Executive Intent

EIGHT

OFFICE OF THE VICE PRESIDENT, EISENHOWER EXECUTIVE OFFICE BUILDING, WASHINGTON, D.C.

LATER THAT MORNING

Although many past American vice presidents had an office in the West Wing of the White House, Joseph Gardner had completely banished Kenneth Phoenix to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building across the street from the White House, along with the National Security Council and other top advisers, preferring to have his chief of staff orchestrate the schedule and bring the staff to him rather than have them always hovering around. Phoenix took advantage of the gentle snub and greatly expanded his suite of offices, making it a true working office while retaining its traditional ceremonial uses.

Representatives from the president’s national security adviser, secretary of defense, State Department, attorney general, Central Intelligence Agency, and other federal departments got to their feet when Vice President Phoenix entered his conference room. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thanks for being here,” he said. He took a few minutes to shake hands and exchange pleasantries with the panel members. They were all young assistant deputy directors or lower rank-this panel didn’t rate any higher-ranked representatives. Phoenix took his seat at the head of the table, and the others took their seats as well. “Our goal today is to finish the draft of the revised National Space Policy and prepare it for review, and my goal is to get a draft in the president’s hand by the time he returns from his West Coast campaign swing. But before we begin: Any thoughts about the Chinese attacks in Yemen?”

“I think it’s still too early to tell for sure, sir,” the representative from the State Department, Annette Douglass, the highest-ranking member of the panel, said. “I understand the Security Council met about it early this morning, but I haven’t heard the outcome.”

“They authorized Russia to set up security at the port in Aden until the Chinese could remove their casualties,” Phoenix said. “Then China is going to lead a multinational investigation, including FBI and NCIS.”

“They must believe it was Islamist terrorists, maybe some sort of retaliation for Chinese attacks in Somalia,” Douglass said. “It fits. Yemen has been battling al-Qaeda-related insurgents for years. With Russians on the ground, things should quiet down quickly.”

“Let’s hope so,” the vice president said. He cast his eyes around the conference table. “Anybody else?” No one answered. “It might be a little early to say for sure, but I think it’s a little suspicious myself.” His eyes rested on the youngest member of the panel, the representative from the CIA, who seemed to perk up a bit at the vice president’s remark. “Mr. Dobson? Something?”

Tim Dobson looked a little disheveled and rumpled; his tie was a lot off center, and his dark hair was tousled a bit too much to be considered stylish, but Phoenix always found the young CIA assistant deputy director’s views insightful and his breadth of knowledge amazing. “Uh…yes, sir, there’s a few things I found fishy, too, sir.”

“Like what?”

“The…uh, the Chinese casualty count.”

“What was it…twelve?”

“Reportedly went up to twenty-one, sir,” Dobson said.

“Seem low to you?”

“Yes, sir,” Dobson said. “The ship was hit in the right rear quarter in the engineering spaces, close to crew quarters and a chow hall. Late afternoon, day shift on their way for the evening meal, brand-new port of call, and helicopter resupply ongoing-I would have expected more men on deck, more casualties.”

“Interesting,” Phoenix mused. “What else?”

“The ship itself,” Dobson said. “The Wuxi was one of the oldest Jianghu-2-class frigates in China ’s fleet-almost forty years old. It was in poor repair and had never been away from Chinese home waters before-in fact, it had spent most of the last five years in port, not even making any routine patrols. On more than one occasion it had been observed being towed by an oceangoing tug that had accompanied the Zhenyuan battle group-it had to go into Aden Harbor for refueling because its steering mechanism was too sloppy to attempt underway refueling that the rest of the task force was practicing. The rest of the Zhenyuan group is made up of much more modern designs.” Dobson was talking faster as he started to get excited about voicing his observations-apparently few others at Langley were willing to listen to him. “But all of a sudden there it is, thousands of miles from home.”

“So what?” the national security adviser’s representative asked. “The Chinese wanted to put together this task force. Maybe that ship was the best available.”

“What are you saying, Tim?” the vice president asked. “That it was old and expendable?”

“Yes, sir,” Dobson said confidently. “It was sacrificed.”

“Why?”

“To give China the excuse it needed to bomb the city,” Dobson said very matter-of-factly, as if he had calculated this theory aeons ago.

“That’s nuts,” Douglass muttered.

“ China ’s version of the Gulf of Tonkin incident?” the vice president asked. The two supposed attacks on American destroyers by North Vietnamese torpedo boats in the Gulf of Tonkin in what was then North Vietnam prompted the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution in the U.S. Congress in 1964, authorizing President Johnson to take any steps necessary to protect Southeast Asian nations from Communist aggression-it became the main justification for expanded U.S. involvement in Vietnam. The second of the two torpedo-boat attacks was later proved not to have occurred.

“Exactly, sir,” Dobson said. “We already wondered about how the Chinese could have put that air raid on so soon after the Wuxi was hit-”

“We know that the Zhenyuan was already doing exercises with its air wing at the time.”

“Exercises…with live ordnance?” Dobson asked. “Doesn’t make sense.”

“So you think the whole thing was staged so China could attack Aden?” Douglass asked incredulously. “Why?”

“Maybe they wanted to invade Aden, like they did with Somalia,” Dobson said. “Then they’d have a presence on both sides of the Gulf of Aden.”

“But they didn’t invade. No one invaded.”

“No one invaded…but this morning Russia got permission from the United Nations Security Council to set up security in the harbor area,” the vice president said. “They’re going to send in five hundred marines to provide security so China can get its casualties and ship out of the harbor.”

“But that’s not an invasion, sir,” Douglass said. “It’s a prudent security move, especially for China. And Russia has history in Aden. It makes sense.”

“But it also gives China and Russia bases in the Gulf of Aden,” Dobson said.

“ China doesn’t have a base in the Gulf of Aden.”

“If they consolidated their hold in northern Somalia, they would,” Dobson pointed out.

“But they’re getting ready to leave. They’re bringing in cruise ships to take their troops out…”

“I haven’t seen any evidence of them leaving,” Dobson said, “and after this incident-real or contrived-in Yemen, I don’t think they’ll be in any big hurry to leave the region. In fact, they attacked a suspected pirate base at Butyaalo in Puntland autonomous region on the Gulf of Aden, and reportedly kept a three-hundred-man garrison there in the pirates’ walled compound.”

“So you think Russia and China want to set up bases around the Gulf of Aden, Tim?” Phoenix asked.

“Five hundred marines in Aden and three hundred in Butyaalo so far from home need a lot of support, sir,” Dobson replied. “And if there are more so-called terrorist acts, they may need a lot more marines in both places.”

“So you’re saying that China conspired with Russia to set up this phony terrorist act, using an old and broken-down ship and making sure they didn’t have too many casualties, so China could bomb Aden, which prompts the United Nations to have Russia send in marines in an overarching plot to take over the port and eventually control the Gulf of Aden?” the State Department representative asked. She shook her head. “I think you’ve been reading too many cheesy techno-thrillers, Dobson. Why would Russia conspire to do anything with China? They may not be enemies, but they’re far from being allies.”

“Okay, okay, I think we’ve gotten way off topic here,” the vice president said, holding up his hands in mock surrender, smiling broadly. “I enjoy these exchanges, and I’d like you to put your thoughts down in a memo to my national security team later on, but let’s get back to finishing the space-policy draft, shall we?” He glanced at the agenda for the meeting. “The big issue at the end of the last meeting was the question of the space policy violating or abrogating any existing treaties or alliances. What did we-” And at that moment the phone rang. The vice president rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “I promise, we are going to finish that draft this hour. Excuse me.” He picked up the phone. “Yes, Denise?”

“Mr. Kordus for you, sir.”

“Put him on.”

“Mr. Vice President?”

“Hi, Walter.”

“Conrad got a call from Miller at the Pentagon, something about the space station,” the president’s chief of staff said. “Said it was urgent. The president’s getting ready to touch down in Arizona and asked me to ask you to find out what’s going on.”

“I’ll take care of it.” The line went dead. Phoenix hung up the phone, then pressed the intercom button. “Denise, give Mr. Carlyle a call for me, will you?”

“Mr. Carlyle is on his way to the Situation Room with Secretary Turner, sir. He should arrive in the next few minutes.”

The vice president’s eyes narrowed, and he picked up the phone. “Right now, Denise? What’s going…?” He listened for a moment, then hung up and said to his panel members before him, “I lied, guys-we won’t finish the draft today. I’ll e-mail you all to reschedule.” He got to his feet, and the others jumped up as well. As Phoenix dashed for the door, he said over his shoulder, “Mr. Dobson, you’re with me.”

