, fearless flying over Turkey, the Black Sea, Ukraine, and Russia, including an attack on Moscow itself.

The Air Force grounded the RF-111 bombers shortly thereafter, but they didn’t dare try to ground Rebecca Furness. She sat still long enough to complete Air Command and Staff College and the Army War College, then went after her next career dream — a flying command of her own. She commanded a B-1B Lancer flying training squadron in Texas, then was offered command of a T-38 Talon flying training wing in Arizona. That didn’t suit her one bit. She had had enough of training units and wanted a combat command.

She found one in the Nevada Air National Guard. When the unit traded in its C-130 Hercules transports and became the third Air National Guard B-1 bomber unit in the United States, she applied for a job. She was by far the best-qualified applicant, and the state of Nevada made her ambition reality. In a very short time, her unit had won the Proud Shield Bomb Competition and was recognized as the best bomber unit in the United States military. Until now.

“Well, well,” Lieutenant Colonel John Long exclaimed as he and Furness entered the B-1B Part-Task Training Facility with six crew members — two new ones, one DSO and one OSO, and two simulator operators. “Look who’s here, boss. Ejection boy.”

“What?” Furness took a look at the man in the pilot seat of the simulator cab and felt her heart pounding.

“We should welcome his ass back from the hospital,” Long said sarcastically. The air-conditioned room grew frostier still.

Furness hesitated, happiness, concern, and fear tearing at her all at once. Here she was, her dreams of becoming the Air Force’s first female combat pilot and achieving a combat command not only realized but at the very finest level — and it had all begun to crumble. In the weeks since the B-1B bomber crash that took the lives of three good men, the 111th Bomb Squadron of the Nevada Air National Guard was tearing apart — and sitting in the simulator cab before her was the man they blamed for it.

Major Rinc “Rodeo” Seaver was dressed in full flying gear, flight suit and boots, his short-clipped hair the only visible indication of his four weeks in the hospital after his ejection from the B-1B in April.

“Hi, boss,” Seaver said. He did not stop what he was doing. “Okay, Neil,” he said on the intercom, “reset me back to the third target and get ready to plug in faults G-seventeen and E-twenty again.”

“What the hell are you doing in here, Seaver?” Fur-ness demanded. “You’re not due back from sick leave for another two weeks. And what are you doing in the sim? You weren’t on the schedule.”

“I feel pretty good, boss,” Seaver said. He flexed his right shoulder experimentally, trying hard not to grimace from the pain. His right shoulder had hit the edge of the upper escape hatch during the ejection sequence, causing him to tumble wildly as he left the stricken aircraft. The tumble had made him lose precious altitude during ejection. The rocket motor blasted him down instead of up, and he had hit the B-1’s right elevator at the attach point to the vertical stabilizer. Luckily, his steel ejection seat took most of the force of the collision, and his chute still opened properly. He underwent reconstructive surgery, three weeks of rest, and one week of in-hospital physical therapy; he was still undergoing daily physical therapy and doing as much swimming as his body could stand. But he was ready and anxious to get back on flying status.

“I got tired sitting on my butt,” Seaver explained. “I couldn’t stand being cooped up in the house one more day. I called Neil and he said the box was free for a couple hours, so I thought I’d play around. We’ve been experimenting with various malfunctions that I think occurred on my last flight, and I think I got it.”

John “Long Dong” Long, Furness’s squadron operations officer and second-in-command, looked daggers at Seaver. Arrogant as always, he thought.

It was one way, and not an uncommon one, of seeing Rinc Seaver. He was tall, thin, wiry, with bony features and vivid green eyes, a second-generation American, born in Nevada, whose family had emigrated from Wales during the Depression. Seaver’s entire military career was a study in perseverance and raw determination, a series of ups and downs that would have crushed a lesser man. From childhood, his dream had been to fly the hottest military jets in combat, to lead a squadron of attackers to fight in a decisive battle that would decide the fate of nations and defend his homeland. Movies like Midway and TV shows like Baa Baa Black Sheep cemented that idea firmly in his head. He visualized strapping himself into his futuristic jet, lifting off a runway as the sneak attack was under way, then battling through waves of enemy defenders until the enemy command center was in his bombsights. He went to the annual Reno National Championship Air Races, where the dozens of vintage World War II fighters roaring overhead reinforced the thrill of flying, the thrill of the hunt, the thrill of victory.

Rinc Seaver decided the road to fulfilling that dream was a civilian pilot’s license, so when he was fourteen, he began working to raise the money for flying lessons. He received his pilot’s license on his sixteenth birthday, and it was the happiest moment of his young life. But no one told him until it was too late that the way to the hot military jets was through good grades and good SAT scores, not hours in a logbook. Ask him any question about aerodynamics or FAA commercial pilot regulations and he could write a book or teach a class on it; ask him about elementary calculus and he was lost. His average grades and average SAT scores — he took the test three times — denied him his hope of admission to the Air Force Academy.

Now desperate to make up for lost time, Rinc enrolled in the University of Nevada at Reno and graduated with a degree in electrical engineering. He turned down dozens of offers from companies all over the world — a young engineer with a commercial pilot’s license was rare indeed — and applied for and won a place at the Air Force Officer Training School at Maxwell Air Force Base, Alabama. After that came a pilot training slot, one of only a handful awarded to OTS “ninety-day wonder” graduates.

He graduated with honors and was one of the first Air Force second lieutenants to be selected to fly the coveted FB-111A Aardvark supersonic bomber for the Strategic Air Command. The FB-111 was an elite showpiece assignment — there were fewer than fifty line Aardvark pilots in the entire U.S. Air Force. But the SAC version of the F-111 fighter-bomber never went to fight in the 1991 Persian Gulf War, so Seaver never saw any combat. And his FB-111 assignment ended less than two years later, when the Aardvarks were retired from service, a victim of budget cutbacks.

