Fatal Terrain

CHAPTER ONE

“Attention, datalink bogey, eleven o’clock low,” ‘Sharon’ reported.

U.S. Air Force Major Scott Mauer saw the flashing diamond floating before his eyes even before the computer-synthesized female voice they had named “Sharon”—after actress Sharon Stone, whose voice could have been an exact duplicate of the computer’s — issued its advisory. Mauer immediately jammed his back and butt deeper into the ejection seat of his F-22 Lightning fighter and locked the inertial reel, securing himself tightly in his seat. The action was about to start.

Mauer moved his head until a circular target designator symbol centered on the diamond symbol, then toggled the radio transmit button on his right throttle quadrant down to the “intercom” position and said, “Lock bogey.” “Sharon” was much more than a verbal warning system as the first-generation “Bitchin’ Bettys” had been in earlier fighters— Sharon had a five-thousand-word vocabulary, could respond to questions with a surprisingly human voice, and could activate almost all of the F-22’s subsystems. It was more akin to a human copilot than a computer.

BOGEY LOCKED, Sharon replied, and instandy a box surrounded the white diamond symbol and the bogey’s flight information — speed, altitude, heading — displayed in midair. Mauer’s F-22 Lightning, the Air Force’s newest air-superiority fighter and attack plane, was equipped with the new “supercockpit” system, which included a helmet-mounted virtual display (VD), replacing the standard heads-up display mounted atop the instrument panel with symbols and information that could be seen no matter where the pilot looked — left, right, straight down, or even backward, the pilot could always “see” his flight and target readouts. Most of the heads-down cockpit dials, gauges, and multifunction displays in the F-22 fighter had also been replaced with three seamless color computer monitors that could be configured to display anything the pilot wished to see — radar, infrared, digital map, satellite photos, text, or flight instruments — called up and displayed by asking the computer or by touching the screen.

“Interrogate the bogey,” Mauer ordered.

INTERROGATING … Sharon the computer replied; then, after a short pause: NEGATIVE REPLY. Sharon had sent out an IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) signal, to which only friendly aircraft would reply. The white diamond in Mauer’s VD changed to red — it was no longer just a “bogey,” an unidentified aircraft. It was now a “bandit,” a hostile aircraft.

Mauer was a ten-year Air Force fighter veteran and knew how to close in and kill a hostile aerial target from any direction, speed, or attitude, but the attack computer system was new and he wanted to put it through its paces. He keyed the intercom button: “Give me an intercept vector on the bandit.”

SAY AGAIN, PLEASE, Sharon replied in a surprisingly seductive voice.

Mauer took a deep breath, containing his frustration and forcing himself to relax. “Say again, please” was Sharon’s favorite phrase. The computer system did not need voice coaching for individual pilots, but if a pilot started to get excited or hurried, the computer would not understand his voice commands. Mauer touched the supercockpit screen to call up the weapons status display and moved it with his finger to the upper right corner of the supercockpit display — in case his voice commands wouldn’t take, he was ready to finish the intercept without it. “I said, display intercept vector on the bandit. ”

She understood that time, and a twin-tiered 3-D ribbonlike path appeared in thin air. Naturally distrustful of computers to do their thinking for them, pilots called the computer’s attack recommendation the “primrose path.” Despite its name, however, it was not a bad recommendation, Mauer thought — high, left rear quarter, the westbound bandit’s pilot would be looking into the rising sun trying to find him — so he decided to follow it. Mauer maneuvered the F-22 so he was flying in between the two parallel ribbons, then ordered, “Engage the autopilot on the intercept course.”

AUTOPILOT ENGAGED, Sharon verified. The autopilot would now automatically fly the entire intercept. Mauer was a good stick and he loved flying, but unlike most of his fighter-jock colleagues, he wasn’t afraid to let the ultrasophisticated computers relieve some of the workload. The “primrose path” pulled Mauer’s F-22 into a steep descent, and Mauer kept the throttles at just below mil power and let the airspeed build up toward the Mach. With all of its weapons and fuel stored internally, the F-22 had few speed restrictions — it could go to its max speed of Mach 1.5 at any time in clean configuration, and the Lightning liked to go fast. Its weapons bay doors opened inwardly as well, so there was no speed restriction on missile launch either.

The intercept was working out perfectly. So far the bandit was cruising along fat, dumb, and happy, still subsonic and mostly traveling in a straight, uncomplicated course, flying low but not doing any real aggressive terrain masking. The radar lock was intermittent, but that was understandable, because Mauer’s F-22 was not tracking the bandit. One hundred miles away, an Air Force E-3C Sentry AWACS (Airborne Warning and Control System) radar plane had picked up the bandit and had datalinked the target information via the JTIDS (Joint Target Information Distribution System) to Mauer’s F-22, which processed and displayed the data as if the F-22’s own radar were tracking the target. The bandit’s threat radar warning receiver would pick up only the AWACS, not the F-22. Even better, Mauer could launch the F-22’s AIM-120 AM- RAAMs (Advanced Medium-Range Air To Air Missiles) using JTIDS information until the missile’s own active radar picked up the target — he didn’t even need the fighter’s radar to launch his radar-guided missiles.

“Recommend a weapon for the attack,” Mauer asked on interphone. As before, he didn’t need Sharon to tell him which missile to fire, but it was fun and educational to play with the new system. Fie purposely did not ask only for missiles but for any weapon, just to see if the computer would select the correct one.

RECOMMEND AIM-120, Sharon replied, and both of the F-22 s AM- RAAM missiles depicted on the weapon status page blinked green. Mauer’s Lightning was lightly loaded on this mission, and carried only two AIM-120s and two AIM-9P Sidewinder missiles in the weapons bay, plus five hundred rounds of ammunition for the 20-millimeter cannon. “Arm AIM-120.”

ROGER, AIM-120 ARMED, WARNING, MISSILE ARMED, Sharon responded, and the left AMEAAM missile changed from green to yellow, indicating it was powered up and receiving target and flight information from the attack computer.

“Time to launch?”

TEN SECONDS TO LAUNCH, Sharon responded, with only a hint of hesitation.

They were still screaming earthward at 3,000 feet per minute, and the hills below were starting to become a factor. Mauer knew that he was getting a little target-fixated, so he expanded his look-down supercockpit display to a God’s-eye view of the surrounding area. Only one other plane within fifty miles, and that was a friendly, another F-22. The “primrose path” was steering him around some high terrain — the navigation computer had all of the terrain elevations programmed — but he was still flying close to those hills. The computer-generated flight path was too gentle and not aggressive enough for Mauer’s taste, so he laid his hands on the control stick and throttles and said, “Autopilot heading nav mode off, autopilot altitude nav mode off, fail-safe terrain avoidance mode on.”

ROGER, HEADING NAV OFF, ALTITUDE NAV OFF, WARNING, CHECK AUTOPILOT MODES, ROGER, TERRAIN AVOIDANCE MODE ENGAGED, Sharon replied. The F-22 s terrain-avoidance mode would provide a last-second emergency fly-up in case he strayed too close to the ground or the hills.

“Time to launch?”

SAY AGAIN, PLEASE, Sharon replied. Mauer was getting excited again — his voice was getting clipped, more high-pitched, and therefore harder for Sharon to understand. No matter — he saw the time-to-launch countdown on his virtual display and didn’t ask again. Fie was breathing faster and shallower. Relax, dammit, relax! he told himself. You’ve got this intercept nailed. Even without Sharon’s help, he had it wired.

Mauer now knew what the bandit’s target was: the industrial site, the fifty-acre military weapons and research facility. It was imperative that this plant be protected. The Air Force had assigned two F-22 Lightning fighters, their most modern and high-tech warplane, to the industrial site’s defense. A Patriot air defense missile site was active in the area, but with the F-22s operating in the area at the same time, the Patriot would be kept in reserve until the air defense fighters ran out of missiles.

“Tell me when to shoot,” Mauer said.

MAX RANGE IN FIVE SECONDS… MAX RANGE IN THREE SECONDS… TWO SECONDS… ONE SECOND… MAX IN RANGE… OPTIMAL IN RANGE, Sharon said.

Mauer keyed the intercom button: “AIM-120 shoot,” he ordered.

ROGER, AIM-120 SHOOT, AIM-120 SHOOT… WARNING, WEAPONS DOOR OPENING… AIM-120 AWAY. Mauer felt the rumble of the weapons doors sliding inwardly, felt the slap! of the gas ejectors forcing the left AM- RAAM missile into the supersonic slipstream, then saw a streak of white smoke arc across the sky from the belly of his Lightning fighter. The VD display showed an estimated “time to die” countdown: nine seconds… eight… seven… six… at five seconds, the AMRAAM’s own active radar seeker head activated, which would guide the missile in the last few seconds of its kill…

The bandit suddenly dipped from 1,000 feet above the terrain to fifty feet — literally in the blink of an eye! — then made an impossible left turn behind a tall butte. The AMRAAM, just seconds from impact, lost sight of its target. The missiles seeker head was only a ten-degree cone and its turn rate was about seven Gs — the bandit had turned ninety degrees and pulled fifteen, maybe twenty Gs. There was no way, no way, any bomber could turn like that. The AMRAAM missile was lost, smoothly and completely faked out by a move that would make Jerry Rice hang up his cleats.

Mauer yanked the Lightning fighter left. “Radar on, lock on bandit…” But before the ships radar could lock on and send new steering signals to the missile, it had plowed into the ground. Clean miss! That was the first time Mauer had ever seen an AMRAAM missile miss its intended target. What kind of bomber was this? The F-15E Strike Eagle was not this fast or agile with weapons aboard… was it a foreign job, like the Japanese FS-X or a Messerschmidt X-31? Maybe an F-16XL cranked arrow…?

Just then, Mauer glanced off to his right and saw it — a cloud of black smoke over the industrial site. Mauer had been hoping to reacquire the bandit on this southbound jog before it turned westbound again toward the industrial site, but he was too late. The industrial site was hit. Dammit, looked like a direct fucking hit — wait, no, not quite. The bad guys intel was obviously poor — the hit was on the center of the big building, mostly crating and shipping stuff and empty space. The bandit got a hit, but it didn’t do much harm!

Westbound again, radar on in wide-area look-down search — got him! BANDIT ONE O’CLOCK LOW, TWELVE MILES, Sharon advised.

“Lock bandit, arm AIM-120, AIM-120 shoot,” Mauer ordered immediately.

BANDIT LOCKED… ROGER, AIM-120 ARMED, WARNING, WEAPONS ARMED… AIM-120 SHOOT, AIM-120 SHOOT, WARNING, WEAPONS DOORS OPENING… AIM-120 AWAY, Sharon responded in rapid-fire succession, and his last AMRAAM missile was flying. But almost as soon as it launched, Mauer could see its white smoke trail wobbling, then breaking first hard to the left, then in a wide sharply arcing curve to the right, then again to the left in an even wider arc. He knew it was going to miss well before the “time to die” meter ran down to zero. That bandit had made two high-G jinks that again beat the hell out of the highly maneuverable AIM-120 missile.

Another cloud of black smoke—another hit on the industrial site, and this time it was on the smaller building southeast of the large building, where a lot of finished munitions and products were stored awaiting transportation. That son of a bitch had actually gone all the way around and reattacked, with a fighter on his tail! He had balls, that’s for sure— any mud-mover worth his wings would hit, then get out of the defended area as fast as he could.

Enough of this super-automated datalink shit, Mauer thought — time to call in some help. They were supposed to stay off the voice radios and use the datalink as much as possible, but he was in deep shit and his first priority was to defend his territory. He rocked the radio switch on the throttles up to the UHF position: “Saber One-Two, this is One-One on Red.”

“One-Two,” replied his fellow hunter, Captain Andrea Mills. She had a slight twinge of sarcasm already in her voice, and Mauer almost regretted calling her — he knew she knew he was having trouble.

“Come give me a hand with this bandit,” Mauer said.

“Roger, I’m on my way,” Mills replied, the sarcasm gone. Mills looked for every opportunity to rub her fellow fighter jocks’ noses in the macho hunter-killer game they all relished, but when it came time to get down to business, she was serious, focused, and as deadly as any swinging dick.

Mauer switched his heads-down supercockpit screen to a God’s-eye view and expanded it until Mills’s fighter symbol appeared — good, she was off to the north, racing southwestbound to cut off the bandit from the other major ground target in the area, the fighter base and Patriot missile emplacements. Mills was staying high, establishing a high patrol, so Mauer pushed his stick forward and zoomed down lower, closer to the bandit’s altitude. He had two missiles left, both heat-seekers with a max range of only seven miles, and he had to make them count. If the bomber got the airfield and the Patriot site, their forces would be left wide open to attack, the airborne fighters would have to find someplace else to land, and the fighters on the ground were sitting ducks and wouldn’t be able to depart.

At 3,000 feet above the ground, the hills and buttes looked close enough to scrape the bottom of Mauer’s fighter. He kept the power up at full military power, speeding westbound at Mach 1.5, searching for the bomber… but Mills’s radar locked on first. The JTIDS datalink transferred the bandit’s position to Mauer’s attack computer, and he again locked onto the bomber and began his pursuit — twelve o’clock, nine miles… eight…

HIGH TERRAIN, HIGH TERRAIN! Sharon cried into the intercom. Mauer yanked back on the stick to crest a sharply rising razorback ridgeline directly ahead. Jesus, this was nuts—trying to concentrate on the pursuit while dodging hills and ridges was going to get him killed. But as soon as he lowered the nose again, the bandit was dead in his sights, straight ahead.

“Arm Sidewinder,” Mauer ordered. “Open weapon doors.”

ROGER, AIM-9 ARMED, WARNING, MISSILE ARMED… WARNING, WEAPON DOORS OPENING. As soon as the door opened, the AIM-9 Sidewinder missile’s seeker head slaved to the attack computer’s steering signal, saw the hot dot from the bandit’s exhaust, and locked onto it, matching its seeker azimuth exactly with the attack computer’s target bearing, AIM-9 LOCKED ON, Sharon reported.

“AIM-9 shoot,” Mauer ordered.

AIM-9 SHOOT, AIM-9 SHOOT, AIM-9 AWAY. The smaller, faster Sidewinder fired from the weapons bay in a flash, wobbled a bit as it stabilized itself in the air, then homed straight and true…

Flares! Mauer saw them immediately — a line of white dots hanging in the sky, hot and very bright even over six miles away. The radar-lock square jutted sharply left as the bandit made its customary first left break, but the decoy flares hung in the sky straight ahead for several seconds before winking out. The Sidewinder wobbled as if it were trying to decide between locking onto the decoys or turning to chase the bomber. It decided on the decoys, then changed its mind as the decoys began to extinguish. But just as it made a sharp left turn to pursue, the bomber ejected more flares and jinked right, and the Sidewinder locked solidly on the new, brighter, closer decoys and would not let go. The Sidewinder exploded harmlessly a full five miles behind the bomber.

One missile to go, Mauer reminded himself, as he turned to pursue. He had closed to within four miles of the bandit, and now he was straining hard to see what in hell it was. The virtual display made it easy to focus on where the target was, no matter which way it jinked. It was small, probably an F-16, judging by its size and its maneuverability, or maybe some experimental job…

A cruise missile! Mauer got a good look at it as it made another hard right turn, heading right for the airfield — a goddamn cruise missile! No wonder it was so maneuverable — there was no pilot on board to get knocked unconscious by hard G turns. It was the first cruise missile he had ever heard of that ejected decoy flares, could obviously detect enemy fighters’ and missiles’ radars, and could attack multiple targets and even reattack targets it missed the first time around! It was a little bit bigger than a Tomahawk or standard Air-Launched Cruise Missile, but it had no wings — it was almost like a big fat flying surfboard. When it was straight and level, it was almost impossible to see.

“One-One, bogeydope,” Mills radioed.

“One-One has a single cruise missile, and it’s haulin’ ass,” Mauer said, grunting against the G-forces as he turned hard left again to stay behind the missile. “I got one heater left. C’mon in and nail this bastard if my last shot misses.” The time for being macho was over, Mauer thought— this cruise missile had beat him pretty good, and it looked as if it was going to take both of the F-22s working together to nail it.

“One-Two has a judy.”

“Take the shot,” Mauer said. “I’ll try to nail it in the ass while you shoot it in the face.”

Mills didn’t reply — she let her AMRAAMs do the talking. The JTIDS datalink showed Mills launching her first AIM-120, followed by her second AMRAAM five seconds later. The cruise missile made its usual left break — Mauer was close enough now to see that it was ejecting chaff decoys, trying to get the radar-guided missile to lock onto the tinsel-like chaff! But Mauer anticipated that left break, and at the exact right moment, Mauer launched his last Sidewinder, then began a right turning climb to clear the area. The Sidewinder would get a good, solid look at the missile’s entire profile, and it couldn’t miss.

But as he turned, he looked to the west and saw three bright explosions and another cloud of smoke — the airfield was hit, this time with some kind of binary weapon, a fuel-air explosive or a chemical weapon. No one was going to be landing or taking off from that airfield for a long, long time.

Mauer got visual contact on Mills’s F-22 high and heading in the opposite direction. Just as he began his climbing left turn to join up, he heard Mills report, “Splash one bandit — but I think he got the Patriot site and the airfield first.”

Good job, Scottie, Mauer told himself angrily — the F-22 Lightning, the best fighter ever to leave the ground, beat out by a robot plane. Shit, shit, shit!

He saw Mills wag her F-22’s tail back and forth, clearing him into right fingertip formation. Might as well let Andrea lead for a while until he got his composure back, he was too angry right now to make any decisions as flight lead.

Just then, Mauer’s heads-down display blinked — another inbound bandit had been detected by the AWACS. Mills rocked her wings up and down, the signal to move out to combat spread formation to get set up for the intercept, then started a thirty-degree bank turn to the left toward the new bandit. She was the only one with missiles now, Mauer thought forlornly, so he slid out to wide-line-abreast formation and got ready to back up his leader on this intercept. He was backup now, he thought, just backup. The bad guys were three for fucking three…

“Three for three, General,” Patrick McLanahan said matter-of- factly. “The Wolverine autonomously located four preprogrammed targets, attacked three, reattacked one, and was on its way to nail the fourth one before the F-22s got it. Pretty good hunting, I’d say.”

“Unbelievable,” Samson finally muttered. “I don’t believe what I just saw.” Even in the EB-52B Megafortress bombers wide cockpit, Lieutenant General Terrill Samson’s big frame barely seemed to fit — his shoulders were slightly slumped, his knees high up on the instrument panel. Terrill “Earthmover” Samson, a former B-52 and B-1B bomber pilot and wing commander, was commander of U.S. Air Force’s Eighth Air Force, in charge of training and equipping all of the Air Force’s heavy and medium bomber units. The Air Force general was in the modified B-52 s left seat, piloting the experimental bomber. Copiloting the EB-52 Megafortress was Air Force Colonel Kelvin Carter, a veteran bomber pilot and a former EB-52 test pilot at HAWC, the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center. Retired Air Force Colonel Patrick McLanahan was seated behind and to the right of Samson in the aft section of the upper crew compartment in the OSO, or offensive systems officer’s, console, and to McLanahan’s left in the DSO’s, or defensive systems officers, seat was Dr. Jon Masters, president of a small high-tech satellite and weapons contractor from Arkansas.

The EB-52B Megafortress was a radically modified B-52 bomber, changed so extensively from tip to tail that now its size was the only sure point of comparison. It had a long, pointed, streamlined nose that smoothly melded into sharply raked cockpit windows and a thin, glass- smooth fuselage. Unlike a line B-52, the Megafortress’s wingtips did not curl upward while in flight — the plane’s all-composite fibersteel skeleton and skin, as strong as steel but many times lighter, maintained an aerodynamically perfect airfoil no matter how heavily it was loaded or what flight condition it was in. A long, low, canoe-shaped fairing sat atop the fuselage, housing long-range surveillance radars for scanning the sea, land, or skies for enemy targets in all directions, as well as active laser anti-missile countermeasures equipment and communications antennae. The large vertical and horizontal stabilizers on the tail were replaced by low, curving V-shaped ruddervators. A large aft-facing radar mounted between the ruddervators searched and tracked enemy targets in the rear quadrant; and instead of a 20-millimeter Gatling tail gun, the Megafortress had a single long cannon muzzle that looked far more sinister, far more deadly, than any machine gun. The cannon fired small guided missiles, called “airmines,” that would fly toward an oncoming enemy fighter, then explode and scatter thousands of BB-like titanium projectiles directly in the fighter’s flight path, shelling jet engines and piercing thin aircraft skin or cockpit canopies.

The most striking changes in the Megafortress were under its long, thin wings. Instead of eight Pratt & Whitney T33 turbofan engines, the EB-52 Megafortress sported just four airliner-style General Electric CF6 fanjet engines, modified for use on this experimental aircraft. The CF6 engines were quieter, less smoky, and gave the Megafortress over 60 percent more thrust than did the old turbofans, but with 30 percent greater fuel economy. At nearly a half-million pounds gross weight, the Megafortress could fly nearly halfway around the world at altitudes of over 50,000 feet — unrefueled!