The two walked quickly to a staircase, were met by a plain-clothes Secret Service agent, hurried down to the first basement floor, and then entered the tunnel connecting the Eisenhower Executive Office Building to the White House. It was a short walk upstairs to the White House Situation Room, where Phoenix found National Security Adviser Conrad Carlyle, Secretary of Defense Miller Turner, and Secretary of the Air Force Salazar Banderas. On the large computer monitor in the front of the room was an image of Brigadier General Kai Raydon and Undersecretary of the Air Force Ann Page, on a secure videoconference link. Phoenix pointed to Dobson. “Tim Dobson from CIA, helping me on the space-policy review; I asked him to come along. What’s going on, guys?”

“It’s possible the Space Defense Force weapon garages are being attacked, Mr. Vice President,” Turner said.

“What?”

“General Raydon, run it down for the vice president,” Miller said.

“Yes, sir,” Kai began. “Mr. Noble and my engineers and staff carefully studied data from the Kingfisher interceptor garages, along with other sensor data, and discovered two things: The same faults occurred on all the affected garages; and the faults occurred in virtually the same spots over the Earth.”

“Someone was shooting at the weapon garages?”

“Yes, sir, but not with a kinetic weapon, but with data. We believe the Russians are bombarding our satellites with viruslike data that enters the garages’ computer system through their digital radar sensors and causes certain systems to shut down or crash.”

“How do you know it’s the Russians, General?”

“The faults occur shortly after the satellites pass over Russian signals intelligence and space surveillance sites,” Kai replied. “Specifically, sites in Venezuela, the Kamchatka Peninsula in Siberia, Socotra Island off the coast of Somalia, and Murmansk.”

“Can you verify that?”

“They proposed modifying the weapon garages with signal-gathering packages that can collect any intrusive outside signals and send them to the space station for analysis, sir,” Carlyle said. “Their engineers are working to devise a suitable package.”

“But as of now…?”

“No, sir, we can’t positively say the Russians are doing the damage.”

“Can you jam or block the outside signals?”

“Not yet, sir,” Raydon said. “We’re working on defensive software for the garages-basically antivirus software. Our only other option right now is to shut down the digital active electronically scanned array radars whenever they come within range of a Russian site, but then we’d be letting them know we know what they’re up to.”

“Seems to me you have no choice-it’s probably costing a ton of money to repair those things,” Phoenix said. “What about the Chinese?”

“We believe the cause of the explosion of the Kingfisher-Eight garage was the result of a successful Chinese DF-21 antisatellite-missile attack,” Raydon said.

“I’ll ask it again: Can you verify that?” the vice president asked after a stunned pause.

“No, sir, we can’t,” Ann Page said. “The satellite that could have done so, Kingfisher-Eight, was already damaged-due to the data attack by the Russians, we believe-and shut down when the missile was launched.”

“But we can detect missile launches with other satellites, right?”

“We believe the launch was hidden from heat sensors by a decoy: A large fire near the launch site obliterated the rocket launch.”

“So you’re not sure there was a DF-21 launch.”

“It could have been launched from there, but no, sir, we didn’t actually see it,” Ann admitted.

“But we did learn that the weapon garage hadn’t malfunctioned-it actually detected the incoming ASAT missile and tried to launch an interceptor,” Kai said. “We interpreted the sudden, uncommanded arming as a fault causing an explosion, but it was actually the garage detecting the attack and maneuvering to try to defeat it.”

“Unbelievable,” Phoenix said, shaking his head. “But you have no proof of any of the attacks, right?”

“The signal gatherer will tell us if the Russians are trying their own version of netrusion on our garages, and we’ll have to shut down the AESA radars until we find a way to block the harmful data,” Kai said. “As far as the Chinese DF-21s are concerned: Every malfunctioning weapon garage and every unprotected satellite in low Earth orbit is a target, and the more sites the Chinese build, the more satellites will be at risk.”

“So you’re saying we’re completely on the defensive here?” the vice president asked. “We can’t stop the Russians from injecting viruses into our satellites, and we can’t stop the Chinese from building ASATs all over the world? I don’t buy any of that for a second. The president is going to need more options, gentlemen. Let’s start putting some plans together.” He picked up a telephone on the conference table as the others left the Situation Room, leaving the vice president with Dobson and the images of Raydon and Page still connected on the secure videoconference line. “Get me the president, please.”

A few moments later: “Hi, Ken,” President Gardner said. “Did you get the briefing?”

“I did, sir. It’s staggering. None of our satellites are safe.”

“I wanted you to get that info to show you how important my proposed global ban on antisatellite weapons is, Ken,” the president said. “The arms race in space is on. And as soon as we figure out a way to stop one form of attack, another one will pop up, and then we have to pay to find a way to defeat it. It’s nothing but a treadmill, Ken, and I want to get off. The revised National Space Policy is the first step. If we have to do a unilateral antisatellite-weapon ban to show the world how serious we are, then so be it.”

“But what are we going to do now, sir?” Phoenix asked. “ Russia and China didn’t just demonstrate their antisatellite capabilities-they actually attacked our satellites!”

“And they got our attention, too, which I believe was their intention all along,” the president said. “But we don’t have real proof they did anything, do we? We have a lot of circumstantial evidence, but nothing definite. There’s nothing we can do.”

“An American airman died in space because of what the Russians and Chinese did, sir.”

“And as an attorney, you know that you need a lot more than circumstantial evidence to prove murder beyond a shadow of a doubt. I’m just as angry as you over the death of that officer, and it probably would not have happened if the attacks hadn’t happened-”

“‘Probably,’ sir?”

“-but in the absence of concrete proof,” the president went on, apparently ignoring Phoenix’s remark, “there’s nothing we can do except work to make sure such weapons are banned forever. We’d look foolish confronting the Russians or Chinese with unprovable accusations.” The president paused, but Phoenix said nothing. “Am I correct, Ken? Or do you have some suggestions?”

“I like the idea of dropping a CID onto one of those Russian space surveillance sites or Chinese DF-21 missile sites and seeing how much damage it could do,” Phoenix said. A CID, or Cybernetic Infantry Device, was a ten-foot-tall piloted composite-shelled robot with superhuman strength, greatly enhanced speed, and self-protection features, and which carried advanced sensors and weapons-it was, in essence, a one-man infantry platoon. Although still experimental and not produced in great numbers, it had proven itself in battles ranging from America ’s borders to Iraq and Persia, once known as Iran. “Maybe they’ll think twice about test-firing one of their weapons at an American satellite.”

“Been talking with McLanahan again, have you?” the president asked.

“No, sir, that was my idea. I’ve seen those things in action.”

There was a long pause from the president’s side of the connection- Phoenix did not know that the president, too, had seen McLanahan’s futuristic infantry weapons systems in action, up close and personal, and not in a good way. Finally: “Listen, Ken, I know those manned robots are cool and tough, and it would be fun to see one use a DF-21 missile like a punching bag, but it’s not going to happen,” the president said. “The days of Patrick McLanahan sending these high-tech toys around the world in search of self-aggrandizing retribution are over. Hell, where do you think Russia and China got the idea of the so-called operational test? McLanahan did it all the time.”

“I don’t like the idea of accepting these attacks as part of the new status quo.”

“I told you what we’re going to do, Ken: We’re going to rewrite the National Space Policy to make it more inclusive and less hostile, and we’re going to work to ban antisatellite weapons around the world,” the president said. “I need your help on this. Am I going to get it?”

Phoenix hesitated as long as he dared, then replied, “Of course, Mr. President.”

“Good. Looking forward to reading that draft. Oh, I ran the idea of sending some long-range bomber muscle in and around the Chinese and Russian fleets, and the staff seemed to like the idea. Stacy spoke with the Russian and Chinese foreign ministers, and-”

“You told the Russians and Chinese we were going to shadow their fleets with a bomber, sir?”

“You didn’t think I was going to send a bomber out there without telling them?” the president asked. “This is peacetime, Ken, remember? Everyone agreed to be cool. We maintain radio contact, we don’t spook anyone, we go in unarmed, we take a few pictures, that’s it. A show of force, but no pressure.”

“Doesn’t sound like a show of force, sir. More like a photo op.”

“No use in stirring the pot any more out there. Gotta go, Ken.” And the line went dead.

Phoenix hung up the phone, then turned to face the videoconference screen and Dobson. “The president sees this as all the more reason to rewrite the National Space Policy and negotiate a ban on antisatellite weapons,” he said heavily. “He doesn’t want to do anything else.”

“But if we get positive proof…?” Ann Page asked.

“I don’t think he’d authorize any direct action,” Phoenix said. “I think that’s that.”

“I’m all in favor of the CID idea, sir,” Kai said.

“Are those the manned robots I saw on television, the ones that fought in Persia with the Iraqi army?” Dobson asked. The vice president nodded. “Those things are cool. But I thought we didn’t have any of them, that they were all destroyed in Iraq?”

“As far as I know, that’s the case,” Phoenix said. “Patrick McLanahan used them in Iraq -he’d know.”