There were no other flying slots open during the steep force drawdowns of the early nineties, so Seaver transferred to the Aeronautical Systems Division, Special Projects Office, at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio, working as a project officer and weapons design engineer for the B-1B Lancer bomber. He helped develop a series of high-tech, almost science-fiction-like weapons for the bomber, earning accolades and high-ranking attention throughout the Air Force as a forward-thinking, innovative designer. But the Lancer was in danger of being unceremoniously retired as well, and funding for advanced weapons and upgrades was slashed. Seaver’s job was eliminated virtually overnight. He attended Squadron Officer School and was promoted to captain, but his prospects were looking poor for the career in the military that he longed for.

Without a regular commission or any recent flying experience, the young captain left the active-duty force, went home to Reno, and transferred to the Nevada Air National Guard. The Guard unit in Reno was one of the last to fly the RF-4 Phantom tactical reconnaissance jet, and Seaver saw his opportunity to fly a fast-mover once again. But he was a victim of the same old pattern that had dogged him before: the aged RF-4 was soon doomed to retire. When the Reno Guard got C-130 Hercules cargo planes, Seaver, disappointed but thankful to be back in the sky once again, accepted a part-time pilot assignment, flying one or two missions a week out of Reno-Tahoe International Airport.

In between, he worked as a flight instructor and charter pilot in Reno, earning his Airline Transport Pilot rating and quickly accumulating more commercial flight time. He piloted every charter assignment that came his way, got as much sleep as he could, then worked equally hard as a C-130 “trash-hauler.” He completed Air Command and Staff College and received his master’s degree, both achievements very unusual for National Guard officers. Everyone thought he was crazy for chasing an unattainable dream: to someday be called back to active duty and fight in the mythical air battle he still dreamed about.

But Rinc Seaver proved them all wrong. When the Reno Air National Guard transitioned from the C-130 to the B-1B Lancer bomber, he applied and was immediately accepted for pilot transition training and a fulltime Guard assignment. He was back in his element, and his star quickly rose. He was promoted to major three years below the zone and became the squadron’s senior standardization/evaluation pilot. To top it all off, he led the fledgling 111th Bomb Squadron in winning the LeMay, Dougherty, Ryan, Crumm, and Fairchild Trophies in Air Combat Command’s biennial long-range Bombing and Navigation Competition. “Aces High” became the first Air Force Reserve Component unit in history and only the second B-1B unit to win the coveted Fairchild Trophy.

But Seaver’s promotion and success did not sit well with most of the other Reno Air Guard crewdogs. Although he was clearly the most technically knowledgeable flier in the squadron — his pilot skills rivaled those of some of the veteran aircraft commanders — almost everyone saw him only as a young, cocky, know-it-all junior major with no life other than flying. What made him think he was so great? He had relatively little total military flying time, very little Bone time, and no combat experience. Some of the pilots he gave evaluations and check rides to had thousands of hours and many more years in service, and had flown combat missions in Desert Storm and even earlier conflicts, such as Operation Just Cause over Panama. As far as they were concerned, Rinc Seaver was an outsider and would always be one — forget that he was a native Nevadan and one of the first members of Aces High. Even after winning Bomb Comp, the old heads still considered him a mere systems operator, not a real aviator.

Rinc Seaver’s answer to them was simple: go piss up a damned rope. He worked hard to be the best. He did his job with skill and dogged determination, just as he did everything else in his life, and he took no crap from anyone regardless of rank or flying time. Even in the Nevada Air National Guard, where politics, influence, and family name meant almost as much as skill and dedication, Rinc Seaver — the name meant “determined warrior” in Welsh — took a backseat to no one. He developed a reputation as a brash, determined loner who liked to push the envelope as much as possible at every opportunity.

Now he sat in the B-1B Part-Task Trainer, a computerized B-1 flight simulator, with a pilot and OSO/DSO compartment side by side in nonmoving but otherwise fully realistic cabs, ignoring Long’s glare. “Watch this,” he said to Furness, about to recap the doomed flight. “Okay, Neil, hit it.” Furness suppressed her irritation and nodded to him to continue. The PTT had full visual displays out the cockpit windows and a worldwide radar and threat display database, so the crews could fly anywhere in the world and get realistic terrain and geographic displays and readouts. A control console was manned by two instructors and a computer technician. The instructors could program thousands of different scenarios into each simulator session, re-creating the simplest orientation flights or the most complex wartime emergency procedures scenario imaginable. The simulator operated twenty hours a day, six days a week. Like most military units in this age of steep budget cuts, the simulator had more “flying” time than all of the unit’s aircraft combined.

The computer-generated visual display out the cockpit windows showed a vast expanse of desert, dotted with tall, jagged, rocky peaks. “Here we are at the Scud-ER target at Navy Fallon,” said Seaver. “We hit two targets, but the damned squids jerked our chains and kept the emitters on and didn’t simulate a kill, so we thought we missed. Chappie is ready to spit nails because he thinks he shut down all the threats, which he did, but the Navy kept on transmitting like they never got hit, the bastards.” Chappie was Al Chapman, his dead defensive systems officer.

“Seaver…”

“Hold on, boss,” Seaver said, pushing on. “We’re yanking and banking and jammin’ and jivin’ our asses off. Everyone’s pissed at me because they thought we missed the first two targets and because I wasn’t doing enough for bomber defense. That’s bullshit too — we shacked all three targets — but…” He stopped, ashamed that he had patted himself on the back and then said something negative against the dead. He could feel the icy stares on the back of his neck and knew the others, Furness too, resented it.

“Anyway, we nail the third target. Dead-on. We fly right into a SAM and triple-A nest on the other side of the ridge. A shitload of SAMs and triple-A — the smoky SAMs are everywhere, a couple dozen of ’em. We scram left away from the trap. We’re at two hundred hard ride. I put the spoiler override switches into OVERRIDE, pop the speedbrakes and pull ’em into idle power, and start our two point five Gs pull to cornering velocity. Speed comes down nicely. Override switch back to normal, speedbrakes down. Now watch.”

