Eagle Station

Sixteen

Until last year, Major Ian Schofield had led the Iron Wolf Squadron’s commando teams, training them in the dark arts of ambush, long-range reconnaissance, and sabotage carried out deep inside enemy territory. Now the lean, wiry Canadian did much the same thing for Scion itself.

He’d been leading his most recent group of Scion recruits, all of them already veterans from half a dozen of the free world’s best special forces units, through an intensive wilderness survival course when the emergency call from Battle Mountain came in. Ferried by helicopter to this remote city only a few hundred kilometers south of the Arctic Circle, he’d barely had time to wash up and change before hustling back to the edge of the flight line.

NORAD’s Forward Operating Location Yellowknife was a secure military hangar complex sited immediately adjacent to the civilian airport. One of four similar small facilities built across Canada’s far northern frontier, it was intended to strengthen the sparsely populated region’s air defenses. Currently, two Canadian CF-18 Hornet fighters were on standby here, forward-deployed to deter long-range Russian reconnaissance flights over the polar region.

“That aircraft you’re waiting for is on final approach, Major,” the Royal Canadian Air Force warrant officer assigned as his escort said helpfully. “It’s coming in low over the Great Slave Lake.”

Obediently, Schofield swung his binoculars to the southeast. Even this late, past ten at night, there was still plenty of light. Sharp-edged shadows slanted past him across the tarmac. The sun, a fiery orange ball, was at his back — hanging just above the northwest horizon. This close to the Arctic Circle, late summer days were long and the nights were very short.

He squinted, fiddling with the focus, while he zoomed in on a black batwing-configured aircraft descending rapidly toward Yellowknife’s Runway 28. Four large engines were buried in the wing’s upper surface, and he caught just a quick flash of gold-tinged sunlight reflecting off a cockpit canopy.

“I don’t recognize the type,” the Canadian airman beside him commented.

Schofield’s teeth gleamed white in a face weathered by years spent outdoors in all climates and seasons. “You wouldn’t,” he said cheerfully. “It’s quite literally the only one of its kind.”

“And if you told me more—”

“I’d have to kill you,” Schofield said, sounding even more cheerful. “Though of course with the greatest regret.”

As the approaching aircraft crossed the lake’s rocky shoreline and flew low over Yellowknife’s city streets and houses, the muffled roar of its engines diminished sharply. Several control surfaces whined open on the wing’s trailing edge, providing more lift as its airspeed decreased. A nose gear and twin wing-mounted bogies swung smoothly down and locked in position.

By the time it was around a mile from the runway, the plane seemed to be almost gliding noiselessly — skimming along barely above bare granite outcroppings and scattered stands of pine and spruce. It came in very low over the white striped lines that marked the threshold… and touched down with just a puff of light gray smoke from its landing gear. Immediately, those big engines powered back up, howling shrilly as the pilot sharply reversed thrust and braked. Amazingly, it rolled to a complete stop in less than a thousand feet.

Beside Schofield, the RCAF warrant officer muttered, “Good Christ, that was—”

Schofield coughed meaningfully.

“Something I didn’t see,” the warrant officer finished.

“I do appreciate a fast learner,” Schofield said with approval.

Together, they watched the black flying wing taxi farther down Runway 28, make a sharp left turn onto the airport’s longer main runway, and keep rolling — obviously heading for the taxiway to the NORAD base. As it got closer, its true dimensions were more apparent. The aircraft was roughly the size of one of Scion’s Gulfstream 600 business jets, though its overall configuration made it look more like a miniature B-2 Spirit stealth bomber.

Schofield turned to his guide. “I believe this is where you make yourself scarce, Warrant Officer McNeil.”

“Yes, sir.”

Schofield shook hands with the younger Canadian and then handed him a business card. It was blank, except for a telephone number. “If you ever get bored with service in the regular armed forces, ring that number,” he suggested. “We’re always on the lookout for able and discreet people.”

Five minutes later, he paced alongside the midsize jet aircraft as it slowly taxied into an empty hangar. Then he stood quietly off to the side, waiting while the hangar’s big doors rolled closed, sealing them away from any curious, prying eyes. The low rumble from its engines died away, leaving only silence.

Moments later, a hatch opened below the cockpit and a short crew ladder unfolded. Wearing a black flight suit, Brad McLanahan slid down the ladder. He turned lithely at the bottom and helped Nadia through the hatch. With his arms still wrapped around her slender waist, he set her down gently on the hangar floor, where she stood perched on the tips of her carbon-fiber running blades. For a moment, the two of them just stood there, entwined.

Schofield cleared his throat loudly.

Brad swung toward him with a grin. “Hey, Ian.” He took in the other man’s neatly pressed battle dress. “I’m sorry that I had to pull you away from your training exercise.”