“Want to ask him, Mr. Vice President?” Ann asked. A few moments later, Patrick appeared on-screen beside her.

“I didn’t know you were sitting there, Patrick,” Phoenix said perturbedly. “You know better than to have unauthorized persons on a secure videoconference, Madam Undersecretary. You, too, General Raydon.”

“Patrick’s expertise was crucial to discovering both the DF-21 and Russian netrusion attacks, sir,” Kai said.

“So he’s seen the data from the Kingfisher satellite, too?” the vice president asked incredulously. “That’s classified, too, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You have the authority to raise my security clearance level or adjust the classification level of the data, sir,” Patrick said. “It’s been done before.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, Patrick,” the vice president said. “I also have the authority to send you to federal prison without charges in the interest of national security. Want me to do that?”

“Sorry, sir. But you realize just as we do that although we might not have court-of-law evidence, we do have more than enough information to show Russia and China are conspiring to degrade or destroy the Space Defense Force. They might not stop at shooting at interceptor garages next time.”

“I think the president expects that the Russians and Chinese want a sense of parity with the United States, and this antisatellite stuff is it,” Phoenix said. “Just like nukes during the Cold War, they’ll build up a credible enough force and claim military-superpower status.”

“The difference is, sir, that the United States didn’t do away with its nukes once we found out the Russians and Chinese were building them,” Ann Page said. “We built more, and then we started to design an advanced antiballistic-missile system to protect ourselves. China gave up the nuke race, and Russia went bankrupt trying to keep up. But this time, President Gardner wants to do away with our antisatellite weapons in the hopes of convincing all nations to do the same, which gives our adversaries the advantage. It doesn’t make sense.”

“He’s the commander in chief, Madam Undersecretary,” Phoenix said. “It’s his call.”

“What do you think, sir?” Patrick asked.

“Doesn’t matter, does it, General McLanahan?” Phoenix replied stonily.

“So…that’s it, sir?” Ann asked, shaking her head. “We found information that points to Russian and Chinese active attacks on our space systems, including an attack that caused the death of an American astronaut, and the president will do nothing?” She sat back in her seat, then put her hands on the edge of the table at which she was seated, as if bracing herself. “I…I can’t work for this administration, Mr. Vice President. I am going to submit my resignation to the secretary of the Air Force today.”

“Think about it first, Dr. Page,” Phoenix said. “Look at the incredible accomplishments you’ve made in the Space Defense Force over the past three years. Despite the president’s and Congress’s decision to rely more on carrier-based naval power, you’ve managed to build a robust satellite-based strategic defense, communications, reconnaissance, and strike force. You didn’t expect it to be smooth sailing each and every year, did you?”

“I dealt with the politics for years in the Senate, and I know that politics and not the real world are influencing the president’s decisions now,” Ann said. “When being a globalist and appeaser is more important than even a single American life, I don’t want to be part of that administration. Good day, Mr. Vice President.” And at that, Ann Page stood and walked out of camera view.

“I’ll talk to her again, Mr. Vice President,” Patrick said.

“Do that, but I don’t think it’ll make any difference,” Phoenix said, shaking his head. “Thanks for the information, guys. Keep me informed, and I’ll let you know if anything changes from the White House. When do you go back to the station, General?”

“Not for about three weeks, sir,” Kai said. “Mandatory Earth reacclimation.”

“Let’s hope nothing else happens before you get back,” the vice president said. “How about Mr. Noble?”

“He’s grounded for at least six weeks, sir. He’ll take a couple weeks off for leave, then come back and work in ground control, instruct in the simulator, help the engineers work on propulsion and other technical problems, that sort of thing.”

“Well-deserved rest for both of you. Thanks again.” He terminated the videoconference, sat thinking for a few moments, then turned to Tim and asked, “Your thoughts, Mr. Dobson?”

“I’ll have to study up on this netrusion technology,” Tim said, “but the Russians have been hacking into U.S. government computer networks for years. The CIA alone probably gets a thousand serious attempts every day just from Russia, and I know most are either sponsored, directed, or actually undertaken by the FSB.” The FSB, or Federal Security Bureau, was the new name of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, or KGB, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics ’ internal and foreign spy agency-but in fact their activities had hardly changed from the darkest days of the Cold War. “So they definitely have the technology. I didn’t know you could do it over the air from such long distances, but if we can do it they probably can, too.

“The sensor on the weapon garages would be the best way to collect the intrusion signal, especially if it’s a narrow focused beam aimed directly at the satellite,” the young CIA administrator went on. “But we might be able to collect the signal from the ground with a sensor placed on the transmitting dish. Murmansk and Kamchatka would be hard to penetrate; Socotra Island and Venezuela would be easier.” He smiled and added, “Of course, if you could get a couple of those Cybernetic Infantry Devices or the other armored infantry guys General McLanahan was using-”

“The Tin Men.”

“That’s it, sir. One of those guys could probably do the job. Bring one Tin Man and one CID robot and you could probably set up a spy sensor on the top onion dome of the Kremlin.”

The vice president fell silent again; he then nodded, and his eyes had a new fire in them. “I have a new project for you, Mr. Dobson,” he said, a mischievous smile growing on his face.

Tim smiled in return. “Yes, Mr. Vice President,” he said. “I’m in.”

“Good.” Phoenix picked up the phone, and a few moments later Patrick McLanahan’s image reappeared on the videoconference monitor. “Where are you, Patrick?” he asked.

“ Sunnyvale, California, sir.”

“More importantly: Do you have any CIDs and Tin Men available?” He noticed Patrick glancing at Dobson, then said, “This is Tim Dobson, CIA, on my space-policy-review panel; I just enlisted him to plan a few other projects for me.”

“As you know, sir, all but one of the CIDs were destroyed in Iraq, and the survivor was badly damaged,” Patrick said after a slight hesitation. “It was confiscated by the Army, including all remaining weapon packs and the electromagnetic rail guns. They also took possession of all of the remaining Tin Man suits, including battery packs.”

The vice president smiled. “Mr. Dobson is okay, Patrick.”

Patrick still didn’t look convinced, but after a few additional moments of consideration, he said, “Jon Masters has a number of operational Tin Man outfits and a few more in various stages of completion. He’s made a few design changes, incorporating what he learned working with the CID units.”

“What about the CID units, Patrick?” the vice president asked. “Is anyone building them anymore?”

“I don’t believe Dr. Masters has any CIDs-that wasn’t a Sky Masters creation,” Patrick explained. “The Air Battle Force bought the last remaining units, the ones used in Iraq.”

“If the Air Force bought them, General McLanahan, how did Scion Aviation International, the contracting group you headed, get them?” Dobson asked.

Patrick glanced at Dobson, hesitated again, then decided to ignore the question. “I know Colonel Jason Richter and Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Turlock at the Army Transformational Battlelab were in charge of what remained of the CID project now at Aberdeen Proving Ground,” he said, “but I haven’t been in contact for some time.”

“You had some other pretty interesting devices, if I recall,” Phoenix went on. “In particular, a way to insert commandos into enemy territory from long distances and fly them out again?”

“What exactly do you have in mind, sir?” Patrick asked.

“Just brainstorming here.”

Patrick’s expression slowly changed from distrust, confusion, and caution to one of curiosity and finally to pleasure. “I believe you’re referring to the MQ-35 Condor, sir,” he said with a slight smile. “We could load up four commandos and their gear and drop them from a stealth bomber, and it could glide up to two hundred miles. If it survived the landing without much damage, it could take off again and fly out again.”

“That’s the one.”

“That was a Lake project,” Patrick said. Even on a secure link, most veterans of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center hesitated to use the term “HAWC” or the other common names, “Dreamland” or “ Groom Lake,” because of the intense security surrounding America ’s most secure military aerospace testing facility. “I haven’t had top-level security clearance for some time, so I don’t know if the Condor is still active.”

“Jon Masters would know, wouldn’t he?”

“I don’t know, sir. Everything is pretty compartmentalized out there.”

“We’ll check.”

“I don’t know if I have the security clearance for that place,” Dobson said, “if it’s the place I think you’re referring to.”

“You will,” Phoenix said, “and you will, too, Patrick, if it’s necessary.”

“They don’t do much on air-combat systems these days out there, sir,” Patrick said. “They concentrate on more support services, intelligence, unmanned aerial vehicles, and tactical transport. I believe Brigadier General Martin Tehama is still commanding.”

“Not a friend of yours, if I remember correctly.”

“We have different leadership styles and unit philosophies, yes, sir.”

“What about that other group you know, the ones that helped us out over Turkey?”

Patrick’s smile disappeared, and his mouth dropped open ever so slightly as he looked at Dobson again. “Sir, are you certain you want to bring that up?” he asked.