The Megafortress was so highly computerized that the normal B-52 crew complement of six had been reduced down to four — a pilot and copilot; a defensive systems officer, who was in charge of bomber defense; and an offensive systems officer, who was in charge of employing the ground and anti-radar attack weapons and who also acted as the reconnaissance, surveillance, and air intelligence officer. The OSO’s and DSO’s stations were now on the upper deck of the EB-52, facing forward; the lower deck was now configured as an expanded avionics bay and also included a galley, lavatory, and seats and bunk area for extra crew members who might be taken aboard for long missions.

“Jon’s only intervention was to redesignate the first target again so the Wolverine could reattack,” McLanahan pointed out. McLanahan was not nearly as tall as Terrill Samson, but he, too, was broad-shouldered and powerfully built — he just seemed to fit perfectly in the EB-52 bomber’s OSO’s seat, as if that’s where he always belonged. It was as if McLanahan had been born to fly in that seat, or as if the controls and displays had been sized and positioned precisely to fit him and him alone — which, in fact, they had. “The upgraded missile has a rearward sensor capability for autonomous bomb damage assessment. With a satellite datalink, an operator — either on the carrier aircraft, on any other JTIDS-equipped aircraft in the area, or eventually from a ground command station thousands of miles away — could command the Wolverine to reattack.”

“That twenty-G turn, evading the AMRAAM,” Samson remarked, his voice still quivering with excitement, “… it was breathtaking. It looked like a cartoon, some kind of science-fiction-movie thing.”

“Not science fiction — science fact,” McLanahan said. “The Wolverine has thrust-vectored control jets instead of conventional wings and tail surfaces, and a mission-adaptive fuselage controlled by microhydraulics — the entire body of the missile changes shape, allowing it to use lifting-body aerodynamics to turn faster. In fact, the faster it goes, the tighter it can turn — just the opposite of most aircraft. All moving parts on the missile are driven by microhydraulic devices, so a simple five- hundred-psi pump the size of my wristwatch can power three hundred actuators at over ten thousand psi — theoretically we can maintain control at up to thirty Gs, but at that speed the missile would probably snap in half or the pressure might cook off the explosives in the warheads. But no fighter or missile yet built can keep up with the Wolverine.”

Samson fell silent again in amazement. McLanahan turned to his left and looked at the man seated beside him and added, “Good job, Jon. I think you watered his eyes.”

“Of course we did,” Masters said. “What did you expect?” He tried to say it as casually and as coolly as McLanahan, but the excitement bubbling in his voice could not be disguised. Unlike the other two men in the cockpit with him, Jon Masters shared only their dancing, energetic eyes and boundless enthusiasm — he was as thin as they were broad, with a boyish, almost goofy-looking face. Jon Masters, the designer of the incredible AGM-177 Wolverine cruise missile along with dozens of other high-tech military weapons and satellites, was aboard to watch his missile do its stuff; in case anything went wrong, he could also abort the missile s flight, if necessary. That was also a Jon Masters hallmark — rarely, if ever, did the first operational test of one of his missiles or satellites work properly. This test appeared to be a welcome exception.

McLanahan commanded the EB-52 bomber into a right turn back toward the exit point to the RED FLAG range. “A little professional modesty might help sell a few Wolverines to the Air Force, Jon,” McLanahan pointed out. McLanahan, retired as a colonel from the Air Force after sixteen years in service, was now a paid consultant to Sky Masters, for which he performed a number of tasks, from test-pilot duties to product design.

“Trust me on this one, Patrick,” Masters said, slouching in his ejection seat and taking a big swig out of his ever-present squeeze bottle of Pepsi. “When it comes to the military, you’ve got to yell it to sell it. Talk to Helen in marketing — her budget is almost as big as the research-and- development budget.”

“Dr. Masters has a right to be proud,” General Samson said, “and I’m proud to back him and the Wolverine project. With a fleet of Wolverine missiles in the inventory, we can locate and kill targets with zero-zero precision from standoff range and at the same time virtually eliminate the risk of sending a human pilot over a heavily defended target area, and eliminate having to send in special forces troops on the ground to search for enemy missile or radar sites.”

“It also breathes new life into the heavy-bomber program,” McLanahan added. “I know there’s been a lot of congressional pressure to do away with all of the ‘heavies,’ especially the B-52s, in favor of newer fighter-bombers. Well, load up one B-52 with twenty-six Wolverine missiles, and it’s like launching a squadron of F-16 or F/A-18 fighter- bombers, except it cuts costs by nine-tenths and doesn’t put as many pilots at risk.”

A tone in all their headsets stopped the conversation. Two bat-wing fighter symbols had appeared at the bottom of McLanahan’s supercockpit display, and they were closing fast. “Fighters — probably the two F-22s, gunning for us, ” McLanahan said. “I’ll bet they’re pissed after missing the Wolverines.”

“Let ’em come,” Masters said. “We won — we already blasted the places they were assigned to protect.”

“The exercise isn’t over as long as we’re inside the range, Doctor,” Kelvin Carter said in a loud, excited voice, pulling his straps tighter and refastening his oxygen mask in place with a quick thrust. “We accomplished the mission — all we gotta do now is survive”

Masters literally gulped on interphone. “You mean… you mean we’re going to try to outrun those fighters? Now?”

“We didn’t brief an air-to-air engagement,” Samson pointed out. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Well, go ahead and get us clearance for air-to-air,” McLanahan suggested. “We own this airspace. Got it, Kel?”

“Rog, Patrick.” Carter clicked open the range safety channel. “Saber One-One flight, this is Sandusky. Wanna play?”

“Sandusky, this is Saber leader. Roger, we’re in and we’re in. Payback time for the bomber pukes. Phase One ROE?”

“Affirmative, Phase One, we’re ready,” Carter replied. “Phase One” ROE, or Rules of Engagement, were the safest of three standard aerial- combat exercise levels with which all aircrews entering the RED FLAG ranges were familiar: no closer than two miles between aircraft, no closure rates greater than three hundred knots, no bank angles greater than forty-five degrees, no altitudes below two thousand feet above the ground.

“Roger, Sandusky, this is Saber One-One flight of two, Phase One, fight’s on.”

“I don’t believe this, I don’t believe this,” Masters said excitedly. “Two Lightning fighters are gunning for «j.”

“It’s all part of the tactics of standoff attack defense, Jon,” McLanahan said. “If you can destroy the missile’s carrier aircraft, you’ve destroyed the enemy’s ability to launch more cruise missiles. Tighten your straps, everybody. General Samson, get out of here, please.”

Carter’s fingers flew over his instrument panel, and seconds later the electronic command bars on Samson’s center multifunction display snapped downward. “Terrain-avoidance mode selected, command bars are active, pilot,” he said to Samson. “Let’s go, General!”

Masters suddenly became very light in his seat, as Samson engaged the EB-52 bomber’s autopilot and the big bomber nosed over toward the earth. The sudden negative Gs made the young scientist’s head spin and his stomach churn, but he was able to keep from blowing lunch all over his console as he tightened his straps and finally managed to focus over his console toward the cockpit — and when he did, all he could see out the front cockpit windows was brown desert. Masters could feel his helmet dangling upward as the negative Gs threatened to float the helmet right off his head, and he hurriedly fastened his chin strap and oxygen mask.

“Thirty miles and closing,” McLanahan reported.

“They can’t see us on radar, right?” Masters squeaked on intercom in his high, tinny voice. “Not this far out, right?”

“It’s daytime, Jon — we’re sitting ducks,” McLanahan said. “Stealth doesn’t help much if they can see you without radar. We’ve probably been leaving contrails, too — might as well have been towing a lighted banner. We’ve still got fifteen thousand feet to lose before they get in missile range. Clear right. Ready for COMBAT mode.” Samson heeled the EB-52 bomber into a steep right bank, spilling lift from the bomber’s huge wings and increasing their descent rate. He kept the bank in for about twenty seconds.

“Wings level now,” Carter said. “Five thousand to level… command bars moving… four thousand… three thousand… two thousand to go… command bars coming to level pitch… one thousand… command bars indicating climb… descent rate to zero… command bars are terrain-active. Take it around that butte, then come left and center up.”

“Take it to max power, General,” McLanahan urged. “We’re not going to make it to the butte before they’re in missile range.” Samson pushed the throttles to maximum power and saw the warning lights illuminate on his cockpit warning indicators — max power was only supposed to be used for takeoff or go-arounds, usually with the landing gear down. “Get your finger off the paddle switch, sir — let the terrain- avoidance system do its job.”

“Jesus, McLanahan,” Samson gasped, as they sped toward the rocky mountains. He found he had been unconsciously “paddling off” the terrain-avoidance autopilot with his right little finger, flying higher than the autopilot wanted — the command bars were a full five degrees below the horizon. “No one said anything about flying TA on this flight.”

“We can’t let those fighter jocks get us, sir,” McLanahan said. “Let the TA system take it. Get the nose down.”

They heard a slow-pitched deedle deedle deedle! warning tone. “Radar lock!” McLanahan shouted. “Simulate MAWS activated!” The MAWS, or Missile Active Warning System, used a laser emitter tied to the threat receivers to blind incoming enemy missiles — MAWS could also blind a pilot. “Left turn, take them around that butte! ” Samson released the paddle switch, letting the bomber tuck down to an even lower altitude, then pushed the stick left and aimed for the north side of the butte. “Tighter, General,” McLanahan shouted. “We’ve got to make them overshoot!”

“I’m as far as I can go.” But he felt the bomber heel even more sharply to the left, as Carter pushed the stick over even more, pulling to tighten the turn. It seemed as if the entire left side of the cockpit windscreen was filled with the towering gray slab of rock, although they were not yet at forty-five degrees of bank. “McLanahan… dammit, enoughl” “They’re overshooting — they’re breaking off!” McLanahan said. “Hard right, center up! ” On the supercockpit display, the two F-22 fighters had broken off the pursuit, climbed, and arced west to get away from the butte. Samson hauled the control stick to the right, a brief thrill of fear shooting through his brain as he felt the bomber mush slightly at the cross-control point — the stick was full right, the bomber was still turning left, and he was out of control until the bomber started to respond — but a few moments later the autopilot was back in control and they were wings-level, flying 2,000 feet above ground down a wide valley.

“Sandusky, this is Saber flight,” the pilot of the lead F-22 radioed. “No fair. We can’t chase you guys down that low without busting the ROE. How about one pass at Phase Three?” Phase Three was the most realistic, most dangerous level of combat exercise: 1,000 feet between aircraft, no lower than 200 feet above the ground, max closure rate of 1,000 knots, unlimited bank angles. Samson said nothing; Carter considered that silence as permission and agreement from the aircraft commander.

McLanahan didn’t ask if Samson wanted to play, didn’t wait for any comments from anyone else. “Saber flight, this is Sandusky, acknowledged, Phase Three, we’re in.”

“Saber flight’s in, Phase Three, fight’s on.”

“They’re coming around again,” McLanahan said. “I’ve got a sliver valley off to the left. Take it right in between those ridges. I’ll dial it down to COLA — they’ll lose us for sure.” COLA stood for Computer-generated Lowest Altitude, where the terrain-avoidance computer would sacrifice safety to choose the lowest possible altitude — it could be as low as just a few dozen feet above ground, even in this rocky, hilly terrain. “We’ll pop up through that saddle to the south before the valley ends and swing all the way around behind them. They won’t know what the hell happened.” But instead of turning right, McLanahan felt the EB-52 start a climb. “Hey, get the nose down, sir, and give me a right turn, there’s your track.”

“I said enough, Patrick,” Samson said. He punched off the attack computer from the autopilot and started a slow climb, straight ahead down the wide valley. It did not take long for the kill — the F-22 fighters roared on them at supersonic speed, radars locked on, and passed less than 600 feet overhead. The sonic boom sent a dull shudder and a loud thunderclap through the bomber. Samson switched his number one radio to the range safety frequency and keyed the mike: “All players, knock it off, knock it off, knock it off. Sandusky is RTB.” The F-22s could be seen rocking their wings in acknowledgment as they climbed out of sight.

Patrick McLanahan punched in commands to give Samson steering cues to the range exit point, then stripped off his oxygen mask in exasperation. “What in hell was that, General?” he asked. “You don’t give up during a chase like that! ”

“Hey, McLanahan, you may be a civilian, but you watch your mouth and your attitude,” Samson said angrily, his head jerking to the right. “It wasn’t a chase, McLanahan, it was showboating. We weren’t scheduled to go low, and we sure as hell weren’t fragged to do terrain avoidance or do lazy eights around mountains like that!”

“I know we weren’t,” McLanahan said, “but we got the gas, the TA system was up, we got the fighters, and they wanted to play.”

“We didn’t brief it, we didn’t plan it, and I’ve got two civilians on board,” Samson interjected angrily. “Yes, you’re a civilian, McLanahan. I know you can do the job, I know you’re every bit as capable as an active- duty crew member, but you’re still just a civilian observer. Hell, McLanahan, I’m not qualified in this contraption, and I haven’t flown terrain-avoidance missions in ten years, let alone been chased by Lightnings at five hundred AGL! It was dangerous.”

“It’s nothing you haven’t done before, General,” McLanahan said. “I know you’ve gone over the Mach at one hundred AGL in the B-1B, and you’ve shook off fighters in a B-52 down low before, too.”

“That’s enough, McLanahan,” Samson said. “The test is over. Sit back and enjoy the ride back to Edwards.” He turned to look over his right shoulder at Masters. “You okay, Dr. Masters?”

“Sure… fine.” He looked right at the edge of losing control of his stomach’s contents, but he wore a concerned expression. “I hope you didn’t stop all that yanking and banking pilot stuff because of me. Actually, I was starting to get into it.”

“Why did you stop, Terrill?” McLanahan asked. “Why did you let those guys get us?”

“What’s the point, Patrick?” Samson asked in an angry tone. “Like you said, it was daylight, they had us visually. They got us. We didn’t have a chance. We were just rolling around down close to the ground, waiting for them to kill us. We couldn’t escape. It was inevitable.”

“Nothing is inevitable, sir,” McLanahan said. “We can beat even the F-22 Lightning down low. I’ve seen the best fighters in the world lose a B-52 when it’s down in the rocks — the more high-tech a fighter gets, the less capable it’ll be in a visual chase down low.”

“I know that, Patrick. I’ve done it myself.”

“But we can’t show the powers that be how good we are if we keep on calling ‘knock it off’ the minute we’re bombs-away, sir. We’ve got to prove that we can survive in this day and age of superfighters and high- tech air defense systems.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Patrick,” Samson said, “but unfortunately I think the heavy bomber is going to become a thing of the past with or without the Wolverine missile. The Pentagon understands the concept of employing squadrons of fighters and fighter-bombers overseas or aboard carriers — they don’t understand, or refuse to accept, the idea that we might not be able to send a carrier into a certain part of the world, or we might not be able to establish a forward operating base close enough to the enemy to use a fighter-bomber.”

“So… what are you saying, sir?”

“I’m saying, as of October first, Eighth Air Force goes away — and with it, most of the heavies.”

“What?” McLanahan interjected. “The Air Force is doing away with the long-range bombers?”

“Not entirely,” Samson replied. “Twelfth Air Force gets one B-2 wing, twenty planes by the year 2000—hopefully with ten or twenty more, if Congress gets their act together, by 2010—and three B-1B wings, two Reserve wings, and one Air National Guard group.”

“No B-lBs in the active duty force — and all the BUFFs and Aardvarks go to the boneyard?” McLanahan exclaimed, referring to the B- 52s and F-llls by their crewdog-given nicknames. “Unbelievable. It doesn’t seem real. ”

“Fiscal realities,” Samson said. “You can fill the sky with F-15E fighter-bombers for the same price as a single B-2 squadron. The President looks at Mountain Home with a huge ramp full of a hundred F-15s, F-16s, and tankers, and he knows he can precision-bomb the shit out of North Korea with just that one wing for three hundred million per year; or he looks at Barksdale or Ellsworth with just twenty heavies and virtually no precision-guided stuff for the same money. Which one does he pick? Which one looks worse to the bad guys?”

“But the heavies drop more ordnance, cause more damage, inflict more psychological confusion—”

“That’s arguable, and besides, it doesn’t matter,” Samson interjected. “I can tell you that European or Central Command planners much prefer to hear that a hundred Eagles or Falcons are on their way rather than twenty B-52s or even thirty B-ls, even though a B-l can beat an F-16 any day in conventional radar bombing. Pacific Command — well, forget it. They won’t even ask for an Air Force bomber wing unless every carrier is on the bottom of the ocean — for them, almost nothing except tankers and an occasional AWACS radar plane exist outside Navy or Marine Corps fighter.”

“I just hope, sir,” McLanahan said, “that you don’t let the Pentagon kill off the heavy bombers as easily as you just let those fighters kill us. ”

“Hey, McLanahan, that’s out of line,” Samson said bitterly. “You listen to me — I believe in the heavy bombers just as much as you, probably more. I fight to keep the heavies in the arsenal every fucking day.”

“I didn’t mean to accuse or insult you, sir,” McLanahan said, iron still in his voice, “but I’m not ready to give up on the heavy-bomber program. We’d be committing national defense suicide.”

“You might want to loosen up a bit, Patrick,” Samson interjected, with a wry smile. “Those decisions are made far, far above our pay grade. Besides, it was the success of the heavy bomber that helped kill it off more than anything else.”

“What do you mean?”

“After your overflying of China with a B-2 everyone thought had been destroyed, the world is scared shitless,” Samson explained. “Any talk of using strategic bombers in a conflict, especially with China, looks like a return to the Cold War days, and it has lawmakers on both sides nervous. The President has ordered all the Beaks back to Whiteman, and he’s lying low, waiting for the ‘lynch mobs’ to quiet down.”

“Lynch mobs? Someone’s upset that we struck back at the Iranians?” “Don’t you read the papers, Patrick?” Samson asked with surprise. “Half of Congress, mostly the left side of the aisle, is howling mad at the President for authorizing those bombing missions against Iran. There’s talk of an investigation, an independent counsel, even impeachment. Nothing will come of it, of course — it’s all political mudslinging, and few outside the Pentagon or the closed-door congressional military committees know what we did over Iran — but the President’s neck is stretched way out there.”

“We proved today that the B-52 is still a first-class weapon system,” McLanahan said resolutely. “We’ve got five more EB-52s sitting in storage right now, and Sky Masters can arm them all with Wolverine attack missiles and Tacit Rainbow anti-radar missiles. The mission has changed, General, but we still need the B-52s.”

“The B-52s have already been fragged for the boneyard, Patrick, including the Megafortresses,” Samson said. “The moneys already been spent to get rid of them. Minot and Barksdale go civilian by the end of next year — hell, my desk will be auctioned off by Christmas. Give it up, Patrick. I’ll recommend that Air Force buy Wolverines, but not to equip B-52s — that’s a losing proposition. Mate Wolverines with Beaks and Bones”—Samson used the crewdog nicknames for the B-2 A and B-1B bombers—“and I think we’ll have a deal.”

But McLanahan wasn’t listening — he was lost in thought, his eyes locked in the “thousand-yard stare” that he seemed to lapse into from time to time. Even though he ran checklists and did his duties as a B-2 bomber mission commander, he seemed to think about a hundred different things all at once. Just like Brad Elliott, Samson thought. Thinking about how he was going to twist the game to his advantage, turning over each and every possibility, no matter how weird or outlandish, until the solution presented itself. Elliott was famous… no, infamous… for that.

“Twenty B-2s and sixty B-ls to cover all of the long-range strike contingencies around the world?” McLanahan muttered. “You can’t do it, sir. Deploy the force to Diego Garcia for a Middle East conflict, then swing them to Guam for an Asia conflict? Maybe for a few days, but not for more than that. Who leads the way for the little guys?”

“That’s why we got the Navy and the F-117,” Samson said. “Bombers aren’t the only answer, MC, you know that. You’re forgetting the other twenty-five Air Force, Reserve, and Guard combat strike wings, the thirteen Navy air wings, the four Marine air wings…”

“Tactical bombers need forward airstrips, lots of tankers, and lots of ground support,” McLanahan reminded the general, “and naval bombers need carriers that can sail safely within range of the target. A conflict in Asia, for example, could do away with all of these.”

“But a B-52 can’t stand up to modern-day air defenses, Patrick,” Samson said. “All of the reports and studies prove this. Even with two- hundred mile standoff weapons, a B-52 can’t survive. Put it in a low- or zero-threat environment and it could chew up a lot of earth, but it’s not worth the money to support a bomber that can only be used once the war’s almost won.”

“General, the Megafortress will cream anything the Air Force, Navy, or Marines can put up against it,” Jon Masters. “All by itself, it’ll go up against a squadron of whatever you want to put up and ‘destroy’ every strategic target in the RED FLAG range — and it’ll come out alive, ready to fight again.”

“Spoken like a true salesman, Doc,” Samson said over his shoulder, with a broad smile. To McLanahan he said, “I’m not promising that anything will come of this, you two, remember that. I did this flight test as a favor to you and Dr. Masters. You and Jon might.not get a contract from the Air Force after all this is over, no matter how well your gear works or how much of your own money you spend.”

“When the Air Force sees what we can do, they’ll make a deal,” Masters said confidently. “They won’t be able to resist.”