The visual display showed the steep bank, with more and more earth replacing sky in the cockpit window. Seaver pushed the throttles to max afterburner and pulled the stick right, but nothing happened — the steep bank stayed in, and they dipped earthward. Seconds later the simulator crashed with a sound resembling Wile E. Coyote hitting the ground in a Road Runner cartoon.

“Seaver, I don’t know what you’re trying to prove…”

“I know why we crashed, boss,” he said. “Look: over ninety degrees of bank, airspeed slowing…”

“You cross-controlled your jet,” Furness told him. “You know you’re not supposed to do over ninety degrees of bank while TF’ing.”

“But look at the speedbrakes,” Seaver said insistently. “Just like the Powder River accident a couple years ago. Low altitude, steep bank angle, tight turn, and the speedbrakes are still extended. Sink rate builds up…”

“But you said you retracted the speedbrakes.”

“They had to be still extended, boss,” Rinc said.

Long rolled his eyes in disbelief. “So you say.”

“I know I did,” Rinc said. “Either they didn’t retract, or they stuck extended. But they didn’t retract.”

“CITS said they did,” Long told him. CITS, the Central Integrated Test System, was a monitoring, recording, and troubleshooting device on the B-1 bomber that acted like a flight data recorder. The CITS was heavily armored and designed to withstand a crash. They had recovered the stricken bomber’s CITS module, and its memory was successfully retrieved and analyzed by the Air Force.

“I think something happened, something that prevented the speedbrakes from retracting, or retracted them too late,” Rinc insisted. “The smoky SAMs were all around us — it’s possible one of them got stuck in the spoiler wells. In that case, CITS would report them retracted even though they were still deployed. But that’s the only way that crash makes any sense.”

All he saw were blank faces staring back at him hostilely.

Seaver knew his arguments were falling on deaf ears. Since he had initiated the ejection sequence and punched everybody out long after the Bone had departed coordinated flight, they were putting the blame squarely on him.

Several long awkward moments passed. Then Rebecca Furness turned to the systems officers and simulator operators behind them and said, “Excuse us for a minute, guys.”

Seaver got to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute, boss, I’m going to take a leak, and then I’m going to get all the sim data together and upchannel it to Air Combat Command. We’ll need to independently verify what we found and give this information to the accident board.”

“Save your own butt by blaming the dead, huh, Seaver?” Long said under his breath, but loudly enough for the other squadron members to hear. Furness scowled.

Seaver inwardly winced at the remark but simply said, “It happened, John. It was some kind of technical malfunction. We can prove it.” Looking about, he saw no sympathy in the faces around him.

Within a few moments, everyone had departed but Furness, Long, and Seaver. “So. You saw the flight surgeon today?” Furness asked. “What did he say?”

Seaver proudly produced a sheet of paper. “He signed me off for flying,” he replied. “I know the squadron is getting ready for the pre-D. I realize I have a bunch of training to catch up on, but I know I can get back up to speed in time to recertify along with the rest of the squadron.”

Furness examined the paper with a rueful shake of her head. The flight surgeon had given Seaver full medical clearance for flight duties, even though he was still undergoing physical therapy. The sign-off usually meant that the crew member was off all medications and was observed to be free of any apparent psychological or emotional difficulties as a result of the crash. More important, for Seaver, was the sign-off that allowed him to train for the predeployment certification, or pre-D.

The pre-D was the unit’s biggest gauge of its combat effectiveness. Air National Guard bomber squadrons were “replacement” units, not frontline combat-ready units. In the event that the bombers were needed, the squadron would be “federalized,” or transferred from the command of the Nevada state adjutant general to the Air Force and “gained” by an active-duty bomb wing. The Guard aircrews would be tasked to ferry the aircraft to the deployment base, either in the United States or overseas; and the best crews might fly actual combat missions if there was a shortage of active-duty crews. In order to prove they were ready for full integration into the active force, twice a year the squadron was sent either to Ellsworth AFB in South Dakota or Dyess AFB in Texas to undergo a grueling two-week drill to demonstrate their combat readiness.

Fail the pre-D, and you could be dismissed from the squadron. If too many crews failed, the entire unit could be decertified. The unit already had one big black mark against it — Seaver’s crash. Having even one crew fail a pre-D could bring the entire squadron down.

Furness put the paper aside, glancing at Long. “You know you’re not supposed to go to the flight surgeon or ask him for any sign-offs without asking me first,” she said to Seaver.

He narrowed his eyes quizzically. “No, I didn’t know that, boss. I must’ve filed that piece of info in the ‘Like I give a shit’ folder when the President briefed it.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, Seaver.”

“But I didn’t go to the doc to ask for a sign-off — I went for a scheduled rehab follow-up. He asked me how I felt, poked and prodded, and then said I looked okay enough to go back to work. He did the sign-off. I didn’t ask him for shit. If he’s out of line with you, that’s his problem, not mine.” He looked hard at his squadron commander, then asked, “It sounds like maybe you don’t want me flying or participating in any pre-D work-ups. There a problem here, boss?”

“I don’t know, Seaver,” Furness said. “I don’t like seeing you in here when you’re supposed to be recuperating, that’s all.”

“I’m all right, Beck,” Rinc said. “I’m ready to get moving.” He looked at her, then at Long’s scowl. “What else, guys?”

“Start by telling us the real reason you lost it, Seaver,” Long said acidly.

“Excuse me?” Seaver asked incredulously. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You heard me, Seaver,” Long retorted. “The wreckage and the bodies are still warm and you already want another crew and another plane…”

“Those ‘bodies’ were my friends, Long Dong,” Seaver said bitterly.

“They were my friends too,” Long said. “But I for one don’t think you deserve another chance until you fully explain what really happened out on the range.”

“Like I told you and the accident board,” Seaver said, “we were in trouble. We were scramming away from the SAMs. I popped speedbrakes to get us down to cornering velocity. I admit I went over forty-five degrees of bank, but I had the TERFLW paddled off and I was flying it visually — if we were in the clouds, I would’ve kept TERFLW on and done forty-five. But we were under attack, dammit! I tried to roll out but couldn’t straighten her out. I knew something was wrong, so I gave the command to eject—”

“Bullshit you did,” Long said.