The vice president turned to Tim Dobson. “You’re standing at the edge of the river Rubicon, Mr. Dobson,” he said seriously. “The point of no return. You will learn things that could mark you as a legitimate threat to persons who wield great power, persons from whom even my office might not be able to protect you. You could say no and your life and career will be unaffected, I guarantee that. But if you say yes, your life will change in ways even you could never imagine.”

“Sir, I don’t think we should be pressuring Mr. Dobson like this,” Patrick said. “He’s in the White House Situation Room sitting next to the vice president of the United States. Do you really expect him to say no to anything you ask him?”

“Excuse me, General McLanahan, but I think I’m capable of making that decision,” Tim said, with a determination in his voice that surprised the others. “I’ve been in the CIA since I graduated from Rutgers fifteen years ago. I voted for President Gardner, but I know this is the most uncomfortable I’ve felt about the future of the United States since President Thorn. The vice president is asking me questions about things I hoped I’d been asked about years ago.” He turned to Phoenix. “I say yes, Mr. Vice President.”

“And how do you know you can trust Mr. Dobson, sir?” Patrick asked. “He’s on your space-policy-review panel, but maybe he would find a way to use this information to advance his career faster.”

Ken Phoenix looked at Dobson carefully, then nodded. “I don’t know I can trust him, Patrick…but I feel I can,” he said finally. “I had the same feeling about you, back in President Martindale’s White House, and you haven’t let me down.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got fifteen minutes before my next meeting. What are you up to today, Patrick?”

“I’m available for anything you need me for, sir.”

“Good. The president agreed to send the Seventh Air Expeditionary Squadron out to the Middle East to shadow the Russians. I don’t know where they’ll be based, but they’re going to put on a little show of force to the Chinese and Russians.”

“Good idea, sir,” Patrick said.

“That might make them available for other missions,” Phoenix said. “The president is getting too open and chummy with the Russians and Chinese for my liking, so I’d like to think up some options. Let’s go back to my office and we’ll get hooked up again there. I’ll get you started, and then you can take over, Patrick. You’ve got your old security clearance back again, General.”

“Thank you, sir,” Patrick said.

“You, too, Mr. Dobson-you’re going to wear the supersecret decoder ring from now on,” the vice president said. “Whatever you thought your future looked like, it doesn’t anymore.” Both he and Patrick could see Dobson do a nervous swallow, but he still nodded determinedly. “Patrick, tell Mr. Dobson what we need and find out how we can get it; draw up a plan, and I’ll brief the president. Let’s see how serious the president is about getting to the bottom of Russia ’s and China ’s plans against our satellites.”

OVER THE GULF OF ADEN, 400 MILES EAST OF ADEN, REPUBLIC OF YEMEN

DAYS LATER

“Attention unidentified aircraft, attention unidentified aircraft,” the stern, heavily accented voice said in English on 243.0 megahertz, the international UHF emergency frequency, “approaching the fiftieth meridian, flying west at thirty-five thousand feet, this is patrol aircraft of the navy of the Russian Federation Southern Fleet on GUARD. You are on course to approach a Russian navy aircraft carrier task force. If you do not alter course, you will be intercepted, and if your identity or stores cannot be verified as peaceful, you will be forced to alter course. The use of deadly force is authorized and you may be fired on without warning. Respond on UHF GUARD frequency, please.”

“Our friends are calling,” Lieutenant Colonel Gia “Boxer” Cazzotto, aircraft commander of a U.S. Air Force EB-1C “Vampire” bomber, said on intercom. Beside her in the cockpit of the highly modified long-range strategic bomber was Major Alan “Frodo” Friel, the mission commander. Boxer was the commander of the 7th Air Expeditionary Squadron, a small bomber unit based at Air Force Plant 42 in Palmdale, California. Originally organized to flight-test refurbished B-1 bombers taken out of storage, the 7th AES-being one of only a handful of American heavy bomber squadrons still in existence-was occasionally tasked for real-world missions.

The EB-1C Vampire bomber was one example of a state-of-the-art refurbished design. To date, fifteen airframes had been taken out of flyable storage, modified, and upgraded to perform a dazzling array of missions, making it a true “flying battleship.” Although originally designed for four crewmembers, this EB-1C bomber was so computerized and automated that all attack and defensive functions could be performed by just two-or, operated as an unmanned attack aircraft, with none.

“All countermeasures in ‘PASSIVE’ mode, Boxer,” Frodo responded. Friel definitely resembled the character from whom his call sign was derived-he was much shorter than Cazzotto, with big round eyes, thick curly brown hair under his flight helmet, and light skin. All of the bomber’s defensive systems-electronic jammers, decoys, and active antimissile emitters-were not operating, only listening for threats. “He sounds pretty belligerent to me. I thought this was all worked out in advance? What’s that about?”

“Maybe it’s for practice, Frodo,” Boxer said.

“Fracture Two-One, this is Armstrong,” Major Jessica “Gonzo” Faulkner radioed via satellite from Armstrong Space Station.

“We’ve got two bandits at your twelve o’clock, one hundred miles, four-eight-zero knots, definitely heading your way.”

“Roger, Armstrong,” Boxer replied. “Nice to know you’re watching over us.”

“We might have spotty coverage here and there, but we’ll be watching as best we can until you’re back on the ground.”

“Thanks, guys.” She switched to the secondary channel and spoke: “Russian fleet patrol aircraft, this is Fracture Two-One on GUARD, we read you loud and clear. Over.”

“Fracture Two-One, switch to fleet reserved frequency two-two-nine-point-zero.”

“Switching,” Boxer replied. On the new frequency: “Two-One is up.”

“Fracture Two-One, squawk mode three-two-two-seven-one, mode C normal.” Frodo set in the new transponder codes. “I have you radar-identified, Fracture. Do not approach any Russian warships. Be advised, we will intercept you at this time for positive visual identification. Do not change altitude or airspeed. Over.”

“Fracture Two-One, roger.”

“I don’t understand why we’re doing these flights,” Frodo complained. “Just public relations?”

“I’m sure it started out as a real surveillance mission,” Boxer replied, “but then someone got nervous that there might be another accident, like the Bush-carrier episode, so the diplomats huddled and changed the rules of engagement. Now it’s just pictures and a flyby.”

“We can’t do anything anyway,” Frodo said. “All we’re carrying are the AMRAAMs.” The forward bomb bay carried a rotary launcher fitted with eight AIM-120 AMRAAM radar-guided air-to-air missiles; in addition, the aft bomb bay carried a three-thousand-gallon auxiliary fuel tank. “Ever do an intercept with the Russians?” Frodo asked.

“Just at ‘Red Flag’ and other exercises,” Boxer said, “and never with a Sukhoi-33, although it’s similar to the Su-27, which I have played with before. This is the first time the Russians have put together a carrier battle group of this size. But these things are usually not big deals. It’s all been cleared diplomatically.”

“Diplomatically?”

“Legally we can fly near their ships out in the open seas, and they can intercept us in international airspace,” Boxer said. “But no one wants something to happen like what happened with the carrier Bush, so some diplomat sends an e-mail or fax to his counterpart in Moscow and gives them a heads-up. Everyone plays nice. We don’t do anything stupid or sudden to get anybody spooked. Let’s get a LADAR snapshot and see who we got.”

“Roger.” Frodo activated the Vampire’s LADAR, or laser radar, which “drew” a high-resolution picture of everything within four hundred miles on the ground, on the ocean’s surface, in space, and even several dozen feet underwater. The LADAR was on for only a few seconds, then set back in “STANDBY.” “And the winner is: a pair of Sukhoi-33 Flanker-Ds,” Frodo reported. “Closing at four hundred eighty knots, about eighty-five miles away. The carrier group is at two hundred sixty miles.”

“Armstrong, this is Fracture, we’re tied on,” Boxer reported.

“Roger,” Gonzo replied, “we’ve got a good datalink. We’re looking for any trailers, negative contact so far.”

“Thanks, Armstrong.” Boxer pulled back the throttles and set a speed of 360 knots-slower airspeeds made any aircraft less threatening. “I’ll wake up home plate,” she said to Frodo. She made sure her communications panel was set up, then spoke: “Control, Fracture Two-One, bandits, tied on.”

“Two-One, roger, stand by,” the air-component commander at Central Command headquarters at MacDill Air Force Base, Florida, responded via satellite. The commanders at Central Command could receive all sensor data from almost all sources in its entire theater of command, so they could see what Boxer and Frodo saw on their large multifunction cockpit displays. In addition, they could tap into any other data source anywhere in the region, whether from ships, other aircraft, or on land, and put it all together in a big tactical picture. “Fracture Two-One, proceed as briefed,” the air commander radioed a few moments later.

“Two-One copies.” Boxer shrugged. “Sheesh, no pep talk, no ‘go get ’em, guys,’ no enthusiasm? ‘Proceed as briefed’?”

“What do you expect? He’s ten thousand miles away in a nice comfy command center.”