“General, Jon’s business is making money — we all understand that,” McLanahan said earnestly. “But my objective is to build the best long- range rapid-deployment attack fleet possible with our shrinking defense budget, and I believe part of that objective is the EB-52B Megafortress, combined with smart standoff attack and defense-suppression weapons. Jon and his company are backing my ideas. All I want is a chance to show the brass what we can do, and we need your help. We’re the best, General. We need the chance to prove it.”

Samson smiled and shook his head in amusement. “You better watch yourself, Colonel — you’re starting to sound an awful lot like that old warhorse friend of yours, Brad Elliott.” McLanahan smiled at the mention of his mentor. “He’s a good buddy and one fine man, but he sure got stung by the hornets from all the nests he stirred up. A friendly word of caution: don’t be like him.”

Judging by the silence, Samson guessed that McLanahan hadn’t heard a word he said.

“Loyal fathers of the Party, stand and pay respect to our Paramount Leader!”

The assembled general officers and ministers of the People’s Liberation Army stood and bowed deeply as the president of the People’s Republic of China, Paramount Leader Jiang Zemin, entered the conference chamber, bowed slightly to the others, and took his place at the head of the table. They remained standing, all bowing at the waist except Jiang, until the Chinese anthem, “Xiang Yang Hong,” or “East Is Red,” was played. They stood at attention until after the Intonation of Strength and Solidarity was read; then the ministers applauded the Paramount Leader as he took his seat. The Intonation was a solemn promise to support and defend the Communist Party, Zhongguo Renmin Gongheguo, the People’s Republic of China, and the people; but unlike the American Pledge of Allegiance, the Intonation contained a threat of the particular punishment one might expect if he or she did not sacrifice ones life for the Party and for the people — disgrace, humiliation, death, and public dishonor of self and ones ancestors.

Jiang Zemin carefully watched the faces of the assembled ministers and generals as the Intonation was read, looking to see if anyone’s eyes glanced over toward his or to anyone else’s — the threat of death and humiliation in the Intonation was sometimes enough to make a guilty or conspiratorial man fidgety. It was of course possible to bury any outward signs of treason, but Jiang knew that a man bent on betrayal sometimes looked for reassurance from coconspirators or for evidence that he was under suspicion. Jiang was an expert in detecting such subtle, outward signs of a mans innermost fears.

Paramount Leader and President Jiang Zemin was seventy-one years old, in excellent health and looking far younger than his years. He had a square, tough-looking face with a high forehead and thick dyed black hair combed straight back. He wore a simple olive short-sleeved open-collar rough-cotton tunic shirt belted at the waist, with matching pants. His horn-rim spectacles were plain; he wore no jewelry except a wristwatch. Educated as an engineer but trained in Communist Party doctrine and theory in Moscow, formerly the mayor and Communist Party chief of Chinas second-largest city, Shanghai, Jiang was a master at power politics in China, a man well-suited to run his nation’s large and complicated Party mechanism.

Today, Jiang Zemin was president of the worlds most populous nation and, as such, arguably the most powerful man on planet Earth. Among his many responsibilities and duties, the engineer from Jiangsu Province was general secretary of the six-member Chinese Communist Party Secretariat, the genesis for all political thought in China; chairman of the Politburo, the group of twenty-one senior Party leaders who determined all Chinese political ideology and direction; chairman of the Standing Committee, the highest policy-making body in China and the body who actually wrote legislation (the 3,500-member National People’s Congress always rubber-stamped their approval of all legislation drafted by the Standing Committee and Politburo); chairman of the powerful Military Commission of the Chinese Communist Party, who determined Party policy in military affairs; chairman of the Central Military Commission, responsible for implementing Party military policy in the People’s Liberation Army; and commander in chief of the People’s Liberation Army — a force of two hundred million regular, reserve, paramilitary, and militia troops.

Jiang not only had the power to enforce laws, but also made laws and even created the philosophy and ideas behind the laws, the ideals that formed the very basis of Communist Chinese thought. He was not only leader and chief executive of the most populous nation on earth, but was also commander in chief of the largest military force on the planet — and now he was planning to set that huge machine in motion.

Jiang was presiding over a crucial late-night meeting of the Central Military Commission, made up of civilian and military members in charge of the key divisions of the military infrastructure: the Minister of National Defense, Chi Haotian; High General Chin Po Zihong, chief of the general staff of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army (PLA); General Yu Yongpo, chief of General Political Affairs of the PLA; General Fu Qanyou, chief of the PLA General Logistics Department; the chiefs of staff of the army, air force, navy, and the East China Sea Fleet; and the chiefs of China’s ten military and civilian intelligence agencies and institutes.

“Comrades, loyal ministers and generals, there is a saying in the ancient military philosophy of Zhongguo that the government must evaluate not only the enemy, but evaluate itself before pondering the beginning of hostilities,” Paramount Leader Jiang Zemin said. “I am here to inform you that the Party and the government have looked deep within ourselves, at the state of our nation and of the people and our way of life, and we have seen that our nation is being pulled apart piece by piece by the encroachment of the Western world. It is time to end the rape upon our nation, our people, and our way of life. In China, as it should be throughout the world, the government must govern, and that is the will and the task of the Party.

“The disintegration of the state is seen in the usurpation of several regions on the periphery of our nation,” Jiang went on, “including India, Kyrgyzstan, Vietnam, Mongolia, and threats against our Communist brothers in North Korea; and three critical regions belonging to China since the dawn of recorded history: Senkaku Dao, taken from us by Japan in World War Two; Nansha Dao, taken from us by European imperialists and by Asian anarchists and dictators using Western governments as their puppets; and Formosa Dao, taken from us by the Nationalists and now protected by the United States. The Party’s stated goal is simple, comrades: The twenty-third Chinese province of Taiwan will be ours once again. The Party demands that our attack plan against Taiwan be activated.”

The ministers and generals nodded dutifully, but Jiang was surprised to hear applause from the commission! Rising to his feet while continuing to applaud his president’s words was Admiral Sun Ji Guoming, the first deputy chief of the general staff and General Chin’s expected successor. Moments later, other generals followed Sun’s lead, rising and applauding, and even some of the aged ministers clapped, their soft, withered hands making virtually no sound. It was unheard of, totally out of character for a Chinese to express himself so openly, especially a military officer.

“You dishonor yourself by such a pretentious and disrespectful display, Comrade Sun,” General Chin, the chief of staff, said in a low, croaking voice. “Be seated.”

Sun bowed to both Chin and Jiang. “Forgive me, comrades,” Sun said, without being given permission to speak. “But I welcome the Paramount Leader’s words with great joy. I meant no disrespect.” He quickly dropped back into his seat and apologetically averted his eyes — but only for a moment.

“Comrade Sun’s enthusiasm is shared by us all, Comrade Jiang,” General Chin said, after giving Sun a deadly stern warning glance. “Implementing the Party’s wishes will be a challenging but ultimately victorious task. I urge the Central Military Commission to order the aircraft carrier Mao Zedong and its new battle group into position to take Que- moy immediately, so the Taiwanese Nationalists cannot use them as staging or observation bases against us,” Chin said. Quemoy was a large Taiwanese-occupied island just a mile from the Chinese mainland, used as an observation outpost and tourist destination. “We can blockade the island with ease with our task force, cut off their supplies, and starve them into submission. The task force can land five thousand troops on Quemoy right away, and we can eventually move three thousand troops a day onto the island. In two weeks, we can retake the island and claim it.”

Jiang was surprised at Chin’s comments — he expected resistance from the People’s Liberation Army. Bloated, gargantuan, hopelessly encrusted and weighed down with decades’ worth of nameless bureaucrats, the military seemed to require a full ten years of preparation before embarking on the simplest program or operation. Under Deng Xiaoping, Jiang’s predecessor, the People’s Liberation Army had been reduced in size by one-fourth and the militias reduced by almost half, but there were still over three million active-duty troops in China and over two hundred million men and women that could be mobilized for military service.

The centuries-old “sea of humanity” concept of warfighting was being replaced by modern ideas, but it would take several generations to eliminate the old ways — and the old inertia. Chin Po Zihong was a daring leader who truly believed China was destined to rule Asia, but he was not the best tactician. It was Chin who had tried to form an alliance with a socialist government faction in the Philippines; it was Chin who had devised the current alliance among China, North Korea, and the Islamic Republic of Iran. Although both programs had ended in disaster, thanks to the United States Air Force, the political ties still held firm, and there was no doubt that China was becoming a major economic, political, and military force in Asia.

“A very positive attitude, Comrade General,” Jiang said. “But what about the Americans? What will their response be? In the past, they have threatened nuclear war with Zhongguo to protect the Nationalists. Only the threat of nuclear war kept us from reoccupying Quemoy in 1958.”

“The Americans have no interest in the region, and they certainly have no stomach for nuclear war,” Chin said confidently. “We have historical and legal rights to Taiwan, a fact that has never been disputed by the Americans. Even after the Philippines conflict, America has no presence in the area. Private American companies assisted us in exploiting the wealth of the region — that is the extent of American presence. As always, their government’s policy is dictated by the capitalist overlords, and for now the capitalists demand that they help us exploit the oil deposits, so they dictate that their government step aside. But now it is our time to enjoy what is rightfully and legally ours.

“The United States will complain of our actions, but the deed will be done, and after time the conflict will be forgotten,” Chin went on in a loud, demonstrative voice. “China invests twenty-seven billion dollars a year in the United States; we are responsible for creating ten million jobs in that country alone. They dare not start a war that might result in our country withdrawing all that economic support. Their carriers are not in position to oppose us. Why? Because they fear our economic power, and they fear an unpopular and costly war for a province they do not care about — Taiwan. The United States wants China united again. They do not want a divided China because they have suffered defeat in every other such conflict in Asia — Korea and Vietnam. They fight for a nation that cares nothing about the United States, and they are defeated. They will not fight for Taiwan.”

There was a general nodding of heads in the commission chamber, Jiang observed — all except Admiral Sun. The Black Tiger had been the most enthusiastic and vocal supporter of the idea of asserting dominance in Asia, now, when the actual framework of a plan was introduced, he was silent. Sun was not brooding or resentful because he had been slapped down by General Chin.

… and then Jiang realized that Admiral Sun actually dared to disagree with his superior officer, in the middle of a Central Military Commission meeting! Sun was still sitting on his hands, not averting his eyes but not meeting Chin’s murderous gaze either. To everyone’s surprise, Jiang turned to the youngest of all his generals and asked, “Comrade Sun, do you agree with General Chin’s assessment?”

Sun moved slowly to his feet, riveting the attention of all. He stood and bowed to Jiang, then said, “Sir, Sun-tzu advises us that being unconquerable lies within oneself, and that being conquerable lies within the enemy. In that regard, I agree with General Chin — we must quickly retake Taiwan, capture and imprison all Kuomintang officials, and heavily fortify it with our best naval, air, and air defense forces. But with all due respect, I do not agree with General Chin regarding an attack on Quemoy, or about the Americans.”

“Oh? Explain yourself, Admiral.”

“Comrade General Chin is quite correct: the American capitalists and special interests determine the law and direction of government in the United States,” Sun went on. “The American government does not interfere in the South China Sea because the American oil companies profit by operating the drilling platforms; they do not side with the Nationalists because it is in their economic interests to side with. us. But if we bombard Taiwan or Quemoy and imprison or kill theJMationalist leadership, they will seek retribution from the American government and its military forces. And as mighty as the People’s Liberation Army is, we cannot long stand against a strong, determined, organized American military. It would be a complete failure. My former commander of the South China Sea Fleet, Admiral Yin Po Lun, acting on orders from General Chin, proved this.

“In my opinion, the Nationalist forces on Quemoy can easily withstand a blockade, bombardment, and even a full-scale invasion long enough for the United States to organize a counterattack,” Sun went on. “Meanwhile, our country would suffer the anger of world opinion. We would be twice defeated.”

General Chin looked as if he were about to explode; the other generals shifted resdessly, offended but interested enough to want to hear more before they tore off this insolent pup’s stars. What nerve! Jiang thought. What courage! Sun could be dead in four hours — Chin could never allow Sun to remain on his general staff after this blatant show of disrespect, and Jiang knew of Chins henchmen that would work secretly and effectively to cause Sun to have an untimely, unexplained “accident”—but Jiang admired him his youthful strength and audacity. Chin thundered, “I order you to leave this chamber and report to—! ”

Jiang raised a hand. “I wish for the young admiral to continue,” he said, then turned his hand palm upward, a signal to continue. Chin looked as if he had been slapped — he even rubbed his face, as if still feeling the blow. Jiang said, “So, Comrade Admiral, you think we cannot prevail against the Americans?”

“Not in a direct engagement with an organized, determined, and bloodthirsty American military force, sir,” Sun replied. “The American military — any large military force, including our own—is like a large, heavy sledgehammer. It is unwieldy and takes great strength to employ, but once in action, it is highly effective. Hammer against hammer, army against army, the American military is clearly superior, and Sun-tzu teaches us to evade a superior opponent.

“But the buzzing of a single mosquito, the hot rays of the sun, or a single bead of sweat in the eyes can disrupt he who wields the hammer enough so that his blows are less effective, or can even prevent him from swinging the hammer altogether. Even more important, if the target of the hammers blow is small, irregular, or moves too quickly, even the best smith can miss his mark. After several ineffective blows, the strongest smith will tire, lose patience, make mistakes, and eventually cease. He has lost. He has been defeated by a vastly inferior force — and he has been defeated by himself.

“Sir, I have studied the tao of the American military, and I have examined our tao, and my studies conclude that the Americans have no desire for prolonged battle in Asia. Asia in general and China in particular have an aura of deadly mystery and foreboding for Westerners — they fear China’s massive population, its history of violence and warfare, our homogeneous society, and the knowledge we have gained over centuries of civilization. Americans in particular are reluctant to have anything to do with us, fearing to be drawn into another protracted Vietnam-like battle — they fear traveling far from home, of being drawn into a dark tunnel of mystery and killed by punji sticks and knives carried by billions of tiny yellow hands. And they are far weaker than they appear. The American navy is three-fourths the size it was in 1991 after the Persian Gulf War; the American air force is almost half the size. American forces in Japan, including Okinawa, have been cut in half since 1992. And for all their bluster about safeguarding Taiwan, the United States still has not recognized the Nationalist government and still has no embassy, consulate, bases, soldiers, advisors, or equipment there. During the Olympic games last year, the Americans even referred to the rebel government as ‘Chinese Taipei,’ not as ‘Taiwan’ or the ‘Republic of China.’

“But even so, Comrade General Chin is wrong — the American president Martindale will send in his carriers,” Sun went on. “Two of them are within four days’ steaming time to Taiwan, and within two weeks a third will join them. The U.S. government claims that the three carriers will rendezvous somewhere in the Philippine Sea for what they term a ‘photo opportunity,’ because one of the carriers supposedly will be decommissioned, but we all know that these carriers are rendezvousing to set up an attack on our homeland. They will set up east of Taiwan so they can take advantage of air defense protection from Taiwan and appear not to be concerned about events in China, but close enough so they can conduct air attacks on our ships and land bases if war breaks out. We must not blindly cruise within range of the Americans’ carrier-based attack planes. Instead, we must draw the carriers toward us.

“The key to victory over the Americans is contained in the words of Sun-tzu: we must draw their carriers away from the protection of the Nationalists’ air defense forces and into ‘fatal terrain’—that is, a battleground where they must be unconquerable, where they must fight with reckless abandon and complete disregard for any protest against the campaign, or face total defeat. In order to draw them into fatal terrain, we must force them to come to the rescue or force them to intervene with the thought of preventing a conflict. That conflict is Taiwan, comrades. In the confines of the Strait, we can destroy the carriers. At the same time, we strike at the most likely resupply and air staging base in the area: Okinawa. Once Okinawa is destroyed, American forces will be forced to stage out of the heart of Japan, and so the threat to Japan becomes clear—”

“You speak in double-talk, Sun,” General Chin shouted. “You talk about dancing around the American carriers, but then talk about a full frontal assault on Okinawa. How do you expect to destroy one of the Americans’ strongest bases, comrade?”

Without one change in his expression or voice, Admiral Sun said matter-of-factly, “We should by all means use our nuclear arsenal.”

The reaction was swift and powerful — and all of it against Sun. President Jiang called for order, and his command was echoed by the sergeant-at-arms and his officers. Jiang said crossly, “Admiral Sun, you are to be reprimanded once again for your impertinence and ignorance. It is obvious you are not familiar with the Party’s policy on the use of nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons.”

“If I may speak, sir — I am very familiar with the Communist Party’s policy,” Sun said. “The government of China and the Chinese Communist Party officially rejects the first use of nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons because it conflicts with the ideals of peaceful unification of all the peoples of the world under socialism. I studied the policy towards the use of special weapons in both the National Academy and the College of War, and advised the office of the premier on its implementation.”

“Then you should know that no one on this Commission or the Communist Party is suggesting or even contemplating the use of nuclear weapons against the Americans, Admiral.”

“On the contrary, sir, I know their use is contemplated quite often,” Sun said, calmly but firmly. “I know exactly at what bases they are kept, how many, and which missiles and ships carry them — including the carrier Mao Zedong.”

General Chin looked as if he was ready to murder Sun with his bare hands. “Sit down, damn you, Sun!” he ordered from between clenched teeth. “Be silent!”

“I will not be silent!” Admiral Sun said. His voice rang like a shot through the Commission chamber, and it had the same effect as if a real gun had been fired in that room. “We seem content to have our foreign policy dictated by the Americans, even though the Americans have no cohesive policy with regards to Asia except the furtherance of fair trade— fair only to themselves, of course. The threat of American military intervention paralyzes this commission, even though we have it in our power to reduce or perhaps eliminate the force of American intervention, or even whether or not they will choose to intervene.”

“I order you, be silent, Sun!” Chin shouted. “Be seated!”

“Wait, General,” Jiang said. He motioned to Sun. “Speak, Admiral, but be warned — your fitness for your post will be determined by what you say here to this commission.”

“I will accept that, sir,” Sun said resolutely. “Comrade President, members of this commission, the Party and our government has said that it wishes our country first to reunify with the pieces lost to us by foreign conquests — namely, Senkaku Dao, Formosa Dao, and Nansha Dao — and second to make China the preeminent power in Asia for all time. These are worthy goals. I believe we have the support of the people, which Sun- tzu says is necessary before the ruler may charge the generals with preparations for war, and so we should carry out this mandate immediately.

“But it is obvious to me, as I am sure it is to you, that the United States, by its foreign policy and tremendous military might, is the dominant force in Asia now. We do not retake Formosa, Quemoy, or Matsu from the Nationalists because we fear American intervention. We do not retake the Senkaku Islands, taken from us by Japan, again for fear of retaliation from the Americans. But we have retaken the Nansha Dao, what the West calls the Spratly Islands, and America has done nothing — in fact, American companies help us pump oil and natural gas out of fields we took from other countries. America does not care about what happens in Asia, as long as it does not affect their bottom line — their ability to make money.

“But our very political and social framework is under attack by America. They try to influence our laws, tell us not to limit how many children our families can have, or tell us to buy more automobiles, televisions, and blue jeans or else they will not permit our goods to be sold anywhere in the world. This evil influence is strangling our very souls, comrades, and I see no solution except one: remove the Americans from Asia, permanently. This means destroy the American aircraft carriers and destroy the main American military staging base on the island of Okinawa. We have no choice, comrades.”

“You are advocating nuclear war with the Americans?” General Chin retorted. “Are you insane, Sun? It will spell certain annihilation!”

“Nuclear war with America is not inevitable, Comrade General,” Sun said. “America has almost completely eliminated its ability to wage nuclear war — they believe it is unthinkable and unnecessary, given their perceived conventional weapons technological superiority. In a war that does not threaten American lives or territory, my studies conclude that America, even led by a hawk such as their president Kevin Martindale, will not launch a nuclear strike against us. But if we are determined to win, then we must acknowledge that we shall use nuclear weapons against the Americans. We can be secure in the knowledge that America will not retaliate with nuclear weapons unless their homeland is attacked, and that even if they do employ nuclear weapons against us, we can withstand the attack as a nation.

“We can use our subatomic arsenal, our neutron bombs, to eradicate the Nationalist forces on Quemoy and Matsu — quickly, before the Americans can react,” Sun said. “We can hide the attack behind a blockade and bombardment, but the truth will be known soon enough anyway. But the Nationalists cannot hide from the effects of a neutron bomb in their bunkers and tunnels. Before the American carriers arrive, we will have retaken Quemoy.”

President Jiang was startled, even a bit intimidated, by Sun’s ideas and by the strength of his convictions — but he was also intrigued by them. Here was a military man who was not afraid to lead, Jiang thought. Here was an officer who studied Chinese military history and ancient Chinese military teachings, then employed those time-honored and time-tested ideas to solve modern-day problems. Here was a man of action, a man willing to lead a struggle of liberation against the most technologically powerful military force ever known — the United States of America.