Seaver looked angrily at Long and finally nodded. “Okay, maybe I didn’t give the command,” he said. “But the plane was in a bad skid, a high angle-of-attack, a steep bank, and we were still at two hundred hard ride with TERFLW doing an inverted fly-up. I was trying to fly it out, but I lost it. When I couldn’t get it back, I didn’t think. I just reacted.”

“You’re damned right you didn’t think. You screwed up,” Long shot back. “Did you ever think to give us a yellow light?” There was a yellow PREPARE TO EJECT and a red EJECT light that were manually activated by the pilots in a controlled ejection situation. Normally during a flight, the crew’s ejection mode switches were set to AUTO, which allowed either the pilot or the copilot to eject the rest of the crew. Even on the ground, Long and most other crew members couldn’t actually say the word “eject,” as in the “red EJECT light.” He and every other flier knew it was a command that demanded an instantaneous response. Seeing the red EJECT light was the same as issuing the “Eject! Eject! Eject!” order verbally.

“No. There was no time.”

“There could have been, if you didn’t have your head so far up your ass,” Long said angrily.

The memory of his dead fellow crewdogs hit Rinc Seaver hard, and the anger welled up out of his body like air out of a popped balloon. Seaver had been training both Chappie and his wife, Daphne, to fly — Daphne had already soloed and was just a night cross-country from her check ride. Rinc was godfather of one of their kids, even though none of them were very good Catholics. They were the closest friends — no, the closest family—Seaver had. Chappie left his wife and two kids, a son and daughter, behind.

“You’re damned right. No one else went. No one else even initiated the sequence,” Long said bitterly. “You know what I think, Seaver? I think you couldn’t handle it. You were getting hosed by the Navy, you were confused, you were disoriented, and you were scared, so you panicked and hit your handles!”

“We were in a skid, we were headed down, and I thought I could save it.”

“That crash was your fault, Seaver!”

“No it wasn’t,” he cried out. “I proved what happened. I tried to fly it out, but the left bank was still in and we never leveled out. I knew I lost it, and I went. I did the best I could.”

“You caused that accident, Seaver! There was no reason for that crash except for your stupidity.”

“John…,” Furness said softly, as if trying — not very convincingly — to tell Long to stop arguing.

“You oughta be grounded, Seaver,” Long dug in, jabbing a finger at the OSO. “You oughta be kicked out of the Guard. You oughta be kicked in the fucking ass!”

“You don’t have the balls to try it, Long!”

“Enough, John,” Furness said, forcefully this time. She looked sternly at John Long, her second-in-command. “We’re not going to solve anything here. The accident board will have its report in a couple days, and then we’ll all know for sure.” Then she looked grimly at Rinc and shook her head. “But our problem right now is one of trust, Seaver. Even if you’re found not responsible for the accident, who’s going to trust you? Who’s going to fly with you? And if you’re grounded, who’s going to trust you to properly plan a mission or give a tactics briefing?”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re going to have to prove to this squadron that you can handle it, that you can follow orders, that you can be part of a team and not think about yourself.”

“I damn well can be part of this squadron, Beck!”

“Shut up and listen,” Furness broke in angrily. “I’m not going to fire you unless directed by higher headquarters or unless I feel your membership here is dragging this unit’s performance and morale down. Both situations are out of my control. It’s going to be up to you to prove that you can fly with Aces High.”

Furness grabbed the flight authorization form, scanned it, then signed it. “You can fly again, Seaver — we can’t spare the manpower to keep you sitting on your ass for another two weeks. I want you to do a full annual check ride, including open-book, closed-book, orals, sim, pubs check, and flight evaluations.”

“No sweat, boss,” Seaver said confidently. “I’ve already talked with Scheduling, and I got a crew and a plane penciled in. I’ll be ready for a flight check by the end of the week.”

“You better be,” Furness warned. Long shook his head and snorted as if saying “No way,” but they both knew that if any member of the squadron could be ready for a flight check in less than seven days, it was Seaver. “If you pass, you can accompany us to our pre-D work-up — but I’m not going to let you try to requalify until I’m positive your head is on straight and you’re ready to do your job.”

“Hey, boss, give me a break,” Seaver said. “I’ll be mission-ready and up to speed before we go to pre-D. All I ask is for a chance to qualify.”

“I’m not worried about you, Seaver,” Furness said bitterly. “I’m worried about the morale of this unit if we fail the pre-D. I choose the crews that qualify, and right now I don’t think you’ll be ready in time.”

“But…”

“Do me a favor, Seaver, and shut up and listen. This entire unit has been through hell the past several weeks. We’re all hurting, not just you. But what do we see? You’re in here cooking up wild excuses for the crash.”

“They’re not wild excuses, boss. I think I know…”

“You don’t get it, do you? You might have the answer, you might not. But it doesn’t matter. Right now we don’t want to find out that someone screwed up. We all just need to know it’s gonna be okay, and everyone needs to pitch in, including you. You should start thinking about ways you can help this squadron pull itself together, rather than worrying about clearing your precious reputation.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do, boss?” Seaver asked hotly. “Give everybody a big hug? Serve tea and cookies and explore everyone’s feelings? Flog myself with a horsehair whip?”

“You do whatever you have to do to make this squadron believe you’re one of us, Seaver,” Furness responded. “If you do it, everything will eventually get back to normal. If you don’t, we’ll be on our way to being disbanded. Think about it. Now get the hell out of here and go home.”

There was silence for a long moment. That was Seaver’s indication that he was dismissed.

After he left, Long shook his head. “Fucking weasel,” he said. “He’s sticking to his lame-ass story.”

“Ease up on him, Long Dong,” Furness said. “Whether he’s going to make it or hit bottom, let him do it on his own. I just hope that if he doesn’t make it, he doesn’t pull this unit down with him.”