ABOARD THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION NAVY AIRCRAFT CARRIER VLADIMIR VLADIMIROVICH PUTIN

THAT SAME TIME

“Aircraft is slowing to six hundred seventy kilometers per hour, Captain,” the radar technician reported. “Still at ten thousand meters.”

“Very long-range, very high, very big plane, too fast for an unmanned patrol plane-it has to be an American bomber,” the tactical action officer said. He and the rest of the battle management team was in the Combat Information Center aboard the Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, steaming westward toward Aden, Yemen, in the Gulf of Aden. The Combat Information Center was filled with computer monitors; a team of fifteen enlisted and two officers manned the Putin’s radars and optical sensors and controlled the ship’s weapons. “The fighters should intercept in a few minutes.”

“I’ll notify the admiral,” the commanding officer of the Putin said. He picked up the “Red Phone,” which tied directly to the flag bridge. “Inbound patrol plane from the east, Admiral. We will intercept in a few minutes. Probably an American long-range bomber.”

“Not one of their Global Hawks, Captain?” the admiral asked.

“We will have visual identification shortly, sir. It appears to be traveling faster and at a lower altitude than the Global Hawks, and faster than a naval patrol plane.”

“Very well. Let me know if they do anything unusual. All defensive systems ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Carry on.”

“Yes, sir.” The captain hung up the phone. “I am surprised they can spare any bombers to harass us,” he said. “Gryzlov blew most of them into hell, and Gardner canceled the American Next Generation Bomber program in favor of more carriers. Yet here they are.”

“Standard procedures, sir?”

“Yes, standard procedures,” the captain said. “Radar silent, passive sensors only, plenty of videotape so we can complain about being harassed once again. Let the Americans have their fun. I am going topside to take some pictures.”

The admiral in charge of the Russian navy task force in the Gulf of Aden lit up a cigarette, then lifted another telephone before him on the instrument panel of the flag bridge. He had three watertight computer monitors, showing him radar images.

“This is Central,” a voice on the other end of the line said. “Admiral?”

“I was ordered to report when the American patrol plane approached the task force,” he said.

“And?”

“We do not have positive visual contact, but it appears to be flying faster and lower than the unarmed American Global Hawks.”

“You are talking in circles, Admiral,” the voice said curtly.

“What is it?”

“I believe it to be an American long-range bomber,” the admiral replied. “The Americans have a few B-1 and B-2 bombers stationed in Diego Garcia and occasionally in Bahrain and the United Arab Emirates.”

“Very well. Stand by.” And the line went dead.

The senior controller turned to General Andrei Darzov, who was in his command post at his headquarters in Moscow. “The task force has made contact with a large patrol plane to their east, believed to be an American long-range bomber, sir,” he said.

Darzov nodded, then picked up a telephone before him. “Mr. President, the Americans are sending their air patrols in. It does not appear to be an unmanned plane, but a bomber.”

“A bomber?” Russian president Igor Truznyev exclaimed. “Do they mean to attack the task force?”

“No, sir. I believe it is a typical show-of-force tactic. The typical profile is a high pass, followed by a low-altitude flyby.”

“And what are we doing while the Americans are allowed to do this so-called typical routine, General?”

“Well…very little, sir,” Darzov said. “We do not want to show any capabilities to the Americans. We usually turn off all radars except for standard search radars. Since the carrier Putin is part of the task force, we will scramble fighters to intercept, but they stay radar-silent. We usually photograph the intercept, but allow the plane to inspect the fleet. As part of our agreement, the Americans transmit air-traffic control codes and talk with our controllers.”

“And what is the American plane doing while we do nothing?” Truznyev asked, surprise in his voice.

“They fly around, take photographs and radar images, try to record any electromagnetic emissions,” Darzov said. “It is what the Americans call a ‘photo opportunity.’ The plane will probably make a showy pass near the carrier, wag its wings, and be gone. It is all for show, sir.”

“I do not understand any of this,” Truznyev said. Then, after a short pause: “And I do not allow it. Keep that bomber away from the task force, General.”

“But, sir…this has all been agreed in advance,” Darzov said. “Our air attaché in Washington coordinates all this with their Pentagon. One plane, air-traffic control codes, a simple flyby, no overflight, no visible weapons, no open bomb doors, no supersonic flight, no electronic jamming-it is all very routine-”

“I do not care, General,” Truznyev said. “I do not like pretending we accept or allow the Americans to fly attack aircraft near our fleet. If it is confirmed as an attack plane, I want it kept away from the task force…by any means necessary.”

“Including deadly force, sir?” Darzov asked incredulously.

“Including deadly force, General,” Truznyev insisted. “What is the range of an American air-launched antiship cruise missile?”

“Uh…uh…” Darzov had to struggle to recall the information: “The American Harpoon antiship missile has a range of about one hundred kilometers when launched from low altitude-”

“Fine. If the bomber comes within two hundred kilometers, use any means necessary to chase it away.”

“But, sir, free navigation of the skies and seas never prohibits an aircraft from flying that close unless-”

“Two hundred kilometers away if it is an attack aircraft, General,” Truznyev said finally. “No nation flies near our task force with impunity. The Americans believe they can fly their spacecraft and bombers anywhere they wish and it is all just a ‘photo opportunity’? I will teach them differently.”

Just as the captain finished his logbook entries and turned to head topside, the Red Phone beeped. He snatched it up immediately. “Yes, Admiral?”

“Change in procedures, Captain,” the admiral said. “Keep weapons tight, but full tactical engagement procedures, air and surface. Repeat, full tactical engagement, weapons tight. If it is a bomber, keep it two hundred kilometers away from the task force. Advise me as soon as visual identification is made.”

“Excuse me, sir, but you want to radiate with what is probably an American bomber coming at us?” the captain asked. “If it’s a bomber, they can probably analyze our signals.”

“Orders direct from Moscow,” the admiral said. “They say they anticipated a patrol plane such as a Global Hawk. The bomber is a serious provocation, and they want to hit them with everything. Acknowledge my orders.”

“Understood, sir,” the captain said after a moment of shock. “Weapons tight, full tactical engagement air and surface, keep bomber aircraft away two hundred kilometers from the task force.” The admiral rang off, and the captain hung up. “TAO, weapons tight, full tactical engagement procedures, air and surface.”

The tactical action officer turned to the captain in complete surprise. “Sir?”

“You heard me, Commander,” the captain said. “Acknowledge and report by all stations that weapons are tight. If it is a bomber, it is to be kept at least two hundred kilometers away from the outer ships of the task force.”

The TAO swallowed, then said, “Weapons tight, full tactical engagement, air and surface, two hundred kilometers if it is a bomber,” he repeated. “All stations, all stations, this is the TAO, check weapons status and report.”

After Truznyev hung up the phone with Darzov, he dialed another number himself. When the private secure line was answered, he said without preamble or greeting, “I have just decided to twist the tiger’s tail in the Gulf of Aden, Premier Zhou. Alert your task force that there is about to be some activity out there.”

ABOARD THE EB-1C VAMPIRE BOMBER

THAT SAME TIME

A yellow triangle appeared on the nose of the Su-33’s icon on the display. “Bandit’s radiating,” Frodo said. “He’ll be locked on in three minutes.”

“American patrol aircraft, we are tracking you on radar at this time,” the Russian pilot said a few minutes later. “Be advised, you are approaching a Russian military naval task force at your twelve o’clock position. Unidentified aircraft are not permitted to fly near Russian warships. You must alter course at least thirty degrees immediately or you may be fired upon. Acknowledge.”

“Russian patrol aircraft, this is a routine patrol mission,” Boxer said, shaking her head in confusion. “We intend to do a visual inspection of your ships in international waters. We’re complying with your communications requirements.”

“Fracture, Armstrong,” Gonzo reported from Armstrong Space Station, “bandits are speeding up, five hundred…six hundred…seven hundred knots…going supersonic. Intercept in about three minutes.”

“They’re going supersonic?” Frodo asked nervously. “What’s going on?”

“It’s all for show,” Boxer said. “At that speed, they’ll have us in sight for about two seconds, they’ll waste fifty miles turning around to chase us, and they’ll be burning gas like crazy.”

“But…but that must mean that-”

“Fracture, Armstrong, we’ve got two more lifting off from the carrier,” Gonzo reported.

“-that they’ll have to launch more planes after us,” Frodo said, finishing his thought with a slight crack in his voice. At that moment a separate window opened up on Frodo’s large supercockpit display, and it showed two more Sukhoi-33 fighters taxiing onto the aircraft carrier Vladimir Putin’s forward catapults, with two more behind the blast deflectors, getting ready to hook up to the catapults as well. It was the data being passed down from the space station. “Is that happening right now?”

“Now it’s starting to get interesting,” Boxer said, and suddenly she didn’t feel like cracking jokes anymore. “We’re getting your imagery, Armstrong,” she radioed.