And he was not afraid to use the most terrible weapons known to man: atomic weapons, especially the neutron bomb. The neutron bomb, developed from stolen U.S. plans ten years earlier, was a small, “dirty” nuclear device that killed by saturating the target area with radiation. The nuclear yield was small enough that blast damage was confined to a few hundred meters from “ground zero,” but the effects on human beings of the neutron radiation released by the weapon was devastating. Any living creature within two miles of the blast would die of radiation poisoning within forty-eight hours, no matter how deep underground they were; unprotected humans within five miles of the blast would die within seventy-two hours. Further, all significant traces of radiation would be gone within a week, leaving structures and machines virtually untouched and unaffected. The People’s Liberation Army could march in and take Quemoy without firing a shot.

“You speak of not conducting a direct engagement against American air or naval forces,” Jiang asked, “but you speak of destroying American carriers and bases. Can you explain how this can be done, Admiral Sun? Do you plan on exploding nuclear weapons all over the Pacific now? ”

The confident smile that spread across Ji Guoming’s face was filled with energy and enthusiasm — two emotions so alien in this old Commission chamber. “Comrade President,” Sun said, “Sun-tzu teaches us that the army goes to war in the orthodox, but is victorious in the unorthodox. That is the key to victory against the Americans.”

As Jiang Zemin and the other members of the Military Commission listened, it soon became obvious that Admiral Sun had carefully thought this plan out, and that he was highly intelligent and his staff highly competent. In just a few minutes, President Jiang actually believed that this man, this Black Tiger, could pull off the impossible.

“The admiral should be congratulated for the attention to detail and daring of his plan,” General Chin said, after Sun had finished. “But it is also a reckless and dangerous plan, one that could spell disaster to the republic if a full-scale confrontation breaks out. I feel that Admiral Sun wants vengeance, and that in his thirst for revenge he is not thinking of the people nor of the fatherland. Your ideas have much merit, Comrade Admiral, and may withstand serious scrutiny by the Plans and Operations bureau of the Military Commission. But I believe the president wishes us to formulate a strategy that will achieve the Party’s objectives quickly and effectively. The carrier Mao and the task force will accomplish those objectives.”

“Comrade President, I must say again, we must not send the Mao Zedong aircraft carrier battle group anywhere near Taiwan,” Sun said earnestly. “It would be seen as a large-scale provocation. I have a plan to draw the American carriers well within range of our shore-based attack planes. We would have the upper hand then. We must—”

“I said be silent, Admiral,” Chin said angrily. “That is your final warning.”

Admiral Sun looked as if he was going to continue the argument— but a reassuring glance from the president himself, Jiang Zemin, caused him to relent. He bowed, folded his hands, kept his head lowered, and did not raise his eyes again for most of the rest of the meeting. He’d taken the chance to get his ideas presented in front of the Commission, and he’d failed, and he’d dishonored himself in doing so.

“We will begin preparations for the invasion of Quemoy immediately,” President Jiang announced. “The carrier battle group will be diverted north with its invasion force to blockade the island. Within thirty days, comrades, victory will be ours! ”

“Like most transitions, my friends,” Air Force Lieutenant General Terrill Samson, commander of Eighth Air Force, began in a deep, emotional voice, “today we are witnesses to both an end and a beginning. Although you might have a tough task believing this is a happy occasion, I believe it truly is.” Samson was standing before a crowd of about two hundred out on the flight line in front of Base Operations at Barksdale Air Force Base, Louisiana. It was still early in the morning, and the event was scheduled early to avoid the inevitable summer heat and humidity common this time of year.

Flanking Samson was the wing commander of Air Combat Command s Second Bomb Wing, Brigadier General George Vidriano, along with members of the staff of Eighth Air Force, the major Air Force operational command that for years had organized, trained, and equipped America’s bomber forces, and Colonel Joseph Maxwell, commander of the 917th Wing of the Air Force Reserves based at Barksdale. Standing at parade rest next to him was a detail of officers and NCOs, carrying small blue-and-gold squadron guidons, representing the various squadrons based at Barksdale. Behind Samson were three Air Force aircraft, washed, waxed, and polished as brilliantly as if they had just rolled off the assembly line: a T-38 Talon jet trainer used for copilot proficiency training, an A-10 Thunderbolt II close-air support attack jet, and a huge, light gray B-52H Stratofortress strategic bomber, with cruise missiles hanging off its wing pylons.

“We are here today,” General Samson continued, “to stand down one of the world’s premier bomber units, the Second Bomb Wing, and to retire the last of this nation’s most successful aerial war machines, the B- 52 Stratofortress bomber. In the sixty-four year history of Barksdale Air Force Base, the men and women assigned here have stood at the forefront of our nation’s peace and security. They have proved this by an impressive string of awards and achievements: the Fairchild Trophy for the best bomber wing in bombing and navigation competition; twelve Air Force Outstanding Unit citations; and sixteen Eighth Air Force Outstanding Unit Awards.

“But what makes me proudest of this base’s legacy is its commitment to its community. The people of Bossier City and Shreveport, and the soldiers of Barksdale, have been tightly linked, supporting one another through good times and bad, through triumphs and tragedies. I was privileged to serve as a wing commander of the Second Bomb Wing during my career — the year we missed the Fairchild Trophy by missing one time-over-target by eleven seconds, I hasten to add — and so I know firsthand the link that has always existed between the uniformed and civilian members of the Bossier City and Shreveport community. It is a tradition that has set the standard for the rest of the United States’ armed services.

“I am pleased to tell you that the Air Force is giving back to this great community a great deal of the support that we have received over the decades. Barksdale Air Force Base will become Barksdale Jetport, with a variety of aviation and non-aviation businesses relocating here with state and federal assistance, including an aviation-career campus of Louisiana State University; the base hospital will become a joint Veterans Administration and community hospital; and the other buildings, housing units, and dormitories on base will be used for a variety of programs and industries, including job retraining and agricultural research.

“In addition, the men and women of the 9-17th Wing of the Air Force Reserves under Brigadier General selectee Maxwell will still be here with the A-10 Thunderbolt II, but will eventually transition from the B-52H to the B-1B Lancer bomber when all of the B-ls go to the Guard and Reserves; and the beautiful Eighth Air Force Museum will still be here, open to the public, mostly because of the generous support from our friends in western Louisiana and eastern Texas. The Air Force is committed to easing the impact of the loss of a one-hundred-and-sixty- million-dollar federal payroll to the citizens of the cities of Shreveport and Bossier City.”

Samson paused, fidgeted with his notes for a moment, then added solemnly, “I can also tell you that it has been announced by the Pentagon that Eighth Air Force will stand down, as of October first of this year.”

There was a plainly shocked expression from most of the audience and even from most of the staff — this was news to almost everybody. “For sixty years, Eighth Air Force has been synonymous with the heavy bomber,” Samson went on, sticking to his prepared remarks, even though he, like many in the audience, was obviously emotionally affected by the surprise announcement. “From northern Africa to Europe to Korea to Vietnam to the Kremlin to the Middle East, warplanes bearing the ‘Mighty Eighth’ seal have struck terror into the hearts of the enemy as they hunkered down against the relentless bombardment of our planes.

“Our planes were rarely pretty — the B-17, B-29, B-36, even the B- 52H behind me could hardly be called sexy except by a few romantic ex- crewdogs like myself. Our missions were certainly never very glamorous — Dresden, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Inchon Harbor, Linebacker Two, the Iraqi Second Corps and Republican Guards, and the nightmarish concept of MAD, or ‘mutually assured destruction.’ But the men, women, and machines of Eighth Air Force have always been victorious by the use of the world’s deadliest war machines, the heavy bomber. As the old saying goes, ‘fighters are fun, but bombers win wars,’ and that has been true ever since Lieutenant Eugene M. Barksdale of the Eighth Aero Group, Army Air Corps, the pioneer for whom this base was named, first carried a seven-pound mortar shell aloft in his Curtis- Wright Aero to test out the then-outlandish idea of dropping bombs from an airplane.”

Finally, the emotions welling to the surface could be contained no more. Ignoring the reporters and cameras — CNN was here, carrying this ceremony internationally, as were a number of local stations, but still the big three-star general ignored the warning lights flashing in his brain— Samson put aside his notes and affixed his audience with a deep, sincere stare, as he continued:

“As commander of Eighth Air Force, the major operational command in charge of Air Combat Command’s heavy and medium bomber forces, I can tell you that Em not in agreement with my superiors on their decision to drastically reduce the size of the bomber force by retiring all the B-52H and F-111F bombers and to turn all of the sixty operational B-1B Lancer bombers over to the Air National Guard and Air Force Reserves, with the other thirty B-l bombers going into flyable storage. This decision will leave Air Combat Command with only twenty active-duty long-range bombers, the B-2A Spirit stealth bombers, by the year 2000— yes, twenty bombers, twenty planes.” The audience, which was made up of community leaders and military dependents, all very knowledgeable of the Air Force’s plans for the heavy bomber force and how their plans affected their lives, shook their heads in sympathetic amazement.

“The argument is of course that the B-2 stealth bomber is that much more capable, that the threat has changed, and the B-52s and B-ls are too costly to maintain and don’t have enough precision-guided weapon capability. The newer planes, the F-15s and F-16s and F-22s and the Navy birds with their laser-guided weapons, can perform surgical strikes on any target, while the ‘heavies’ lack a similar precision-kill capability and it would be far too costly to retrofit them to give them the same capability. I can’t argue with the fact that the B-2 is an incredible warplane and it is redefining strategic warfare almost every time it flies. I will also not argue that the threats facing the United States and its military have changed: we are no longer using nuclear deterrence to threaten any nation, a strategy that the people of Barksdale and the other warriors of the U.S. Air Force exemplified but whose time is now past. We now foresee numbers of low-intensity non-nuclear conflicts similar to Desert Storm, rather than a major intercontinental war between superpowers with the possible use of nuclear weapons.

“But I will continue to argue the fact that when a crisis of any size erupts anywhere in the world, there is only one weapon system in existence, short of nuclear weapons — which in my mind are totally obsolete, except for the very small numbers that should be kept in case of a totally unforeseen political occurrence — that can quickly and effectively reduce or even eliminate an enemy’s ability to wage war, and that is the heavy bomber,” Samson went on, gripping the sides of the podium, as if he had to restrain himself from pounding on it or rushing into the audience to punctuate his points. “With or without forward bases, with or without sea access, with or without warning, with or without cooperation from allies or other nations, only the long-range bombers, along with the tanker force and with the latest in standoff and near-precision guided- weapon technology, can destroy the enemy’s will to fight. In the opening days of a conflict, the intercontinental-range bombers would make the difference between stabilizing or even eliminating the crisis, and losing control of it.

“Twenty B-2 bombers plus the ready Reserve B-ls might be able to affect the course of a conflict in one region of the world for a few days, perhaps even a few weeks, until other land- or sea-based forces could arrive. My concern is, what if no other forces are available? What if the seas are denied us, unlikely as that scenario may be? We were lucky in Desert Storm because we had a great and powerful ally, Saudi Arabia, with large bases close to the action and plenty of fuel and with two major bodies of water under Coalition control to operate carriers and submarines. We were also very lucky because Saddam Hussein chose not to sweep into northern Saudi Arabia and destroy Riyadh, the Saudi oil fields, or the numerous Saudi military bases there, and instead allowed the Coalition a full six months to prepare for war. We should not rely on any of those advantages in the next conflict.

“And what if another even more serious conflict breaks out somewhere else in the world, so we are faced with two major low-intensity conflicts? In my opinion, eighty bombers, or whatever number of them that survive the first crisis, would be hard-pressed to respond to a second crisis elsewhere in the world with the speed and power necessary to make a difference.”

The audience was very quiet; a few nodding heads could be seen, a few surprised expressions at Samson speaking his mind so plainly. This was not an uplifting good-bye speech by the bomber forces commander — this was an ominous warning message. Samson paused to get his emotions under control; then he took a deep breath and continued: “I want to thank the men and women of Second Bomb Wing for your service, and also add a personal thank-you to the men and women of Eighth Air Force for your hard work and dedication to duty to the command, to our nation, and to me.

“And I know it seems silly to do so, but indulge me: I want to thank the B-52 bomber, and all the men and women who have taken them into battle and who have sat with them on nuclear alert, defending our homes, our freedom, our way of life, and protecting our allies. You’re only a big hunk of metal, ten thousand random parts flying in formation, but God bless you anyway.” The applause was unexpectedly loud and long, which greatly pleased General Samson, who took a long look at the B-52H behind him and gave it a thumbs-up. He then turned back to the audience, snapped to attention, and said in a loud voice, “Attention to orders from the commander in chief.”

“Wing, ten-hut\ ” General Vidriano shouted. The uniformed men and women came to attention, and the audience respectfully stood.

Samson was passed a blue binder, and he opened it and read, “By order of the commander in chief of the armed forces of the United States of America, the Second Bombardment Wing, Heavy, and its component squadrons, Barksdale Air Force Base, Louisiana, are hereby relieved of all combat and support duties and ordered to stand down this date.” The tears flowed again, from the big man at the podium to the combat veterans to the tough young security policemen guarding the line. “Your success in long-range bombardment missions, as well as in maintaining a strategic combat-ready posture over the years, has ensured the peace and security of the United States and of the free world, and reflects great credit upon yourselves and the United States Air Force. I am pleased to express the heartfelt thanks of a grateful nation. Mission accomplished. Job well done. Signed, The Honorable Arthur S. Chastain, Secretary of Defense; The Honorable Sheila F. Hewlett, Secretary of the Air Force; General Victor A. Hayes, Chief of Staff, United States Air Force. General Vidriano, carry out the orders.”

Vidriano saluted, then said in a loud voice, “Wing, present your colors!” Samson closed the binder, then left the podium and walked in front of the group of officers and their guidon-bearers. One by one, the individual squadrons were called out. As the squadron commander’s and senior NCOIC’s names, along with a little of each squadron’s history and major accomplishments, were read aloud to the audience, the officers and guidon-bearers stepped forward, and the guidon was rolled up on its staff, covered, and presented to the Second Bomb Wing commander, who gave it to his wing NCOIC. _

After all of the squadron guidons were furled and covered, General Vidriano then took the wing flag, the tip of its flag’s staff festooned with dozens of campaign ribbons won from more than fifty years of combat service, from his wing’s senior noncommissioned officer and, holding it in two hands, held it out stiffly with both arms fully extended and presented it to General Samson. “Sir, I present to you the Second Bomb Wing, Heavy, the best heavy bombardment wing in the world. The wing has stood down, as ordered.”

Samson saluted. “Thank you, General. Please personally thank your men and women for their outstanding service to the nation.”

At precisely the moment that General Samson took the wing flag in his hands, a loud rumbling was heard in the distance. The audience members looked up and saw an incredible sight: flanked by three T-38 Talon jet trainers that looked insectlike in comparison, a massive formation of twenty B-52 bombers passed slowly only 5,000 feet overhead, forming a gigantic number 2 in the sky. The sound of those huge planes passing overhead sounded as if a magnitude ten earthquake were in progress — metal folding chairs rattled, bits of dirt on the ground jumped like giant fleas, a thin cloud of dust began to rise over the ground stirred up by the vibration, car alarms in the nearby parking lot went off, and somewhere behind the audience a window shattered in the Base Operations building.

Soldiers yelled and screamed in delight, civilians put their hands to their ears and made comments to people beside them that couldn’t be heard, and children clutched their parents’ legs and cried in abject fear— and combat veteran and (at least until October 1) Eighth Air Force commander Lieutenant General Terrill Samson felt a lump of awe lodge in his throat, dredged up by a wellspring of pride from his heart. The sounds of cracking glass in the Base Ops building finally caused his emotions to bubble forth, and the big three-star general laughed until he cried, clapping as hard as a young kid at a circus. The audience happily joined in.

Even without dropping any iron, Samson thought gleefully, the damn BUFFs — the Big Ugly Fat Fuckers — could still do what they had done best for the past thirty-five years: they could still break things on the ground with power and ease.

As General Samson’s C-21A Learjet transport plane pulled up to the VIP parking area in front of Base Ops a few hours after the stand- down ceremony ended, General Samson shook hands with Barksdale’s senior officers and enlisted men and women, returned their salutes, picked up his briefcase, and headed to the jet’s airstair. Normally Samson would insist on taking the pilot’s seat, but this time he had business to attend to, so he headed back to the cabin and strapped in at the commander’s seat at the small desk. The copilot ensured that the general was comfortable, gave a short safety briefing to the general and the other three passengers already aboard, and hurried back to the cockpit. The plane taxied back to the runway and was airborne again within minutes.

“Forgot how emotional these damn stand-down ceremonies can be,” Samson said to his three fellow passengers. “I’ve been presiding over too damn many of them.”

“Some pretty cool flying, though,” said Dr. Jon Masters, as he sipped from a can of Pepsi. Jon Masters, barely thirty years old, drank several such cans of sugar-laden beverages every day, but somehow was still as skinny as a pole, still had all his teeth, and still had no detectable chemical imbalances or vitamin deficiencies. “They must’ve been practicing that formation for days.”

“Weeks, Dr. Masters,” Samson said. “That’s all the flying they’ve been doing lately.” He looked over at passenger number two, paused as if considering whether or not he should do it, then stuck out a hand. “How the hell are you, Brad?”

Retired Air Force Lieutenant General Bradley James Elliott smiled, noticing Samson’s discomfort at his presence with undisguised amusement. “Peachy, Earthmover, just peachy,” he replied, and took Samson’s hand in his.

There it was again, Samson thought grimly — that irritating cocksure attitude. Samson was not sure exactly how old Elliott was, probably in his early sixties, but he had the demeanor and attitude of a young, spoiled brat, of a guy who just knew he was going to get his way. Medium height, medium build, still as healthy-looking in a business suit as ever — even with the leg. Samson’s eyes wandered down to Elliott’s right leg, barely visible behind the desk. It looked normal under the nicely tailored suit, but Samson knew it was not normal — it was artificial. Very high-tech, fully articulating, it had been good enough to get Elliott re-cleared for flying duties back when he was in the Air Force — but it was still very artificial.

Elliott saw Samson checking out his leg. He smiled that irritatingly smug grin and said, “Yep, still have the appliance onboard, Earthmover.” He flexed his foot around in a circle, an incredible feat for a prosthetic device — it truly did look real. “It only hurts when I think about what’s happening to my Air Force.” Samson chuckled, but the joke was DOA— no one, not even Elliott, was smiling.

Elliott had always been this way, Samson remembered — grim, demanding, headstrong to the point of being reactionary. A former Strategic Air Command bomb wing commander, Pentagon staffer, and expert in strategic bombing and weapons, Brad Elliott had been living the dream that Terrill Samson had harbored for many years — to be universally acknowledged as the expert, the one that everyone, from the line crewdogs to the President of the United States, called on for answers to difficult questions and problems. Elliott was a protege of strategic nuclear aerial warfare visionaries such as Curtis E. LeMay and Russell Dougherty, and a contemporary of modern conventional strategic airpower leaders such as Mike Loh and Don Aldridge, the true proponents of long-range air- power. It was Elliott who had engineered the hasty but ultimately successful rebirth of the B-l bomber, developed new cruise missile technology for the B-52, and kept the B-2 stealth bomber on track through its long and expensive trek through the halls of Congress when it had been a deep “black” program that could be canceled in the blink of an eye.

Rising quickly through the ranks, Brad Elliott had become director of Air Force plans and programs at the Pentagon, then deputy commander of the Strategic Air Command. He had been well on his way to a fourth star and command of SAC, and possibly back to the Pentagon as Air Force chief of staff, when… he’d suddenly dropped almost completely out of sight. He’d surfaced only once, as a military advisor to the abortive U.S. Border Security Force, but he’d been suddenly so far under cover, wrapped in an airtight cocoon of secrecy of which Samson had never seen the like, then, now, or ever since.

Elliott’s name was linked to dozens of dramatic, highly classified military operations and programs supposedly originating from the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, or HAWC, the top-secret research and testing facility in the deserts of south-central Nevada known as “Dreamland.” Many risky, bold military operations all over the world had Brad Elliott’s signature style on them: small, powerful, high-tech air attacks aimed directly into the heart of the enemy, usually involving heavily modified bombers. Although he didn’t know for certain, Samson was sure that Brad Elliott and the crewdogs at HAWC had been behind unbelievable military successes from central America to Lithuania to the Philippines.

Well, here he was again. Brad Elliott was now a civilian, working on classified Air Force programs as a senior vice president of Sky Masters, Inc. Elliott had been shit-canned, forced to retire, after a major spy scandal had shut down HAWC and shoved military research programs back at least a decade. But, as always, Brad Elliott had landed on his feet, cocky as ever. No one in Washington liked him, not even his advocates — like the President of the United States, for example. But he had this mystique, this air of complete command, of prescience. He was known as the man to turn to, plain and simple. You didn’t have to like him, but you had better get him working on your problem.

Samson decided to ignore him for the moment, and he turned and shook hands warmly with the third passenger. “Patrick, good to see you again,” he said to retired Air Force Colonel Patrick McLanahan.