I am getting ready to go overseas for a major military exercise,” Secretary of the Air Force Stuart Mortonson raged, “and now you drop this on me. General Hayes, you’d better have a real good explanation.” This, Mortonson thought, was definitely one of those times when being the chief civilian officer of the nation’s youngest military service was a totally thankless job.

Mortonson, formerly a dean at Stanford University and lieutenant governor of California, got his post in the Pentagon as a gift for helping win California in the last presidential election. The position meant a boost for California’s aerospace industry and lots of grant money for California institutes and universities, which were two good reasons why Mortonson was being groomed to run for the Senate or for governor of California. But except for making a few speeches or visiting a few bases, no one ever saw or recognized the secretary of the Air Force — unless something went wrong. Then everyone knew your name.

First, it was the B-1 bomber crash in Nevada back in April. Technically, it was a Nevada Air National Guard plane, not an Air Force plane, but that kind of hairsplitting was useless from day one — it was and always would be an Air Force problem. The Navy squawked about how reckless the crew was, complained about all the violated rules of engagement, and demanded the Air Force clean up its act. Mortonson took the scolding from the secretary of the Navy and the chief of Naval Operations, got the third-degree stare-down from the secretary of defense, and loudly promised everyone to get to the bottom of the incident and kick some butts.

But now a new controversy had surfaced, and again it involved the Navy. During a scheduled antimissile weapons test over the Pacific Ocean, some very odd things had happened, and the Air Force guys on the scene, including the Air Force’s chief of staff, were being very, very closemouthed about it. The Navy, which had some ships in the area, squawked again, accusing the Air Force of testing a new warhead — possibly even a nuclear device — on a Navy range with Navy personnel in close proximity without informing anyone or setting up proper safeguards.

Air Force Chief of Staff Victor Hayes fired off an e-mail message to the secretary of the Air Force less than an hour after the test, asking for an immediate secure video-or phone conference. Mortonson was out of the office and didn’t have access to a secure phone. Hayes arrived back at the Pentagon just a few hours later, asking for an immediate face-to-face meeting with the secretary and with Major General Gregory Hammond, director of the Air National Guard Bureau. Hammond was in charge of the office that interfaced the secretary of the Air Force and the chief of staff of the Air Force with the governors and adjutant generals of the states that had Air National Guard units. But by then the shit from the Navy had hit the fan, and Mortonson changed his schedule and took this meeting.

Of course, all this was going on in the middle of one of the biggest military exercises of the year: Team Spirit 2000 was going to kick off in less than two months. Often the controversial political football in peace negotiations between North and South Korea, Team Spirit 2000 had become the largest joint war game in the Pacific. Land, naval, and air forces from the United States, South Korea, and Japan were going to participate in the three-week-long exercise, practicing and demonstrating joint military maneuvers over a broad conflict spectrum and geographic area.

This was the first year that Japan was going to be a full participant instead of an observer or support entity. Because it was in the midst of near-collapse, with a severe government downsizing and financial reorganization program in effect, and still suffering the aftermath of the nuclear detonation in Yokosuka Harbor three years earlier, everything possible was being done to include Japan in major Asian defense events so as to try to keep that nation from sliding back into isolationism or extreme anti-American nationalism. Its ban on all combat-armed American warships in its territorial waters and its threat to close all U.S. military bases were ominous signs that such fears were valid.

About a year after the explosion — which had killed and injured only a handful of Japanese citizens and caused very little damage to Japanese property — Japan had begun buying frontline high-tech surplus military equipment from Russia as if it were dollar day at the Goodwill store. Ex-Russian MiG-29 fighters and Sukhoi-33 fighter-bombers were now flying alongside American-made F-15 fighters in the skies over Japan. It was a clear message that Japan wanted to rearm and assume more of the responsibility of defending itself — and it wanted to do so now. The threat of an economically unstable, ultranationalistic, and rearmed Japan was a serious concern to Washington.

To try to present a unified front, the Vice President of the United States, Ellen Christine Whiting, accompanied by several of the service secretaries and chiefs of staff, was going to tour some of the foreign players’ military bases in the region. Of course, that was not the only reason Mortonson was going along; his main task was to try to talk the Japanese out of buying so much Russian hardware and into buying more American equipment. Mortonson was armed with joint development contracts, licensing agreements, incentives, loan packages, and grant money — everything short of an out-and-out bribe to try to get Japan to buy American again.

The pressure was already on. He didn’t need his own troops adding more gray hairs, wrinkles, and bags under his eyes.

“I’ve got the secretary of defense, the President’s national security adviser, the director of Central Intelligence, and the chief of Naval Operations ready to shit on my desk!” Mortonson shouted after the door to his office was closed. “What in hell went on out there, General?”

Hayes told him — and Mortonson was scared. Stunned, angry, incredulous, yes — but mostly scared.

The secretary of the Air Force was a politician and bureaucrat by trade, not an engineer, scientist, or soldier like some of his predecessors. The politician in him said this was so damaging to the administration, not to mention the Air Force, that the President’s opponents might not even wait until the November elections — they could all be out of a job within days. At a time when the threat to America’s security was at its greatest, and the perceived readiness and ability of the military to fight a major conflict was very low, the last thing the White House or Pentagon needed was an unauthorized test of some unknown weapon.

“General Hayes, I hope you realize the consequences of what you did,” Mortonson said ominously.

“Of course I do, sir,” he said. “I’m also prepared to brief you with results of our tests.”

“Are you prepared to lose your job? Have your career destroyed?” Mortonson asked. “Because that’s what’s going to happen to you, and most likely to me, when I report this to the rest of the Joint Chiefs and the White House. They’re going to blow a gasket.”

“Sir, the thing works,” Hayes said. “The Air Force’s antimissile hunter-killer system works. Forget the plasma-yield warhead for a moment, sir. No harm, no foul. The Navy still doesn’t know what kind of warhead we used, and in my estimation they’ll never figure it out unless someone tells them.”