“We’ll have that satellite feed for only about sixty seconds, Fracture, and after that our sensor coverage will be spotty for the next thirty minutes,” Gonzo said. “You really stirred them up. You might want to think about getting out of there. Your tanker is at your five o’clock, three hundred ninety miles in the refueling anchor.”

“Not quite yet, Armstrong,” Boxer said. “I think we somehow hurt their feelings-I want to see what they’re going to do about it.”

“X-band radar in high-PRF lock-on,” Frodo reported as he watched the intercept on his passive electromagnetic threat detector. The high-PRF, or pulse-rate frequency, meant that the Sukhoi-33’s radar was solidly locked onto the Vampire. “Passing off to the left. Why are they locking us up, Boxer?”

“Fracture, first formation will be passing below and to your left…now.” Boxer didn’t see anything. The threat detectors depicted the two Russian carrier jets streak past them, and moments later they felt two sharp burbles as the twin supersonic shock waves passed.

“Christ, that was close,” Frodo breathed.

“Fracture, second formation is closing at six hundred knots, two hundred miles,” Gonzo reported. “Third formation is on the catapults. We’re losing full-time coverage.”

“Copy, Armstrong,” Boxer said. “Frodo, let’s set the LADAR to intermittent.”

“LADAR radiating,” Frodo said, trying to keep his voice steady. In “Intermittent” mode, the Vampire’s laser radar would broadcast for a second or two every ten to fifteen seconds to get a better picture of the intercept, but avoid being tracked by the Russians in case they had laser detectors. The supercockpit display clearly showed all the players now, even tracking the fighters behind the Vampire and identifying the aircraft on the Putin’s deck getting ready to launch and the rescue helicopters hovering beside the carrier in case of an emergency.

“We’ve got a real furball forming here now,” Boxer commented. “These guys are serious.”

“Admiral, it is an American B-1 bomber,” the captain of the Putin said on the direct line to the flag bridge. “They are on the fleet reserve frequency and are transmitting air-traffic codes as directed by our controllers, as agreed in the Memorandum of Understanding.”

“I do not want an American bomber anywhere near this task force, Captain!” the admiral shouted. “Get him away from here!”

“But, sir, are they not permitted free navigation over international waters? How can we-”

“I told you, Captain, I do not want that plane anywhere near this task force,” the admiral said. “They might decide to shoot a cruise missile in our direction, like the damned Chinese did to the Americans. Get it away from here, now!”

“We’re approaching two hundred miles to the carrier, Boxer,” Frodo said, “and one-ninety to the first escort. We-”

And at that moment they heard, “Caution, caution, target tracking mode, Sukhoi-33, five o’clock, nineteen miles.”

“Do you want countermeasures?” Frodo asked excitedly.

“Not yet,” Boxer said after just a moment’s consideration. “Let ’em come in. Standard play is one on each side so they can take pictures of each other with the big bad American bomber. These guys will be low on gas anyway-they’ll get their hero shot, then leave and let the second and third formations take over.”

A few minutes later, that’s exactly what happened: The first pair of bright blue Sukhoi-33 fighters moved in, one on each side of the bomber, about a hundred feet away. Boxer and Frodo didn’t see any cameras.

“American bomber aircraft, this is the Russian Southern Fleet aircraft carrier Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin on fleet reserve channel,” a new voice announced. “You are three hundred kilometers from this task force. Combat aircraft are not permitted to approach this group. Alter course immediately and stay at least two hundred kilometers away or you may be fired upon without warning.”

“Second formation of fighters are fifty miles away, slowing,” Frodo said. Suddenly they heard another warning tone. “Fighter locked onto us!”

“Carrier Putin, this is Fracture Two-One,” Boxer radioed. “Do not lock your fire control radars on us. Flying near your ships is not a hostile action, but locking missile radars on us is!”

“This is your last warning, American bomber aircraft,” the controller radioed. “Do not approach! We will take immediate action.”

“What do we do, Boxer?” Frodo asked. “Do these guys want to take a shot at us?”

“This is bull,” Boxer said. “I thought this was just a photo op and nice peaceful flyby.”

The second formation of Sukhoi-33 fighters approached, one on either side, much slower than the first formation, close enough to see fuselage lights winking on and off…

…until Boxer and Frodo heard the fast-paced drumming on the cockpit canopy and realized that they weren’t lights, but cannons opening fire on them! The shells missed, but they came so close that Boxer and Frodo could feel their shock waves on the fuselage. “Holy shit!” Frodo shouted. “They’re shooting at us! Let’s get out of here!”

“You bastards want to play-let’s play,” Boxer shouted. “Get ready to go low, Frodo. Kill the freq and the transponder, get us into ‘COMBAT’ mode.” She hit a button on her control stick and spoke: “Terrain-follow, clearance plane two hundred, hard ride.”

“Terrain-follow, clearance plane two hundred, hard ride,” the flight control computer responded. Boxer watched the computer’s automatic control inputs on her supercockpit display as it readjusted settings for an overwater letdown, then spoke: “Stand by for descent, now.” The EB-1C Vampire pitched over and started a twenty-thousand-foot-per-minute descent, rapid enough for bits of loose dirt to float to the top of the cockpit. Normally the bomber would automatically sweep the wings back to their maximum sixty-seven degree setting in the high-speed descent, but the Vampire’s wings were permanently set to the full swept-wing position-lift and drag were controlled by mission-adaptive technology, where thousands of tiny actuators on the bomber’s fuselage controlled the shape of the plane, so every square inch of the surface could be a lift or drag device.

“Fighters are staying high, twelve o’clock, twenty miles…no, here they come, one is heading down,” Frodo reported. “Still locked on. ‘COMBAT’ mode engaged, full countermeasures active.”

“C’mon down here, boys,” Boxer said. In less than two minutes, the Vampire bomber leveled off at two hundred feet above the Gulf of Aden. Boxer watched the computer perform a self-test of the flight control system, then checked the electrical, hydraulic, and pneumatic subsystems herself.

“American B-1 bomber, this is the carrier Putin on GUARD channel, you are flying at an extreme low altitude and are heading directly for the Russian task-force ships,” the Russian controller radioed. “This is considered a hostile action. You appear to be on an antiship cruise-missile attack. Alter or reverse course immediately. This is your final warning.”

“You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet, Comrade,” Boxer said, pushing the throttles up until they were flying at six hundred nautical miles an hour.

“One hundred miles to the first escort,” Frodo said. “Search and height-finders from the ships, and fast-PRF search from the fighters, not locked on. The third formation is supersonic, heading this way fast.”

“Armstrong has you again, Fracture,” Gonzo reported. “Now I know what a game of ‘chicken’ looks like.”

“They screwed with the wrong broad, Armstrong,” Boxer said.

“We’ve got the bandit on your six, ten thousand above you, closing to twenty miles,” Gonzo said. “His wingman is descending slower. The third formation is maneuvering, looks like they’re staying high for now. We’ve reported to Central Command.”

“Thanks, Armstrong,” Boxer radioed back.

“First escort is fifty miles,” Frodo said. “Udaloy-1-class destroyer. He’s got search radar…now searching with a height-finder, not locked on.

“Coming up on thirty…hey, the fighters are peeling off!” Frodo said. “They’re all climbing.”

“Can’t stand the heat, eh, boys?” Boxer said. “Too bad. It’s fun down here.” She peeked at Frodo and saw his eyes as big as saucers behind his clear visor. “How’s it going, Frodo?”

“I’m worried about those fighters,” he said. “Why are they…?” He paused, then shouted, “Golf-band target acquisition radar from the Udaloy, SA-N-9 system! Not locked on.”

“Well, well, they’re turning on everything today,” Boxer said. “If they want to play hardball, I’m ready to go to bat. Pushing ’ em up.” She nudged the throttles up until they were supersonic-the highly modified EB-1C Vampire was the only model of the nearly 500,000-pound B-1 bomber that was able to go supersonic at low altitude. “Come and get us now, suckers.”

The captain of the Putin snatched up the Red Phone. “Admiral, the American bomber has descended to less than one hundred meters’ altitude and is approaching the task force at supersonic speed!”

The admiral swore into the phone, then ordered, “Continue full tactical engagement, weapons tight.”

“Acknowledged, full tactical engagement, weapons tight.”

“Is he radiating at all?”

“No radars, but strong electronic countermeasures.”

“Use the signal generators on him and see if he reacts,” the admiral ordered, “and advise me when he reaches the task force.” And he hung up before the captain could acknowledge.

“What in hell is going on here?” the captain muttered. “What in hell is going on?” He turned to the TAO. “Full-spectrum signal generators, weapons tight, full tactical engagement.”