“Same here, sir,” McLanahan said in return. Now, here was a kid he could get to like, Samson thought. McLanahan was, pure and simple, the best pilot-trained navigator-bombardier in the United States, probably the best in the world. He had been an engineer, designer, and team chief at HAWC, working as one of Brad Elliott’s supersecret whiz kids, designing aircraft and weapons that would someday be used in wars. Like Elliott, McLanahan had been forced to accept an early retirement in 1996 in the wake of the Kenneth Francis James spy scandal and the HAWC closing. Even though McLanahan had risked his life to bring the Soviet deep-cover agent Maraklov back from Central America before he had a chance to escape to Russia with a stolen secret Air Force experimental aircraft, he’d been sacrificed for the good of the service. McLanahan and Elliott had been close friends for many years.

But unlike Brad Elliott, Patrick McLanahan got the job done without pissing the leadership off, without copping an attitude. When the President had wanted someone to head up a secret aerial strike unit under the Intelligence Support Agency to counter Iranian aggression in the Persian Gulf, he hadn’t turned to Brad Elliott, the acknowledged expert in long-range bomber tactics — he specifically had not wanted Elliott involved in the secret project, although Elliott had planned and executed many such operations. The President’s staff instead had turned to Elliott’s protege, McLanahan. And the young Californian^ who looked more like a young college professor or corporate lawyer than an aerial assassin, had come through brilliantly, taking a modified B-2 Spirit stealth bomber halfway around the world to nearly single-handedly shut down the newly rebuilt Iranian war machine. Now McLanahan was getting a reputation as the “go-to” guy when the shooting started, even over well-qualified active-duty crewdogs.

“So, what do you have for us, Earthmover?” Brad Elliott asked, rubbing his hands in exaggerated anticipation. “Are we going after the North Korean chemical weapons plants? We going to polish up in Iran? Someone tried to whack the Iranian military chief of staff Buzhazi and missed— let us take a shot at him. And that ex-Russian carrier is in the South China Sea, on its way to Hong Kong — we should sink that thing before it gets within striking range of Taiwan. Rumor has it that it’s fully operational and carrying.”

Samson ignored Elliott for the moment — hard to do, since they were sitting right across from each other — and turned to Jon Masters instead. “I take it that Brad here is part of your team, Dr. Masters? I wasn’t made aware of that.”

“We’ve got five of the eight Megafortresses flying now, General,” Masters said. “We need experienced crews.”

“The Air Combat Command guys you sent need at least six months of training time,” McLanahan interjected. “They’re good sticks, and they can certainly handle the beast, but the systems are unlike anything they’ve experienced before. And we’re changing the systems, too, so we put them to work as engineers and test pilots while they’re getting checked out on the plane.” He paused, searching Terrill Samson’s face for any signs of difficulty. “Brad Elliott is the Megafortress. He’s the creator, the progenitor.” Samson was silent, his mouth a hard line on his face. “Problem, Terrill?”

“Terrill thinks the President’s going to have a cow when he sees me,” Elliott answered for the big three-star general. He turned to McLanahan.

“We’re going to meet the President — didn’t you know that? I called the White House communications office and confirmed the meeting. That cute V.P. Whiting, Chastain, Freeman, Hartman, Collier from NS A I think, and George Balboa, that old Navy squid sack of—”

“Brad…”

“We go way back, me and Martindale, so don’t worry about it, big guy,” Elliott interrupted, watching Samson’s face turn puffy with anger. “We’ll have a good meeting, and we’ll have all the right answers.”

“The President specifically didn’t want you for the Iran operation,” Samson said coldly, “because you have this knack for stepping on toes, for sticking your face in where it doesn’t belong. Apparently, retirement hasn’t mellowed you one bit.” He paused, then shook his head. “The President asked only for Jon and Patrick. Sorry, Brad — I’m not going to bring you into the meeting. I’ll mention to General Freeman that you’re on board — he can notify the President.”

“Sheesh, you make it sound like Jon hired Saddam Hussein to fly for him,” Elliott said sarcastically. “I’m not trying to take over this operation, Earthmover. I advise the kid here on how to design, build, and fly the Megafortress. That’s all.”

Samson ignored Elliott again and said to Masters and McLanahan, “Jon, Patrick, he’s your man, so you deal with him. I’ll back you all the way, but it’s still my opinion that Brad’s presence in the White House or the Pentagon will only hurt your chances of getting this operation approved.”

“You still haven’t told us what operation we’re being considered for, General,” Jon Masters said. “What is it?”

“You’ll be conducting a maritime reconnaissance operation in the Formosa Straits,” Samson replied. “I’ll run it down.”

“Shit, you don’t mean we’ll be working for Admiral ‘Tight-Ass’ Allen at Pacific Command?” Elliott interjected wearily. “Man, I was glad to get out of the service just so I didn’t have to listen to him bitch about the Philippines conflict. Now we’ve got to listen to him again? And with Balboa on as chairman of the Joint Chiefs, we’ll spend half our time arguing over who’s got the bigger cruise missiles.”

“You still get your orders from me,” Samson said. “I report directly to Philip Freeman at the White House, who will report to the NCA.”

“You just make sure Allen or Balboa don’t try to snatch this mission,” Elliott said, admonishing Samson with that cocksure grin again. “If they get control, they’ll screw it up for sure. We’ve got to have maximum autonomy out there, and you know the squids aren’t going to allow us to have it.”

“I’ll take your suggestion under advisement, Brad,” Samson said, his lips taut. Dammit, the guy was a real pain, but he sure knew the score in Washington — Elliott had correctly guessed who would probably be in the real chain of command in this operation. “I signed for the Megafortresses when I took them out of mothballs to let you characters play with them, and I picked Eighth Air Force crews to fly them, so I think I’ll keep operational command. But if you’re harboring any thoughts about maybe making the EB-52 an operational weapon system, play nice with the rest of the kids in the pool. Follow me? Any problem with that, Brad? Is that enough full disclosure for you?”

“No problem, Earthmover, none whatsoever,” Elliott said. “Actually, I’m happy to have you in the loop — even though you are responsible for eliminating all the BUFFs from the Air Force inventory. One of the greatest aerial attack platforms ever devised, and you, of all people, allowed it to be retired on your watch.”

“Let’s not get into a discussion about who’s responsible for any good — or any bad—stuff happening in the Air Force or the bomber world in recent history,” Samson growled, trying hard to control the sudden flush of anger rising up from his chest. He knew his comment had hit Elliott, but the bastard did not show it. Samson knew that Elliott knew that the downfall of HAWC had put air weapon research and development back several years and may have even ensured the downfall of the heavy bomber. So there was plenty of blame to go around.

“The bottom line is, boys, you got your chance to show what a modified B-52 bomber can do,” Samson said. “Let me deal with Washington — I want you to loudly kick some ass out there, then bring yourselves home in one piece.”

“Mr. President, may I present Ambassador Kuo Han-min, the new representative of the independent Republic of China,” U.S. Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman announced, as he was ushered into the Oval Office. Already in the room with the President of the United States, Kevin Martindale, were Vice President Ellen Christine Whiting, National Security Advisor Philip Freeman, Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain, and White House Chief of Staff Jerrod Hale. “Ambassador Kuo, the President of the United States, Mr. Kevin Martindale.”

The two shook hands, Ambassador Kuo bowing deeply, then presenting his blue leather credentials folder directly to the President. Kuo appeared a bit older than the President, with thick dark hair, thick wire- rimmed glasses, and a thin frame. “This is an honor for my country and for myself, Mr. President,” he said.

“Good to see you again, Ambassador,” the President said, as he handed the folder to Hartman. The two had met during a Republican Party fund-raiser in Washington a year earlier; Kuo Han-min had been a Taiwanese high-tech aerospace industry trade lobbyist at the time, whose organization had made several very large contributions to the Party to help with Martindale’s election campaign. The President steered Kuo around, where several White House photographers recorded the historic handshake — the arrival of the first Taiwanese ambassador in Washington since the United States had broken diplomatic ties with the exiled Nationalist Chinese government on Formosa in 1979 in favor of the Communist regime on the mainland.

The President made introductions to his other advisors in the room as the photographers departed, then offered him a seat. “Unfortunately,” the President began after everyone took seats, “our first meeting here has to be a working one. We feel your country is in serious danger, and we’d like to fill you in as quickly as possible as to what we know, and discuss what we should do about it. Jeffrey, you spoke with China’s foreign minister just a few moments ago. Bring us up to date.”

Hartman stood behind one of the sofas surrounding the coffee table and said, “Foreign Minister Qian of the PRC says that the movement of ships along the Chinese coast is normal, preplanned activity. As far as any threats towards Taiwan, Qian says, in effect, ‘Mind your own business.’ Any activities between the People’s Republic and Chinese Taipei, as he continues to refer to the ROC, is a quote-unquote ‘internal matter.’ ”

“You told them to keep their hands off the ROC until we can meet and talk about this?” the President asked. “We just recognized the Republic of China’s independence, for Christ’s sake! Attacking them now would be a slap in the face towards us.”

“In no uncertain terms, sir,” Hartman replied. “I sent him your letter, which he had received, and explained that the United States would consider any military action against Taiwan as a seriously destabilizing and overtly hostile act, and would respond with any means at our disposal, including military means, to help bring stability back to the region. I plan on meeting with Foreign Minister Qian in Beijing in three days; hopefully I can get in to see President Jiang as well.”

“Good,” the President said. He stayed at his desk, quietly contemplating something, then rose to his feet and started pacing the floor. “Ambassador Kuo, any thoughts?”

“Sir, President Lee Teng-hui of the Republic of China believes as you do — that an invasion of Quemoy, the Pescadores, Matsu, or even Formosa Tao is imminent,” Ambassador Kuo said. “He has ordered the mobilization of reserves and arming the militia. He is standing firm — he is not withdrawing any troops from Quemoy or Matsu. In fact, he is increasing them — he is flying in a thousand additional troops a day to both islands, and is shipping in additional air defense units. He has_vordered the entire navy at sea to counter the Communist fleet’s movements.” “You’re going to stand up to the Chinese army?” Secretary of Defense Chastain asked incredulously. “Even if the PRC doesn’t invade, your army could suffer substantial losses.”

“We have made the decision to fight and die to the very last man, woman, and child to maintain our independence,” Kuo said resolutely. “We must stand and fight, or die as a country. We have chosen our way.” He paused for a moment, then looked the President square in the eyes and said, “Our concern is not with the Communists, but with the United States. You have declared your support for the Republic of China, but we understand that there is much to be done before you may legally recognize my country.”

“That’s being taken care of, Mr. Ambassador,” the President said. “The bill we sponsored repealing the 1979 Taiwan Relations Act comes up for a vote next week, and we expect to be successful. Our support for the Republic of China is firm and unwavering.”

“Yet we understand that you risk much politically by such action,” Kuo said. “Your country’s trade with the mainland could be in jeopardy— if the Communists shut the United States out, it will cost you at least thirty billion dollars a year. But worse than a trade war is the prospect of military action, of a large Pacific conflict.”

“Ambassador, everyone wants trade with China, so they all look the other way when China does something to one of its neighbors,” the President said angrily. “My father died fighting the Chinese in North Korea when I was a kid — everyone forgets that war and Chinas involvement. Everyone also forgets that we almost went to war—nuclear war — with Red China in 1955 over their bombardment of Taiwan. I was a kid, just getting over the death of my father in North Korea, when mainland China started shelling Quemoy — Jesus, I thought World War Three was going to start any day, that the Communists were going to sweep across the planet just like we saw that red stain sweep across the globe in the propaganda films. Throughout the sixties, Red China was just as much a threat as the Soviet Union — I remember China supporting North Vietnam and China imprisoning American POWs. The Soviet Union and China were both our hated enemies.

“The death of Stalin and Maos break with the Soviets changed our strategy,” the President went on. “In the rush to counterbalance the Soviet threat, we embraced the Chinese Communist government and turned our backs on democratic, capitalist governments like yours. No more. The United States is not going to wait patiently a hundred years for mainland China to adopt a free-market society, and in the meantime sit idly by while they destroy the Republic of China, gobble up oil fields in the South China Sea, refuse to enforce international copyright laws, and threaten free trade with the rest of Asia. America can’t put off the decision any longer: we’re either for an independent, democratic Republic of China, or we’re for the hope that mainland China will keep Taiwan capitalist and free while they absorb you, like they’re absorbing Hong Kong.”

“I thank you, Mr. President,” Kuo said, bowing sincerely, “for your words and for sharing your thoughts with me. But I must still ask about the political realities of your decision; I apologize if I am too forward…”

“Ask anything, Ambassador,” the President urged.

“Thank you, sir. My government is aware of the opposition party’s inquiries as to your actions against the Islamic Republic of Iran, about the rumors that you sent a stealth bomber over China. Since that incident, you have withdrawn all of your carrier battle groups from Chinese waters, despite the threat of a Communist invasion of my country. Is there a threat of a no-confidence vote in your congress or of any legal action that might preclude you from helping in the defense of my country?”

“I appreciate your concern, Ambassador,” the President replied, “but I think I can handle the opposition party. Fortunately, it takes a lot more than a no-confidence vote to get me out of office. Now I’ve got a couple blunt questions for you, Han-min.”

“Of course, sir,” Kuo responded. “Please.”

“We are very concerned about the protests in your country over the Senkaku Islands,” Secretary of State Hartman said. The Senkaku Islands were a series of small, uninhabited islands in the East China Sea between Okinawa and Taiwan, which were claimed by China, Japan, and Taiwan; Japan had taken the islands from China in 1894 and had not relinquished possession after World War II, as it had with Formosa. Taiwan claimed the Senkakus as part of its archipelago. Diplomatic relations between the three countries had been strained for years because of overlapping fishing and oil-drilling rights in the area. “Japanese nationals have been attacked by protesters in Taipei, and no arrests have been made. It will be difficult to support the ROC if we get in the middle of a Japan-Taiwan conflict.”

Ambassador Kuo thought for a moment; then: “Many in my country feel strongly that the Tiaoyutai, what Japan calls the Senkaku Islands, be returned to us, that they are spoils of war taken from us by imperial Japan.”

“We understand the source of the disagreement, Ambassador, but a Japanese woman is dead and seven more are injured, in the middle of a riot with over a thousand protesters and two hundred police and army units, and no one saw anything? No evidence? No suspects?” Vice President Whiting interjected incredulously. “It looks like a huge cover-up, Mr. Ambassador. The Japanese government is hopping mad, and they want us to set up an arms and technology embargo against your country. We need definitive action immediately, or our Asian coalition will be broken before it has a chance to solidify.”

“What do you suggest, Madame Vice President?” Kuo asked.

“We suggest your government ask for assistance from the American Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Whiting replied, “and I also strongly suggest that you — and this is totally off the record — round up some suspects and publicly arraign them, and fast. Let’s not be losing friends over some small, uninhabited piles of rocks while you lose friendly neighbors and your home island is in danger of being overrun.”

Kuo lowered his eyes for a moment, then raised them and nodded. “We feel that the Tiaoyutai is much more than a 'pile of rocks,’ Madame Vice President,” Kuo said solemnly. “But you are correct — I understand that our inability to solve the murder appears as if we condone it. I shall recommend that my government request immediate assistance from your government in the investigation, and I assure you that there will be swift action.”

“We also need a statement from you on exactly when your country will discontinue nuclear weapons development and begin dismantling your nuclear weapon stockpiles,” Secretary of Defense Chastain cut in.

Kuo swung toward Chastain, then to the President, with a look of horror in his face. “Nuclear weapons?” he sputtered. “Sir, the Republic of China possesses no nuclear weapons.”

“Our intelligence information tells us otherwise, Ambassador,” National Security Advisor Philip Freeman said. “According to our data, over the past fifteen years you have been involved in a nuclear weapons coproduction effort with the Republic of South Africa, and our information suggests you may have developed a warhead small enough to be used on a gravity bomb or cruise missile.”

“I most strenuously deny—! ”

“Don’t bother responding, Ambassador — denials will only embarrass you,” Freeman went on bitterly. “More recently, we’ve received information that you are sharing nuclear-weapons information with Israel, and that you have a nuclear warhead on some license-built versions of the Gabriel anti-ship cruise missile. Finally, we received information from the JIO of the Australian Ministry of Defense that you have been sharing nuclear and chemical weapons technology with Indonesia. Australia is so sure of its information that it has considered a preemptive air strike on Indonesian weapons plants — and some attacks on certain Taiwanese vessels suspected of carrying weapon-making equipment into Indonesia.” Kuo’s eyes bulged at that news — he was completely unable to contain his surprise. “If any of this news ever leaked out, Mr. Ambassador, it would be a political disaster for the Republic of China and a great embarrassment for the United States of America.”

“We trust you’ll do the right thing,” Secretary of State Flartman said, “and eliminate any sharing of nuclear weapons technology, with an eye on completely eliminating your nuclear weapons programs in the very near future. It would be extremely difficult for the United States to support any country secretly violating American nuclear weapons antiproliferation regulations. Very difficult.”

The President hadn’t said a word, but when Ambassador Kuo looked into his eyes, he saw disappointment and distrust conveyed to him as surely as if Martindale had screamed it in his face. The Taiwanese ambassador had noted with amusement the American people’s preoccupation with their new President’s hair, but now he saw what they all fixated on — the two silver-gray curls that had drooped across his forehead and eyes, making him look sinister, like a gray wolf ready to attack. “I… I will convey your message and request an immediate response,” Kuo stammered, averting his eyes apologetically. “I assure you all, the Republic of China will obey international law and honor our treaty obligations, and, most importantly, we would not knowingly do anything to harm our strong and steadfast relationship with the United States of America.”

“Then our commitment will remain equally strong to the Republic of China,” the President said, in a light voice that seemed to clear the room of a dense choking haze. Magically, without a touch, the silver curls were now gone from the President’s forehead. It is true, Kuo thought — this man certainly is bewitched!

Kuo looked very wobbly in the knees as he got to his feet when the President stood, signaling an end to the meeting. He extended a hand to Kuo, who accepted it and added a deep bow. “We’ll set up a hot-line system with President Lee’s office as soon as possible,” the President said. “Until then, we’ll be in contact with you, and you may contact my office or Secretary Hartman’s office twenty-four hours a day, for any reason whatsoever. It was a pleasure to see you again. Please convey my best wishes and support to President Lee and Premier Huang. Good day. ” Kuo looked pale and a little sweaty as he was shown out of the Oval Office.

“God bless it,” the President muttered, after Kuo had departed. “I’m getting ready to put our political necks on the chopping block for Taiwan, and the whole time Taiwan is handing over the ax to use on us. I’d like to talk with President Lee first thing in the morning — set it up,” he told his chief of staff. Jerrod Hale nodded and picked up a phone to relay the order.

In the reception area down the hall from the Oval Office, Ambassador Kuo was on his way to the staircase down to the West Wing driveway when several men walking toward the reception area from the National Security Advisor’s office caught his attention. Kuo stopped, then turned and walked over to them. “Forgive me, sir,” Kuo said to the youngest of the men walking by, “but do I have the pleasure of addressing Dr. Jonathan Colin Masters?”

Jon Masters was surprised to hear his name. “You got it,” he replied. “And who are you?”

“My name is Kuo Han-min, Ambassador to the United States from the Republic of China, at your service, sir,” Kuo replied, bowing and then extending a hand. “It is a great pleasure to meet you. We met many years ago at the Singapore Air Show. Your company’s exhibit was most impressive.”

“Thanks, Mr. Min,” Masters said, shaking hands with him, not realizing he had mixed up his surname and given name. When Kuo’s eyes wandered over to the other men, who had walked on past them, Masters, feeling obligated to make introductions, pointed to them and said, “Mr. Ambassador, that’s Brad Elliott, Patrick Me—”

“No you don’t, Dr. Masters,” Patrick McLanahan said. Jon Masters didn’t know, or had forgotten, about the extremely high security classification under which they were working, a classification definitely off- limits to foreign nationals. “Let’s go.”

“Elliott… General Bradley Elliott?” Kuo said, with a knowing twinkle in his eye. “And so you, sir, must be Colonel Patrick McLanahan of the United States Air Force. May I ask…?”

Just then, two Secret Service agents stepped in front of Kuo, blocking his view, and said in a stern voice, “I’m sorry, sir. Please move along.” Masters, Elliott, McLanahan, and the big black general Kuo recognized as Terrill Samson, commander of all the heavy bomber forces in the United States, were quickly hustled away into the Cabinet Room to wait for their meeting with the National Security Council, and Kuo was politely but firmly escorted outside.

So! Kuo thought. The President was meeting with the three-star general in charge of all the long-range bomber forces, and also with Elliott, Masters, and McLanahan. Those three had an international reputation for developing very high-tech attack weapons that were reportedly put to effective use in conflicts from Russia to eastern Europe to the Philippines. Now that he saw them all together, it made very good sense that such forces were used recently against the Islamic Republic of Iran — to extraordinarily great effectiveness. Now, with a probable conflict between China and Taiwan brewing, the President was conferring with them once again? Could the President be considering the use of stealth attack bombers in the defense of the Republic of China?

Kuo Han-min filed that brief but extremely interesting chance encounter away in his head — the information might be vital someday very soon.

“Okay. We’re getting ready to side with Taiwan against China, which is bound to stir up some shit in the Pacific for sure,” the President said. “What about Japan and South Korea? I hope they’re not reacting.”