“You’re giving me this ‘no harm, no foul’ nonsense, Victor?” Mortonson asked incredulously. “You expect me to go in front of the Joint Chiefs and the President and say something like ‘no harm, no foul’? Are you crazy?”

“Sir, what I’d prefer you say is that we have the antiballistic missile system the White House and Congress have been clamoring for,” Hayes said earnestly. “Lieutenant General Terrill Samson at HAWC demonstrated an air-launched antimissile system that is almost as effective as the airborne laser program but that we can field in just a few months. You told me to find a way to fit ABL into the budget — here’s how we do it. I respectfully suggest, sir, you tell the Navy to stuff it.”

“I think we will be fighting to keep from getting our asses stuffed, General,” Mortonson said. He paused, staring across the room for a moment. Then: “It was our range, right?”

“The range is administered by the Navy, and a naval officer was the controlling authority,” Hayes said, “but we were paying for it.” Mortonson closed his eyes and shook his head in exasperation. Hayes was indignant. “Sir, we paid for that range and everything in it. We paid for those ships, we paid for the target rockets, we paid for the antiair missiles, we paid for security, and we would’ve paid any claims in case of an accident. The Navy insisted we accept responsibility for everything. In my mind, that gives us the right to use the range however we want.

“The Navy never gave us any limits on what weapons we could use, only that we not overfly any of their ships with our missiles. We briefed which weapons we’d use and we used what we briefed — except for the plasma-yield warheads. All of the Navy ships were well outside the warheads’ kill radius, which we knew with great precision because that’s a property of the weapon. The Navy knows all about the weapon because they intend to use it on their Aegis Tier Two and Three antiballistic missile weapons. It was perfectly safe. No Navy personnel were in any danger, and they know it.”

“You’re deluding yourself with that argument, General,” said the secretary of the Air Force. “They are going to nail our hides to the wall over this. What was the closest detonation to any ships?”

Hayes checked his notes: “The rocket intercept was thirty miles downrange and at an altitude of seventy-four thousand feet — that’s over twelve nautical miles high,” he replied. “The launch barge was over nine miles from the nearest warship. The explosions didn’t cause a ripple in the water. They didn’t detect any radiation until they sailed right over to ground zero and recovered a piece of the barge, and radiation levels were well below danger levels. The closest nonmilitary vessel was twenty-three miles.”

Hayes was heartened to see Mortonson stop to think again. Good, he thought, maybe he wasn’t ready to concede defeat over this. “All right, General,” Mortonson said finally. “I’ll back your play. I’m going to need a briefing file on the plasma-yield warhead and on the missiles you launched. I’m sure we’ll all take a few turns roasting on the spit, but I think I can keep us from getting completely cooked.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hayes said gratefully.

“Don’t thank me yet, General — if the CNO or the White House wants someone’s ass, it’ll be yours, mine, and Samson’s. We’re not out of the woods by any means. All this means is you have an advocate. It may not do us a lick of good.”

“Then, if you’ll permit me, I suggest you don’t go in there with your hat in your hand, sir,” Hayes said.

“You have something else in mind, General?”

“Sir, we did a successful boost-phase antimissile test this morning,” Hayes said. “We built the weapon they wanted us to build. We have a victory, not a failure. I think the Navy and the Army both know it, or at least suspect it. Let’s capitalize on it. We are ready to begin operational tests of the new ‘Coronet Tiger.’”

Secretary Mortonson shook his head in some confusion. He was very familiar with the program — he had almost lost his confirmation to be secretary of the Air Force because of his overwhelming support of the expensive, controversial weapon system. “Coronet Tiger” was the classified code name of the Air Force’s new antiballistic missile defense program, starting with the airborne laser and continuing on to the new Skybolt space-based laser system.

But in this day and age of military “jointness,” every branch of the service had to be involved or nothing would ever get approval. The airborne laser was the Air Force’s one and only contribution to the new fifty-billion-dollar antiballistic missile program; its designs and plans — and funding — for the space-based laser were all transferred to the Navy.

“I don’t understand, General,” he said irritably. “Coronet Tiger is dead.”

“You can blame Lieutenant General Samson at HAWC for this one too, sir,” Hayes said. “The air-launched antiballistic missile system was Samson’s lab’s invention. He wants to put the Lancelot ABM system on a dozen B-1 bombers and create an antimissile attack squadron. Lancelot is teamed up with cruise missiles to destroy not only enemy rockets but the launchers as well, and Lancelot even has an antisatellite capability. Fast, deployable, survivable, and effective. I’ve got a full report, and I can brief you and the Joint Chiefs whenever you’d like.”

“Forget it, General,” Mortonson said. “There is no way that’s ever going to be approved now. Even if I can keep all our asses out of the fire — which I’m not confident I can do — there’s no way in hell the Department of Defense will authorize funding for a new squadron of B-1s to carry these weapons. Hell, we’ll be lucky if they let us keep Dreamland open, let alone allow us to keep those missiles.”

“Samson has already drawn up an organizational chart and preliminary budget proposal,” Hayes said. “He suggests we fund and equip the unit through the Air National Guard. We share the cost of the conversion, training, upkeep, and basing with the Guard. He’s got it laid out pretty well, sir. I think it’s worth a look.”

Mortonson scowled at Hayes, then glanced at General Gregory Hammond. “You seen any of these numbers, Greg?”

“Yes, sir,” Hammond replied. He shrugged noncommittally. “It’s workable. It’s certainly cutting-edge, so the states might actually compete to get such a unit. Kansas, Georgia, Nevada — they can all afford to invest in the conversion. A popular, needed technology, lots of deployments, maybe a training center in the future for the first unit that gets the weapon — the states see an opportunity for big revenues from this. And each state has nationally known congressmen, so interest and visibility will be very high.”

“Who has the best package?”