“Echo-Fox band target-acquisition radar, twelve o’clock, forty miles, not locked on,” Frodo said. “S-300 missile, probably on the cruiser escort…now Golf-band target-tracking radar from the destroyer, eleven o’clock, fifteen miles, not locked on.”

“American attack bomber, this is your final warning!” the Russian controller radioed. “Alter course immediately or you will be fired upon! Respond immediately!”

“I see the destroyer!” Frodo said. They were going to pass up the starboard side; Boxer nudged the stick left. It looked to Frodo as if they were going to fly right over it! Suddenly he saw puffs of smoke shooting from each side of the vessel. “Guns…!”

“Close-in weapon system!” Boxer shouted. “Think you can catch us, Comrades? Think again.”

“Jesus…!” It looked as if they were going to fly right through the smoke from the cannons’ muzzles! Suddenly a fast-paced beepbeepbeepbepp sounded. “Missile guidance!”

“It’s a false signal, Frodo,” Boxer said. He couldn’t believe how calm she sounded. “No warning from the computer. It’s a false missile-guidance signal, trying to provoke us to do something. Time for our close-up, Mr. DeMille.” Just as they passed the destroyer, Boxer rolled the Vampire bomber into a ninety-degree bank left turn, darting just ahead of the destroyer. Frodo thought for sure the left wingtip was going to drag the water! Boxer strained to look out the left cockpit window and managed to catch a glimpse of the vapor cloud created by the supersonic shock wave roll over the destroyer’s bow. “Have a face wash, courtesy of the U.S. Air Force,” she crowed happily.

“Golf-band radar…Echo-Fox radar, not locked on,” Frodo reported. Boxer rolled wings-level, then started a turn toward the aircraft carrier itself. “Why are they shooting at us? I thought this was all for show.”

“Someone obviously didn’t get the memo, Frodo,” Boxer said. “But I’m not going to let the Russkies push us around. I think we’ll take this pass down the port side of the carrier. Any helicopters up?”

“Yes, starboard side.”

“Good. Get your cameras ready, boys.”

“Echo-Fox radar has intermittent lock-on, Golf-band radar not locked on. Carrier’s one o’clock, ten miles.”

“Where are the fighters?”

“Six o’clock, thirty miles, fifteen thousand feet.”

“We’ll make the pass, then climb north to clear the fighters,” Boxer said. “Any fighters on the catapults?”

“Yes, two moving onto the forward cats.”

“I’ll stay a little farther out in case they decide to launch them,” Boxer said. “It’ll spoil the picture but they should still get a nice shot.”

“American attack bomber, this is the carrier Putin,” the Russian controller radioed once again. “This is your final warning, alter course away from this task force immediately. Acknowledge!”

“I thought you already gave us your final warning, Comrade,” Boxer said on intercom. “Just one more flyby and we’re outta here. I expect to see the pictures on the Internet by the time we get home.”

“Admiral, American B-1 bomber on the port stern quarter, eighteen kilometers, altitude less than one hundred meters, approaching at Mach one-point-one-five!” the captain of the Putin shouted into the phone.

“Is he radiating, Captain?”

“Defensive electronic jamming signals only. No attack radars.”

The admiral paused for a long moment; then: “How close has he come to the task force, Captain?”

“He flew supersonic less than a kilometer from the destroyer Vysotskiy at ninety degrees bank. I thought there was going to be a collision! The Vysotskiy tried to warn him away with their close-in weapon system-the gun’s guidance radar was completely jammed.”

“What about electro-optical tracking? It is daylight, Captain!”

“The crewman manning the optical tracker took cover-he thought the bomber was going to crash right into him. Several men were injured by the shock wave.”

Another pause; then: “I think the American bomber is hostile, Captain,” the admiral said in a remarkably calm and even voice, as if he was reading from a script. “Sound battle stations, full tactical engagement…all weapons released.”

The pass by the aircraft carrier was farther away, but they were still well within a half mile when Boxer made her supersonic high-bank right turn in front of the carrier. Frodo felt as if his arms weighed a hundred pounds each as the g-forces increased.

“Okay, Frodo, fun time’s over,” Boxer said. She started a left turn and headed away from the Russian task force, staying one hundred feet above the ocean. She pulled the power back to full military power to conserve as much fuel as possible-she knew she was already eating into her reserves by doing the low-altitude, high-speed maneuvers. “Where are those fighters?”

Frodo activated the laser radar. “Closest formation is southeast, twenty miles, fifteen thousand feet,” he reported. “The other formation is…” He paused as a warning tone sounded. “India-Juliet-band target engagement radar active!” Frodo shouted. “It’s locked on!”

Suddenly the threat warning computer blared, “Warning, warning, missile guidance, SA-N-6!”

“Here it comes!” Boxer shouted. She immediately punched the throttles into full afterburner.

“Countermeasures active!” Frodo shouted. Boxer punched the buttons on her control stick to eject decoy chaff and flares, then rolled into a hard left turn, pulled the throttles out of afterburner, and pulled on the control stick to make the turn as tight as she could. There was a bright flash of light out the right cockpit window, and both crewmembers were jerked violently to the right from the force of the exploding missile. Their supercockpit displays flickered, and the right side of Frodo’s screen went blank.

Boxer rolled out of the turn before all of her airspeed bled off in the break, then selected full afterburner again…but then brought the rightmost throttle back. “Compressor stall on number four!” she shouted.

“Warning, warning, missile guidance, SA-N-4, four o’clock!” the threat computer blared.

“Is the active defensive system up?”

“No-all ECMs faulted. I’m rebooting.”

“Hang on!” She punched out chaff and flares again, hoping the ejectors were working, then rolled into a hard right break, using the underpowered number four engine as an air brake to tighten the turn. “Can you see the missile?”

Frodo frantically scanned out his window, then shouted, “Climb, now!” Boxer pulled the control stick until all they could see out the front windscreen was sky, then pushed wings-level and reversed the turn. She saw a flash of light below and to her left.

“Missile guidance, SA-N-6, six o’clock!”

“Our airspeed is almost gone,” Boxer said. “I can’t do any more breaks or else we’ll spin into the ocean. How’s the ECM-”

“Coming online now!” Frodo shouted. The right side of his supercockpit display was on once again, and his fingers were flying across the touchscreen. “ADS active!” The Vampire’s ADS, or Active Defensive System, was a pair of free-electron laser emitters, one atop and one underneath the fuselage. When the laser radar detected an incoming missile, the ADS lasers would slave themselves to the LADAR and attack the missiles with beams of white-hot laser energy powerful enough to destroy the thin dielectric nose cap of most surface-to-air missiles at long range. They had to fight off at least a half-dozen Russian missiles fired from the carrier’s escorts.

“Airspeed’s finally picking up,” Boxer said. “I’m going to see if number four is back with us.” She gently advanced the throttle of the number four engine, watching the exhaust temperatures to make sure the fire that was in the engine wasn’t going to reignite-and sure enough, the exhaust-gas temperature in the engine began to spike, and she pulled the throttle to idle, then to “CUTOFF.” “Looks like number four is dead, Frodo-a fire starts in the burner can when I advance the throttle,” she said. “Let’s get on the radio and see if our tanker can-”

“Bandits!” Frodo yelled. “Su-33s, three o’clock, twenty-five-”

Just then the threat warning computer blared, “Missile guidance, AA-12, three o’clock!” Boxer punched out chaff and flares and did another hard left break…

…but it was too slow with the lost engine, and there wasn’t enough airspeed to keep the break in to defeat the missile. They felt a hard whummp and the entire tail section of the Vampire skidded to the left. Boxer had to fight the control stick with both hands and stomp hard on the right rudder pedal to keep the plane straight and prevent a roll right into the ocean.

“Boxer…?” Frodo shouted.

“I got it, I got it!” Boxer shouted. She knew that’s probably exactly what most bomber pilots said right before they crashed after being hit by a missile, but she truly believed she could maintain control. She released the control stick with her left hand long enough to raise a red-colored switch guard on her side instrument panel, raised a switch inside to the “ARM” position, then climbed slightly. “Nail those fighters, Frodo!”

Frodo activated his “MASTER ARM” switch on his side instrument panel. As soon as he did, the supercockpit display changed from a view of the Russian fleet to a three-dimensional depiction of the airborne threats around them. The laser radar detected and began tracking all of the Russian Sukhoi-33 carrier-based fighters, and the fire control computer quickly prioritized each one in order of threat. As soon as the first fighter came within range, the computer opened the forward bomb-bay doors and ejected an AIM-120 AMRAAM missile into the slipstream.

The missile descended about fifty feet as it stabilized itself. Boxer hoped the Vampire was not side-slipping too much or the missile would likely fly right into it, but it separated cleanly, its digital gyros restoring stability in the badly disturbed air around the bomber. Its rocket motor fired, and it streaked after the first Sukhoi. The missile used laser guidance signals from the Vampire bomber, so the Su-33 had no threat indications that it was being tracked or a missile was in the air until seconds before impact, when the AMRAAM activated its own terminal guidance radar. By the time the Russian pilot knew he was under attack, it was too late.