“I’ve spoken with Japanese deputy prime minister Kubo and President Kim of South Korea, and they’re watching events closely but not reacting, except for a few South Korean reinforcements along the DMZ,” Hartman replied. “North Korea is blasting Taiwan and saying they’re provoking war in Asia, but they don’t seem to be exacerbating any conflicts— at least, not more than usual.”

Hartman looked a little uneasy, and the President picked up on it. “What else? Did Nagai have a comment?” Kazumi Nagai was the new prime minister of Japan, an ultra-left-wing politician of the new Kaishin Party, a coalition of left-wing political parties including the Japan Communist Party. Nagai was staunchly but carefully anti-West and anti-United States; he’d won the recent elections by opposing continued U.S. military bases in Japan, by extending a two-hundred-mile Japanese economic exclusion zone around islands also claimed by South Korea, Taiwan, and China, and by calling for gradual increases in japan’s military expenditures and total Japanese nuclear self-reliance. Few of his more radical programs and propositions had been passed, but the favorable attention he was receiving in Japan was cause for concern in Washington.

“Exactly what you might expect,” Hartman replied with a sigh. “Kubo told me the Prime Minister is going to give a speech tomorrow, calling for the U.S. to end its support of Taiwan as long as they claim ownership of the Senkaku Islands. The buzz is that Nagai will call for the Diet to withdraw basing rights for U.S. warships if we continue support for Taiwan.”

“Christ almighty,” the President muttered. “Jerrod…”

“I’m ahead of you, sir,” Hale shot back, getting on the phone to order the staff to schedule a call to the Japanese prime minister’s office. From his years as vice president, Martindale had learned that a simple phone call to a foreign leader was worth a dozen communiques and State Department visits, and he spent quite a bit of time on the phone.

“Okay, so Japan and South Korea aren’t saying anything about Chinese military moves,” the President summarized. “It seems no one would really shed a tear — except Taiwan, of course — if China took back Quemoy, Matsu, or even Formosa.”

“That’s because Taiwan has a fairly balanced trading ledger and is a stiff trading competitor with everyone else in Asia — except the U.S. and China,” Hartman explained. “Taiwan is the ninth-largest economy in the world and competes as an equal with Japan, Indonesia, South Korea, and Singapore. But Taiwan has a ten-billion-dollar trade surplus with the United States and holds two billion dollars’ worth of U.S. currency and bonds. Its balance of trade is even more one-sided with China — all in Taiwan’s favor. Most Asian nations see the Taiwanese Nationalists as rabble-rousers supported by the United States, similar to Israel. They feel that China should absorb Taiwan as it is absorbing Hong Kong — as long as the Communists allow them to keep making money. ”

“What’s the balance of trade between Japan and South Korea and China?” Vice President Ellen Christine Whiting asked. A former governor of Delaware, Ellen Whiting’s expertise was economic matters, whether on a local, national, or international arena — she believed the world revolved around money, and she was most often correct. “China’s total economy has got to be, what? Ten times larger than Taiwan’s?”

“Something like that,” Hartman admitted.

“China is the trading partner everyone wants. Over a billion potential customers — that’s why almost every nation in the world, officially including the United States, has abandoned Taiwan in favor of mainland China,” Whiting maintained. “If China wants Taiwan back, who says the other Asian countries would stand in their way? Why would they make an enemy of China in favor of Taiwan?”

“So we shouldn’t expect too much help from our allies in Asia, should Taiwan come under attack,” National Security Advisor Freeman summarized.

“Privately, even secretly, I think we can count on Japan’s and South Korea’s support of any actions we undertake against China,” Hartman said. “Both countries still rely on us for their security and for general stability throughout Asia. If we want to support Taiwan against China, I feel Japan and South Korea will support us.”

“So we’re it,” the President said. “If the Chinese are going after Taiwan, we’re the only ones who seem to give a shit.” He paused, and the Oval Office turned quiet — everyone knew that the President was absolutely right. “And the bottom line is, I do give a shit. I don’t want war with mainland China, but I also don’t want mainland China taking Taiwan by force. They got Hong Kong back peacefully. If Taiwan and the mainland are going to be reunited, it should be done peacefully too. It would hurt our country if Taiwan was taken back by force.”

“No question,” Vice President Whiting joined in. “Trade, financial markets, multinational business, our national debt structure, our standing in Asia would all suffer if Taiwan was attacked and absorbed by Communist China.”

“Agreed,” the President said. “Question is, if the Chinese are moving against Taiwan, what do we have to stop them?”

“Ordinarily, I’d recommend instituting economic sanctions, pulling China’s most-favored-nation trading status, setting up another embargo of high-tech and military goods,” Hartman said. “But with China amassing this naval task force, I think it’s beyond economic warfare. We should hear some military options — low-key, quiet, not too bombastic.”

“We’ve got two briefings set up for you, sir,” Freeman said. “Admiral Balboa will brief the first recommendation, and Lieutenant General Terrill Samson from Eighth Air Force will brief the second.”

“Okay, let’s get to it,” the President said. “Where’s Admiral Balboa?”

Jerrod Hale was on the phone instantly to the White House Communications Center; he got his answer a few seconds later. “En route, Mr. President,” he replied, and motioned for the Secret Service to show the others in.

The President got to his feet as Terrill Samson, Patrick McLanahan, and Jon Masters were escorted into the Oval Office. “Damn, it’s good to see you again, Patrick,” the President of the United States said warmly, as he greeted each of them. “How the hell are you?”

“I’m fine, Mr. President,” McLanahan said, shaking hands and receiving a brotherly clasp on the shoulder. “I’m glad to see you, and very glad to see you here, where you belong.”

“Sometimes I wish I was back in the Vice President’s office, working with troops like you — lots of power but no responsibility,” Martin-dale said, rather wearily. “How’s your wife? Wendy, right? Doing well, I hope.”

“She’s well, thanks.”

“Shit hot. It’s a miracle, after her accident. Congrats.” Martindale knew all about the aerial duel between Wendy McLanahan in the original EB-52 Megafortress and the thought-controlled fighter that had been piloted by the Russian deep-cover spy Kenneth Francis James. “And thank you for what you and Tiger Jamieson did over Iran and the Persian Gulf. You averted a major world oil crisis, and possibly another Desert Storm. Job well done.”

“I hope we get a chance to talk about the recent cuts in the bomber force, sir,” McLanahan said. “Speaking as a concerned and knowledgeable individual and not just as a defense contractor, I have some ideas about the bomber force structure that you should know. ”

“You will get a chance to talk about it, I promise,” the President said. “You’ve earned that right. Just keep in mind, the cuts were made long before I came into office, and the money has already been spent on the back end. But we’ll talk about all this later. I’ve heard some good things about what you and this young man here have been doing.” The President shook hands with Jon Masters. “Good to see you too, Dr. Masters. I’m looking forward to you naming a satellite after me soon. Make it a good one, okay?”

“The new space-based surveillance and targeting satellite needs a name,” Masters said with a boyish grin. “At the risk of being accused of out-and-out brown-nosing the President of the United States, I wonder if I should skip Taylor and Clinton and go right to Martindale?” They all laughed — the answer to that one was obvious.

“General, good to see you again,” the President said as he shook hands with the big three-star general. “I know I haven’t had time to thank you for all the hard work you did getting Colonel McLanahan here back in the air for that Iranian mission. Your work was instrumental in averting a certain disaster in the Persian Gulf. We were very impressed with the proposal you wrote concerning this Taiwan reconnaissance/strike mission.”

“Thank you, sir,” Samson responded. “I understand you’re getting a lot of political heat for the things we did. You don’t have to take the fall for this alone, sir.”

“I do, I will, and I’ll survive, Terrill,” the President said. “Unless the opposition wants to suspend the Constitution, I’m on solid ground. You worry about the mission we’re thinking about sending your boys on, I’ll worry about the Democrats.” His weak smile told Samson that he was more than just a little concerned about the political pressure he was under. _

“Jerrod’s going to call me to go to that American Bar Association dinner thing in about thirty minutes, so let’s get to it.” The President steered the three newcomers over to places around the coffee table in front of the big Resolute desk in the Oval Office. “Ellen, gents, I think you all know Air Force Lieutenant General Terrill Samson, commander of Eighth Air Force and bomber guru. Let me introduce Dr. Jonathan Colin Masters, boy genius, defense contractor, and reportedly the smarter younger brother of Merlin the Magician. And this is ace bombardier Patrick McLanahan. He and I have some stories that will curl your toes, if they ever declassify them. You’ll never guess how close to the brink we’ve been together, and how often we’ve been there.” The Presidential advisors, except Philip Freeman, mumbled hellos and little else.

“Here’s what’s going on, boys,” the President began, taking his seat at the head of the circle, with Vice President Whiting beside him. “A few weeks ago, the intelligence wonks said the PRC is massing a naval task force at Juidongshan, of about forty ships, mostly small combatants but a few large destroyers and frigates. The press reported it as minor ship movements associated with Reunification Day celebrations. We believe the ships have some other purpose. Meanwhile, the aircraft carrier Mao Zedong moved into Hong Kong Harbor, supposedly also participating in the Reunification Day stuff — but then we learned it lifted anchor. Phil, bring us up to speed.”

“In a nutshell, sir: that task force is getting bigger, and the carrier’s on the way to join them,” Philip Freeman began. “Estimated size of the PRC task force right now is fifty-seven ships, including six Luda-class guided-missile destroyers and twelve Jianghu-class frigates. Lots of support ships for surface forces and submarines. The carrier Mao has departed Hong Kong and is heading north along the coast, apparently to join the Juidongshan task force. The Mao is being escorted by four Luda- class destroyers, among others, so the PLAN has almost all of their operational destroyers involved in this task force.

“Along with the naval task force, we’ve noted increased activity at eleven army bases and ten air force and naval air bases within six hundred miles of Taipei, Taiwan. We’re watching a gradual activation of rocket artillery units at the army bases, with M-9 and M-l 1 ballistic missiles. We’re estimating at least two hundred attack planes, one hundred fighters, and fifty long-range bombers on line, each capable of carrying one or two large anti-ship cruise missiles… or nuclear weapons.”

There was a muted “Oh, shit” from someone in the Oval Office. “Run down the nuclear-capable forces for us, Phil,” the President asked somberly.

“China’s main nuclear threat comes from land-based mobile missiles,” Freeman said, reciting data completely from memory. “The Chinese have approximately one hundred mobile medium-range nuclear missiles, each of which can carry multiple reentry warheads, plus approximately one hundred mobile short-range single-warhead nuclear missiles similar to Scuds, and a total of twelve intercontinental-range missiles. A few of these units have been moved east arrayed against forces in the Pacific, although most are still set against Russian and Indian forces in the southwest or north. Only two nuclear-capable subs in the Chinese fleet; the Navy keeps very good track of both of them when they put to sea, which is not very often. The H-6 bombers are all nuclear capable, but with gravity bombs only — so far, the Chinese seem to have no nuclear-capable air-launched cruise missiles. The bombers are not considered a threat against a full-up American carrier or surface action group.

“With the addition of the Mao carrier, however, we can expect the addition of nuclear-capable anti-ship missiles, particularly the SS-N-12 Granit,” Freeman concluded. “Supersonic, over two-hundred-mile range, big warhead, radar-guided — a real threat if it gets past the outer and middle ring of air defense in the carrier battle group. The Sukhoi- 27 or -33 fighters deployed on the carrier can presumably deliver nuclear gravity bombs, too.”

“Chance of the Chinese using nukes for whatever they got in mind? ”

“Until the Philippine conflict in 1994, it was considered low,” Freeman replied. “The Chinese have always disavowed first use of special weapons — nuclear, chemical, and biological. But China used a tactical nuclear weapon against Philippine naval forces in 1994, and threatened to use them again in March of 1996 if Taiwan held their presidential elections and declared independence from the mainland. They even mentioned military retaliation against the United States if we should interfere, and refused to deny that they were in essence threatening to use nuclear weapons against the United States.

“The attacks of course never materialized. We always thought it was mere rhetoric, but… I think it would be irresponsible to dismiss any country threatening to use nuclear weapons. China has an advanced nuclear development program, including neutron, fractional orbital bombardment systems, tactical, battlefield, man-portable, and multi-megaton weapons.”

“Good ol’ Admiral Yin Po L’un, firing nukes around the South China Sea and Celebes Sea from that huge-ass destroyer Hong Lung like spit- balls in a third-grade classroom,” the President reminded everyone wryly. “We’re very lucky World War Three didn’t break out. Thanks to Patrick and Jon here, we put a hole in that destroyer of his big enough to drop a house through.”

“Well, General Chin Po Zihong is still chief of staff of the People’s Liberation Army; Yin’s former second in command, Admiral Sun, is now a deputy chief of staff; and China has an apparently fully operational aircraft carrier that our sources say may be carrying nuclear ballistic missiles and anti-ship cruise missiles,” Freeman summarized. “Chin might be out for revenge for what we did to his navy, and Sun might want revenge for what we did to his brand-new destroyer. A nuclear weapon might be the only way China can dig the Nationalists out of the tunnels and mountain fortresses of Quemoy.” Two groups of islands just off the coast of mainland China were claimed and occupied by Taiwan: the Matsu Islands northwest of Taiwan, no more than eleven miles off the coast; and Quemoy, a large island directly west of the island of Formosa and no more than two miles off the Chinese coast. Both Taiwanese islands had been heavily bombarded by Chinese artillery and naval forces in the past, but they had held firm — capturing them would be a major moral as well as a tactical victory for the Chinese Communists.

“So you’re saying we’re looking at the possibility of a nuclear war over Taiwan?” the President asked. “Any chance they’re just going to sail all these ships down to Hong Kong to celebrate Reunification Day? ”

“Always a chance of that, sir,” Freeman responded, “but a better bet would be an invasion force or a covering force against one of the Taiwanese island formations near the PRC coastline. The lack of landing craft in the task force suggests it’s not an amphibious invasion, although the aircraft carrier itself makes a very formidable troop carrier and it does have the capability to launch amphibious assault ships. The task force could set up a blockade while their invasion forces go ashore. Quemoy would be the most logical target. Taiwan garrisons approximately fifty- five to sixty thousand Taiwanese troops there, along with antiaircraft and coast defense missile sites, but they’re nothing but a political trip wire, designed to inflame the world against the Communists if they attack. The attack would be over quickly, probably well before we could do anything to assist.

“The Communists will probably conduct an amphibious assault soon after the missile or bomber attacks — they won’t make the same mistake they did in 1958,” Freeman went on. “Then, the Communists bombarded the island for six straight weeks—it’s estimated that every square mile of the island was hit by two thousand artillery shells. Even after the offensive stopped, the Communists continued to bombard the island every other day for eighteen years. But the Nationalists dug in, using a complex of underground fire bases and supply tunnels. The Communists never were able to dig out the Nationalists, so the invasion plans were shelved.

“That won’t happen again. A neutron-bomb attack would destroy the island’s defenses, and the People’s Liberation Army would simply march right in after the radiation levels subside in a few months. Target date: right around July first. Chinese Reunification Day. Maybe earlier, so victory could be won by Reunification Day. ”

The President seemed to swallow hard at that bit of news. “You think they’d start a nuclear war over Taiwan, even though Taiwan declared its independence and the whole world will be watching?”

“I think the Chinese military machine began gearing up for this offensive several months ago,” Freeman replied, “and it’s too late to stop it. In fact, Taiwan declaring independence probably guaranteed they were going to go ahead with an invasion.”

“Damn,” the President muttered. “The elephant is getting ready to squash the flea.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “Where are the carriers right now?”

“Admiral Balboa should be here in a few minutes to brief you, sir,” Freeman said, glancing at his watch, “but I’ll summarize. We have no carriers within striking range of the Chinese task force or their missile bases, but that can be remedied in about three days. The Independence battle group is closest, getting ready to depart Yokosuka on patrol. It’s on its last cruise before retirement, carrying a standard package air wing. Indy's replacement is the George Washington, getting ready to depart Pearl, carrying an attack-heavy wing. ETE five days.”

“Any other air units in the area?”

“We fly daily P-3 Orion anti-submarine patrols up and down the Formosa Strait,” Freeman responded. “We also have Air Force reconnaissance planes flying nearby, RC-135 Rivet Joint intelligence-gathering planes. Daily satellite passes as well.”

“I meant strike or defense-suppression air,” the President said.

Freeman nodded. “We’ve got Marine F/A-18 Hornets and A-6 Intruders on Okinawa, but they need heavy aerial refueling tanker support,” he replied. “The Orions can carry torpedoes and Harpoon missiles in a strike configuration. We made the decision not to load up the region so as to avoid provoking China during their Reunification Day celebrations.”

“But it seems to have had a reverse effect,” Secretary of Defense Chastain cut in. “President Jiang sees an opportunity. He has the people whipped up by all this reunification talk and solidly behind him, he got the Politburo and military behind him, and it looks like they’re going for it.”

The President had little reaction except to ask, “Submarines?”

“We have two Los Angeles-class attack subs, Springfield and Pasadena, assigned to shadow the Chinese task force,” Freeman replied. “Two more Sturgeon-class subs are patrolling the Formosa Strait itself, and the Honolulu is shadowing the Chinese nuclear sub Xia. Two more subs are on patrol in the South China Sea. All seven subs have relief on the way. ”

“Two subs versus a fifty-ship task force is a bit skimpy,” Secretary of Defense Chastain interjected.

“We can have two more subs on station in five to six days,” Freeman said. “But Taiwan has two, maybe three subs between the task force and Formosa, and so the Chinese are aggressively hunting subs.”

“All the more reason to put a few more in,” Chastain argued. They all looked at the President, waiting for guidance.

The conversation fascinated Patrick McLanahan. This was the White House Oval Office, the center of world power — but thorny questions were discussed and massaged and examined as if they were all sitting around in a farmhouse kitchen in Iowa, discussing the weather and the markets and the crops and trying to decide whether to begin the harvest now or wait another couple days. McLanahan was also surprised at Martindale s hesitancy. Kevin Martindale had never been shy about committing U.S. military forces anywhere, anytime — but the political fallout from the conflict with Iran, and especially the decision to fly a B-2 bomber secretly across Chinese airspace to get at Iran from the “back door,” was murderous. Impeachment had been mentioned more than once in interviews with the opposition party, and the media seemed to be fanning those flames. Martindale s presidency was less than six months old, and it was already seriously in hot water.

“Send them,” the President ordered. “Two more subs, specifically against the task force, plus two reinforcements. Right away.” Arthur Chastain made a note to himself to cut orders. The President paused for a moment, then said, “We need more firepower out there, gents, but we don’t have the time. The Navy is our best bet this time, but they’ll take a few days to get set up.” He paused, then said in a contrite, almost embarrassed voice, “And I want this done quietly. I’m getting hammered by the Democrats and the press on the use of the B-2 bomber against Iran. I can’t use the active duty or Reserve bombers. I don’t even like the idea of sending in aircraft carriers, because to me it forces the conflict to a new, deadly level — and it gives the media and the Democrats more ammunition to use against me.”

The President looked at McLanahan and Masters. “General Samson and Air Force chief of staff General Hayes briefed me on the new Megafortress project — of course, I’m well familiar with the previous Megafortress missions,” the President said. “I understand you have eight planes altogether, but crews and weapons for only five. Correct?” Masters nodded. “We need all you can muster for an armed patrol over the Formosa Strait.”

“You got it,” Masters replied immediately. “When and where do you need them?”

“This isn’t a sales meeting, Dr. Masters,” Philip Freeman interjected sternly. “The President is asking you to provide flight crews and experimental strike aircraft for a secret armed patrol mission. The crews could be in serious danger. You could lose the crews, all the aircraft, and your entire investment, and you’d have no recourse or legal redress to recoup your losses. If your crews are captured, they will be tried as terrorists, spies, or armed aggressors, subject to all Chinese criminal laws, without any support or protection from the U.S. government. Think about it first.”

“Okay,” Masters responded. He fell silent for about two heartbeats, smiled, then said, “When and where do you need them?”

“We thought about it already,” Patrick McLanahan said resolutely, by way of explaining his boss’s weird reply. “I speak for the aircrews, Mr. President, and we are ready to fly. The planes are fueled, armed, and ready to go. We even have our own aerial refueling tanker fleet, and they’ve been sent to Sky Masters, Inc.’s, facilities in Hawaii. We just need secure basing at Andersen Air Force Base on Guam.”

“We can do that,” Freeman said. He turned to the President and said, “There’s one option ready to execute, Mr. President.”

“How would you be able to help out there, Patrick?” the President asked.

“The Megafortresses carry four different standoff weapons: jammers, antiradar, antiair, and anti-ship,” McLanahan explained. “Nothing is activated until there is some sign of hostilities, and then the response is graduated, depending on what the Chinese do. Our plan is to match, never exceed, the PLAN’s level of hostility. We defend ourselves with every weapon we have, but our primary purpose is to defend the assigned area.”

“How would they be employed?” the President asked.

“Two groups of two, plus one ground spare, for the armed surveillance role,” McLanahan replied. “One plane just outside Chinese long- range radar coverage, the other over the assigned defense area. From the refueling track near Okinawa, it’s one hour to the southern tip of Taiwan, near Quemoy Island, so each bomber can stay about four hours on station. Just before the first bomber is scheduled to depart the station to refuel, the other bomber takes its place. The teams rotate every sixteen hours, so the second team gets a full eight hours of crew rest on the ground. If fighting breaks out, we switch into surge mode — we recover, rearm, refuel, and relaunch bombers as fast as we can, at least two at a time.”