“Hard to say exactly, sir, but — no pun intended — I’d put my money on Nevada,” Hammond replied with a slight smile. “They have two possible facilities other than the Reno-Tahoe Airport: Tonopah and the old Tuscarora Air Force Base near Battle Mountain. Both have first-class runways, taxiways, construction areas, and weapons storage facilities — they just need major work on buildings and infrastructure, which the state would fund to our specifications.”

“The Nevada Air Guard, eh?” Mortonson remarked. “The Reno B-1 bomber unit? Not only do they not deserve an upgraded unit, they probably deserve to be disbanded. What’s the latest on that crash investigation?”

“The investigators are now saying crew error and possibly a dummy missile hit them,” Hammond replied. “The crew was performing a ‘scram’ maneuver, which is a tight turn to get away from a ground threat. The finding is unofficial right now because we have a lot of new information, but it’s been demonstrated in two different B-1 simulators.”

“How did it happen?”

“A flight manual procedural ‘Warning’ violation,” Hammond responded. “The final report will be out in a few days, sir, but it appears the pilot initiated a steep bank turn over sixty degrees during a high-G low-altitude maneuver — in fact, he may have exceeded ninety degrees. The bank automatically causes the terrain-avoidance system to do a fail-safe fly-up. At the same time, the crew is trying to slow the bomber down…”

“Slow it down? Why? Isn’t going slower dangerous?”

“No, because the B-1 turns faster at a slower speed,” Hayes explained. “It’s called cornering velocity. Every crew computes that speed for the altitude and gross weight it’ll be at during the bomb runs. If they decelerate to cornering velocity, they can turn faster without fear of stalling.” He paused, considering, then added, “They’d have the bomber at max Gs and throttles idle. This crew popped their speedbrakes to slow down faster. Deploying speedbrakes also decreases roll efficiency, which is why bank angles are limited by procedure to forty-five degrees.”

“The theory presented by the unit said that several of the little papier-mâché rockets the Navy uses to simulate surface-to-air missile launches flew into the speed-brakes, causing them to not fully retract,” Hammond went on.

“And?” Mortonson asked.

“It was confirmed by Navy range officers,” Hammond said. “They didn’t expect the B-1 to make that tight turn, thinking they were firing well clear of the plane. Several of the rockets came close enough to the bomber so that they might have hit it. Combine that with low speed, crossed-up flight controls adding more drag, and low altitude, and you have your accident. The papier-mâché rockets would leave no trace, so there was no evidence at the crash scene. Engineers are going over this scenario, and so far we think it’s the most likely explanation.”

“The bottom line is, our crews screwed up,” Mortonson repeated bitterly. “That is unacceptable. Totally unacceptable.”

“It happens to the best crews, sir,” General Hayes said somberly. “In the heat of battle, the crews react. Most times their training takes over, and they come out of it okay. This time it didn’t happen.”

“That doesn’t cut it, General,” Mortonson said. “Losing planes in combat is one thing. Losing a two-hundred-million-dollar bomber in a training exercise in good weather is not acceptable.”

“Fly low and fast, and even one small mistake can be deadly,” the chief of staff said. Hayes had lost too many good friends in aircraft accidents — he knew that it could happen even to the best of the best. “The crews train hard. And these were the best Air National Guard bomber crews in the force — and one of the best in the entire world. They were aggressive…”

“They screwed up, General,” Mortonson emphasized. “I don’t care how aggressive they were or how many trophies they’ve won. Something happened. Someone lost it. In war, I can understand that — but in peacetime, no. We have rules, don’t we, General? We have rules of engagement? The crews are briefed not to push it to the edge, right? Train hard, I know, but they aren’t encouraged to be unsafe just to win a training exercise, are they, General?” When Hayes hesitated, the secretary of the Air Force looked as if he was going to explode in rage. “Well? Are they?”

“The crews are briefed on the rules of engagement, yes, sir,” Hayes responded. “But both sides play it as if it’s the real thing. They use every bit of their skills and experience to win…”

“So I noticed,” Mortonson said. “Reminds me of you and Samson, pulling that stunt today with that plasma-yield weapon. You do anything you think you need to do to win. Well, I think you’ve screwed yourselves this time with that kind of thinking.

“General, this is not a failure of our crews — it’s a failure of our training, which is a failure of command,” Mortonson went on. “After the stunt you pulled out in the Navy test range, I’m not surprised that our crews have the same attitude. Win at all costs, right, General? Forget the regulations as long as the bombs are on target, right?”

“Sir, I am the senior uniformed officer of the United States Air Force,” General Hayes said. “I am responsible for each and every man and machine under me, and I include the Air Guard and Reserves. If you need a sacrificial lamb, sir, I’m your man.”

“General, I goddamn guarantee that all of our necks are on the chopping block right now,” Mortonson said. “Your head will just be the first one to roll.” He knew he should fire Hayes right now, do it before Congress and the White House questioned why he waited so long. But he realized he couldn’t do it. Hayes was wrong, dead wrong… but he was wrong for all the right reasons.

And he did have Coronet Tiger. The real antiballistic missile systems — the airborne laser, the Navy’s Aegis Tier Three, and the space-based laser called Skybolt — were all many years in the future. Congress was so frustrated with the delays, failures, and cost overruns that they were ready to either cancel the entire program or, worse, buy an inferior system.

This Lancelot system might save their bacon, even from something as serious as setting a subnuclear device off in the Navy’s face.

Mortonson thought for another moment, then asked, “Why a Guard unit, General? Why not an active-duty unit?”

“Money, sir,” Hayes replied. “Right now this project is totally off the books, buried in HAWC’s black research budget. Brad Elliott bounced enough checks and wrote enough IOUs to get a handful of his creations flying — it’s the way he always did things. But Terrill Samson doesn’t want to play it that way. He knows it’s not his job to create tactical units — his job is to test hardware. If he gets full authorization, he’ll turn over his technology and weapons to whatever unit we want and provide training for that unit. Otherwise, he’ll put it all back on the shelf where it came from.”