“It was hard to leave all that lovely muck and mire behind,” Schofield said complacently. “But sacrifices must sometimes be made.”

They walked out from under the fuselage to join him. On the way, Brad proudly patted the aircraft’s black radar-absorbent coating. “So, what do you think of her?” he asked. “A beaut, isn’t she?”

“I thought this was my old friend, the Ranger stealth transport aircraft,” Schofield said carefully. He, Brad, and Nadia had served together on three high-risk covert missions over the past several years — the first to attack Perun’s Aerie, a cyberwar complex buried in the Ural Mountains, the second to hunt down and destroy Russia’s war robots rampaging inside the United States itself, and the third, just last year, to pull Brad himself out of enemy territory. All three missions had been flown using a Sky Masters — designed stealthy, short takeoff and landing (STOL) tactical airlifter, the XCV-62 Ranger. “But up close, this particular aircraft seems… well, bigger. Especially those engines.”

“Your grasp of the technical aspects of military aviation is, as always, eye-opening,” Brad said with a laugh.

“He means that you are right, Ian,” Nadia explained helpfully.

Brad nodded. “You’re actually looking at the XCV-70 Rustler.”

“Another of Sky Masters’ experimental prototypes?” Schofield asked.

“Yep,” Brad said. “Boomer set the design process in motion right after he read our classified after-action report on Perun’s Aerie. He figured some improvements might be welcome.”

Schofield nodded, remembering the risks they’d been forced to run, thanks to the older aircraft’s inherent limitations. While it was a remarkable machine for its day, the Ranger’s comparatively low subsonic speed, relative lack of maneuverability, and inability to carry any offensive weapons were serious disadvantages once things got hot. “I assume Dr. Noble and his design team succeeded?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Brad said with undisguised enthusiasm. “The Rustler’s just as stealthy and STOL-capable… but she’s got significantly more range and a hell of a lot more power. At least in short bursts.” He pointed to the aircraft’s four large wing-buried engines. “Each of those GE Affinity engines produces four thousand more pounds of thrust than the Rolls-Royce Tay 620-15 turbofans mounted on the XCV-62. Plus, they’re supersonic-capable.”

“But only at the cost of a considerable expenditure of fuel,” Nadia reminded him.

Undaunted, Brad shrugged. “Sure, there’s always a trade-off. TANSTAAFL, right? ‘There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch,’” he quoted.

Schofield nodded his understanding. Aircraft design was always a blend of compromises between speed, maneuverability, sturdiness, range, and, in this age, stealth. Significantly improving one aspect of a plane’s performance almost invariably entailed accepting somewhat weaker performance in other areas.

“The other good news is that we’re not going in unarmed this time,” Brad continued. He indicated two internal bays on the underside of the XCV-70’s fuselage. “Besides the usual array of defenses — SPEAR, flares, and chaff — we can carry offensive weapons, a mix of heat-seeking air-to-air missiles and air-to-ground ordnance.”

“Very nice, indeed,” Schofield said with real feeling. In previous missions, he’d intensely disliked the sensation of being a helpless passenger strapped into the Ranger’s troop compartment. Knowing that the Ranger itself was equally unable to fight back under enemy attack had made that feeling even worse. “So, when all’s said and done, this XCV-70 Rustler of yours is faster, longer-ranged, and has teeth of its own.” Brad nodded with a grin. “And the trade-off for all of that is?” Schofield asked.

“Significant reductions in the aircraft’s cargo and passenger capacity,” Nadia informed him. “Where the XCV-62 could carry twelve of your troops or three of Iron Wolf’s combat robots, the Rustler has room for only a small fire team, no more than four soldiers… or just a single Cybernetic Infantry Device.”

Schofield raised an eyebrow. “Four passengers total?”

“Yep,” Brad said.

“And we’re flying in to extract a three-person Scion intelligence unit?”

Brad nodded again. “Uh-huh.”

Elaborately, Schofield looked around the otherwise empty hangar as if noticing for the first time that he was alone. He turned back to the other man. “So if things go sour while the aircraft’s on the ground inside Russia—?”

“You’d be our private, one-man field army,” Brad acknowledged solemnly.

“You know, Brad,” Schofield said carefully, “much as I relish a reputation for working miracles, there are limits.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” the younger man promised. “Look, I won’t lie. The margin’s pretty thin on every part of this mission. We’ll be riding a razor’s edge practically from the moment we take off. Given that, this is strictly a volunteer gig. If you want out, no harm, no foul.”

“But the two of you are going anyway? With me, or without me?” Schofield asked, eyeing Nadia. “Despite the risks?”

She nodded. “Brad and I have worked through the mission plan to the best of our ability, Ian.” She shrugged her shoulders slightly. “It will be dangerous. And very difficult. But I do not believe that it is necessarily impossible.”

Schofield sighed. “Put like that, how can I refuse? Count me in.”