“And how long can you possibly keep that up? ” Secretary of Defense Chastain asked. “Aren’t you afraid of exhausting your crews?”

“The limiting factor is the planes, not the crews,” McLanahan answered. “On patrol, it’s all high-altitude cruising time. All combat flying is stressful, but the high-altitude cruise legs will give the crews a little opportunity to decompress. During a combat surge, the crews will only be in actual hostile territory anywhere from ten to twenty minutes maximum — that’s the power we have with standoff weapons. In a combat surge, we anticipate running out of weapons before running out of combat-ready aircraft. Of course, we’re just a covering force, sir — we’d expect support from the Navy and Air Force within three to four days.”

“Pretty optimistic,” Chastain sniffed. “I haven’t heard you give any estimates for combat attrition.”

“Attrition? You mean, how many Megafortresses will we lose?” Masters retorted. “I’ll answer that one, Art — zero. Zip. Nada. The EB-52s will be grounded because of systems failures before China even gets a shot off at one.”

“That’s pretty arrogant of you, Dr. Masters,” Chastain said. “If I’m not mistaken, the PRC got a couple of your EB-52s in the Philippines conflict.”

“The planes we’re using now are a generation more advanced than the ones we used three years ago — the weapons are, too,” Masters said resolutely. “The bad guys won’t touch us. We’re a lot safer than those subs you got shadowing that battle group, I guarantee that”

“All we ask is that you let us act with a great degree of autonomy, once you send us into the area defense ‘basket,’ ” General Samson said. “We can set up real-time datalinks to provide the task force commander with a look at everything we’re looking at, but we’re vulnerable and weak if we can’t act right away.”

“That can’t be helped, General,” Chastain said. “A B-52 bomber loaded to the gills with cruise missiles, taking on a Chinese naval battle group — we’re going to insist on absolute control. ”

“Although we’re using strategic bombers, sir, we’re actually flying a close-air-support-type mission,” Samson explained. “We’re flying close to the enemy, staying out of sight but zooming into lethal range when it’s time to strike, then bugging out of lethal range again. We must be given authority to shoot when it comes time to do so — we can’t loiter within lethal range hoping to be given the order. As Patrick explained, sir, our objective is to match, and never exceed, the level of force used by the enemy — but we need absolute real-time authority to shift our level of response. As good as Dr. Masters’s surveillance and communications gear is, it’s not perfect nor one hundred percent reliable. Our guys must be given authority when to shoot. That’s why we’re here, sir.”

President Martindale shook his head and gave them a weary smile. “Can’t believe we’re considering using a private company to fight our battles for us,” he said. “I feel like I’m hiring mercenaries.”

“Then make us part of the military, sir,” Patrick McLanahan said. Several mouths dropped open in surprise — the President’s, Freeman’s, Samson’s, even Masters’s. “What did you say, Patrick?” Samson finally asked.

“Make us part of the military again,” McLanahan explained. “Recommission the B-52 bombers — but make it a fleet of EB-52 Megafortresses instead. Right now, you have a fleet of eight converted bombers. Dr. Masters and I have identified thirty H-model B-52s in the fleet that are suitable for the conversion. Within two years, maybe less, we can have a wing, two squadrons, of EB-52 Megafortresses flying. They can do any mission you can think of: reconnaissance, drone control, defense suppression, minelaying, strategic or tactical precision attack, heavy bombardment, even air defense and space launch. Reactivate Dyess Air Force Base in Texas as the initial base, or colocate the unit with Jon’s facilities in Arkansas.”

“I think we’ve got plenty on our plate right now without having to digest that idea,” Chief of Staff Jerrod Hale interjected. He made it obvious he didn’t think much of the idea — but Freeman, Samson, Masters, and even Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain suddenly wore thoughtful expressions as Hale continued, “You’ve got ten minutes before you need to be on the road for that speech, Mr. President. I suggest—”

Just then, there was a knock on the Oval Office door, and before the Secret Service agent could fully open it, Admiral George Balboa, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, stormed into the room. “I’m sorry, Mr. President,” he thundered, “but my aide was given a message by someone in the communications center that the meeting had been postponed an hour. But there’s no record of any such message. Then, as if by some weird coincidence, I find Brad Elliott outside in the reception area. Brad Elliott. Would somebody tell me what he’s doing?” And then Balboa noticed General Samson, Patrick McLanahan, and Jon Masters in the Oval Office, seated with the President and his military advisors. “Would somebody mind telling me what’s going on?”

“Brad Elliott?” the President asked in a suddenly squeaky voice. “He’s here?” And then everyone understood why Balboa was late for this meeting with the President. He smiled mischievously and shook his head, saying, “Nooo… no, Elliott wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t dare leave a phony message with my aide so he or his cronies can talk with the President of the United States alone about some cockamamie secret stealth bomber attack plan?” Balboa asked in a breathlessly sarcastic tone. “Hell, sir, I’m surprised he didn’t try to ambush my car with one of his robot drone missiles. But it worked, didn’t it? You’ve been talking about some covert air patrol of the Formosa Strait against the PLAN.”

“We’re discussing what China’s next move might be,” Freeman said, “and what we should do about it.”

“Do… what we should do?” Balboa asked, with considerable restraint evident in his voice. Balboa was a hot-tempered but dynamic and well-respected Navy veteran, strong-willed and intelligent, just the way Martindale liked his advisors. “Oh, yeah, the Air Force’s scheme to put those experimental ‘stealth’ B-52s out there.” Balboa said “B-52” as if it were the punch line to a very bad joke. “Mr. President, I’m prepared to brief you on the Joint Chiefs’ recommendation.”

“The carriers,” the President guessed. “Full-court press.”

“It’s the best response — maximum firepower if we need it, maximum visibility otherwise,” Balboa said. “Send both Independence and Washington into the Formosa Strait right away. When Vinson replaces Lincoln in the Arabian Sea, we send Lincoln into the theater until things calm down, then rotate it with Indy and send her home for her decommissioning party. ”

“I’m reminding the President that there are powerful elements of the Japanese parliament that see this administration as more hawkish when it comes to Asia in general and China in particular, and they’re fearful of us using military force if it means threatening trade and instigating military and economic conflict,” Freeman said. “The carriers are a powerful weapon — maybe too big a stick. The bombers could keep an eye on things without stirring up too much hostility.”

“He’s right, Admiral,” the President said. “Two, three carriers in the Formosa Strait — that’s an awful lot of firepower, almost Desert Storm-sized. It’s bound to make China nervous.”

“It’s supposed to make ’em nervous,” Balboa said with a loud laugh.

“Mr. President, we’re totally exposed right now. If the Chinese try an attack against Quemoy, Matsu, or any of Taiwan’s islands, we pound on ’em. My guess is, they’ll back off with two flattops parked in their front yards.

“Mr. President, the Chinese wouldn’t dare try an invasion of Taiwan,” Balboa went on with a confident tone, punctuated with an exasperated glance at Freeman, “but if they’re contemplating following up their attacks on Quemoy with a play on the island of Formosa itself, we can have the carriers standing by ready to respond. The carriers’ll discourage the Taiwanese from getting too frisky too. We’ll see to that.”

“The carriers aren’t in position, Admiral,” Freeman argued.

“We’ve got four frigates in the area ready to assist Taiwan, sir, plus land-based attack planes out of Okinawa,” Balboa said. “Plus the Taiwanese are no slouches when it comes to defending their islands. Indy will be on station in two days, and George will be on in five, tops. Just the news that two American carriers are on the way will scare that PLAN task force right back to base. They’ll back off, just like they did last March.”

“Admiral, we’re marching towards a huge naval confrontation by racing to put two aircraft carrier battle groups in the Formosa Strait to oppose China’s task force,” Freeman said. “Yes, it might scare them into retreating — or it might provoke them into firing first. Putting a couple of our EB-52 Megafortress stealth bombers in the area will keep things quiet and give us plenty of firepower in case the Chinese task force tries something. No one will know we ever had the Megafortress bombers on station.”

“Is that what you said about the B-2 attacks against Iran, General?” Balboa retorted. The conflict in the Persian Gulf region between Iran and the United States was still classified top secret, but the rumors and the heated debate over the mysterious attacks on Iran’s secret military bases and warships in the Gulf of Oman were just beginning. “ ‘No one would find out?’ Then why is it that half of Congress is calling for an investigation into an alleged illegal overflight of several Asian countries, including China, by a B-2 stealth bomber? Why is it that some loudmouth congresspersons are calling for the President’s impeachment?”

Jerrod Hale’s head jerked up angrily at that word, but before he could react, the President said, “Hold on, now, Admiral, but no one’s going to impeach me, and sure as hell no one’s going to intimidate me into responding or not responding.” That sentence was aimed as much at Balboa as it was at the few opposition party legislators who’d actually suggested an independent prosecutor investigate the President for his actions during the Iranian conflict. “The bottom line is, the B-2 stealth bomber attacks over Iran and the Persian Gulf forced the Iranians to stop their attacks and back off. If China, Afghanistan, and Congress are upset about us flying one lousy stealth bomber around to do the job, that’s tough.”

“Mr. President, the American people are upset because you conducted a secret, covert war,” Balboa said. He saw Hale’s face flush, but ignored him. “The American people don’t like secret wars, sir — the fallout from our escapades in Central America prove that.” Everyone realized that Balboa’s remark was aimed directly at the President, who, as the ex-vice president, had engineered many of those secret military missions in Central America in the aftermath of the James spy incident. Martindale had been severely criticized for initiating so many “dirty” skirmishes in Central America.

But Martindale could dish it out as well as take it. “You wouldn’t happen to be upset, Admiral,” the President said, “because I chose to keep the Abraham Lincoln carrier group out of the Persian Gulf but sent in a B-2 bomber to bust Iran’s chops; that I allowed the Lincoln to get shot at by the Iranians but didn’t give them a chance to retaliate?” It was no secret that many in the Navy were upset at precisely that point: Iran had attacked the USS Abraham Lincoln with long-range cruise missiles and shot down one of its E-3C Hawkeye radar planes, but the President had not allowed the Lincoln to spearhead a retaliatory strike.

“Don’t be ridiculous, sir,” Balboa said, his voice showing the slightest hint of irritation toward his commander in chief. “We’re all on the same side. True, the Lincoln was ready to conduct their counterattacks, destroy the Iranian bomber bases, sink the Iranian carrier, and rescue those CIA operatives long before the stealth guys got on the scene. True, we were cut out of the game unfairly and unnecessarily. But I’m not going to prefer the Navy over any other service just because I wear a Navy uniform.” Eyes turned away from Balboa at that instant, and the reply “Bullshit” came to many of their minds. “But this Taiwan operation is totally different. The Navy is in a much better position to assist Taiwan than these… things the general wants to send in.”

“We need to make our involvement deniable and perfectly black,” Freeman said, “or we risk starting a war on the high seas in the entire region. That’s the advantage of using the aircraft we suggest.”

“Does the Joint Chiefs have a problem using Air Force assets in the Pacific? ” the President asked.

“Sir, I apologize if I sounded too… argumentative to General Freeman, and of course CINCPAC will use any and all assets available in his theater if needed, including the Air Force,” Admiral Balboa responded, saying the words as if they were part of a well-rehearsed boilerplate speech — very little sincerity in those words at all. “But I think we’ve already seen the harmful result of using renegade, secretive units in military operations. The B-2 bomber operation the general put together against Iran could have been a complete disaster and a major embarrassment for the United States.”

“Instead, it was a major victory and completely stopped all further aggression,” Freeman said. “We proved that.”

“All you proved, General Freeman, was that terrorism works,” Balboa said acidly.

“What in hell did you say, Balboa?” Jerrod Hale exploded. Hale was a tall, very large man in his early fifties, a former Los Angeles district attorney who, as the Martindale for President campaign director, had engineered Martindale’s stunning comeback from a defeated, divorced former vice president to a powerful, awe-inspiring, and rather fearsome President of the United States. More than almost any other person in Washington besides the President, Hale commanded a lot of power because he controlled access to the man in the White House — and Hale was not shy about wielding the forces under his control. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? General Freeman is an advisor to the President of the United States. You’re right on the verge of getting yourself shit-canned!”

The President’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened, but he raised a hand to silence Hale. “All right, Admiral,” he said, carefully controlling his surprised anger, “it’s obvious you’ve got something to say, so say it. It sounded like you’re accusing me of terrorism. Did I hear you correctly?”

“With all due respect, Mr. President — yes, I believe the B-2 bomber attacks were tantamount to acts of terrorism,” Balboa said. “Under advisement from General Freeman, you ordered a stealth bomber to over-fly China and bomb Iran without warning. In my book, in anyones book, that’s terrorism, and it ought to be eliminated in this administration.” He paused for a few breaths, then added, “The Chiefs recommend that this latest operation, this Megafortress support mission, be canceled and more conventional means be used to support Taiwan’s naval forces. What in hell is this thing? You call it a modified B-52, but it’s sure as hell not like any B-52 I’ve ever seen! Where is it now, Mr. President? I want to see it and give my evaluation.”

“Excuse me, Admiral,” Chief of Staff Hale interjected, much more forcibly than before, “but the President will issue his instructions to you, not the other way around. If you have any further questions, submit them to me and I’ll see that he gets them.”

Although Hale towered over the Navy four-star, Balboa wasn’t going to be intimidated by a civilian staffer, even if he was the chief of staff and, arguably, the second-most-powerful man in Washington. His gaze encompassed McLanahan and Masters as well as Freeman as he said, “I think it might be better if you dismissed your civilian staffers, sir, so we could discuss this operation.”

Hale’s eyes blazed, and even the old veteran sailor Balboa took notice. “That’s it, Balboa!”

The President tried to defuse the tension by grasping Balboa’s arm as they headed for the door. “Look, gents, I’ve got a function to attend, and if I’m late, the press will have me for breakfast,” the President said. “Admiral, I’m going with the Megafortresses. I’m augmenting the sub fleet and keeping the frigates on patrol, but I don’t want the carriers in the Formosa Strait right now.”

“But, sir, the Chiefs—”

“Admiral, there’s a time for shooting, a time for gunboat diplomacy, and a time for negotiations. We made the decision to keep the carriers out of the Strait during China’s Reunification Day celebrations, and I think it was a good decision even though China now seems to be taking advantage of it. I agree, we’re on the back side of the power curve now, and if China makes a move against Taiwan, there won’t be a hell of a lot we can do. As you recall, Admiral, one reason to keep the carriers out of the Strait was because of our concern that China might use nuclear or subatomic weapons against Taiwan, and I think that fear is all but a certainty now.

“But I think we’ve got a new option: we use our technological advantage and make our enemies think we’re right on their ass ready to blow their shit away,” the President went on. “The ability to make the Iranians or the North Koreans or even the Chinese think that we can freely, effortlessly fly an armed warplane right over their damned heads without them knowing about it is an awesome capability, powerful enough to stop a war dead in its tracks, and I want to take maximum advantage of it.”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Balboa said in a low voice, not masking the intense disappointment in his face, “but at least change the pecking order a little. We’ve got civilian spooks — intelligence agents, mercenaries, defense contractors, I’m not even sure exactly what to call them! — flying Air Force planes asking for Navy support. It’s too confusing. Even the Air Force hates this plan. At least put the flyboys under CINCPAC, Admiral Bill Allen at Pacific Command. He’s got to be informed of any military assets entering his operational theater anyway, sir — let’s use him and his staff at Pearl to keep track of things. If things go to hell, he’ll see it coming and can jump in immediately to contain the damage. All the chiefs will sign on in support for this mission, if you make this change.”

The President thought for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, I’ll buy that idea, Admiral.” He turned over his shoulder and said to Freeman, “Phil, brief CINCPAC on the ROC support mission, and turn operational control over to him. Include Admiral Allen on progress updates and video conferences. Draft up the execution order and have it ready for me to sign in one hour. ”

The President paused and turned toward Freeman and Balboa. “Make no mistake, gents, I am getting a lot of heat for flying that B-2 over Asia, so the press has parked themselves at the front gate of every bomber base in the country counting to make sure they’re all there. I’ve been presented with a new option, a plane that’s not on the books and can’t be counted, so I’m taking it. I expect full support from all of the service chiefs.

“If it fails, I take full responsibility, and then I expect advice and assistance in formulating a new plan, with no lip and no attitude from anyone. Interservice rivalry is a reality, and I know I’ve got to deal with it, but I don’t want it to interfere with my wishes, is that clear?” Those last two sentences were aimed squarely at Balboa, who nodded slightly. “The Taiwan support operation will be executed as planned; the Navy will assume operational command. Anything else for me?”

But Jerrod Hale didn’t give anyone the opportunity to respond. He gave Freeman a silent urging not to ask anything else, then blasted Admiral Balboa with a warning glare that threatened to cause a sunburn. He hustled the President expertly out of reach and covered all sides from anyone else trying to get his attention as they made their way toward the stairs to the President’s private quarters.

National Security Advisor Philip Freeman led Balboa, Samson, Masters, and McLanahan down the hall past the Roosevelt Room, past the Vice President’s office, and into his office in the northwest corner of the West Wing; Brad Elliott was waiting for them inside, chatting with a Secret Service agent assigned to accompany him.

Admiral Balboa ignored everyone in the office that he outranked, which meant he planted himself right in front of Freeman’s desk. “Things are getting a little out of control here, Philip,” he said in a low voice. “The President looks like he’s under considerable pressure these days. How’s he doing? How’s he holding up?”

“The President is doing just fine, George,” Freeman said. “Let me give you a piece of friendly advice, my friend: stop leading with your mouth. You could find yourself out on the street if you keep on equating the President’s decisions with acts of terrorism. I think you had a chance to dissuade him from approving the bomber operation, but you blew it by copping this do-what-I-want-or-kiss-my-ass attitude. And I also suggest you don’t get on the bad side of Jerrod Hale. You talk with the President maybe an hour a day — but Jerrod Hale talks to him sixteen hours a day, maybe more. And as you know, no one is closer to the boss than Hale, not even his actress-du-jour Monica Scheherazade. So back off.”

Balboa waved that suggestion away like an irritating fly. “If the President wanted a yes-man as his Joint Chiefs chairman, he should’ve hired someone else.”

“You called the President a terrorist, George?” Brad Elliott remarked. “Shit, someone better check your medication.”

“Button it, Elliott,” Balboa retorted, turning and pointing a warning finger at the retired Air Force three-star general. He studied Elliott for a moment, his eyes turning from white-hot angry to disapproving and pitying. “You’re looking kinda thin, Brad. Maybe we need to schedule you for another flight physical, maybe check that fancy peg-leg of yours. I frankly don’t think you’d pass. Wonder what would happen to your project if you were grounded?”

“I’ll compare my blood pressure and prostate size with yours any day, you old fart. ”

“That will be the last of that shit I will ever hear from either one of you in my presence, or else the next sound you will hear is the door to your cell in Leavenworth slamming behind you,” Freeman angrily interjected. “No judge, no jury, no court-martial. Is that clear? If you don’t think I have the juice to do it, try me.” Balboa and Elliott simply glared at each other — Balboa with a dark scowl, Elliott with his sly, maddening grin. “Our mission is to keep an eye on the Chinese navy and back each other up if a shooting war starts. Anything that interferes with that mission is nothing but background noise, and I will squelch background noise immediately and permanently.

“George, you’re responsible for notifying Admiral Allen that the Megafortresses are en route and will be in his theater. He will have full operational command of the bombers…” Admiral Balboa smiled at that, until: “… through General Samson.”

“What?” Balboa asked. “What does Samson have to do with this mission? This is Pacific Command’s theater. COMNAVAIRPAC has the staff and experience to—”

“The boss wants Samson in the loop,” Freeman said. “No one knows bombers better than he does. General Samson is hereby temporarily assigned the billet as CINCPAC’s deputy, effective today. Make it happen, George.”

“And what about Elliott?” Balboa asked. “What are you going to make him — chief of naval operations?”

“Elliott is an employee of Sky Masters, Inc., a military retiree and a private citizen,” Philip Freeman said, ignoring Balboa’s sarcasm. “He has no rights or responsibilities except those given to him by Dr. Jon Masters and his company as defense contractors.”

“But if I know Elliott, he’ll be piloting one of these Megafortresses you’re sending to Pacific Command,” Balboa said. “He’ll have his finger on the trigger. Who gives him the order to cease fire? I ask that because Mr. Elliott here usually decides for himself when to open fire — it doesn’t matter to him what his superior officers or his commander in chief thinks.”

“Admiral, fair warning — button it,” Freeman said. “You get Admiral Allen up to speed on the mission, and let me worry about the civilians. Anything else for me?”

“I’d like to make an appointment with the President to talk about this so-called plan,” Balboa said sternly. “The sooner the better. There might still be time to convince him of what a stupid idea this is.”