“If we decided to deploy an active-duty antimissile squadron, we would need to either convert a unit or stand up a new unit, both of which will take time and money,” said Mortonson.

“With the Air National Guard, we use the states to help fund the program, sir,” Hammond pointed out. “The states will pay the bulk of the costs — the physical plant, the personnel costs, and the cost of daily training and upkeep. We give the states the planes, pay for the upgrade equipment, and we pay the costs of certifying each unit to our standards. If the President federalizes the unit, we pay the states a fixed fee. It’s a good deal all around.”

“But the main reason General Samson suggested using the Air Guard is performance,” said Hayes. “The bottom line is, the Air Guard guys are good. Their personnel are as well trained and as knowledgeable as any active-duty unit. The unit that lost the plane won the last Bomb Comp trophy. They are the best around.”

“Why the hell is that?”

“It’s a completely different world in the Air Guard, sir,” General Hammond said. “Flying for the Guard is treated as a special privilege, like belonging to a special club. It’s more competitive because there are fewer slots, so they only take the best of the best. Each candidate is handpicked by the adjutant general and the governor. To weed out candidates, most units require their members to be longtime residents of the state, so you really have to make a long-term commitment to the unit. Some Guard members serve with the same unit and fly the same planes for years. They don’t get uprooted every few years or worry about promotion or reassignment like the active-duty troops do. They have to compete every year to keep their jobs, so they’re aggressive. They take pride in their units on an entirely different level than the active-duty force does, because they represent their hometown and their state.”

“You know about all the criticism we’re getting about Guard and Reserve units flying these planes, don’t you?” Mortonson asked Hayes. “Part-timers can’t handle sophisticated war machines. What do you think? Should we do away with the Air National Guard bomber program?”

“You know that talk is all bullshit, sir,” Hayes replied. “These guys are only replacement units, not frontline fighters. They train hard and work hard, but they’re not the equivalent of the active-duty force. They exist to give us a reserve fighting force that can be mobilized and ready to fight in a matter of weeks or months. It’s a trade-off. We don’t spend as much money keeping their men and machines in the inventory, but we don’t have those forces available quickly or at such a high state of readiness.”

“You’ve given me the politically correct reply, Victor,” Mortonson said, “but I want to hear what you think. Is it a good idea to let part-timers fly the fast jets?”

“They’ve been flying the fast jets for years, sir,” Hayes replied. “The Reserve forces account for about one-third of all the missions flown by the Air Force. In some missions, like air defense, they account for one hundred percent. There’s only two weapon systems they don’t fly, the stealth bomber and stealth fighter, and that’s because we don’t have that many of those to begin with.”

Mortonson glared at Hayes. “Dammit, General,” he said, “are you ever going to give me a straight answer? Do you think it’s a wise move, a wise investment, to have the Guard and Reserves flying planes like the B-1 bombers?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Hayes replied resolutely. “I believe in the concept of the citizen soldier. I’d rather see talented, highly trained crews get out of the active-duty force and fly in a Guard or Reserve unit for a few years than be sucked into the civilian market where we can’t use their skills. The Guard and Reserves preserve a good bit of the hundreds of thousands of training dollars we spend per crewman — if he didn’t fly in the Guard or Reserves after active duty, we’d waste all the investment we made.”

Mortonson carefully considered that argument. “Point taken,” he said, nodding. “That’s too big an issue to handle right now anyway. General, I’m not going to consider your antiballistic missile squadron idea at this time. We’re going to have our hands full trying to convince the Joint Chiefs, SECDEF, and the President that we’re not a couple of maverick nutcases ready to plunge the world into a nuclear holocaust…”

“Sir, before you say no, here’s what we have right now,” Hayes said quickly. “We’ve got weapons, avionics, training materials, and spares ready to equip two more planes. The gear is already bought and paid for. If Terrill Samson gets authorization and funding, he can put together two more Lancelot planes within three months, and ten more within a year. Let’s find a couple of airframes and some crews and give it a shot. If it doesn’t work, we haven’t wasted anything. If it does work and you want to proceed, we’re already in motion.”

Mortonson hesitated — another good sign, especially for a guy known to make snap decisions. “These will be Air National Guard assets?”

“We’ve already got several candidates lined up,” General Hammond said, “and we can begin the selection process immediately. All we need is a go-ahead.”

Mortonson hesitated once again, then nodded. “All right. Put it together for four airframes only. But be prepared to put it all back on the shelf if SECDEF or the White House says no.” Both Hayes and Hammond nodded. “Speaking of the Air National Guard, what’s the current status of that Nevada Guard unit?”

“They are fully operational, with five manned planes, one plane without a full crew, and one spare,” General Hammond responded. “The five crews are reserve mission capable, which means they can be called up, used as replacements, or trained to full combat-ready status within sixty days. They begin their unit requalification course in a few weeks.”

“If they pass it, they stay — if they don’t, we pull the plug on them,” the secretary of the Air Force said flatly. “We don’t have the money to waste on ineffective units, even if the state is putting up a bunch of money to support them.”

“Sir, I think this Nevada Air National Guard unit might be exactly the guys we’re looking for with this new antiballistic missile intercept squadron,” Victor Hayes suggested. “The mission demands an experienced and hard-charging crew…”

“No way, Victor,” Mortonson interrupted, waving a hand in dismissal. “Frankly, I’m hoping for the sake of our budget that they don’t pass their requalification test. Putting seven B-1 bombers on ice will save us billions per year. It might send a message to the rest of the force too — shape up, or you’ll find yourselves unemployed.”

“I think it’ll definitely send a message, Mr. Secretary,” Hayes said. “I think the message will say, ‘Don’t be aggressive, don’t risk it, because if you screw up, you’ll be shit-canned.’ Sir.”

“My message about shaping up or you’ll find yourself unemployed applies to the commanders as well as the airmen, General Hayes,” Mortonson said acidly. “It should probably go double for you and General Samson. You take risks, you’d better be prepared to accept the consequences. That is all.”