“Formation two is heading back to the carrier-they must be low on gas,” Frodo reported, his voice strained. “The last guy from formation three is orbiting over his leader. Looks like we’re in the clear.”

Boxer looked over at her mission commander and saw his fingers shake as he tried to type in instructions on his supercockpit display. “It’s okay, Alan,” she said softly. “You did good.”

Frodo raised his oxygen visor. He sat quietly for a few moments, staring at his lap; then: “You could have gotten us killed, Boxer,” he said in a low, trembling voice.

Gia didn’t know what else to say except, “Sorry, Frodo.”

His head snapped over toward her, and his eyes were blazing. “Sorry? You’re sorry? That’s it?”

“I guess so.”

“You should’ve bugged out when they started to lock us up,” Frodo said. “We should’ve turned around when we found out they were serious.”

“Our job was not to turn around, Frodo-our job was to probe the fleet and report,” Boxer said. “I’m not the kind of person to turn tail and run at the first sign of danger.”

“But why the high-speed passes? We could’ve flown right into one of those close-in cannons. Hell, we were flying so low they could’ve hit us with a damned mop stuck out a porthole!”

“They pissed me off, and I wanted to show them they couldn’t scare me off,” Boxer said.

“They almost shot us out of the sky! They almost killed us! I’ve got two sons at home, Colonel. You could’ve made them fatherless, and for what-because you got pissed? Thanks a lot, Colonel.”

“Don’t worry, Major-I’ll tell the review board you objected to going in and recommended we turn around,” Boxer said. “You won’t take any flak for my actions. Just find us a place to land.”

“Armstrong to Fracture Two-One.”

Boxer switched her comm panel to the primary control frequency. “Two-One, go.”

“Everyone all right?” Jessica Faulkner radioed from Armstrong Space Station.

“We’ve been better,” Boxer replied. “We lost number four, lost the rudder, probably lost most of the horizontal stabilizer, and I feel a bad vibration in the tail. We’ll do a controllability test before we try air refueling or landing, but I think we’re going to end up ditching or crash-landing.”

“We’ll pass that along,” Gonzo said. “Your tanker is about three hundred miles east, heading toward you for the rendezvous. We have limited coverage on you right now, but as of three minutes ago, your tail was clear. If you can’t tank, the closest air base is Salalah, Oman, about four hundred and fifty miles east-northeast. Got enough gas for that?”

“Barely.”

“That’s your only hard-surface runway for a thousand miles, guys, unless you want to try Al Mukalla, Yemen,” Gonzo said, “but the Russians might spot you and try for some payback. We’ll keep an eye out for you as much as possible and pass along your information. Good luck.”

It was not looking good as the Air Force KC-767 aerial refueling tanker rolled out in front of the Vampire bomber. “Rudder control is almost zero,” Boxer said as she slowly, carefully pulled the throttles back. “Elevator control is about fifty percent-it looks like the mission-adaptive system is having to work overtime to compensate for the loss of the tail stabilizers.” She started to bring the power back, but the vibrations increased below 400 knots, and below 350 knots indicated airspeed, the vibration almost made the plane uncontrollable. “Looks like our limit is three-fifty, Milkman,” Boxer radioed to the tanker. “What’s your max?”

“Our published max is three hundred,” the pilot responded, “and the most I’ve ever done in an emergency is three-twenty. The plane gets real twitchy in pitch above that.”

“And we’re not too responsive in pitch ourselves,” Boxer said.

“I’m willing to give it a try,” the tanker’s boom operator said.

“Thanks, but I think we’ll divert to-”

“Bandits!” Frodo shouted. “Two Su-33s…no, two formations of Su-33s, six o’clock…damn, just fifteen miles, with the second formation three miles in trail! My rear LADAR array must be shot off-I picked them up on the threat receiver only!”

“Time to bug out, Milkman,” Boxer said. “We’ll hold them off for you.”

Just then, the threat-warning computer blared: “Caution, caution, radar tracking, Su-33.”

“He’s right on top of us!” Frodo shouted.

At that moment they heard a heavily accented Russian voice radio, “American bomber, this is Russian Southern Fleet patrol aircraft on GUARD. We have you and your tanker aircraft on our radar and long-range optical sensors. We have more fighters in pursuit. You cannot escape. Your aircraft is badly damaged.”

“I can’t see them except on the threat receiver,” Frodo said. “I can’t launch an AMRAAM as long as they stay in the rear quarter.”

“Can we try an over-the-shoulder launch and have the missile track on its own?” Boxer asked.

“It needs an initial bearing and distance from the fire control computer to launch-it won’t take info from the threat receiver,” Frodo said. “The AMRAAMs are deadweight unless they appear on the lateral arrays.”

“You are trying to think of a way to escape,” the Russian fighter pilot radioed. “We noted you shot down one of our brothers, so you have defensive weapons, but the fact that we have come well within missile range of you undetected means that your defensive weapons are unusable, at least right at the present moment. We are in firing position now on both yourselves and your aerial refueling aircraft. We applaud your courage and exceptional fighting and flying skills on your high-speed pass through our task force. We have a proposal for you, warrior to warrior.”

“Armstrong, Fracture.”

“Go ahead.”

“We got intercepted by Russian fighters from that carrier,” Boxer said.

“Oh God,” Gonzo said. “We have limited sensor coverage of you for the next three minutes, Fracture, and you’re out of range of Salalah radar. We’re almost blind right now.”

“Pass our situation along to Central Command,” Boxer said.

“Ask if there are any Omani fighters at Salalah that can chase these Russians away.”

“Roger. Stand by.”

“Our proposal is this, American bomber: Eject out of your damaged bomber and let us have our fun with it,” the Russian pilot radioed. “If you do this, we will let your tanker aircraft stay in the area to assist in recovering you from the ocean. If you do not respond, or if we see you make any turns or see your bomb bays open, we will open fire on both of you. You have sixty seconds to reply.”

Boxer angrily flipped over to the GUARD channel: “Hey, bastard, you would be a cowardly chickenshit if you downed an unarmed tanker!” she shouted.

“Ah, the woman bomber pilot,” the Russian pilot said. “Greetings, madam. That unfortunately is the spoils of war, my dear. You have fifty seconds to eject.”

“Let us get closer to shore, closer to Yemen.”

“You are much closer to shore now than our comrade was when you shot him down,” the Russian said. “Forty seconds.”

“Frodo…”

“There’s nothing I can do as long as they’re directly behind us,” Frodo said. “I can jam their radar side lobes with the lateral emitters, but I can’t touch the main beams. Besides, they’re well within heater-missile range, and even if we could decoy them with flares, they can close into gun range in seconds.”

“We can turn into them, lock them up, and shoot.”

“The second we turn, they’ll fire. We might be able to get one before they launch, but the other three will nail us and the tanker.”

“Thirty seconds, madam.”

“Can the jammers protect the tanker?” Boxer asked on intercom.

“Not against heat-seekers or guns,” Frodo said. He started to tighten his ejection-seat straps in preparation for bailout. “Dammit, Boxer, this is all your fault! If you hadn’t gone down after that task force, we’d all be safe! Now we have no choice but to punch out to save the tanker!”

The Russian fighter pilot radioed, “Twenty…” But at that instant Boxer saw an incredibly bright streak of light shoot across the sky coming from directly above, and the transmission was cut off. Another streak of light erupted seconds later, this one seemingly aimed directly at them but passing behind them, missing by what seemed bare inches.

“What just happened? What were those things? It looked like they came in from above us!”

“The lead fighter in the first formation disappeared!” Frodo said. “The wingman isn’t transmitting yet.”

“Nail those bastards, Frodo!” Boxer shouted, and she threw the Vampire bomber into a tight left turn, flying between the fighters and the tanker. As soon as she did so, the lateral laser radar emitters locked onto all three Russian fighters, the forward bomb-bay doors opened, and in fifteen seconds three AIM-120 AMRAAM missiles were in the air. At the same time Boxer popped chaff and flares to decoy any missile launches that might be aimed at the tanker.

Two of the Vampire’s AMRAAMs hit their targets…but the third missed. The surviving Su-33 fighter accelerated and fired two missiles at the KC-767 tanker. Both radar-guided missiles were decoyed away from the tanker by the cloud of chaff billowing through the sky and by the Vampire’s heavy jamming…

…but when they detected the jamming and the chaff, they automatically switched to infrared guidance and locked onto the biggest heat source in their line of sight: the EB-1C Vampire bomber. The two missiles exploded above the exhaust nozzles of the number one and two engines, blowing the left wing completely apart. The stricken bomber cartwheeled several times vertically through the sky, flipped upside down, then spiraled into the sea.