“Of course, Admiral,” Freeman replied. “Just go over to Jerrod Hale’s office. I’m sure he’ll be glad to help you any way he can. Out the door, turn right, end of the hall, straight ahead.” He picked up his desk phone and added, “Shall I phone the chief of staff’s office and tell him to expect you?” Balboa scowled again, spun on a heel, and left the National Security Advisor’s office without another word, slamming the door behind him with just enough force to rattle a few pictures but not enough to inflame Freeman’s anger any more.

“Well, Brad, I expected the President to hit the roof when he heard you were involved in this project — it wasn’t so bad coming from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs,” Freeman said wryly. “We might still get an earful from the boss.” Despite all this, however, Freeman had to smile at seeing Brad Elliott again, looking pretty damned good regardless of his recent travails. He was a big pain in the butt, but, Katy bar the doors, he made things happenl To Patrick McLanahan, he asked, “So when can you get your flying circus in-theater, Patrick?”

“We can be on-station in twenty-four hours,” McLanahan replied. “Give us your choice of weapon load, and we’ll have it uploaded by the time we arrive back at Blytheville. Crew rest, briefing, preflight, and fourteen hours’ flight time.”

“Good,” Freeman said. “We won’t need you to go right on-station, so you’ll recover at Andersen. You can change your weapon load at Andersen if necessary?”

“We can refuel and rearm hot if you need it,” Jon Masters said. “Hot” reloading meant reloading weapons and fuel with engines running, trying to get the plane in the air and into the fight as quickly as possible. “We’ve got enough weapons available for two weeks of combat operations. First-line stuff.”

“Shouldn’t be necessary — but we’ll keep that capability in mind,” Freeman said. He nodded and smiled at McLanahan. “A whole wing of Megafortresses, huh? Pretty good idea. There’s no money in the budget for another wing of paper airplanes, let alone high-tech B-52s, but it’s a cute idea. Any idea who we might pick as commander of the first wing of EB-52 Megafortresses, Colonel McLanahan?” The young navigator- bombardier had no reply, just a smile. Freeman stood and shook hands with each of them. “Yeah, right. Get out of here, flyboys. Good luck and good hunting.”

Heading down the Grant Staircase next to the Vice President’s office to the visitors’ entrance to the West Wing, McLanahan said in a low voice, “You really irritated Admiral Balboa back there, Brad.”

“Irritated him? You gave him a verbal wedgie back there,” Masters remarked with a laugh.

“Don’t worry about Balboa, Patrick,” Elliott said. “He’s worried that we’ll steal his thunder, just like we did when he was CINCPAC and we brought the Air Battle Force in to nail the Chinese invasion fleet near the Philippines.”

“I just think it’s not a good idea to twist his tail, Brad,” McLanahan urged. “Back then, we had General Curtis as chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and he ran a lot of interference for us in the White House and Pentagon so we could employ the bomber fleet. We don’t have Wilbur or the bombers anymore. If we want to get a chance to show what our upgraded Megafortresses can do, we’ve got to work with Balboa and Allen, not fight them.”

“They should be happy for our assistance, Patrick,” Elliott said. “They’re the ones out of position. We're the ones who can bail them out until they get back in the game. You don’t want to make us look like a naval air support unit or something.”

“I’d be more than satisfied to be flying in support of the Navy, Brad,” McLanahan said. Elliott looked at him in surprise, but McLanahan continued. “Sir, I know that the bombers are a powerful frontline weapon system, and the Megafortress is the best all-around attack aircraft ever flown. We can deliver more firepower than any one of those frigates the Navy has in the Formosa Strait. But we’re not the frontline force anymore. Let the Navy take care of the Strait — let’s prove to the brass and the White House that we can hold the line.”

Elliott stopped in the staircase, looked at his young protege, sniffed, and worriedly shook his head. “C’mon, Muck, don’t tell me you’ve bought this ‘jointness’ crap, all this bullshit about how the U.S. military can’t do anything unless every branch of the service does it together?” he asked derisively. “The service chiefs, especially the Navy, whine about the lack of ‘jointness’ whenever any of the other services, especially the Air Force, shows ’em up. The Navy was aced out in Desert Storm and they whined because we weren’t sharing the target load. The Navy was embarrassed in the Celebes Sea against China, and Balboa whined because we supposedly weren’t cooperating. Now Balboa almost loses the Lincoln in the Arabian Sea to an Iranian cruise missile, and he whines because a stealth bomber takes out the Iranian bomber base. Balboa doesn’t want us to support the naval forces, Patrick. He wants us to step aside and let him and Allen and the Navy take on China single-handedly. He doesn’t want ‘joint’ anything.”

“Brad, you may be right, but I’m not in it, so I can thumb my nose at the Navy or wave the Air Force banner over the burning hulks of Red Chinese warships,” McLanahan said. “I want to prove how good the Sky Masters’s Megafortress conversion is to the Air Force.”

“Good answer, Patrick,” Jon Masters interjected. “I knew you had the proper point of view.”

“And I’m interested in showing what the heavy bomber can do, no matter who’s in charge,” McLanahan went on. “If we get into the game as support forces, good — at least we’re still in the game. But your goal seems to be to rub Balboa’s nose in our bomber’s jet exhaust. We don’t need to do that.”

“Hey, Colonel, I’m trying to do the same as you — get our bombers into the fight where we can do the most good,” Elliott retorted testily. “But you’re not paying attention to the politics. Balboa and Allen and all the brass squids at the five-sided puzzle palace don’t care about jointness and cooperation — they care about funding.

“Look. We’re trying to get a six-hundred-million-dollar contract from Congress and the Pentagon to convert thirty B-52s to EB-52 Megafortresses. That’s one-third the cost of a new Arleigh Burke-class destroyer. Destroyers are good on the open seas, frigates are good in the littoral regions — shallower water, within a nation’s territorial waters — but we know in today’s tactical environment that a long-range stealth bomber with precision-guided standoff weapons is the most effective weapon in the arsenal, in any combat area, with lower costs and much greater mobility. Balboa knows all that, but he doesn’t care — he just wants that new destroyer, so maybe they’ll stick his name on it someday. Is that ‘joint’ thinking? Hell no. He doesn’t care about joint anything. Neither should we. Maybe if we started naming bombers after Joint Chiefs of Staff chairmen, he’d want more of them.”

“I disagree,” McLanahan insisted. “I think we should—”

“Patrick, I’ve got a lot more experience dealing with the Gold Chamber and White House types than you, so how.about letting me handle Balboa and Pacific Command, and you handle the hardware and the crews?” Elliott said in a light but definitive voice. “We’ll show the brass who can do the job. Trust me.”

It was good to see the old fire and fighting spirit in his old boss, McLanahan thought, as they made their way to the waiting limo that would take them to Andrews Air Force Base to catch the flight back to Sky Masters, Inc.’s, headquarters in Blytheville, Arkansas. But the old fighting spirit also meant the old antagonisms, the old competitiveness, the old victory-at-any-cost attitude.

They were back in the fight — but could they prove to the brass that they deserved to stay?

The Sky Masters, Inc., team was whisked by limousine from the White House to the Washington Navy Yard, helicoptered to Andrews Air Force Base, then flown by military jet transport directly to its headquarters in northeastern Arkansas. Arkansas International Airport was the civilian- ized Eaker Air Force Base, where B-52 Stratofortress bombers and KC- 135 Stratotankers of the old Strategic Air Command had once pulled round-the-clock strategic nuclear alert for many years. Despite its grandiose name, Arkansas International Airport had had no aviation facilities on the field after the Air Force had departed until Jon Masters built his new high-tech aerospace development center here shortly after the base closed. Now it was a thriving regional airport, which acted as a reliever facility for passenger flights and overnight shipping companies from nearby Memphis. The civilian and commercial operations were on the east side of the field; Sky Masters, Inc., occupied brand-new buildings and hangars on the west side of the 11,600-foot-long concrete runway.

While everyone else slept on the flight back from Washington, Jon Masters was on the phone; and, still bouncing with boyish energy, he was the first one off the plane after it taxied to a stop in front of the corporate headquarters. Patrick McLanahan’s wife, Wendy, was just pulling off her ear protectors as Masters lowered the C-21’s airstair door. “Wendy! Nice to see you!” Masters shouted over the gradually diminishing turbine noise. “I need you to get me the latest—”

Wendy McLanahan held up a hand, then slapped a blue-covered binder into her boss’s hands. “Latest faxes from Guam — both our DC- 10 tanker and DC-10 booster aircraft arrived code one. One NIRTSat booster had an overtemp warning when they did a test. They need a call from you ASAP. Munitions are being off-loaded.”

“Good,” Masters said excitedly. “Great. Now, I need to see—”

She slapped five more binders in his hands — and she had a dozen more binders ready. “Airframe reports for your review. Better take a look at -030 and -040—I don’t think they’re going to make it, but you might be able to work your magic on them. Everyone else is ready to fly.” She piled the rest of the binders into his arms. “Revised flight plans, engineering requests, prelaunch reports, invoices you need to initial, and things I think you need to think about before we get the flying circus in the air. Look ’em over.”

“But I need—”

“Jon, you got what you need — here’s what I need,” Wendy said, as her husband stepped off the plane. She gave him a long, deep kiss as Patrick pulled his wife into his arms. Jon was going to ask her for something else, but the kiss lasted longer than his level of patience, so he ran off yelling for someone to get him a phone.

Masters did not see Patrick pat his wife’s tummy after their kiss parted. “How’s our new crewdog?” he asked in a low voice.

“Fine, Daddy, just fine,” Wendy replied, punctuated with another kiss. “A little stretch now and then—”

“Stretch? You mean cramps? Are you in pain?”

“No, worrywart,” she said with a reassuring smile. “Just enough to let me know that things are happening down there.”

“You feeling all right?”

“A little indigestion in the evening, and a sudden rush of sleepiness about every other hour,” Wendy replied. “I close the office door and take a nap.”

“I think about you all the time, sweetie,” Patrick said. “Working around jet fuel and rocket chemicals and transmitters, pulling long hours, on your feet all day. ”

“I stay away from manufacturing and the labs, I take lots of naps, and I find working on the couch with my feet up just as effective as working at my desk,” Wendy said. “Don’t worry, lover. I’ll take good care of your child.”

“Our child.”

“Our what?” Brad Elliott said, as he met up with the couple.

“Old married couple talk, Brad,” Wendy said, giving her ex-boss a peck on the cheek. With Wendy between both men, they walked arm in arm into the admin building. “How was the meeting at the White House? ”

“Good,” Patrick said.

“Shit, Muck, it went great—we’re a go! ” Elliott said excitedly. “The President approved our plan. They want us to get ready to fly out in the next couple days — and they want us armed. Fully operational, offensive and defensive. We watered their eyes but goodl The only lousy part is we gotta play nice-nice with the squids.”

“Oh, God, no! ” Wendy said with mock horror and plenty of sarcasm. “Now, that’s just totally unacceptable. Why would we ever want to be backed up by five thousand highly trained sailors and seventy aircraft? Nothing bad ever happens in our missions.”

“ ‘Old married couple’ is right — you’re sounding more like your old man every day,” Elliott said. “We don’t need the Navy, and we sure as hell don’t need ’em telling us what to do.”

“Well, that’s the way it’s going to be,” Patrick said, rubbing his eyes wearily. “We’ve got to rechannelize the planes to new Navy fleet frequencies — Admiral William Allen, commander in chief of U.S. Pacific Command, is taking charge of the mission, with Terrill Samson as his number two.”

“That’s good news, isn’t it, Brad?” Wendy asked. “General Samson is one of us.”

“Hey, the Earthmover might speak bombers, but he’s just feathering his nest and looking for a soft place to land — he’s got his eyes on a fourth star and a cushy job at the Pentagon,” Elliott said with a sneer. “He’s afraid to go toe-to-toe with the suits. Because of him, we won’t be able to clear off for relief without calling CINCPAC first.”

“Brad, you’ve been bitching ever since we left the Oval Office,” Patrick said wearily. The exhaustion in his voice was obvious. “The only thing the Navy’s asked us to do is rechannelize our radios.”

“And they want to have a remote ‘check fire’ datalink to our attack computers, don’t forget that, ” Elliott interjected. “They not only want to tell us when, where, and how to fly our missions, but they want to be able to electronically inhibit any weapon releases, even for defensive weapons.”

“Can we do that—should we do that?” Wendy asked.

“We already told them we can’t tie into the computers, and wouldn’t even if we could,” Patrick said. “We’re going to put the datalink in, but it’s simply a communications link, not a remote control. That was the end of the discussion. Brad wants us to tell the Chief of Naval Operations where to stick his datalink.”

“I just wish we had someone a little stronger than Samson out there sitting with Allen in that command post, someone not interested in playing politics,” Elliott scoffed.

“Terrill Samson is precisely the guy we should have in the command center,” Patrick said. “Now, can we please terminate this discussion? The Navy’s on board and running the show, period. You’re going to get the avionics shop going on the rechannelization and the datalink, right, Brad?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Elliott said resignedly. “But I tell ya, Muck, you’ve gotta get tougher with those Navy bastards. They’re not interested in seeing us succeed. They’re only—”

“Okay, Brad, okay, I hear you loud and clear, so just drop it. Enough.”

Wendy grasped both men’s arms and steered them toward the stairs leading up to the second-floor executive offices. “Both you guys are suffering from hypoglycemia — I’ll bet you haven’t had anything except coffee since this morning. I’ve got hot soup and sandwiches set up in the little conference room. Let’s go.”

Both men let Wendy lead them upstairs, but outside the conference room, Elliott said, “I think I’ll pass on the midnight snack, Wendy. Wrap up a couple sandwiches for me and leave ’em in the fridge, and I’ll have them in the morning. I want to brief the day shift on the prelaunch checklist.”

“Okay, Brad,” Wendy said. “I figured you were going to be up early, so I made up the sleeper sofa in your office. Flight suit’s cleaned and pressed, too.”

Elliott gave Wendy a kiss on the forehead and gave Patrick a friendly punch in the shoulder. “You are one lucky son of a bitch, Muck. Thanks, lady. See you in the morning. You going to go running with me at five A.M., Colonel, or do I go by myself again?” Elliott laughed — he already knew the answer to that one.

“Good night, General,” Patrick said with mock irritation. He found a seat in the conference room, while Wendy poured him a cup of chicken noodle soup and fixed a turkey and tomato sandwich. Patrick remained stiff and uneasy until he heard the door to Elliott’s office close down the quiet hallway. “Christ, its like trying to handle a hyperactive three year- old sometimes.”

“Don’t tell me — Brad Elliott on the warpath in the halls of the White House.”

Patrick downed the soup in hungry bites and began to attack the sandwich. “I think he’s out to prove that the government made a huge mistake by forcing him to retire and closing his research facility,” he said. “Everybody is a target — Samson, the Navy, the President, even me. He’s got a chip the size of the Spruce Goose on his shoulder. The more people resent his arrogant attitude, the more it delights him, because it proves how right he is. And you know what the biggest problem is?”

“Sure,” Wendy Tork McLanahan replied, sitting beside her man and giving him a kiss. “He’s your friend, your mentor — and you need him.”

Brad Elliott simply left his suit, shirt, shoes, and underwear on a chair in the outer office — here in the corporate world, someone took care of cleaning and pressing and stuff like that. He usually took the time to hang up his suit neatly, bag his underwear, and spit-shine his shoes before hitting the rack, but why waste the time? — someone would do all that for him in the morning no matter how neatly it was all put away. He said “someone.” He assumed it would be his “assistant”—they didn’t use the term “secretary” anymore, and the more military titles “clerk” and “aide” were usually met with round eyes full of shock. It didn’t matter anyway, because he spent little time in the office, preferring to be in the labs or on the flightline, and he didn’t even know his “assistant’s” name. He didn’t even know that the sofa in his office was a sleeper, because he never sat in the damn thing.

The sofa bed had stiff fresh sheets and an old thick green wool blanket, and Wendy had left an apple and a glass of milk on the table next to the sofa. What a sweetheart she was, Elliott thought. Years ago, back when she was a civilian contractor working on new high-tech defensive electronic countermeasures systems for heavy bomber aircraft, she had been such a serious, technoid cold fish. But then she’d met Patrick McLanahan at the Strategic Air Command Bomb Competition Symposium at Barksdale Air Force Base, and she’d come back an entirely new woman. Now, as a wife — and a mother, Elliott guessed, although neither McLanahan had announced anything yet, and Wendy tried her best to hide it — she had been transformed into a caring, loving woman as well as a brilliant electronics engineer.

Unfortunately, Elliott thought, now her husband Patrick was the technoid cold fish. He showed no life, no spark, no drive. Sure, he’d been brilliant as ever on the secret B-2 stealth bomber project. Sure, he’d worked hard to get Sky Masters’s new B-52 modification program signed and funded. But he seemed to have lost a lot of his killer instinct since his voluntary early retirement last year. His appetite for decisive, raw, raging combat, to do whatever it took to achieve victory, the urge to drive your enemies before you and take command, was gone. He was a technoid now, almost reaching full “suit” status. Elliott couldn’t imagine it, but Patrick might actually prefer flying a desk now instead of flying a bomber. The old “Muck” McLanahan, bombardier extraordinaire, would never allow a squid to get between him and control of the skies, the earth, or the seas anywhere in the—

Brad Elliott was just starting to ease his artificial leg under the stiff, clean white sheets when the phone on the table near the window rang. Swearing aloud, he got up to answer it. “What?”

It was an Asian voice on the other end: “Do I have the pleasure of speaking with Lieutenant General Bradley James Elliott?”

“Who the hell is this?”

“My name is Kuo Han-min, General. I am the ambassador to the United States of America from the Republic of China, calling from New York. I am very pleased to speak to you.”

“You were in the White House, meeting with the President.”

“Yes, General. I am pleased that the President has pledged his support for my country, and I hope he successfully convinces your parliament and the American people that my country should remain independent from the Communists.”

“How did you find my number?”

“I am well familiar with Dr. Jon Masters and his company," Kuo explained. "Once I saw you and Colonel Patrick McLanahan with Dr. Masters. I logically assumed you were working with him. After that, it was easy to trace your office number."

“I'm not listed," Elliott said, in an angry tone. "Not here, not anywhere."

“I must give credit to my eager staff," Kuo said, in a light tone, “and admit I do not know’ how I came to get your number, only that I haye it — as w’ell as your Oregon address and your trayel itinerary for today."

“What do you wont?"

"General, sir. I haye called to ask a great boon," Kuo said. “I deduce by your conversation with President Martindale and your hasty return to Dr. Masters's facility in your charming southern American state of Arkansas that you are preparing to launch a great mission to support my people and my country against the threat we now face by the Chinese Communists."

“You deduce wrong," Elliott said. “Good-bye."

“Let us coordinate our attacks. General," Kuo went on quickly. "Together. we can destroy the Communist fleet once and for all. The power of your incredible bomber fleet, matched with my country's naval power, will mean certain death for any who threaten my country or any democratic society in Asia."

“I don't know’ w’hat you're talking about," Elliott said. “What we're doing is none of your business. What you're doing is none of ours."

“The Communist carrier battle group is carrying nuclear weapons," Ambassador Kuo said. “The carrier is earning three nuclear-tipped M-11 land attack missiles, and the two destroyers each earn four nuclear-tipped SS-N-12 anti-ship missiles."

Elliott's jaw dropped open in surprise. “You're shitting me… you know’ this for a fact? Are you sure?"

“We are positive of our information. General," Ku said. “We believe their target is Quemoy Tao. My country is sending our newest frigate, the Kin Men, out to intercept and destroy these vessels before they can get within range and launch their missiles. I am begging you to help us. Use the power of your Megafortress bombers to help defend our warship until it can successfully destroy the three nuclear-armed Communist worships."

“How’ in hell do you know’…?"

“General Elliott. l assure you? many friends as well as many enemies know or can logically assume much about your special bomber fleet,” Kuo said, “ Believe me, sir, the Republic of China is a friend, You are my best hope for survival until President Martindale can defeat his opponents in your Congress and commit the full force of American military strength against the Chinese Communists, You are the new Flying Tigers, the new American Volunteer Group, the band of brave Americans who seek to save your friends the Chinese Nationalists from being destroyed by powerful imperialistic invaders. Please help us. Let us fight together.”

Brad Elliott knew he should put the phone down and ignore this man. He knew he should report this foreign contact to the Aif Force Office of Special Investigations and to Sky Masters, Inc.’s security department right away. The Megafortress mission to Asia was in jeopardy and it hadn’t even begun. This man, whoever he was, knew far too much about the Megafortress project.

But instead. Brad Eliott said. “Don’t tell me where you are — I’ll track you down.”

“Thank you, General Elliott,” the Asian voice said, and hung up.

Elliott retrieved his electronic address book and found the name of a friend in the Military Liaison Office of the U S. State Department, he would tell him how to contact the new Taiwan embassy in Washington, who would tell him how to contact the ROC ambassador. If they gav e him a number and it connected him to Kuo, he would hang up, call the ROC embassy again, and ask to be patched in to Kuo. If that worked, he would then redo the embassy patch, this time through the Pentagon s' National Military Command Center communications room, which could detect and defeat any blind phone drops, shorts, or secret outside switches.

If the third call was successful — then they’d talk about stopping the damned Chinese.